What do you call someone who speaks three languages?

It's been one of my favorite jokes for years.

What do you call someone who speaks three languages? Trilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks two languages? Bilingual.
What do you call someone who speaks one language?

American.

The past two days have been filled with envy --- a rare emotion for me --- for friends who started studying multiple languages early and kept it up for life.

We spent Saturday afternoon at a beach barbecue with our surfer friend from France, Julien, and his family. His parents speak French, not much Spanish, less English. Laura comfortably slipped into the afternoon conversing in French, Spanish and translating into English when I needed it, as did another friend, Ana. Languages flowed like a river, starting in one language, moving into a second, explaining in a third.


I want that.

It's always been my belief, wish, hope to speak a second language. I want fewer obstacles in connecting with the person sitting next to me, regardless of language. I desperately wanted it for my sons, Dustin and Dylan, but it was rarely offered in the schools and I just didn't pull it off.

Sorry, kids.

Luckily Granddaughter Sasha, who lives in Puerto Vallarta, will be trilingual. At 18 months she understands Romanian, Spanish and English. Her first word was Spanish (mas!) but she's already beginning to babble in English. I'm grateful her parents, Dustin and Camelia, are committed to teaching her multiple languages from birth, which is so much easier than trying to learn it at my age.

Tonight headed for dinner at AsiaAzul, an Asian restaurant in nearby Emiliano Zepata. The restaurant was closed so we headed up to the owner's house to ask when he'd be open again.
Within minutes of conversation, Laura figured out that not only does he also speak English, Spanish (of course), probably Vietnamese, but that he's more comfortable speaking French. And off they went again, speaking in a language I couldn't understand.

Despite my envy --- or perhaps because of it -- the past few days have made me even more committed to becoming fluent in a second language.

As of today, two months into our second season at Arroyo Seco, I can pretty much understand what people are saying. And sometimes they can understand me. I'm rarely speaking in complete sentences yet, and I'm mostly speaking in the present tense.

But, dang it, I'm speaking. I'm listening. I'm learning.

Today at lunch we toasted to my first solo conversation with Tia Melly, one of the elders in town who I've been dying to joke with since I first met her two years ago.

So, Tengo esperanza. I have hope.

I have hope that I won't be 80 before I call myself fluent in a second language. Maybe then I'll consider going for a third.

Construction, speaking Spanish, Dengue and Dogs

I have a minute to update the blog because I'm unexpectedly Home Alone for the second time since we've been in Mexico this season (if you don't count the four workers building our patio and painting the walls).

It's been the normal whirlwind time in Mexico with many friends and family visiting while they escape the terrible winter in the U.S. and Canada. We've started our language school for the children of the village to study English. And we still manage to get to the beach, to Tenacatita, to La Manzanilla to meet friends for dinner or a sunset.

Here's a glimpse of the idle musings bouncing around my head for the past few days:

Language

I now dream in Spanish but only the words (las palabras?), not the meaning. Very confusing. This morning I woke up trying to create the correct sentence to tell the teenage painters to make sure I have electricity to power the internet for a conference call from 9 to 10.

My sentence structure was undoubtly incorrect but at least this season I'm getting past the toddler stage of throwing out verbs or commands --- and they actually sometimes seem to understand me. And they didn't unplug my DSL box while they painted around the outlet.

Hooray!

The 24/7 immersion of living in the village is helping, as is our teacher, roommate and friend, Maestra Laura, who encourages me one word at a time.

Construction

It's official. We hate it.

We're not doing much this year, scaled way back from the original plan of building the guest casitas. (Sorry, everybody. Maybe next year). This year we finished the stucco on the remaining two walls of the compound, which required us to redo the electric (of course!). We also had to redo some plumbing (of course!). The walls are now sealed and halfway painted, with about another day of labor before completion.

In the meantime, we launched what we thought was a small project --- and, really, it is --- by putting a cobblestone step at the bottom of the first step of the palapa to keep dirt off the lovely tile floor. The maestro loads his truck up with the small round rocks from the riverbed next to the town and sets it artistically in the concrete.

We liked it so much --- and it went down so quickly --- that we decided to build the patio in front of our place with cobblestones out of the river, rather than the planned brick. And while he's at it, why not cobblestone the landing the length of the bathrooms so we carry less dust up onto the beautiful white tiles?

You get the drift. It's endless, small project after small project.

Our challenge is remaining close enough to home to be able to answer questions, provide supplies, make sure it looks like what we think it's supposed to look like without getting tied to being at home.

We're losing that challenge but we're determined that this will be the last project of the season. Right after we have someone build the bamboo privacy screen to shield the bathroom sink from the rest of the property....

Dengue

We've never had to worry about dengue here on the Jalisco coast before. It's always been here and I've heard of occasional cases over the years, but it just wasn't an issue. You didn't live in fear of getting a bite by a daytime mosquito.

Today I saw the statistics of dengue for the state of Jalisco for the first time.

In 2007, 953 confirmed cases.
In 2009, 4,835 confirmed cases.

I knew it was bad because so many of our friends have come down with it. And dengue's tough. No vaccination, no cure. Just treat the symptoms of a soaring fever, bone crushing aches and pains, no energy. And it lasts, often for two weeks, then several more weeks of getting your energy back.

I don't want it. We live coated with insect repellent, hoping for the best.

So far as I've heard, no one knows why it's soaring. Perhaps climate change?

Samba

Our surfer friend, Julien, who also lives in Arroyo Seco, has been a longtime friend of Samba, a village dog. I normally would say he's adopted Samba, but that's not the relationship. They're friends --- equals --- who choose to spend time together.

I can understand the relationship more after reading the wonderful book, Merle's Door, about an 'rescued' dog who lives with Ted Kerasote, who comes to the realization that a doggy door is the only thing that Merle needs for his autonomy and independence.

That's Samba. She adores Julien and the feeling is mutual.
But Julien has been terribly sick with dengue and our best-in-the-world neighbors, Chena and Chon, put him to bed in their house and ministered to him around the clock with poultices and Tempra and everything they knew to do.

Samba couldn't stay with him because they have a load of Chihuahuas that are incompatible with this great big Alpha village dog. After about three days of separation, Julien ended up in our trailer for the night. And by 11 p.m., Samba showed up at our place, burrowing her way under the gate, putting her front paws up so her claws clicked on the metal step of the trailer. Her version of knock, knock. She knew she had found her amigo Julien.

The reunion would bring tears even to a cynic's eyes.

I hate dengue, but I sure love knowing that this dog --- and so many animals --- are aware of so much more than we are aware, relying on so many senses rather than being able to simply ask someone, Yo! Where's Julien?

This morning Samba showed up at around 5 a.m. from a long trek from the beach house where Julien is now staying. Once again we heard her claws hit the metal of the first step of the trailer, her announcement that's she's come back to town.

Why? Who knows. She thought she'd visit? Because Julien is boring because he's sick, but she no longer is worried about him because he's getting better? Because she's hungry? I have no idea. But I know Samba does. I guess that's the point. And lucky Samba lives in a safe enough community that she can follow her nose, follow her instincts.

So, today, in my world that feels a little more complicated and a little more unsafe than normal, that's my bright spot. She spent the morning laying on a carpet next to me out in the breezy palapa after chowing down some chicken scraps from the homemade soup I made for Julien.

Then she heard his voice out in the street in front, and zoom! She's gone. Back to spending the rest of the day with her friend Julien. As it should be.

A Mexican amigo finally goes home --- to the U.S.

Tonight we're celebrating a friend's return to his home in the United States.

Some of you who have visited us in Arroyo Seco, Mexico have met our friend, Francisco, and his sister, Veronica.

We were introduced when we first moved here because they were the only other English-speakers in the village. Francisco is a gifted translator and he's been on call as we struggled to converse in Spanish. He'd race down from his home at his grandmother's house and take as much time as needed, usually refusing any compensation, despite the lack of work in the village.

He's also the guy we'd call to take Dylan fishing, or to help us cook when we were having a load of guests in for dinner.

But Francisco's is an interesting story -- especially for those of us who only hear about U.S. immigration from U.S. media reports. And until I met Francisco and his sister Veronica, that was the only side of the story I knew.

During the George W. Bush administration, government officials started doing immigration sweeps (perhaps meeting quotas?), quickly deporting what we would consider the 'low hanging fruit' --- the easy pickings, but not necessarily the people we would hope to have deported from our country: criminals, drug dealers, violent offenders. Instead, they were deporting the citizens who had glitches in their paperwork. The easy ones to track. And the ones who were not hiding... They were working, paying taxes, etc...

This is his story as I understand it: Francisco was brought into the country without documentation when he was a child. Eventually he was able to get a driver's license, work papers and paid social security. He married a U.S. citizen, a bank administrator in Napa. He had a decent job in a restaurant. His two sons were born there. The U.S. was the only home he really knew or remembered.

But one day the new equivalent of INS showed up and gave him a choice. Go immediately to jail, --- or --- you can have one hour to pack your bags and get on an airplane to Mexico. They escorted him to the airport where he returned to his extended family in Arroyo Seco, to a family and a culture he barely knew.

Apparently his lawyer, who had been paid to continue to filing the paperwork to apply for citizenship, took the money but didn't file the paperwork.

His 25-year-old sister, Veronica, was deported in exactly the same manner. One day she day she was living in the U.S., working at a Napa restaurant, going to dances at night. The next day she's sleeping on a bed on the front porch of a grandmother's house in a remote Mexican village of 300 people.

Veronica said she cried for the first three months. Then she started to look around, started getting to know people, found new ways to entertain herself without going to a mall or going to a dance. Two years later she married a handsome, sweet man from the village in a storybook wedding. They are expecting their first child in May.

But Francisco stayed on the paper trail, working to get home to Napa and his family. This past Wednesday, nearly three years later, Francisco crossed the border one more time --- this time with documentation --- to return home to his wife and his two sons.

Francisco and Veronica are not the only cases we've learned about since we moved here. A neighbor has a contractor who says he was deported from Southern California in exactly the same manner and same circumstances. One days he's living with his wife and four children (all U.S. citizens). He goes to work at the two restaurants he opened. He owns a five bedroom home. Then one day he's deported. The options: A plane ride or jail.

We've heard of others.

Francisco's been through a lot over the past few years. And he's learned a lot. The celebration Michael and I will have tonight in our palapa in Arroyo Seco is knowing that he's reunited with his family, but that he can come back here any time he wants.

It's about time.

Feels pretty good to be home in Arroyo Seco

Michael and I have just spent our first Sunday back in Arroyo Seco and I have to say, ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

We took our first walk down to the beach and back, running into many friends who were headed down to surf or on their way back because the waves weren't quite right.

We couldn't make it past Tia Mela's house on the corner by the jardin, the first home built in Arroyo Seco about 60 years ago. Tia Mela clapped her hands with joy and beckoned us in to talk. There was no getting by today, so we stayed for a short visit before heading home for breakfast.

I broke in the new hand juicer today, with a lovely combination of oranges and grapefruit.

Then we puttered about the property all morning. I pulled the new kitchen together, which we moved on to one-third of the palapa. The Pink Flamingo bar is in place, the blender is in fine working order, the new leather bar stools set to arrive on Friday.


And the new pink flamingos are resting peacefully in the yard, our Christmas present from Dustin and Camelia.

Michael continued to empty the bodega (garage/storage building), also putting more shade up around the property.

We met for lunch in the palapa and started to make a list of projects we might accomplish this year until I saw him clutching his sore shoulder and neck and decided he couldn't take the stress yet. We'll go back to the list another day.

In the meantime, we're fresh from siestas, showers and now headed down to the jardin where there's supposed to be a fiesta grande, complete with a spectacular presentation by Chena and family. We'll post video soon, but we've heard it's not to be missed.

As in love with this little rancho as I am, I assure you it's not for everyone. I'm fighting the dust because the streets aren't paved. This afternoon I showered with a spider the size of my fist. Eventually I'll find a local to ask whether this is one of the good guys or the bad guys. If so, squish.

But for now, I'm exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to be doing. And that's good enough for today.

Happy Holidays, everyone!

The Admiral joins the posada processional

We're back in Arroyo Seco, Mexico, pulling the compound together for another six months of life here in this little rancho in Costalegre.

It's a different type of quiet for us. A non-mechanized quiet. Not many cars, airplanes, machines that hum. But loads of noises from roosters and chickens, flapping and cackling around our yard in the morning. A lot of children's voices as they play in the street late into the night. An occasional dog, donkey, bird, horse. And a lot of really loud music during the day.

Tonight we heard children singing as part of a nightly posada processional, part of the Christmas celebration. Soon they were in front of our home, then shouting out our names for us to join in the rest of the processional around the village. While I used to be hesitant about such events --- my limited language, my lack of understanding of the culture or what would be expected of me -- now I just launch myself out the door. Even without my trusty translator, Miguel.

What the heck. In for a dime, in for a dollar. Or in for a centavo, in for a peso.

I've learned that they're delighted to have our participation, to have us be interested in their lives and their celebrations.

Tonight when I joined the processional I learned how to be more prepared for next year --- have a small bag of candies or treats ready each night to give to the child dressed as Mary. And if we want to really delight them, have a pinata ready too.

After the last house, children dashed off in all directions. But a contigent of about 15 of them ended up in front of our neighbor Chena's house, painting ceramics at a table set up in the street. Hours later, we can still hear them.

I live here for a lot of reasons --- I want to force myself to learn the language, I love the climate, I like living in the country. But tonight I'm reminded that I get to learn about their culture, and that all I have to do is be brave enough to walk out the door.

Another act of bravery is driving back and forth to Puerto Vallarta. We have two big motivators --- granddaughter Sasha and Michael's doctor of osteopathy, Dr. Antonio, who is working miracles on his shoulder pain.

Yesterday we came across some cattle crossing the highway but we were able to stop our big Toyota Tundra in time. Unfortunately, the van in back of us didn't. After a spectacular spinout, he and his passenger ended up wedged in an arroyo. No injuries, but without AAA to call, it was probably going to be quite a while before their car was yanked out of that ditch.

We're heading back up to Vallarta tomorrow to celebrate Christmas with Sasha and her parents. And we're going to be driving very, very carefully.

Feliz Navidad!

Livin' in the Burbs

We're just finishing up our four month stint in Sacramento, grateful to still have employment in a state that has a deficit bigger than most other states' budgets, grateful to have a lovely place to live while we replenish our bank accounts, grateful to have time with the kids and the grandkids, time with our California friends.

But.

I'm lonely.

It's not the one-to-one loneliness of being without friends and family. It's been lovely to see everyone. It's the loneliness of not having community, of not having a band of people who are willing to connect in the grocery store, in the parking lot, in front of their houses. I miss the day to day easy socializing and connecting, the serendipity of who you will see, who you will talk to that day that comes with living in a village, of living outside the U.S.

(Except maybe Hector, NY. But that's a different story).

Those of you who have known me for years probably have intuitively understood that I'm the friend you drop in on, not the one you make plans with weeks in advance. Even when the kids were little, I loved that friends would feel comfortable enough to stop by without notice and could ignore the chaos of the house, nor would I feel compelled to apologize for whatever chaos they found.

When I first moved from Flagstaff to Sacramento 20 years ago, I told Michael that I would feel at home here as soon as I could depend on running into someone I knew at the local grocery store and meet my daily innoculation against loneliness with some unexpected casual conversation.

I'm still waiting. It's just too sprawling a community, too many people.

When Michael and I bought our first house in an old Italian neighborhood in Sacramento, one of the qualities I loved the most about the neighborhood was the lack of fences around the properties. When our neighbor behind us started making noises about putting up the 6-foot redwood fence, we had an ongoing conversation about how that could change her relationship with the neighbors. Her mother, the original homeowner, still gardened, still puttered around the backyard, still looked for casual conversation with us and others.

The fence never went up.

Immediate community is one of the reasons I loved boating so much, regardless of location. You have to walk from your slip in whatever marina you're in past dozens of boats with dozens of people. You can't help but get to know them. And they might not be people you would have thought to befriend elsewhere. But you have a commonality, a love of boating, and proximity. You're both there.

Being back in Sacramento this year, I'm reminded how lonely people are here. I walk this year's foster dog, Tucker, around the neighborhood and it's only the dog walkers who are out and about, maybe a few kids under the age of five.

But I can see in the windows, and what I see are pretty huge flat screen TVs, keeping people in the house company.

No one is sitting out front. No one is talking. The majority of people are uncomfortable if you try.

A young Mexican woman who had lived in Sacramento with her family for a while once told me that she thought America was so wonderful because it's so clean. But so lonely. She couldn't understand why Americans stayed in their homes every night.

I guess that's how I feel.

My eagerness to return to Mexico is more than the lovely temperature. I miss the simplicity of easy interactions. I miss seeing some of the elders in the village sitting out in front of their home with a few empty chairs by them. Don't even think about passing by without plunking your butt down for a five minute visit.

I didn't understand the importance of community when I was in my 20s, the way I understand it now. I understand that the community comes with all types of people, all types of complicated, dysfunctional people, but that it doesn't matter. They'll help you. You 'll help them. Even if all you need is a quick conversation to know you're not alone.

I don't know how we got so far away from this in much of America.

I'm headed back to Mexico to get my fill (and no doubt my irritations) from all the community I can get. Come find me. I'll be on the bench in the jardin near the church, waiting to have a conversation.

Hasta pronto!

A textbook case for early screening for skin cancer

First: I'm fine.

Second: I have a three-inch scar running down my right cheek.

Third: sunscreen! Hats!

But back to the first point.

I'm fine. I guess that's the most important point to make. That, and I'm sure glad that I'm not a super vain person about my looks. And, I'm ready for Halloween?

Nah, it's really not that bad. But it could have been.

Michael and I make our yearly dermatology appointments each fall with Dr. Silva when we're back in Sacramento, back on the job. Obviously, we're good --- ok, great? -- candidates for skin cancer. We live the majority of the year in sunny climates. And --- oh yeah --- we went sailing for about 16 years, most of the time sin sunscreen. We didn't burn, we weren't sunbathing. But we were undoubtedly damaging our skin.

Michael headed in first and discovered he had a squamous cell carcinoma on his chest, which he had surgically removed last week.

Ouch!

I headed in for my check up and pointed to the tiniest little bump on my cheek. I thought it was something like a zit but it didn't heal, didn't get red, didn't change color, didn't itch. It was just a tiny bump.

Fortunately, Dr. Silva didn't agree. We didn't even get to screening the rest of my face before she was biopsying that little blemish, which came back as a very aggressive type of basal cell carcinoma. I was immediately referred to a surgeon for a procedure called Mohs Surgery, where the surgeon removes and biopsies the skin, layer by layer, all on the same day, until a completely clean biopsy is present. It can often take two or three surgeries before they are ready to stitch you up and send you home.

What's apparently so good about the Mohs Surgery is they get it all the first time.

I got lucky --- lucky that I got in so early, lucky that it only took one surgery. The type of cell I have is aggressive, ill-defined, often spreading rapidly below the radar so that by the time the bump shows up, it's off and running.

I would hate to think what my face would have looked like if I had waited.

I'm not sharing this because I need to whine or I need sympathy or I need flowers. Really, all I need is for all of my friends to take the time to get screened by a good dermatologist.

Because, as I said, my little innocuous bump was tiny.