Pax Gaea Human Rights World Post

At Home In Gringolandia

We are finally official residents of Patzcuaro!

I must give credence to this Pax Gaea notion that wrong turns so often lead you in the right direction. On Sunday, we checked out of the Hacienda Mariposas after taking one more walk around the grounds. We followed a horse trail through the woods and a break in the fence that led us to the most spectacular meadow you can imagine. It stretched for miles with picture postcard hills rising up among miles long of green. Cattle dotted the hillsides and a network of paths crisscrossed the fertile pastureland as little groups of families traveled along them responding to distant church bells pealing the call to mass. We plopped down on a little patch of earth along one of those hillsides and watched as storm clouds gathered and the air grew heavy with impending rain and rushed back to the Hacienda with the first distant flash of lightning to begin packing. The first drops of rain began to fall as we finished loading the Discovery and I made my way to the officina for check out. I was a little agape with sticker shock for the two nights accommodation but this is a first class resort and, under very different circumstances, were this a vacation and I was looking to unwind and be pampered, I would choose this place again in a heartbeat. Rene introduced me to Innocentio, his chauffeur who hailed from the neighboring town of Santa Clara and instructed him to seek out accommodations in that town that were in my price range. Our friend Tom, who owns a very cool resort in Ixtapa, Present Moment Retreat, suggested we may want to check out some cabins in Santa Clara, so we decided to head to Santa Clara, about 15 miles away, to investigate both the town and, possibly, very affordable accommodations for a few days.

The rain was coming down in steady sheets as we ascended higher into the mountains to Santa Clara. We reached the village in about a half-hour and were diverted onto side roads as a major festival in commemoration to a local saint was underway. We were forced along a wide outer loop of the city and were amazed as the resolve of the townspeople to continue on with the celebration despite the heavenly deluge. In short order we were on the edge of town and failed to notice any signs advertising our target destination. We traveled a few more miles more and turned around heading back to Santa Clara and were once again diverted away from the center of the town, only this time we were at least on the high side of the village. We knew the Cabanitas de Betanias was supposed to be on the hill overlooking Santa Clara so I took a chance with a precarious random right turn that carried me very steeply up a road past a few estates and private clubs, good indications of resort accommodations. Suddenly we encountered a long line of pick up trucks stopped on the road. Apparently the deluge had toppled a massive tree directly in front of the entrance of the Cabanitas de Betanias, making it impossible for us to enter for as many hours as it would take to dispatch a highway team with chainsaws to remove the road and electrical crews to restring the downed power lines. I inquired to see if there was perhaps another way in to the Cabanitas or a road that would put me on the other side of the entrance, but apparently there was absolutely no other way in. Unless we wanted to wait half the day on the outside chance that a road crew would see the urgency of responding on a Sunday during a major festival to clear a tree, we had no chance but to turn back. We inched our way through a tight nine point U-turn on the narrow road perched precariously on the hillside and traveled back into Santa Clara. We figured, if nothing else, we would at least try to get a cellphone from one of the myriad of Telcel Dealerships in town, but the one we chose had a representative who spoke absolutely no English and demonstrated little patience with our minimal Spanish so we opted to hold off the purchase until we could make a deal with someone with whom we could better strike a communication middle ground.

I began to get that feeling that we were on the wrong course. Santa Clara, despite its charm and perhaps Innocentios capability to find affordable and appropriate housing, I just didnt like the idea of giving up on Patzcuaro, so we headed back down the mountain to that pretty little city that had lured us to drive 3,000 miles to visit. We made our way to the Villa Gardenias, the hotel that we had inquired with the day before, and they were still willing to take our oversized dog and us for a fraction of the cost of the Hacienda. The Villa Gardenias is one of those places you may not fully appreciate from the roadside but, once you enter, you quickly realize what a lovely little place it is. The officina sits at the head of an open courtyard designed like a Spanish plaza festooned with flowers and alive with the sounds of parrots and macaws. As the name suggests, Gardenias dominate the lovely gardens flanking the open tiled courtyard. The rooms flank the garden, and outside each room is a cute little table and set of chairs with an ashtray subtly suggesting that smokers should retreat to the lovely setting should they feel the need to imbibe their odiferous pastime. We shuttled in the voluminous number of bags, kids and dog into an adorable bungalow style hotel room, beautifully decorated with Mexican pottery and cabinetry and a spray of freshly cut gardenias. The room immediately brought your pulse down a few dozen beats and, after chasing down a nice dinner in a downtown sidewalk café, we settled in to watch "A Fish Called Wanda" subtitled into Spanish and made plans to get serious in our home search tomorrow.

On Monday, we woke early and headed out to the Perimetro, the road that rings Patzcuaro, in search of breakfast. We chose a small little family run stand and dove into one of our best breakfasts since arriving in Mexico. and for dirt-cheap. Trino and his wife Aras and their three children broke out the only table they had and set it with a table cloth and all the chairs they could scrounge up and set before us a feast to fit a king. Aras is a very pretty woman and her three children took to serving us as if we were honored guests, bringing plate after plate of fresh made tortillas until I was about to bust, and all of this for just about $8.00. I was blown away with the food and service and yet, tipping seemed an uncommon practice here at the roadside stands which cater typically to locals rather than the tourists who may not see fine dining potential at a 10x 10 roadside stand with a single butane burner positioned directly in front of a muffler and brake shop. Every time I tried to tip the kids, they gave the money back to me, telling me that it was unnecessary. Trino, the father, who also runs a taxi, finally interceded and explained to his wife and kids that we were trying to express our gratitude and would be insulted if the kids wouldnt take the tip. Trino speaks great English, having driven a cab in Chicago, Dallas and New York. To him, the money may have been great, but it kept him away from his beautiful family. Were I in his shoes, I could understand the conflict. Instead, he took his last set of earnings, bought a cab in his hometown and set up shop from one of the three stools that flanked the counter at his wifes open air lunch counter.

The only thing lacking at this little roadside gourmet was coffee. The instant Nescafe sufficed but, after breakfast we made our way back to the Plaza Vasco de Quiroga and got an Americano at the coffee shop that seems to cater to a lot of expatriates. It was easy to spot the knot of gringos sipping away at the lattes, and we smiled as we past, making our way to the Telcel around the corner. As Pen was in negotiating with the owner, I hung outside with Rommel. One of the fellows who were sitting at the tabla americanos walked up and commented on Rommels striking features. William Chapman is a 6 ½ year expatriate who moved from Pennsylvania, putting behind him a lucrative law career and the family book business in Vermont to open a bookstore in neighboring Tzurumutaro. We talked at length about our mutual love of books and dogs. As we were chatting and smoking, a lovely couple from Wickenburg, Arizona stopped by and discussed real estate options in the area. The husband, Will Lochridge, is another former radio guy, having worked for NBC and ABC in New York then moving to Arizona to buy and later sell a radio station. He and his wife settled down in Wickenburg and opened the Refried Bean, a Mexican Décor store that gave them the great excuse to travel extensively throughout Mexico on buying trips.

When the subject got around to real estate, I picked his brain about rentals. I threw out a few of the names I had heard and he gave me very honest assessments of the properties that he knew were available. But he also clued me in that having a big bag of fur like Rommel would limit my options greatly. Having six dogs of his own, he jokingly accepted the blame for making gringo-accommodating rental property less dog friendly. He did, however, know of a local renter that catered to the needs of Americans and was very dog friendly in their rental considerations. He directed me to an art gallery down the road and put me in touch with Marty and Monica Gray. I jumped on his lead and drove the few miles to Galeria Vicki y Rafael in search of the landlords of the much-fabled Gringolandia a collection of hillside apartments just outside of the Centro. We were successful in locating the gallery but, alas, it was closed. Interestingly, next to the art gallery was a biker bar with the very non-Hispanic name of Mr. Grays. We were on the right track but just needed to establish contact with the landlords. We returned to the Villa Gardenia and, by luck, the owner, Blanca Goldwasser, was on site. I inquired if she was familiar with Marty or Monica Gray. As luck would have it, she was and she began making phone calls to hunt down Monica. In less than an hour, she called the hotel and we made arrangements to meet her at Gringolandia.

We traveled the few minutes to her home and met Monica outside her gate. Her husband Marty was at the facility readying one of their apartments that had just become available for rental. She climbed inside the Rover and directed me to a road that climbed steeply up a hillside. At the top were a collection of rambling structures, 25 apartments and homes spread along the steep incline the fabled Gringolandia. It was very easy to see how such a reputation may have been earned as I immediately spotted the license plates of the cars scattered along the hillside hailing from such exotic locales as California, Washington, New Mexico and Ontario. The men working on the apartment which had come up for rent were at lunch and had disappeared with the keys, so we sat on the long stone porch that stretched the length of the four apartments in this section and took in the magnificent view of Lake Patzcuaro. It gave us a chance to get to know a little more about this couple with a unique penchant of attracting Americans.

Marty is a lifelong sea captain who retired after 25 years of coastal shipping and king crab fishing in Alaska. The fishing and coastal cargo trade in Alaska is lucrative but seasonal, which gave Marty his ability to give into his wanderlust and bounce around the globe for weeks and months at a stretch. About six years ago he retired and moved to Zihuatenejo, a coastal fishing village on the Pacific, where he and a fellow sea captain opened a bar, restaurant and resort. They had a go at that for about three years, and Marty sold out his portion and followed a girlfriend to Patzcuaro. Now, the way he describes her you cant help but be fascinated. A gorgeous little American blonde who looked more fashion model than world adventurer, she had spent a lifetime globe hopping, clearing 40 acres of forest to build a resort in Costa Rica, buying and selling resorts all throughout Latin America. She had ventured here to Patzcuaro with Marty to pursue yet another interest but got sidetracked with a possible lucrative venture in the South Pacific that has netted her a literal gold mine in the Solomon Islands. It was during this time of flux that Marty met Monica.

Monica comes from a long line of real estate speculators. Her father, an American, came to the Patzcuaro some 40 years ago and set about developing the outer perimeter of this historic old city. One of those developments was this collection of hillside homes and apartments which friends and associates began renting during their business and pleasure ventures from the states, which led to the euphemistic dubbing of Gringolandia. Monica was sent to business school and took over the family business, expanding to nearly 40 properties in and about Patzcuaro collectively known as Departementos Vicki, in honor of her mother.

The workmen finally arrived and opened the door to the rental they had been busy rehabilitating. The first thing you notice is the spectacular vaulted ceiling reaching thirty feet high, crowned in rough timber braces. Two huge skylights allow a magnificent spray of light throughout the entire room. Framing the doors are windows, some still bearing the calling card of the radical Americans who had previously occupied the place, leaving their forwarding address by way of a bumper sticker that declares "Ill see you in Cuba." A huge fireplace dominates one corner of the massive studio leading into a stone lined kitchen with a vast row of windows spreading from wall to wall and reaching to the ceiling. To the left you step up a few stairs and turn left and ascend another flight to a long wide loft stretching the length of the main room and framed by a wrought iron railing. Descending down the stairs you proceed down a hallway lined with wall to ceiling cabinets and make a left turn into the bathroom with has, among its other interesting features, a recessed garden with palms and hanging masks.
We fell in love instantly and only deeper considering the price which was well within our budget. We retreated to Monica and Martys fabulous villa complete with an indoor swimming pool prominently featured in the center courtyard and spent the afternoon drinking beer and feasting on a fabulous spread of dishes served up from Monicas kitchen. I introduced Marty to Google Earth, he being a man who loves maps and travel. According to Monica, he stayed up half the night flying around the world on the coolest mapping software program every devised.
We spent all day Tuesday making preparations for the move including joining Monica on a pillaging trip of one of the un-rented apartments for original art. We plan to hang it as soon as we figure out which store in town sells them and the proper Spanish word for "picture hanger." Monica is a devotee of Tarot and was intrigued that I was drawn to her painting of "the Fool" which she swears is my Tarot Card.

This morning (Wednesday) we moved into the apartment and spent the day shopping for the basics to set up our home. I had to re-familiarize myself with a gas stove and water heater. Tonight I set up the computers in anticipation of the cable mans 9 a.m. arrival to connect us to the Internet. As we opted not to bring a television and have no intention of buying one, I guess well have to keep up with the broader media world via their web sites. In the meantime, please feel free to write us at our new address:
The Carrolls
Departamentos Vicki, #7
Patzcuaro, Michoacan,
Mexico, C.P. 61600
Or reach us at our local number:
011-43-41-03-07-96

Once weve got the house situated, Pen, Abigail and Eleanor will be sharing their thoughts via their blogs plus we have yet to cull through the hundreds of pictures weve taken so far to add to the web site. As for me, after fourteen years, it is my hope that Pen and I will sit down this weekend to bring Thatcher to life.

It only seems fitting that, as we settle into our new home in Gringolandia, with the unique cast of characters we assembled in our own personal story, Thatcher and his quirky contemporaries will finally have the home they deserve the printed page.

posted by Dave Carroll @ 8/17/2006 04:20:00 PM