The benefits of getting to know your neighbours (the Canadian spelling)

Sir Fuzz-butt, The Sparkinator

At o'dark-hundred this morning, when Sparky and I headed out for his first walk of the day, I noticed a young woman standing outside the main entrance of the south tower in our complex. She was holding a charming, and judging by the size of his or her feet, a soon-to-be much larger, black puppy in her arms.

“I forgot my keys,” she explained.

December in Canada is dark and chilly. Luckily, today’s temperature was not the bone-freezing cold that we can get, but it was too cold to be stuck outside.

“My fob will get you inside the lobby, but I don’t think it will work for the elevator,” I said, as Sparky and I crossed the driveway to her building.

My electronic fob unlatched the main door, and we continued across the lobby to the elevators, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I could activate the elevator for her floor.

December morning

Nope! It wouldn’t open the stairway doors either, so she had to hang out in the lobby until another resident from her building arrived and activated the elevators. It’s the downside to living in a moderately secure complex. No electronic fob. No access. 

It’s happened to me, and a few others.

“Do you know any of your neighbours? Someone that you can call on the intercom, and ask for help?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said.

And that isn’t surprising in a city, even a small-ish city of 40,000 residents. It’s easy to just nod a greeting and keep walking.

Beatty St before condo conversion

But, I’m a small-town girl at heart. Many of the places that I have lived were less than 5000 residents, and I knew enough people that I could get whatever help I needed. 

Even when Lawrie and I lived in a converted warehouse on Beatty Street in downtown Vancouver, we made a point of getting to know the other residents. It started with a building-wide roaming cocktail party that turned into close friendships that lasted for many years.

Close friends, Isla Mujeres

In 2007, when we moved to live full-time on Isla Mujeres, Mexico, we knew only four people, and they were snowbirds, living on the island from November to April. The next winter, we hosted a neighbourhood party, inviting everyone in our area who had just built, or who were currently building a house. Within a year, our Bachilleres neighbourhood had become known for its roving house parties, group gatherings, and tight-knit friendships.

Trish, Tina, and me, wine-touring

Here in Penticton, I have made a point of befriending many of the residents in our condo complex, and their pets. We are each other’s safety net. If one of us is not feeling well, the others volunteer to walk pets, fetch groceries, or just check on the person. Some of us socialize regularly. Some meet up for food and drinks occasionally. And others just chat in the hallways.

Many people live on their own in this complex, people of a variety of ages, and a variety of backgrounds. It’s nice to know that some of those folks are watching out for me, and I am also watching out for them.

Wherever you live, you should get to know the other folks living near you. You could make a lasting friendship.

Merry Christmas! Seasons Greeting! Happy New Year to all!

Lynda

Sparky sends his woofs!

Sparky, one of the main characters in my novels

Then and now; Dan Kane’s photos of Isla Mujeres, Mexico

Dan Kane - transplanted islander

“What is happening to my little Isla?” Recent arrivals moan. Change! Inevitable change. When you look back on the photo collections of other Isleños, the island has always been changing.  

This idyllic palm-strewn sandbar in the Caribbean Sea was discovered by the Mayans, then Spaniards, then Mexicans, and finally world-travellers of many different nationalities.

A transplanted islander, Dan Kane, recently reminded me that he has a collection of photos taken back in the 1970s and early 1980s. They are fun photos of thin, earnest young men with longish hair and pop-star-style moustaches.  

Earnest young men with pop-star moustaches

The southern view from the balcony of their room at the Rocamar shows a remarkable open area where our house and the houses of my neighbours are now situated. 

The view north, behind the two men, shows the large hotel known over the years by four different names, including the Presidente and the Avalon.

Upper balcony of Rocamar  Hotel looking south

Some of the photos capture Playa Norte, or North Beach as an empty sweep of white sand, dotted with palm trees; no condos, no hotels, just sand and a couple of rustic beach restaurants.  

At the south end of the island, the Mayan temple to the Goddess IxChel stands alone, a sturdy sentinel against invaders. (The structure was much larger before the devastation of Hurricane Gilbert in September 1988.)  The statue garden has not been thought of, the newer lighthouse structure, gift store, and restaurant have yet to be built.  Neither Garrafon Natural Reef Park nor Dolphin Discovery exists.

Mayan structure before 1988 Hurricane Gilberto

Every person who discovers Isla changes it in some small way. Perhaps a tourist requests an item that was not available before, and an enterprising merchant imports it to the island. Perhaps a winter resident requires a new service, and a company steps in to supply it. 

Services that may have started out with simple things such as fax machines and photocopiers soon included cable internet, cell phones, internet cafes, or cash machines. Eventually, the island offered every modern convenience a traveller could dream up, including the recent Chedraui Super Store.

Isauro "Indio" Martinez Magaña 

Other historic pictures from Dan’s collection are of a very well-known former islander, "Indio", sharing his sailboat with friends. Isauro "Indio" Martinez Magaña passed away on August 14th of this year.  

He was part of the large, influential Magaña family and a cousin to our Presidente-elect, Agapito Magaña Sanchez.  

Many of you will remember Indio’s Beach on the south-western side of the island; a quiet, tucked-away area to enjoy food, beer, and perhaps a little nude sunbathing if you were so inclined.

North beach before the hotels, condos and restaurants

Most of us are careless with photos from our youth, never once believing that a quick snapshot of friends enjoying themselves could have any historic significance down the road. 

Perhaps in a few years, your personal photos will be the subject of another blogger’s musings.  

Cherish the memories – they are a bit of history happening before your eyes.

Thank you, Dan, for sharing your memories with us.

Hasta Luego 

Lynda and Lawrie

Murder. Mayhem. Revenge. Romance.

Isla Mujeres Mystery Series

Death in the Vineyards Mysteries

The Adventures of Thomas and Sparky

On Mexican time, mañana, mañana!

What time will you be here?  It is an innocent question.  The answer controls the rhythm of our days.  

Internet disconnected on Friday, July 5th

The answers always sound sincere: twenty minutes, or give me five minutes and I’ll be there. Or mañana, I will be there early tomorrow morning. We wait for friends to arrive. We wait for electricians and repairmen. We are naively convinced that the person will arrive at the time he or she said.  

Eventually, we realized that the word mañana doesn’t always mean tomorrow. It can mean soon, or later, or tomorrow, depending on the situation and the person.  On the other hand mañana, mañana, loosely translates to tomorrow in the morning, can be a polite way of saying – it’s not going to happen, ever!

This week we have been without internet for a few days, just in our house and our neighbours’ house. The electrical utility company CFE changed out a power pole last week. On Friday, the internet provider, Cablemas, instructed the workers to move the internet lines over to the new pole. The cable was disconnected and dropped on the ground. Around lunchtime on Friday, the CFE bucket truck and linemen left. The electricity was functioning, but not the internet.

One of our many long periods of waiting for a parade

Our neighbours depend on the internet for their online work; we use it for telephone, emails, news, and amusement. They have phoned Cablemas every day asking: When will the repairs happen? Lawrie and I visited the Cablemas office a few times, asking: when?  

The polite smiling answer varied: Sunday morning, later on Monday, or Tuesday afternoon, or Wednesday morning. This is day six! And still no sign of the repair crew. Maybe we should pay our Cablemas bill on Mexican time – mañana, mañana.

Family and friends waiting for a parade.

Another frequent question is: What time does it start? Now there’s a loaded question. As well-trained, polite Canadians, we arrive at the scheduled start time. If an invitation says it starts at seven in the evening, we are there at seven in the evening. If the parade is scheduled to start at three-thirty in the afternoon, we are there with expectant smiles on our faces, cameras ready and waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. We have lingered on a sidewalk or relaxed in our air-conditioned car for up to three hours before the anticipated parade finally gets underway. Fortunately, a supply of cold beer is always at hand to pass the time more pleasantly. 

Eight months and finally a renewal for immigrant visa

But our most frustrating example of Mexican-time happened with the annual renewal of my FM3 visa, allowing me to remain in Mexico year-round. The renewal date was October 31^st, 2012.  

Our lawyer friend, Tony Poot, handles the renewal for us every year. It’s just easier that way, except this time.  Mexico City made a mistake on the FM3, registering me as a working resident.  

To rectify the mistake took an excruciating eight months, with our lawyer visiting the Cancun Immigration office every two weeks, hearing the same excuses. Come back next week. Come back next Monday. Next Friday. We are too busy. We have a lot of applications to process. And on and on. Finally, on June 26^th, the visa was processed with a renewal date of - you guessed it, October 31^st, 2013. The immigration laws have recently changed, and the next visa is a Permanent Resident card, good for up to ten years. Sign me up!

Wednesday, July 10th - internet!

As a follow-up to our internet problem, we again stopped by the Cablemas office at midday on Wednesday. Lawrie popped in to chat to Delores, who handles payments, repairs, and complaints. When will the internet be fixed? He asked. She was embarrassed. She didn’t know it still hadn’t been repaired. Ten minutes. She promised. And it was! 

Living on Mexican time is frustrating, and it is fun. Frustrating when we need service, but the person or the company is on Mexican time.  Fun when we don’t really care because we are retired, and living in paradise. 

Hasta Luego          

Lynda and Lawrie

Murder. Mayhem. Revenge. Romance.

Isla Mujeres Mystery Series

Death in the Vineyards Mysteries

The Adventures of Thomas and Sparky

Piñatas – upping the fun factor at a fiesta

Barlow the Birthday Boy takes a turn

“Batter up!” Oh, wait; wrong culture. 

Taking a careful and considered aim with a brightly decorated stick, the birthday boy swung hard at the piñata. Thud! It sailed into the air, dented, but intact. A family friend manipulated a rope and pulley system, tethering the piñata. His experienced hands jiggled it, pulling it higher, dropping it back down, taunting, teasing. 

Come on!  Hit it.  Hit it. The crowd clapping and singing: Dale! Dale! Dale! 

Paul teasing the older kids with the height

With giggles and shrieks of laughter, a couple of dozen small but very enthusiastic hitters took turns bashing at not just one, but two, birthday piñatas. Bashing until the candy showered onto the ground, then diving into the pile to scoop up a share of the booty. It was a hilarious sight. 

Most of the parents of the various youngsters were also at the birthday party. When I was of birthday party age, I don’t remember my parents attending any festivities involving shrieking, over-sugared children. They wisely said they had to work, or were busy with chores, or doing something really important.  Any excuse would do. Here it’s a festive family affair.

Oscar - putting up the second piñata

Colourful piñatas in fanciful shapes are the centrepieces of birthdays and celebrations in Mexico and most of Latin America. The idea is thought to have originated in China, but many countries, such as India, the Philippines, Japan, and even Denmark, have similar customs.  

In the thirteenth century, the famous explorer-traveller Marco Polo recorded the Chinese customs of covering pottery figures of cows or buffaloes with pretty papers and decorations. During the New Year’s festivities, the figures were struck with sticks, and good luck seeds were spilled on the ground. Over the centuries, the shapes of the containers and the rules for hitting the piñata have changed dramatically.

Woo-hoo - good hit!

Europeans eventually linked the piñata with Lenten celebrations. The first Sunday of Lent became Piñata Sunday, derived from the Italian word pignatta, meaning fragile pot. Traditional piñatas were originally made from a clay pot called la olla and stuffed with treats or fruits. The Lenten celebration slowly transformed into a fiesta, the Dance of the Piñata.

At the beginning of the 16th century, the Spanish missionaries brought their piñata traditions with them to the New World.  However, the Aztec priests already had a similar custom to honour the god of war, Huitzilopochtli. They placed a clay pot adorned with colourful feathers and filled with tiny treasures on a pole in the temple. When broken with a stick or club, the treasures fell to the feet of the god's image as an offering. Much later, the playful Mayans changed the piñata ceremony to a game where blindfolded players hit a clay pot suspended by a string.

A lady-like hitting style!

At the birthday party we attended, no one was blindfolded, and the piñata was manipulated with a rope and pulley, making it more difficult for the older children and easier for the really little ones.  As each person took a turn, the party guests sang a short song. When the song was finished, so was the hitter’s turn until everyone had a chance to bash the piñata. The turns were repeated until someone broke open the cavity containing the treats, spilling them on the ground. 

The laughter and giggles of the players made the day.  Piñatas are a great way to up the fun factor at a birthday party. 

The big payoff!  Candy!

Lawrie and his Spiderman cookie!

Hasta Luego          
Lynda and Lawrie

Here’s one version of the piñata song:

Dale, dale, dale,
no pierdas el tino;
Porque si lo pierdes
pierdes el camino. 
Ya le diste una,
ya le diste dos;
Ya le diste tres,
y tu tiempo se acabó

Hit it, hit it, hit it (or "go, go, go")
don’t lose your aim
because if you lose it (your aim)
you will lose the path. 
You've already hit it once
you’ve already hit it twice
you’ve already hit it three times
and your time is over

Strategy session

Murder. Mayhem. Revenge. Romance.

Isla Mujeres Mystery Series

Death in the Vineyards Mysteries

The Adventures of Thomas and Sparky

Horses sweat, men perspire, ladies glow! Adjusting to life in the tropics

Offshore fishing near Isla Mujeres and glowing!

“I’m soaked with sweat!”  

My dad peered over the top of his reading glasses, levelling his gaze at his naïve teenage daughter, “No,” he admonished, “Horses sweat. Men perspire. Ladies glow.”

I guess I was born a horse.  

I am about 99.5% certain that my very proper, very stern and very formidable grandmother, Nellie Blanche Lyons Gobert, taught my father that expression. She passed away when I was about eight, but I still remember her upright bearing and impeccable manners. She was a school principal, one of the first female school principals in Canada. One did not mess with our grandmother!

Nellie Blanche Lyons Gobert about 1915

Unlike my grandmother, I glow like an out-of-control nuclear reactor.  

Starting about now, June, I usually change my clothing two to three times a day. From the skin out – everything!  

Normally, both Lawrie and I putter around the house, fixing this, polishing that, applying a coat of paint to a scuffed wall. Doing little tasks.  Tinkering.  

He manages to maintain his cool, barely breaking a sweat. Pardon me, I meant to say - barely perspiring. I, on the other hand, have a nice, bright pink face and a good, healthy pore-cleansing glow going on. 

Working on our Summerland house entrance, 2006

In Canada, if we were doing a major project like tiling the bathroom or renovating the front entrance, I could work up a really good glow. Living in the tropics, it occurs more frequently.  

Today, on Isla Mujeres, Mexico, I fiddled around with painting one short wall on our upper street-side deck. By the time I had finished, I was soaked through.   

Angel, one of three young guys replacing the netting over our palapas, looked at me with a silly who-me grin on his face, innocently asking: “Tienes mucho calor, amiga?”

Si!  You bet your sweet bippy!  ¡Mucho calor!

The cool dude!  It's May and he's comfy in a thick shirt.

The upside is that mosquitoes can easily locate me. I have a flashing neon-red heat-signature. Free! All-you-can-eat-buffet.  

They bypass Lawrie, preferring to swarm my overheated follicles. If mosquitoes had lips, they would smack them together in anticipation of a feast. 

The local mosquito population is very appreciative of my contribution to their well-being.

Summerland BC - entrance all done!

And to ensure the lovely little mosquitoes don’t over-indulge on my DNA, I spray every bit of my exposed skin with Off Family repelente de insectos.  

In Canada, Lawrie pampered me with nice, expensive perfumes.  They were always a much-appreciated birthday or Christmas gift. Somehow, insect repellent doesn’t have quite the same cachet and isn’t nearly as romantic when received as a gift. 

On some level, I think my grandmother would have been proud of me, remembering that ladies glow, apparently, we don’t sweat. But one thing puzzles me. How did she manage to remain lady-like, raising three active children in the early part of the 1900s when women wore long, hot, cumbersome dresses every day, all day?

Just thinking about that makes me glow.  I think I’ll go and have another refreshing swim in our pool. 

One small wall - and I'm glowing!

Hasta Luego          
Lynda and Lawrie

Murder. Mayhem. Revenge. Romance.

Isla Mujeres Mystery Series

Death in the Vineyards Mysteries

The Adventures of Thomas and Sparky

Signs, signs, everywhere signs….Isla Mujeres, Mexico

Faded sign not far from our house.

Waking up around three in the morning with a bright idea on what to write for our next blog, I scribbled a note to myself, a reminder for when I am fully awake. Later, while drinking my first cup of morning coffee, I looked at a fellow blogger’s page. Signs, she’d posted numerous photos of local signs. I must have been channelling her thoughts. During the dark hours of the morning, I had scribbled: write about the art of hand-painted signs. Weird.

La Esperanza - 2008 photo

For me, hand-painted signs are soulful expressions from the heart.  They are unique, individual, unlike the vinyl computer-generated signs that have almost decimated the traditional sign painting businesses in North America.   

Here on Isla one of my favourite hand-painted creations is the sign for La Esperanza, left over from a little gift store on Juarez that ceased operation long before we arrived on the island.  

The whimsical black cat still sits under a large shade tree patiently waiting beside the bright red door, hoping someone will let her inside. Bit by bit, the painting is disappearing. Fortunately, in 2008, I took a decent photo of the mural for my collection of Isla memorabilia.

Hotel Las Palmas - cheerful exterior

More recently, we noticed the amazing canvas that decorates the street-side entrance of the Hotel Las Palmas on Guerrero Avenue. It is a happy mix of peacocks, flamingoes, palm trees and tropical flowers.  

What a great way to sparkle up the exterior, and to fix the tropical experience in the mind of their guests.  How can anyone resist taking a photo or two of that entrance?

May 2010 Election sign

During federal, state, or municipal election campaigns, local sign-painters find a bonanza of work for a few weeks, painting the colours, slogans, and promises on fences and walls.  

Then shortly after the campaign has been won or lost, the signs are covered over with a coat of white paint, waiting as a blank canvas for the next election.

Colegio de Bachilleres painters 2009.  R Bietting photo

For the most part, the signs are created by one or perhaps two painters working together, but when the Colegio de Bachilleres (high school) decided to repaint the wall across the street from our house in March of 2009, they organized a work party.  

At one point, we counted ten guys chatting, painting, clowning around and dancing to their iPods.  

My cousin Rob snapped a dozen or so photos, keeping a timeline of their progress.  Either it was good planning and teamwork, or luck; the sign turned out just fine – straight letters, and nice inside-the-lines painting.  Four years later, it is still legible.

Between Centro Mercado and a school

It may be a dying art in most of North America, but here on Isla Mujeres, the incredible art of hand-painted signage gives the island a quirky, memorable personality.  

For next week’s blog, I wonder if I can tap into Becky’s thoughts again for more ideas?   

Hasta Luego          
Lynda and Lawrie

Grab your copy today!

Isla Mujeres Mystery Series

Or

Death in the Vineyards Mysteries

The Adventures of Thomas and Sparky