Well, I´m here, and it is pretty much what I expected. Very charming and pleasant in many ways, and a joy to walk around - taking in everything.



Cocula is pretty tied to its past - it is relatively isolated, off the beaten path. Hardly ever a tourist or any gringos. I get stared at a lot, but a "Buenos Dias" or "Buenas Tardes" never fails to produce a smile and response in kind.

Men ride horses through city streets routinely, and sometimes herd a few cows as well. Walking around you can hear goats, sheep, roosters, cows, and the occasional pig. Dogs and chickens are everywhere. Kids and bicycles are also everywhere - where in Merida I was constantly dodging noisy buses belching black smoke, here I find myself dodging bicycles, which kind of sneak up on you if you don´t pay attention.



There are a lot of fine old colonial houses, many with interior courtyards and nice gardens. Sadly, may are near or in total ruins, but even some of those are occupied by the descendents of the original families, fallen on hard times I guess. They make do with primitive shanties inside the still imposing facades.



The weather here couldn´t be finer - in mid-winter it is in the mid-80s during the day, hot in the sun, but fine in the shade. At night, maybe 70. Dry, with light breezes so far.

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The trip here was ugly - four hours to Houston, three hours in the ugly airport there, then two hours on the mini-jet to GDL. Overnight at a really BAD hotel (cheapskates often get what they pay for). Finally, this morning, the 1.75 hr bus ride to Cocula. Doña Margarita made me eggs and ham, frijoles, and hot tortillas, and I had a nice cup of Nescaf, which sort of started me back on the road to feeling human again. Had a nice nap, and just finished my second long walk of the day.

Tomorrow I have the whole day and evening - which should be just about right to finish doing what I missed out on last time I was here.

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Another month has passed by, with no news here for those looking in.

It's not that nothing has been happening - but changes have been slow, like a flower sprouting from seed in the ground. A flower of unknown character.

Our move to Fort Collins is beginning to seem inevitable, as we continue to see great houses come and go there, and we continue to run into people who know the area and say wonderful, positive things about the place.

I have been wanting to go and see Cocula, near Guadalajara, before we make the final commitment and begin the effort to wrap things up here and relocate. It may be somewhat more difficult if I wait until we are out of here, with a new place to get settled into, and possibly a new job for me.



So several days ago, when Pat said "You could go Monday...", I at first cringed a bit at the thought of a trip without the usual period of chewing on the idea, but then tried to put the idea in the context of all the (Buddhist) teachings I have been exposed to in recent months. I decided to try not to let fear play such a prominent role when faced with the inherent uncertainty of such a trip and try to get down there to see and do whatever it is that I am supposed to experience so we can move on.

My current intention is that someday and for some period of time, we will have a place in Northern Colorado, where we will spend summers, and a place somewhere in Mexico, where we will spend winters. The visit to Cocula helps me feel like I am making an effort to further that vision, even as we commit to whatever we will be doing in Fort Collins.

So tomorrow morning I am on a plane to Guadalajara, for one night in a hotel on arrival, followed by a bus ride to Cocula in the morning. Two days there staying with Mañuel's parents, then home onThursday. Not long, but enough to really check the place out.

Assuming there are Internet cafes there (a safe bet) - there will be photos here along with my impressions of what I discover there.

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I haven't posted here for a while. It's been my custom to lay low during the holidays, reflecting on the past and contemplating the future. This year, the present lurched into focus with a shock, another reminder that life is what happens while we are making other plans or stewing uselessly about history.

Dear Aunt Alice died on December 23rd, following a rapid two-week decline.

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Alice Hilda Hart
1908-2005

Before you continue here, please read Pat's reminiscence about Alice.


Pat and Alice before a flight in Hayward - Alice enjoyed flying with us.

I first met Alice around twenty years ago, when she was only in her mid-seventies. She used to visit us once or twice a year, and at first I wasn't very close to her. I wasn't very close to anyone, for that matter, and one of the things I am grateful to Alice for is that through my time with her I learned to appreciate people more, and to have compassion for others. Over time, we became very close, and genuinely enjoyed and appreciated each other.



She was a gentle soul, and had a lovely sense of humor that allowed us to tease her mercilessly. She never took offense at our crude jokes, as she didn't take herself very seriously. She enjoyed the attention, and her little chagrined chuckle when she saw that she was once again the victim of our outlandish teasing was girlish and endearing.


We set Alice up for this photo - she gave up smoking forty years earlier, and never drank while I knew her.

Alice eventually began spending several months a year living with us at the house in Hayward that she helped us buy through her years of savings for Patrick. She loved to spend time with the two dogs, Lucky and Mummadog, and they loved being around her.



Until the last few years, she cooked occasional meals for us, and baked birthday cakes.



She did our laundry, and mended things that needed it. Usually she insisted on doing dinner dishes. These things made us feel really cared for. No button has been replaced here since her last visit.



The last time Alice was here, we had to get a wheelchair for the trip from the airline gate to the parking garage for the drive home. Then, several years ago, Alice declined physically and mentally to the point where it was no longer practical for her to come out and visit us any more. Pat went to Florida and found her a wonderful assisted living facility where she could enjoy independence and her own apartment, but additional services and care when it became needed. He moved her there from her old isolated apartment. At that time, he also sold her car - an event that she almost never failed to lament during our calls. Although it was inconceivable to us that Alice could still safely operate a car, for her it was a place to aggregate all her disappointments about loss of independence. In her mind, the only reason she was immobile and limited was the lack of an automobile.

We chatted with her on the phone regularly, and Pat found opportunities to visit her in Florida. I visited her once there several years ago, and was alarmed at her weakness and ill health. After my visit, she regained some strength, and the close call reminded us to make the most of our calls and time with her.

Alice's confusion was minor, mostly a result of her deteriorating short-term memory. As she moved things around her rooms and then promptly forgot about her actions, she would come up with elaborate alternate explanations for the changes in her environment that seemed quite dotty to others. None of this diminished her pleasure at hearing from us though, or her ability to laugh gently at our continued teasing.

With Alice's decline these past weeks, we were grateful for the kindness, competency, and compassion of various people in Florida who knew what to do and when and how to do it. She had pretty good care, and while it was painful not to be there, I think she had the best of what anyone could offer as she decided it was time to drift away, and finally left us. I do regret not encouraging Alice more to just find peace with her decision to consider leaving us - I could not stop talking about hope for a different outcome. I hope if I am ever again there for someone who is near the time of dying, I will have the wisdom to help them accept with peace and without doubt or fear this event that we must all face. I know the hospice nurses did do this for Alice though, and am doubly grateful for that.

I ran across a Buddhist discussion a few days ago which made me realize that once again Alice has contributed to my understanding of life, even as her own time in this life came to an end...

When we finally know we are dying, and all other sentient beings are dying with us, we start to have a burning, almost heartbreaking sense of the fragility and preciousness of each moment and each being, and from this can grow a deep, clear, limitless compassion for all beings.

Thank you Alice, for being such a precious part of our lives. I hope we brought you some comfort and joy, and I thank you for helping me wake up to what is good in this life. The extra kindness and attention I will try to give to others will be a living testament to your gentle goodness.

Goodbye Auntie Alice.

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I found a few more photos of Cocula online. Looking forward to my own opportunity to photograph things around town during the next visit...



The central plaza.



A portico along one side of the plaza.



The Parroquia, or parish church, of Cocula.

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It's great to be focused back on Mexico and the promise of some kind of life there eventually. I was starting to feel like all my efforts to learn Spanish and Mexican culture were going to end up being past hobbies with no practical value. As I grew discouraged with what Guadalajara had to offer, I was just ready to return home and defer any judgement about anything related to things SOB (South of the border) for a while.


Then, almost as an afterthought, I went to visit Cocula - about an hour and a half Southwest of GDL. My main reason for visiting was to pay my respects to the parents of my one close Mexcican friend in the U.S., Mañuel. His mother Doña Margarita met me at the bus station, and we walked the several blocks to their house. There we were joined by her husband, el Profesor, and Elena, a girl who is novia of one of the younger sons. Elena and I climbed into the back of the family pickup, and off we wenrt for a night-time tour of the city, under an velvety black sky filled with brilliant stars. Even in the center of town, the ambient light was low enought to see a faint satellite trace a path across the sky, and the broad wash of the Milky Way - something I hadn't seen since a night at the Wyoming ranch.

We passed through neighborhoods filled with colonial homes and storefronts. Up cobblestone streets we went following the contour of hills surrounding the center of town. The homes warmly illuminated from within offered many glimpses of life behind open front doors - kitchens and salons, and interior courtyards framed by ornate ironwork. Over the streets were strung row after row of silver and white paper decorations called papel picado remaining from a religious fiesta but seeming to foretell the coming of nocha buena and the other end of year celebrations.

When we returned from our drive, we had dinner and talked for a while before turning in for the night. See the previous post for the unfortunate outcome of the evening - I had been looking forward to seeing more of the little city, but due to my illness and circumstances that required me to be elsewhere, I caught only tantalizing glimpses of the place in the morning.

On reflection, I began to realize that what Cocula seemed to offer was a realization of the vision that set us on this course some five years earlier, when I read On Mexico Time, about a writer and artist couple who fled their stressed-out deadening lives in Los Angeles for the beauty and wonder of a new life in San Miguel de Allende.

That was before San Miguel was overwhelmed with wealthy socialites and other well-off gringos who gentrified the place and snapped up all the fine old colonial homes, dolling them up suitably for publication in Architectural Digest, and displacing Mexicans in the process as the original residents were increasingly relegated to the roles of service people in their own community. I always felt sort of passed by, deprived of the opportunity to participate in the discovery of such a special place, and certainly priced out now that people are paying near-California bubble amounts for the few occasionally available nice casas antiguas.

But here was Cocula, with not a single gringo resident known to be lurking, and only a handful of day tourists from time to time. Yet the town had the wonderful buildings, the friendly and safe population, the Parochia (church) equal to San Miguel's, the hills surrounding the town, the near-perfect climate...



This place I almost passed up the opportunity to visit brought me jarringly back to the original vision that started our journey. While Merida was charming and fascinating, and Guadalajara probably worth a weekend visit, they felt like mere distractions and a diversion that always left me unsettled and uncommited.

At the first opportunity, I'll be back in Cocula to explore and learn more about what this tranquil city of 40,000 has to offer. Mañuel's parents have graciously invited me back to stay with them whenever and for as long as I like, and have even suggested renting out the rooms newly constructed on the second floor of their home. From the back terrace, you can see the horse and cow in the neighboring back yard.

The dream is still alive.

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The Thanksgiving That Didn't Happen


Let us rise up and be thankful,
for if we didn’t learn a lot today,
at least we learned a little,
and if we didn’t learn a little,
at least we didn’t get sick,
and if we got sick,
at least we didn’t die;
so, let us be thankful.

-The Buddha

Well, that turned out to be a timely message for today (and my entire trip) when it showed up in my mailbox. Last night I was in Cocula, Jalisco - an hour and a half from Guadalajara (more on Cocula in a later blog entry). I was visiting the parents of my friend Mañuel, and we went out to dinner at a little family-run corner place. Guess I shouldn't have had the lady put all the raw onion and lettuce and radishes in my pozole, because starting about midnigh and going all night, I was - well - going all night. It was so bad I started to panic about how I could get back to GDL on a bus for a planned trip to Ajijic the next day. In the morning, I wandered out to find Doña Marguerita, Mañuel's mom, and told her about my predicament. Off she went to the farmacìa, and returned a short time later with some yellow capsuls and pepto bismal tablets. She also gave me some apple juice and some Sprite with about two-thirds of a cup of corn flour mixed in it.

Miraculously, all the action stopped, and I felt well enought to shower and figure out what to do next. El Professor (how I address Mañuel's retired school teacher father) offered to take me to Ajijic directly, a one hour ride he said. I accepted on the condition that I pay for the gas.

Well, the three of us rode in the little pickup front seat, an hour and a half ride. If there are nicer people on the face of the earth, I don't knowhere one would find them. They dropped me off at the place I was supposed to be to walk down to the neighborhood where a party of 30 gringos were gathering in a nicer Ajijic home for Dia de Gracias.

After I bought El professor and his esposa a refresco and slice of cake from the pasteleria where they left me and we exchanged parting wishes, I first walked a few blocks to find a yogurt (my Thanksgiving dinner). As I walked through the area of highway above the lake where all the businesses are clustered, I was struck by how much it looked like Pleasant Hill, or some other California strip-mall area. The usual minivans, SUV's, and luxury cars, full of casual-dressed white people. Shorts, golf shirts, little ankle-biter dogs on leashes...it didn't have any Mexican vibe at all. In the store, there was a stupefying Stepford effect, with sort of dazed looking white shoppers cruising aisles full of US-standards commodities. In one odd area there was an aisle of glassed-in locked cases full of various fancy Canadian and US condiments, safe from pilfering like expensive liquor in a ghetto supermarket.

Then I continued on the find the house with the gathering. I imagine Beverly Hills looks a lot like this neighborhood. Very luxurious and well-primped, with many lush arrays of flowering vines and trees. When I arrive at the home, I was stunned by the sumptuous layout, construction, and decor. I had just spent the night in a typical Mexican house, with the ten years of handprints on the walls, the giant vases full of gaudy artifical flowers, the oddly displaced plumbing and light fixtures, and quaint provincial sala furniture (but sweet and as inviting as you can imagine). In the three small bedrooms, little sala, and cocina El Professor Encarnaciòn amd Doña Marguerita Lopez had raised four boys and a girl. Here now I was in this gleaming oversize sprawling home where I single guy lived. In place of the Lopez milk cow, sheep, and goat, his back yard was full of manicured lawn. His gardener was tending a full bar, and his regular maid and a friend stood ready in the kitchen to finish preparation of the meal while sending out trays of hors doeuvres.

I was introduced to a number of the prosperous-looking mostly older white guests. I used a common Mexican expression of greeting on being introduced to one - the friend who had introduced us shook her head and commented "Oh, don't use any Spanish in him, he doesn't understand a word". "Not a word!" he confirmed enthusiastically, then mouthed an exagerated "No hab-lo es-pan-yole".

A number of people wanted to know if I was looking for a place in Ajijic or Chapala down the road. I tried to mask my revulsion at the impressions I was forming about this un-Mexican enclave, and respect the choice these folks had made to create an insular island for themselves, where Mexicans only existed to mow grass, walk dogs, cook, clean, and man the local cash registers. Learn the language? Why bother. Dish TV brings in all the latest swill in pristine English...there was some football game on the giant screen TV nested in custom cabinets. No one was watching, but it was on just to show it was available I guess.

One fellow had on an oversize Guyabera shirt, like the ones popular in Yucatan for a century. I asked him if that's where he got it. "Mail order them from Pennsylvania", he said. "Look, uses a zipper instead of buttons.". My friend sitting next to him turned the label out to see if it originated from Yucatan. "China", she said, and everyone had a laugh over that.

I found myself in the kitchen, chatting with the Mexican maids - the only people present I felt I could relate to. At first they were shy, but when I said "La verdad es, prefiero Cocula donde no hay tantos gringos." they giggled and warmed up. We had some pleasant conversation, then I feared I would get them in trouble so I went back into the party area, excused myself to the host and friend who got me invited, grabbed my stuff, and walked back up to the highway to catch a bus to the city.

I felt bad that I had caused Sr and Sra Lopez a three hour drive for this, with me staying but a few minutes. I had been afraid of a digestive emergency on the bus - should have had faith in Dra Lopez' miracle cure. But they approached the trip to deliver me like everything else in their lives - as something to be enjoyed and experienced to the fullest, and all the more if it was helpful to someone who was connected to their family.

How I wished I had brought all my bags down with me the night before instead of leaving stuff at the hotel in GDL. I would have enjoyed the extra time with them in Cocula for an extra day and night, and would certainly not have given that up for this horrifying venture into gringolandia that I had so planned on. As they say, life is what passes you by while you're making other plans.

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