Like Another Country: 02/01/2006

Sunday, February 26, 2006

As of today we are two weeks and five days away from our scheduled departure from California. The packing has begun, and various lists are being created with items being added and checked off daily.

Going through all your stuff is always a sobering experience, as you encounter items associated with tiny facets or larger epochs of your life. Should all this stuff really follow us around?

We have a lease on a house in Fort Collins. Pat was rushed to see the place and get to the airport last Monday, so there are no pictures to post here - I will see it for the first time when we pull up in front of it. We are committed through June 30, with an option for another month. After that, if we stayed, we would be expected to sign on for another full year - very unlikely. This means we will need to get busy trying to decide exactly where we would like to own a house, and hunt for it without delay. We need to scout around Loveland and Longmont too, to see what they have to offer.

I have been approached for a job in Longmont by a recruiter, but due to the fact that we have the move to accomplish, a house to find, and a nasty daily commute from Fort Collins to Longmont, I doubt if it will pan out. A phone interview next week is probably the last stage in that exercise.

Monday, February 20, 2006

As we ramp up for the move to Northern Colorado, all the usual tendancies try to creep into my days - to second guess and to worry about how things will all turn out. Will it really be better? In what ways will it be better or worse? Compared to what?

Silly and unproductive. While I still experience the feelings, at least I don't take them too seriously any more. I started reading a book a few days ago that has the following in the introduction...

...it often seems as if we are preoccupied with the past, with what has already happened, or with a future that hasn't arrived yet. We look for someplace else to stand,where we hope things will be better, happier, more the way we want them to be, or the way they used to be. Most of the time we are only partially aware of this inner tension, if we are aware of it at all.

What is more, we are only partially aware at best of exactly what we are doing in and with our lives, and the effects our actions, and more subltly, our thoughts have on what we see and don't see, and what we do and don't do.

For instance, we usually fall, quite unawares, into assuming that what we are thinking - ideas and opinions that we harbor at any given time -are "the truth" about what is "out there" in the world and "in here" in our minds. Most of the time it just isn't so.

We pay a high price for this mistaken and unexamined asumption, for our almost willful ignoring of the richness of our present moments. The fallout accumulates silently, coloring our lives without our knowing it or being able to do something about it. We may never quite be where we actually are, never quite touch the fullness of our possibilities. Instead, we lock ourselves into personal fiction that we already know who we are, that we know where we are going, that we know what is happening - all the while remaining enshrouded in thoughts, fantasies, and impulses, mostly about the past and about the future, about what we want and like, and what we fear and don't like, which spin out continuously, veiling our direction and the very ground we are standing on.

Wherever You Go, There You Are
Mindfulness Mediation in Everyday Life
Author Jon Kabat-Zinn

Pat stuck in the Wyoming snow this morning, with a few of the tractors that eventually cleared the way and pushed him out of where he bogged down.

This very morning, as we experienced a harrowing wrap-up to Pat's Fort Collins/Wyoming scouting trip, I received the following email from a list I subscribe to:

Every single negative thing we have ever thought or done has ultimately arisen from our grasping at a false self, and our cherishing of that false self, making it the dearest and most important element in our lives. All those negative thoughts, emotions, desires, and actions that are the cause of our negative karma are engendered by self-grasping and self-cherishing. They are the dark, powerful magnet that attracts to us, life after life, every obstacle, every misfortune, every anguish, every disaster, and so they are the root cause of all the sufferings of samsara.

Gradually, as you remain open and mindful, and use a technique to focus your mind more and more, your negativity will slowly be defused; you begin to feel well in your own skin, or, as the French say, être bien dans sa peau ("well in your own skin"). From this comes release and a profound ease. I think of this practice as the most effective form of therapy and self-healing.

Sogyal Rinpoche

All of life's lessons are related. All the solutions are sensible, practical, available, and repeat endlessly in the body of wisdom that has been handed down for several thousand years and continues to be made comprehensible by contemporary teachers.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

This morning Pat and I left at a quarter after five to get him to the airport for an early flight to Denver. He has business back in Florida and other Eastern states, but he is laying over in Fort Collins for the weekend to check out rental homes.

I finally gave up on avoiding the need to consider renting in Fort Collins as a prelude to finding a house to buy. It has proven to be too difficult and frustrating to attempt a purchase from here, and we are ready to move on with life after the Bay Area. Ironically, after spending ten hours yesterday researching and organizing rental leads, a great looking property for sale popped up, so he will also be checking out that.

Pat plans to spend Sunday night at the ranch in Wyoming. It's been a little chilly there - this morning when I had a look at their weather stats, it was -28.

Right in the middle of this frigid episode, all the cows are calving, and Mona and Clark are out looking after the newborns in the snow and wind.

Monday, February 06, 2006

We now know where we are headed next, and have a target date for being there.

By the end of March, we will be on our way to Fort Collins, Larimer County, Colorado.

It seems obvious now, but it took over fifteen months here for the choice of location and timing to be clear. My recent visit to Mexico was the last element for me to clarify how everything fits together and be prepared to move on. I still felt a small degree of uncertainty about whether we should be heading directly for Mexico - bypassing another extended stay elsewhere in the U.S. The dream of living in Mexico is still very much alive, but we now see it more as a phased-in change, with winter seasonal visits the probable first step. Before, when I was so rigid in my thinking about how things were supposed to work out, there was a risk that Mexico would just be out of the picture entirely, but as long as we are flexible about how and when, I think there is a wondeful time there ahead for us.

There really was never any question that our time in California is at an end. Of all the other location in the U.S, Fort Colins has continued to shine, with the lovely setting, amenities, tolerable weather, proximity to the ranch and Mona in Wyoming, and glowing comments from others who have lived or spent time there.

I think for Pat everything is clear in his context as well. He has been uplifted and inspired by recent visits to the area to scout neighborhoods and houses. He can keep his job as we relocate, which will provide some financial stability. The location will be better for him due to the DEN airport location within the continent and its direct flights to most destinations that his work requires him to travel to.

Houses for sale in Fort Collins are plentiful, often charming and comfortable, and priced between a quarter and a third of the price of comparable property in the nauseating hyperinflated Bay Area housing market.

There is an active counter-culture element in the area, with food co-ops, activist groups, and the usual stuff that comes with a town where the University campus is one of the biggest influences. Pat noted that there were a lot of Buddhist prayer flags, and yard signs taunting the Clueless Ones in the nation's capitol.

There is a Buddhist Shambhala center in town, and nearby is a Buddhist mountain retreat and practice center of global prominence. While I am not really very actively engaged in Buddhist practice at this point, I have benfitted greatly from reading and understanding the wisdom and views, and find it reassuring and comforting that there is such a strong presence there - whether I pursue it further or not.

So here we go - I'll be re-packing everything here beginning in the coming week. I don't know exactly where we'll be living once we get there - at this point we'll probably rent so we can enjoy the better opportunity to house-hunt locally rather than over the Internet with expensive fly-in visits to look around.

But just being comfortable with that uncertainty is a big step forward for me.

Friday, February 03, 2006

My trip returning from Cocula to home was quite a marathon.

I awoke with the usual cacophany of roosters crowing that punctuates the lightening sky in Cocula (and probably every other town in Mexico). Decided to be at the little storefront bus terminal around 9:30 for the trip to Guadalajara's old central bus terminal, where I would then catch another local bus for the trip to the airport outside town (thereby saving a twenty buck cab fare).

Doña Margarita was all set to fry up eggs and ham, and had squeezed some orange juice and fetched fresh pan dulce (sweet rolls) from the panederia down the street. I had to convince her that yoghurt and a roll would do for me, and also had to decline her offer of a bolillo (sandwich roll) stuffed with frijoles to take with me in my bag. I explained to her that I get 'un poco nervioso' when I have a big travel day.

So we had a sort of glum breakfast due to my distress over leaving, and I gathered up my stuff for the trip in the Maestro's truck to the bus station. Doña Margarita came along, and as we drove the five blocks or so to centro, we fell in behind the arriving bus. I could have caught the next one in 20 minutes, but I suspect they were happy to have an opportunity to cut short the elaborate (and likely teary) good-byes, so they hustled me onto the bus as we pulled up behind it at its stop, and off I went.

Most of the curtains were closed in the bus as people snoozed on their way to the city. About an hour into the trip I opened mine, and checked out our surroundings. We were on a freeway at the edge of the city, and as I looked down alongside the bus right under my window, I saw a little silver car like the one Guadalajara writer lady Cristina had driven us around in when I last visited in November. Then I saw HER in the driver's seat. Now this is more than a little weird. I know a total of three people in Guadalajara, a city of maybe eight million people - a city that covers an area about equal to the Los Angeles sprawl. And there I was, about ten feet from her, in some kind of space-time singularity. I had called her two days before from the bus on my way out of town.

About 45 minutes later, we pulled into the bus station - only it didn't look right. It was the NEW bus station, way across town from the old bus station I expected to arrive at. I had no idea there was even service between this station and Cocula, having departed from the old station as advised by the guidebook.

So how to get from the new station to old, so I could figure out how to get to the airport? Asked around, and was directed out front near the taxis to where city local buses stop, to watch for the 'seisdieceseis' (616) bus. It came, I paid my four pesos, and took a seat. Off we careened into traffic. I could hardly believe that anyone could ever learn the tortuous route we took for the next 45 minutes or so through crazily zig-zagging narrow back streets, stopping every block or so for people stepping off the curb with outstretched signaling arms. We dodged other vehicles as we careened roaring in and out of traffic, often avoiding bending metal by what seemed like fractions of an inch.

Finally, we arrived at the old terminal. I got off, and spotted another local bus with 'Aeropuerto' in the destination sign, and ran a block to arrive at a stop when it did. Another ten pesos and off we went. The bus filled up completely, and I ended up with my big and small bag piled on my lap. Many local stops to pick up and drop off people as I figured out this was NOT an airport express - just another local route that happened to end up (eventually) at the airport before returning along the same route.

Fortunately, I had enough time to not worry about making my flight, which was still two and a half hours from departure. Fortunate, because I was already exhausted, and the increasing heat in the bus with all the stuff piled on me had me pretty stressed and the day not even half over.

Then, the Mariachis (solamente dos, gracias por Dios) climbed aboard. They took up a position in the crowded aisle adjacent to my seat, and began to play very badly tuned guitars. Their playing was OK, if out of tune, and their voices were not bad as they sang about lost love, treachery, and the solace of excessive drink. I couldn't help but think of the language text I had used that gave an example of the subjunctive clause in Spanish, where the event being described is of an uncertain outcome. They used an example where the speaker wonders if the Mariachis will go away...will they EVER go away?

Finally, we arrived at the airport. I fished another ten pesos out of my pocket to give the departing musicians, and climbed down.

Checking in with the airline, the agent decided to put me on an earlier flight due to my early arrival despite the detour between bus terminals. I asked him about switching to an earlier connecting flight to avoid a long layover in Houston, but he said there was no earlier Oakland flight. I asked about switching to San Francisco, but in typical Mexican fashion he made it clear that such a request exceeded his authority to even investigate further.

The small regional jet was only a third full, and we had a pleasant two hour flight to Houston. As I looked out my window at the passing thousand or so desolate monochromatic miles below, I couldn't help but think what a challenging drive this would be someday from the NOB (North of the Border).

Arriving at Houston from an international flight subjects you to about five processing points where sullen government agents eye you contemptuously and maybe ask a few probing and suspicious questions. It occurs to me in airports these days what a great opportunity it is for the Federal Government to get people accustomed as they go innocently about their legitimate business to being spied on, interrogated, and intimidated by authoritarian bullys with the power to arbitrarily detain them or deny them freedom of movement about the country. How convenient that might be someday when it is decided that we need this sort of 'protective security' on your local street corners as you head to the market for a loaf of bread and quart of milk. Maybe under authority of 'Patriot Act IV', after they finish review of everyone's library records and bookstore purchases (and phone calls?). Glad I haven't checked out or bought any Michael Moore books...

Since I arrived in Houston early, I now had about five hours to kill before my Houston-Oakland flight. Too long...and I forgot to bring along the damn airline VIP club pass I had stashed with my frequent flier junk in a file cabinet at home. Wistfully, I watched the priviledged flying elite pass through the tall walnut doors that slid silently open for them as they approached. The polished brass script President Club mocked me from above, as I watched them welcomed into the soothing quiet within by uniformed airline staff. I could see the comfy overstuffed furniture, and caught a glimpse of the bar as doors whooshed shut with a soothing whump.

Now determined that I would not wander zombielike through the maze of terminals for five hours, I located an airline service desk. Could I get on a an earlier departure for San Francisco, since there was nothing earlier for Oakland? "Oh no", she said disapprovingly, as she scowled at her display, "You're on a rewards pass, and there are no rewards seats available on the 7:10 flight. You'd have to pay for an upgrade." I thanked her for trying, and went to find another airline service desk in the next terminal. This time I put on my best humble-weary-but-good-humored-loyal-passenger demeanor, and asked again - is there any way I can get out of here before 9:05? She clicked and pecked, and said, "Well, there is Flight 307 boarding in fifteen minutes at 5:12...there are no rewards seats but I can put you on standby, and it looks good with lots of seats...oh wait, here it has you confirmed and checked in now, so I can assign a seat and print you a boarding pass. You have a choice of a center or middle seat (agent humor) - but I can put you in 16E, an exit row that reclines with a lot of leg room."

I thanked her warmly, grabbed my boarding pass, and scrambled for the terminal with the departure gate. Got there as boarding began, and was soon aboard a nice comfy 757. We were a ittle late out of the gate and in the taxiway departure queue, but once we were underway, edible snacks were served, and there was even a decent movie (Zorro) to watch with the Spanish sound track. The movie was uncomplicated good-humored action-adventure, and was bulding to a rousing climax just as the aircraft lowered flaps and lined up for the long final into 28L at SFO.

Back for two days now, and the more the trip to Jalisco sinks in the more I like the idea of living in Cocula, in the heart of that state. Probably not full time permanently - at this point. But I can easily imagine every year around November thinking "Thank God - it's almost time to head down to Cocula for the winter!".

Walking down the streets in Cocula, very often you pass by windows with shutters thrown open, and ancient front wood-paneled doors opened to reveal an inner iron portal, with patio courtyard beyond. Often there is a profusion of plants and flowers within, and sometimes the sound of canaries or parakeets will drift softly out. How easy it is to imagine sitting in such a courtyard, with the perfect weather, sipping your morning coffee and maybe listening to those birds, or just enjoying the 'clop-clop-clop' of a passing horse.

I noticed that a lot of homes use a form of construction that involves the placement of steel or iron beams across walls to support the ceiling or roof. Albaniles (masonry tradesmen) then place bricks with mortar between the beams to form gentle arches, which I believe is called 'boveda'.

There were a bunch of wonderful sights I didn't get photos of, but that added to the rich experience of simply walking around. There are the pickups passing by frequently with a bunch of folks in the back - one to maybe six - sometimes with a kid standing on the bumper holding the tailgate. I take it that everyone knows everyone, and if someone is going your way you are welcome to jump in the back and jump out when you near your destination. Since traffic moves about at a stately 20mph or so for the most part due to the ever-present topes (speed bumps) this isn't as dangerous as it might sound.

One afternoon, I saw a few young teens hanging out at an intersection. One of them was doing amazing elegant rope handling, the kind where there is a big loop that is spun from a subtle hand motion, and one can step in and out of the loop, and move the loop around in different locations and inclinations.

Occasionally, I would find myself at the edge of town, looking out over dug-up sugar cane fields waiting for the spring sembrado (planting). In some cane fields I watched men tilling the soil with hand tools. Fields covering many acres.

There are modern farm machines for those wealthy enough to afford them. You often see them cruising through the center of town, or parked here and there.

Now and then you see a really sweet house of recent construction. Makes you realize that the old colonials with their classic facades are not the only pleasant way to live in a Mexican town.

There are many jarring contrasts between old and new in a Mexican town. I was in the old colonial building where the Mariachi museum is located, and looked up to see an array of telecommunications antennas. In some funky little tiendas you will find bar-code scanners and flat panel displays at the checkout counter. In one shop I frequented, the shop girls wear white uniforms with little white caps like old-fasioned nurses, and there are white-jacketed kids of ten or twelve years old who bag your items, and receive your small change as their income.

Another uniquely Mexican experience is the Baño Publico (public restroom), where a young lady or old crone (and occasionally their chismosa - gossip - friend) works a small counter near the entrance. Neatly arrayed on the counter are small folded up supplies of papel hygenico (TP). There are no rolls within, although this would not be true at a nice restaurant, hotel lobby, or airport. You drop a couple of pesos on the counter, grab your supplies, and in you go. The public facility near the plaza in Cocula had cubicles for hombres and mujeres, labeled with little cardboard placards. Oh, and in most public restrooms (and some cheaper hotels) there is no toilet seat. Just cold porcelin. And one last fact - since much of the plumbing for 'agua negro' is of dubious quality and ancient vintage, it is best for everyone if paper does not enter the drains. So you get accustomed to folding the used paper into little packets and depositing them into lined waste baskets near the throne. It's not as bad as it sounds.

At some restrooms, there will be an attendant within, who waits for you to wash your hands, and hands you paper towels. One even insisted on pumping out the hand soap into my hands beneath the dispenser. Since he is there anyway to keep the place presentable, why not earn a few extra pesos by providing service to the guests?

When I met with the architect, we discussed the need for a nice tourist hotel in centro Cocula. The only two in town are so modest as to be unsuitable for most tourists. We agreed that the first person to open a nicer hotel and promote it (easy in this Internet age) properly would probably be quite successful. He described one property (above - it wraps the corner, and has frontage on the cross street including auto access) that is available, with about a third of the construction needed for a nice hotel already in place. The rest would be new construction. Using figures he gave me for property prices and new construction costs, and adding in such things as permits and professional fees, I estimated that a high-grade five or six room hotel could be built there and furnished for around $500,000. Anyone want to wager part (or all) of their retirement nest egg?

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

Very little time tonight for a writing a lot, so here are some photos. Maybe I can add more to descriptions after returning home...

Went to city hall today and met with an architect to ask about houses here. This is the view from the balcony. The plaza is empty because they are finishing reconstruction.