tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69360354665024900282024-03-20T01:07:51.628-07:00Arayo's RideIt is time for the girls to have a little excitement. So, I'm taking my Newfoundland dog, Arayo, on a road trip to discover the people and things that make life interesting. Join us on this adventure.Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.comBlogger165125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-64862818497632262512016-11-23T12:21:00.000-08:002016-11-23T12:23:51.792-08:00The Donald Does Mexico<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It appears Trump will not get great service at this restaurant</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Unknown to most, The Donald decided to travel to Mexico the weekend prior to the US Presidential elections to try to sway a few Mexican-Americans and Expat Gringos to jump on the Trump Train. We took him for a stroll around town, showed him the Ajijic plaza which still sported a few Catrinas left over from last week's Day of the Dead celebration, and to the malecon where people were gathered to enjoy Sunday in the sun by the lake with families and friends. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Banned from Gay Stripper Night. Poor Donald</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We introduced him to a few people and tried to get a feel of his image here locally. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The initial response to the floppy haired, orange faced billionaire was certainly one of suspicion. Young and old stopped to stare - perhaps evaluating his motives for being here.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As his local handlers, we, too, were eyed with a great deal of skepticism and distrust, until it became clear that the anti-Mexican rhetoric that The Donald often spews is not shared by us and that we adore Mexico and her people!</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young and Old wanted a look at the US billionaire</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">THEN, the party began and people lined up to have their photo taken with the man who announced his candidacy for President by calling out Mexicans, insisting they are criminals and rapists, and insisting on building a wall across the Mexican/American border which Mexico would be somehow forced to pay for. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Most people - both Mexican and Expats - had a thing or two to “say” - be it a thumbs down on Trump's political future, a thump on his jaw, or a demonstration of how they would like to help him down our cobblestone streets. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Carry him THIS way!" we were told</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">(Specific comments and thoughts have been edited to protect the innocent!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The hope locally, of course, was that the upcoming election would be the end of this uncouth business tycoon and reality show personality - turned politician. </span><br />
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-33495915827843809392016-03-25T16:57:00.000-07:002016-04-07T00:33:07.800-07:00Easter Holy Week in Mexico<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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Palm Sunday, the streets near my house glow green from the clover which is spread on Hidalgo, the street that leads to the main Cathedral in town. Before evening mass, Jesus rides a donkey up this street, flanked by men in period costume, and followed by a silent procession of hundreds of the faithful.</div>
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The nearby plaza is a riot of color from bright crepe-paper banners. As evening progresses, bands play in the gazebo and thousands of people sample food from small mom and pop stalls. Homemade signs advertise tacos, enchiladas, sopas, and Mexican coffee. Families stroll arm in arm, snacking on ears of corn. Beautiful young women in heels lick the ice cream that is melting from cones, and children break away from their parents to chase each other, tossing paper eggs which burst with bright confetti.</div>
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Thursday evening, the church holds mass outside, and afterwards a passion play is held on a stage which has been erected at the plaza for the event. Things are not looking good for Jesus.</div>
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A block away, the women have gathered in the streets to begin hanging the purple and white crepe-paper banners which they have been making for days. I wonder at the dynamics of the groups that work together, of the one or two single families who do their own decorations. We begin at 10, working by the glow of a few street lights and a nearly full moon. By midnight, street traffic has died down and a few men appear, lean ladders against walls and climb to the rooftops where they pull the long strings of banners into the air and attach them to tops of homes.</div>
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Good Friday morning arrives and people are out early. Soon, Jesus will be marched from the Church up our street into the mountains where he will be hung on a cross. Those neighbors who didn’t get their decorations up last night must finish decorating now. At the base of each block, special “gates” are built with palm fronds and decorations more elaborate than the thousands of alternating purple and white crepe-paper banners that line the way to the mountain. Police remove cars that are left on the streets, and brooms appear as grandmothers and daughters sweep dust and scraps of paper from the cobblestones. </div>
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I have invited friends to my home to watch the event, lured to join me with the promise of homemade blueberry waffles. We know that trials continue in front of the church and soon Jesus will make his appearance. Unlike most other Mexican processions, this one is so quiet they have begun to pass the house before we know they are upon us.</div>
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We rush to the door just as Jesus passes my house. His blood covered tunic is hot in the Mexican sun, even at this altitude, and he trips and falls. He has walked only 2 1/2 blocks at this point and he has a mile or so to go, dragging 200 pounds of rugged cross over his shoulder and up the steep mountainside. A woman stops and tells me she had a friend who’s husband played the role of Jesus a few years ago. The role is so grueling that they practice daily for a year to build up strength. Our streets are cobblestones, a challenge to walk on for anyone, but the weight of the cross bounces with each stone that it hits, digging the wood into shoulder of the man who has accepted this role.</div>
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Down on his knees in front of the house, Jesus' guards surround him, give him a moment to rest before helping him to his feet so he can complete the march up the mountain where he’ll be hung from those rugged branches.</div>
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This is just too hard to watch. Though many follow and spend the day with Jesus high in the mountains above our lakeside homes, I can't go further than the nearest corner. I pray that the Jesus actor made it okay and I'm glad for the two ambulances which follow the procession into the mountains.</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-40264770758443380322016-02-22T11:24:00.000-08:002016-03-02T20:13:25.194-08:00A Letter To Arayo<div style="text-align: left;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arayo had the most expressive face I ever photographed</td></tr>
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I<span style="text-align: center;">f you are lucky, once in a lifetime, a soul enters your life and touches you in such a way that you are never the same again.</span></div>
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Such was the bond that began by a mud hut in Uganda. As I held her weathered brown hand, I promised the frail 100 year old woman that I would name my next “child” after her, then all too soon, I began a search for a dog who I hoped would embody her same wondrous soul. My sweet Arayo. After months of searching for the perfectly healthy dog with a temperament of gold, you climbed into my lap, and I knew my search was over. You had claimed me as yours and while everyone said “leave that dog alone” our hearts were already joined.</div>
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For the next 11 1/2 years we moved through life in unison. Many came to know you through your health challenges, and you slowly won over even the toughest critics - those who said you would be nothing but heart break and expense. “I thought you were crazy, but now I understand,” even my vet admitted.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Willing to pose in the most unusual places</td></tr>
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As a Newfoundland supermodel, you tolerated hours in front of a camera, and became known across the globe through your line of cards and prints.</div>
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Trained for water rescue (the Newfoundland breed’s calling), you delighted swimmers, kayakers and even a stranded motor boat owner as you pulled them from the frigid Puget Sound waters.</div>
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Together we sat with the dying, while you rested your big head on laps and I watched weary hands reach out to caress your soft fur. </div>
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To a child, kidnapped by a parent and hidden away for years, unschooled - you offered weekly encouragement to learn to read. You brought joy to a little girl, upset over her parent’s divorce, and as the two of you worked to learn new skills, you were her teammate as she became the youngest person, at 10 years old, to put a new working title on a giant Newfoundland dog.</div>
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As a friend to a crusty old sailor who had lost his hearing and eyesight, you offered a steading brace during hours spent on the docks as he relived long ago days spent at sea.</div>
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Then came the day we packed our car and headed across the US and Canada, with just a tent, a camera and a blog. As word of your travels spread, for 6 months, people reached out, invited you into their homes and strangers became life-long friends.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYNUJPSaqqOvQTNrBB_ofVZfYeQxtLwo0fKZngE0rLeecdeWZCsoar47u77FC8kuEF2qK2ieymb3KA_RvTvFoiOuARQtZMCWN-4zCIIxSSrp1iKpCqVGKjbxpFfM1KEXEk-c5ONAj2dc/s1600/4.17_arayo_8548a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrYNUJPSaqqOvQTNrBB_ofVZfYeQxtLwo0fKZngE0rLeecdeWZCsoar47u77FC8kuEF2qK2ieymb3KA_RvTvFoiOuARQtZMCWN-4zCIIxSSrp1iKpCqVGKjbxpFfM1KEXEk-c5ONAj2dc/s400/4.17_arayo_8548a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 7th birthday portrait</td></tr>
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In Newfoundland, you patiently posed for hundreds of travelers and locals alike, who wanted a photo with a Newfoundland dog. Wonder filled the faces of young children, who had never seen a Newfoundland outside of a picture book. And on that long lonely stretch of road across the Province, an ambulance stopped, a side door opened and as you were motioned closer, I watched as the face of the patient inside was transformed by an enormous smile.</div>
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Then, finally we traveled to be with my mother while her life was being claimed by cancer. Often, I’d hear her talking and discover you at her side, keeping her company in her final days.</div>
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My sweet sweet Arayo. You were the one that was supposed to live forever, and, as a stranger wrote - if tears could heal, you would. Together we traveled so many roads, shared so many experiences, and met so many wonderful people. Because of you, my life has been far richer than I could ever have imagined.</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-21667124312021304612016-02-16T11:19:00.000-08:002016-11-23T11:36:14.302-08:00Sweet Sweet Arayo - April 17, 2004 - February 5, 2016<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVcTi15yqsa_AqikAQSkXHZpaPTw55jCvJ2SPlsP5i-H4f93WPEmVlFb5_VWqnwB42C_iHYAnaPBHYsng8quLL5IFToceMFoi8uSe4h-Cyrlb5y9c-KJQq1WOMiQs3rwwV3K6Iv_YzW4/s1600/ArayoWindow_7321.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMVcTi15yqsa_AqikAQSkXHZpaPTw55jCvJ2SPlsP5i-H4f93WPEmVlFb5_VWqnwB42C_iHYAnaPBHYsng8quLL5IFToceMFoi8uSe4h-Cyrlb5y9c-KJQq1WOMiQs3rwwV3K6Iv_YzW4/s400/ArayoWindow_7321.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arayo poses for a holiday card. She always had the most expressive eyes.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">How can it be that my sweet Arayo is gone? A few weeks ago I noticed a growth on the side of her mouth. The vet immediately took her into surgery and removed a tumor and two teeth, but within 6 days the tumor was back and growing quickly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Hemangiosarcoma. The vet said to just love her - it would go quickly. And it did. In 3 weeks the cancer had won. When she wouldn't take her daily walks to the malecon and eat big meals topped with layers of whipped cream, I knew it was time. A friend called the vet for me and Arayo and I cuddled on the couch for 6 hours before I had to say the final goodbye. It has been a week and a half and I am still destroyed by the loss. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I have written a letter to my sweet girl which I will publish in a day or so. In the meantime - </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Arayo - Capriccio's Life's What U Make It, CD, DD, WD1</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">April 17, 2004 - February 5, 2016</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AQ1ZIUDgGJzV8cVwRxFlkaKuIzwAPOQWB_PWjcFAPsW1Xsh3R-4Za-E5mDWVXSvO0elO1dp4GMOvFRbcq4aFUA-Da2gv265wgGpZG5wuMXZirao773RwgD5ZDLE2hy11zMZWS1AyJB4/s400/Arayo_7707.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="363" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arayo poses for her second Living Legend Portrait - age 11</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AQ1ZIUDgGJzV8cVwRxFlkaKuIzwAPOQWB_PWjcFAPsW1Xsh3R-4Za-E5mDWVXSvO0elO1dp4GMOvFRbcq4aFUA-Da2gv265wgGpZG5wuMXZirao773RwgD5ZDLE2hy11zMZWS1AyJB4/s1600/Arayo_7707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Companion Dog, Draft Dog, Water Dog (twice!). Certified Therapy Dog and Crisis Response Dog. Living Legend twice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Supermodel with own line of cards and prints, international world traveler with her own blog, great camper, friend to too many people to count.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Patient, gentle, kind (though a couple cats and a bird might disagree).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My sweet girl, I don't know if the tears will ever really stop. My life is forever enriched for having shared all the experiences of the last 11 1/2 years with you. 11 years, 20 years, even 50 years would not be time enough. You took an enormous piece of my heart with you in your passing. How I miss you.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AQ1ZIUDgGJzV8cVwRxFlkaKuIzwAPOQWB_PWjcFAPsW1Xsh3R-4Za-E5mDWVXSvO0elO1dp4GMOvFRbcq4aFUA-Da2gv265wgGpZG5wuMXZirao773RwgD5ZDLE2hy11zMZWS1AyJB4/s1600/Arayo_7707.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></a><br /></div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-12510407386060956622014-11-07T09:55:00.000-08:002014-11-07T09:55:55.259-08:00Defying Explanations<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2A_97eXnmyZlzj_TdhKKaow_B4dFjAbGXwwKu6HgFZLZM5cxw-PhSxSDnR7xtscgRQCgwmRM0udTi_6vEtAkIcyk7kcqq1OUoPt13B_ZrkG53A67PoaYCB9z9aCmtq256O4GU5OhfMEg/s1600/IMG_7319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2A_97eXnmyZlzj_TdhKKaow_B4dFjAbGXwwKu6HgFZLZM5cxw-PhSxSDnR7xtscgRQCgwmRM0udTi_6vEtAkIcyk7kcqq1OUoPt13B_ZrkG53A67PoaYCB9z9aCmtq256O4GU5OhfMEg/s1600/IMG_7319.jpg" height="346" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Altar the night of Day of the Dead. Notice the bread with the cross on top.</td></tr>
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I am not one to believe in a lot of hocus pocus, though I want to believe there are things we can't explain. I want to believe that if you fly into the Bermuda Triangle you will disappear. Maybe. But I don't put a ton of stock in these things.</div>
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I don't wave incense around to ward off, or draw to me, certain spirits. But, still….. Sometimes things happen that defy explanation.</div>
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This year, I built an altar to my parents for the Day of the Dead. Did I think their spirits would return to the altar? No. Heck, I know they wouldn't. I cut down a tree a couple days after my mom died that was smack dab in front of her house. She loved the tree. I hated it. I knew that if there was ANY way that she could return to give me a good haunt, it would happen the night I butchered that tree. She did not return.</div>
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But, out of respect for my new Mexican life, and to honor my parent's memory, I built an altar. On November 2, the Day of the Dead, I moved it to the front of my house. Here it was back from the street, visible from the sidewalk but protected from the elements. Positioned as it was and behind a locked gate, no human could reach it.</div>
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I added the things I was told were needed. Tomatoes for Mom, fruit and other food my parents enjoyed. I bought the special Mexican sweet bread that altars are to have. It is a yummy piece of dough, perhaps 6" in diameter. On top, a cross of dough is baked into the bread and sugar is sprinkled across it. I placed my bread in a bowl near a cross made of salt and a small bowl of sugar.</div>
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That night, I lit the candles and took a few photos, finally blowing them out before going to bed.</div>
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The next morning I awoke and went outside to check the altar. Everything was as it had been the night before. The trinkets were in place, the food untouched. (Apparently the spirits don't eat the food but the nourishment from it is gone after their visit.) Photos weren't moved. The cross of salt was totally intact - unmoved by wind, critters or departed souls.</div>
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But, in the bowl, the bread……… No human could have reached this and no critter bothered it without disturbing something else. But <span style="text-decoration: underline;">something</span> had come in the night and eaten half the bread. Something, somehow turned that bread over so as not to disturb the cross. The bread was carefully returned to its place in the bowl and the bottom half of the bread eaten or removed.</div>
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That who or whatever did this refused to eat the cross and carefully replaced the bread into its bowl is just too bizarre for description and defies all logic. </div>
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Did some soul return for a snack on this Day of the Dead? Somehow, that is the only thing that makes sense to me - and it sends shivers down my spine.</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-49370172167142697092014-10-31T12:14:00.001-07:002014-10-31T12:14:40.806-07:00Mexican Serenade<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fei2KSIyIqKc2aaZ87DnPZBO3_z0_xNFtIoyJa729NUbeiDvhOuLBpvKcIjMCr_WRb8WLfzv5010kxY_TkcBm_maOfcBXWTKhreXVIKMCnu8LTqdgXRZZUjx4ddNryM6XKcjmoEJHdw/s1600/IMG_7151.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5fei2KSIyIqKc2aaZ87DnPZBO3_z0_xNFtIoyJa729NUbeiDvhOuLBpvKcIjMCr_WRb8WLfzv5010kxY_TkcBm_maOfcBXWTKhreXVIKMCnu8LTqdgXRZZUjx4ddNryM6XKcjmoEJHdw/s1600/IMG_7151.jpg" height="293" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A charming group of musicians</td></tr>
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I love my neighborhood. I'm afraid you will hear that a lot.</div>
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As I was getting my day underway this morning, I heard the strains of a band performing…….. right outside my door? Bombs had been blowing off since about 5 am, and it isn't unusual to hear bands practicing, but today is Halloween and the real beginning of the Day of the Dead celebration, so a parade is probably in the making.</div>
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But, I've never known a band to line up on the sidewalk across from my house to play a number or two.</div>
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Leaving Arayo to fend for herself, I grabbed my camera and dashed outside.</div>
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Men, dressed in black slacks, jackets and blue tops appeared to be serenading someone, and as I stood in the street to better take photos of this event, I looked over my shoulder. There in the window of the house next to mine, stood a group of women. </div>
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Then I knew.</div>
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My neighbor has a daughter, 33, who has lupus and has been confined to a bed next to that window for 13 years. The band was there to give her her own mini-concert, to brighten her day and let her know that she is not forgotten by the community.</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-7208587498153090002014-10-30T10:35:00.002-07:002014-10-30T10:38:23.044-07:00Building an Altar<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQ95mCl-5PWwsbCM6qABd3pBiDtt4xyEZK4OcexmxXNU1oGmnx0t9eso5nj3QaRxZ6kO-zAVosQAs-m53VbXVaE5atHJh2mvFMNge2YgjJ9-P3gSLgCViYwVQ7DO0ytHufNWjUUH75DE/s1600/IMG_7140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDQ95mCl-5PWwsbCM6qABd3pBiDtt4xyEZK4OcexmxXNU1oGmnx0t9eso5nj3QaRxZ6kO-zAVosQAs-m53VbXVaE5atHJh2mvFMNge2YgjJ9-P3gSLgCViYwVQ7DO0ytHufNWjUUH75DE/s1600/IMG_7140.jpg" height="292" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fernanda and Andrea and my family altar</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">Day of the Dead. What a morbid holiday. At least, that is what I thought before I arrived in Mexico last year just in time for the annual celebration of those who have passed. It didn't take long before I was totally hooked.</span><br />
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So, one of my goals has been to embrace this time of year by participating in the tradition of building an altar. To this end, I have researched, talked to friends and family, dug through stuff and shopped.</div>
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Realizing I was in a bit over my head, I contacted a Mexican friend who had teenage daughters for help. Not only would I get my altar, I'd get to know a Mexican family better. I win twice!</div>
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After an initial visit to talk this through, Sergio and his daughters Fernanda and Andrea came to the house to help me assemble this tribute to my parents. Everything on the altar has a significance and a purpose. </div>
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In reading online, I found a wide assortment of directions, but I followed the advice of my teenage teachers. In general you need three levels to your altar and they should be draped with crepe paper; a larger purple bottom one, a smaller pink level in the middle and a purple top level. Purple signifies mourning, pink celebration.</div>
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Photos of the loved ones are placed on the alter. Since I wanted to include remembrance of my grandparents, we added images of them as well.</div>
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A cross of salt is normally placed at the base, signifying the four directions and leading the departed to the altar. Candles, incense and marigolds are placed about, further helping the departed find their way back.</div>
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Once the loved ones have returned, which happens for departed children on November 1 and for adults November 2, the souls need things to help them feel at home. A bit of water and a wash cloth is nice so they can freshen up after their journey. Their favorite foods and some of the things they enjoyed in life should be included.</div>
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So, here are the things I included for my parents:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj10WnUgaOb1UmmxL_RTh3cJOzlYOn4rR1zpe0Eec1oSkQBfZrSO9eGKt6ZFC3JLuAxdldrRSRTjrZK2ia_EqUYiNZiorPrQGzSY4mOgD53IF_Rcfwb_Rvf7EBiwfk2vrMTbtGQBm6bYI/s1600/IMG_7147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj10WnUgaOb1UmmxL_RTh3cJOzlYOn4rR1zpe0Eec1oSkQBfZrSO9eGKt6ZFC3JLuAxdldrRSRTjrZK2ia_EqUYiNZiorPrQGzSY4mOgD53IF_Rcfwb_Rvf7EBiwfk2vrMTbtGQBm6bYI/s1600/IMG_7147.jpg" height="268" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Close up of the Carpenter/Hughes Altar</td></tr>
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For Mom I included a necklace she enjoyed wearing, a can of tomato soup and a jar of peanut butter. There is a small figurine of a dog, a deck of cards and a set of doorknobs that were originally on the house that she and Dad built. Oh, and not to forget, a teeny pair of scissors to trim her nails, the ever important tube of red lipstick and a silly rock that has hair, a clown nose and big clown smile.</div>
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For Dad there is a small bottle of Coke (and a separate one for Mom since he never shared his food). There is a radio so he can catch up on whatever he needs to catch up on, a Rotary ball cap, a roll of duct tape (because no man can survive without duct tape), a bottle of sun screen and one of vitamins. I should probably add a Discover card so he can get his 1% back on any purchases.</div>
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The Day of the Dead and building of an altar to honor loved ones is a lovely way to remember those who have played an important part in our lives. Consider trying on this Mexican tradition in your own home!<br />
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Next year I am building an altar to my darling departed Newfoundlands!</div>
Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-62056015545400076092014-10-29T12:42:00.001-07:002014-10-29T12:45:36.236-07:00We're Back!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life is rough in old Mexico</td></tr>
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"What happened? Where have you been?" the questions have come to me during the past 7 months or so. Yes, Arayo and I have been flying under cover. Sometimes life gets so complicated it seems better to let things just sit a while and catch up on writing later.</div>
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In short - Arayo and I drove back to the US (and yes, another border story will be coming!), spent 6 months closing out my family home in Kansas, returned to Mexico (with another cursed border crossing), and we are now settling back into life in Mexico - where the skies are always blue, the rain comes only at night, and people just smile a lot.</div>
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We've changed the blog address - though the old one should still work. You can now find us at <a href="http://www.newfhugger.com/"><span style="color: #106be4;">www.newfhugger.com</span></a> (and if you don't put in the www, you won't find us - I don't know why!)</div>
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Thanks to those of you who have checked on us and missed our posts. And, because I did take a break, and because I still have stories to tell from the past months, the blog will be jumping a bit of back and forth, telling tales from the past and those of current experiences. I hope it isn't too confusing!</div>
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So, welcome back and please check back often!</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-61232742109900129542014-03-17T09:14:00.000-07:002014-03-17T09:27:38.684-07:00Sucking on Something Nasty!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">The doctor sat across from me dressed in a white lab coat. Peering at his computer screen we communicated around the constant ringing of a phone and through the aid of an interpreter. I was there to donate blood - the questions should have been simple enough. <br /><br />"What is your address?" he asked. <br /><i><br />"Currently I'm sort of homeless."</i><br /><br />"Birthdate"<br /><br /><i>"Oh dear - is the month first in Mexico or the day?"</i><br /><br />"Are you pregnant?"<br /><br /><i>"Are you kidding?"</i><br /><br />"When was your last period?"<br /><br /><i>"I can't remember back that far."</i><br /><br />"When did you last have sex?"<br /><br /><i>"Had what?.... Better just refer to the response above."</i><br /><br />To give blood in Mexico, you have to meet a great deal of criteria, including knowing your blood type - which I didn't know. So I had searched around Ajijic for a lab that could check it for me. I paid them money. They poked me for a while. The next day I picked up an official document with the answer. I knew this one!<br /><i><br />"Do you need my blood type," </i>I inquired?<br /><br />"No, no." (Figures)<br /><br />The man left his desk and walked to a cabinet. Opening a door, he pulled something out, held it up to me and recited a few words.<br /><br />I sat up straighter and smiled. Finally, something I could understand. A thermometer!<br /><br />With pride I nodded my head, reached for the sliver of glass, and exclaimed <i>"THIS I can do!" </i><br /><br />I opened my mouth, popped the thing under my tongue, and closed my lips around it to hold it tight.<br /><br />"NO!" he shouted, and the interpreter exclaimed, "Not there! Don't put it there! It goes under your arm!"<br /><br /><i>"Under WHAT?"</i><br /><br />"Your arm. It goes under your arm."<br /><br /><i>"You mean.............?"</i><br /><br />"Lift your shirt and put it in your armpit."<br /><br />The one item in the entire beautifully clean hospital that had been stuck under numerous nasty dirty armpits and probably not cleaned for weeks, I had managed to put in my mouth and suck on. I'd have been better off licking the floor.<br /><br />And people worry about drinking the water in Mexico</span>Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-29127484298931063242014-02-10T16:06:00.000-08:002014-02-10T16:06:03.819-08:00Signing My Life Away<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bPMAhVe-Cbh1afXDC76euq8CA_M3Zd_f_pazulHEi-ivpeGMF0oaK1edbEK4rnmBmM_ZQouuseIRSBdQ1UApe1Q06l81T0G-DgXezFyUHqE5xbQ_9Bn9caGBdGFVBN7tf9kUSoxO0gI/s1600/IMG_5046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8bPMAhVe-Cbh1afXDC76euq8CA_M3Zd_f_pazulHEi-ivpeGMF0oaK1edbEK4rnmBmM_ZQouuseIRSBdQ1UApe1Q06l81T0G-DgXezFyUHqE5xbQ_9Bn9caGBdGFVBN7tf9kUSoxO0gI/s1600/IMG_5046.jpg" height="400" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arayo reigns over her new pool & hot tub</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">It was a power meeting. Lorded over by Notorio Number 2, we each took our sides at the table. Me with my team, he with his. Papers, legal documents, were passed back and forth. "Do NOT cross that line with your signature or this becomes null and void", I was commanded by the handsome lawyer in control.<br /><br />Oops! I always did cross my "T's" with too much drama.<br /><br />"Since this is a legal document, can I use my purple pen," I implored? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">Surprise - "Of course!" Seems some Mexican President or someone only signs in green or red. Dang, I love Mexico!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arayo's maiden swim. (Thank you Peggy McLean for the photo)</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><br />With each signature, a mass of keys that had rested on 'their' side of the table slid closer to me. On finding one more paper they had forgotten, the keys were snatched back, until I signed - NICELY this time.<br /><br />And in a quick hour and a half, the deed was done. Thousands of dollars were wired to accounts all over the US to the heirs of the last owner, the creator of my new home, as they received their share of his estate.<br /><br />With keys in hand, I gathered up Arayo, invited a couple friends, and we ran to my new home. "An oasis," my friend called it. As we sat outside, protected from the sun by my gazebo, we watched as Arayo took her maiden swim in her very own pool.</span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"></span>Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-88332576976440115042014-02-05T18:57:00.004-08:002014-02-05T18:59:13.493-08:00WHAT Have I Done?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">With a kitchen like this, I might even learn to cook!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">It seemed innocent enough. Take a ride with a real estate agent, see what kind of homes they have in Mexico, and check out the various parts of town. </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">We saw new houses and old, homes in gated communities with retired gringos, and others in the heart of town with Mexicans busy selling wares, caring for their children and visiting on the streets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">Then there it was - THE HOUSE! Maybe it was the stunning pool and hot tub that filled 1/3 of the back yard. The gleaming terra-cotta colored tile floors, or the happy yellow kitchen area which was flanked by open shelves filled with brightly colored glassware.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The living area - perfect for quiet nights at home or for entertaining</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My classy new housemate, in his off-shoulder dress</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">I was captivated by the oil painting of the Mexican witch woman leaning on a cane and wearing a blue mask - surrounded by etchings of Day of the Dead figures. But, the crowning glory of the home was a 3 x 4 foot framed canvas of a bearded man, sporting an off-shoulder yellow dress!<br /><br />In the corner of the kitchen was a plaque with a pig in a striped shirt behind bars - a sign proclaimed "When Pork Goes Bad!" Be still my heart. Whoever designed this house was a soul-mate of sorts.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><br />This was no longer a joy ride. I'd fallen in love with this home - something I swore no sane person would do. Come to Mexico and immediately buy a house? But I talked to people and it seems many have done the same thing and continue to live here, swearing they will never leave.<br /><br />I began stalking this house and its very Mexican neighborhood, walking past at 11 pm to check out the activity. I wanted to know about the man who could part with such a home. Sadly, he had passed away and everything in the house - including the man in the dress and the dozen hand-made margarita glasses - would go as a package at the right price.<br /><br />I could feel my father, looking with lust at that pool. Something he always wanted but would never have left Kansas to obtain. I could hear my mother, insisting the man in the dress did NOT belong in the center of the living area, rather in the back of a closet somewhere. Mom and I had our disagreements in matters of decor.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">After weeks </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">of losing sleep and multiple visits, I made an offer. You see, every time I walked in the door, the world seemed right. I was going to make Mexico home, and would be sharing the experience with my new pal who's off-shoulder dress hinted at the hairy chest beneath.</span><br />
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-46573609550767135412014-01-25T10:31:00.000-08:002014-02-05T18:58:45.608-08:00A Mexican Birthday<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset reflects on Lake Chapala</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">Another birthday has settled upon me. Another year past. Another year closer to Senior Citizens Discounts. Gone are the days of parties with friends, silly hats and a cake with candles.<br /><br />But this is Mexico! </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">"Let's go out for a drink," my Mexican friend, Teresita, said.<br /><br />Off we headed to the plaza, Arayo in tow, for a beer at one of the outside plaza restaurants. <br /><br />As we enjoyed the perfect sunny afternoon, a musical duo began to circulate. A few pesos exchanged hands and I found myself the focus of a flute and guitar serenade, featuring a perfect mix of Beatles and traditional Mexican music.<br /><br />Soon, as usually happens, a gentleman came over to cast a bit of adoration on Arayo. As we visited, Teresita mentioned to him we were celebrating my birthday and his response was the announce it to the entire restaurant - where I melted in humiliation as claps and cheers were directed my way.<br /><br />Returning to the hotel, we found a large cake. A Tres Leche Cake. White cake soaked in three kinds of milk, the yummy pastry is heaped with light fluffy frosting and accented by a layer of peaches tucked inside and shaved almonds on top. Waiting until all in the hotel guests were back from their day's exploring, we called the group to the courtyard and a mix of Canadians, Americans, Mexicans and Europeans visited and ate into the cool Mexican night as a few morsels found their way towards Arayo who rested patiently at our feet.<br /><br />Simple and relaxed, my first birthday in Mexico could not have been better.</span>Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-26088912763945061952014-01-02T10:10:00.001-08:002014-01-02T10:12:57.577-08:00A New Year's Parade<br />
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Mexican bandits on horseback were shooting at each other. A man on safari protected himself from a mass of African natives who chased him with spears.</div>
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Pirates aboard a ship were followed by sea creatures, and men in bright hula skirts performed on an ocean full of fishes.</div>
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A trailer loaded with white-faced mimes in striped shirts tossed around enormous black and white boxes. One of their crew flirted with a queen wearing a bright tiara, long brown locks, a gold evening gown, and a light stubble of beard.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaEylwgrrMqvt-eG5XOu8l9KG71-2eRdT3-NfsgleU0GDeR7LZuqgbw0zc6L_ir7oI1JUnOz0IgyLkd2kUL_BcbbtwA7o-cH_rZhm6h73_JnNjhQwe2YFdeGlVSZ-ujb1gKS8LLK531E/s1600/IMG_2169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihaEylwgrrMqvt-eG5XOu8l9KG71-2eRdT3-NfsgleU0GDeR7LZuqgbw0zc6L_ir7oI1JUnOz0IgyLkd2kUL_BcbbtwA7o-cH_rZhm6h73_JnNjhQwe2YFdeGlVSZ-ujb1gKS8LLK531E/s320/IMG_2169.jpg" width="320" /></a>Even President Obama showed up, flanked by American and Mexican flags and dark suited secret service men.</div>
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Thus, Ajijic welcomed 2014 with a parade of characters, lots of fun, music, and confetti!</div>
Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-67939099184534006012013-12-31T19:49:00.000-08:002013-12-31T19:50:18.107-08:00Celebrating a New Year, Mexican Style <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMhV3ga_qod1wXfG5ZCeTpX2oDF9f4zaVA2aDt47ConPjnZx3uh-Adl_rJdYd6QupMs9vOxLAGTWXLnNt_zMwlimm4cHvM7g_ROGViZ7RrRsWdOyhRx2kFImUg77f7Aj2E9U-B2yWt70s/s1600/IMG_1903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMhV3ga_qod1wXfG5ZCeTpX2oDF9f4zaVA2aDt47ConPjnZx3uh-Adl_rJdYd6QupMs9vOxLAGTWXLnNt_zMwlimm4cHvM7g_ROGViZ7RrRsWdOyhRx2kFImUg77f7Aj2E9U-B2yWt70s/s320/IMG_1903.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And, with all Mexican celebrations, let there be fireworks!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Are you ready to ring in 2014?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Quick - there is still time to bring in Mexican Good Luck for 2014. Here are some tips.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">First, go outside and build a fire in the street, then sit outside with your family and neighbors and celebrate together.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Before heading out, check what you are wearing and select your underwear carefully! Red will bring you luck, white, good health and yellow will insure wealth and abundance. (The stores here have big displays of red undies and as the young were getting ready for their big evenings, that area of the stores were crowded!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For overall good fortune, wear an item of old clothing and another brand new item.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As the clock hits midnight, eat a grape with each chime and make a wish as you eat each one. (Ours are counted out and sitting in a bowl, awaiting the midnight hour. Arayo has a bowl of a dozen treats too, just in case it might be good luck for our 4-legged pals.)</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Pull a ladder out from the garage and as the clock strikes mid-night - jump off - thus leaving behind all things negative with this final leap into the New Year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And, above all, have a safe New Years Eve as you head into Twenty Fourteen!</span></div>
<br />Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-88759438505008453722013-12-28T16:45:00.000-08:002013-12-28T16:47:40.063-08:00The Star of Bethlehem Shines on Mexico<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi21eP0ILynp4UBESjT9WdE27XKC_Vm3c3Z5m3krPxIIIQqsII_e_tQFKzAKFO16Z_CzJ4dBx-cK-z4YDUgS2sdEq-N-LAwvmWg0PDopSVXdka3MIimg8Mi5rMCgK_hb-XXsVr6soymhBc/s1600/IMG_2060.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi21eP0ILynp4UBESjT9WdE27XKC_Vm3c3Z5m3krPxIIIQqsII_e_tQFKzAKFO16Z_CzJ4dBx-cK-z4YDUgS2sdEq-N-LAwvmWg0PDopSVXdka3MIimg8Mi5rMCgK_hb-XXsVr6soymhBc/s400/IMG_2060.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Children and their parents reenact the story of Mary and Joseph's search for an inn</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">She rode into town on a donkey. Mary, with Joseph by her side. Following her were 50 or so children and parents, reenacting the Biblical story of Mary and Joseph's search for a place to stay.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;">It is a Mexican tradition. From December 16 through Christmas Eve, the village children meet at the church, then they go door to door along a pre-determined route, knocking and being turned away. When finally they reach the right location, there is singing, they are invited in and they find a party, or the simple handing out of holiday bags of candies and fruits.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQrn1EvnW_Bw9YBZRJISIv2hHKJtJTQUF0-75on1QPgNC4UkDm0t7i5KYUCG1clKY-wKpEvoX5T3Mgc7DfCEJV4dDrUZHOgNl7mnbo6a1n8lCE-71YYKmUw5piahWWb69F396krufEYk/s1600/IMG_2067-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMQrn1EvnW_Bw9YBZRJISIv2hHKJtJTQUF0-75on1QPgNC4UkDm0t7i5KYUCG1clKY-wKpEvoX5T3Mgc7DfCEJV4dDrUZHOgNl7mnbo6a1n8lCE-71YYKmUw5piahWWb69F396krufEYk/s320/IMG_2067-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Star of Bethlehem shines over the Pasada</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><br />As I watched the Posada one evening, I noticed in the back of the group, a small boy. Sitting atop his father's shoulders, he looked across the sea of children, and onto the activity taking place at the door. He was dressed in a funny outfit, all puffy of a gold fabric that glittered and shined. His face showed from the center of what looked like a gold banana with appendages.<br /><br />Then, it hit me. He wasn't in a banana suit. His face looked out from a big, stuffed gold star costume that was shining down on the activity below.<br /><br />He was the Star of Bethlehem.</span>Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-55692571983997731092013-12-25T17:20:00.000-08:002013-12-28T16:46:38.558-08:00The Fires of Christmas Eve<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2dm-Smxxv3lXIwclY4dEb5U40ZX9bpOG_YT_8tpJmvKfdg-6rz5SguPDr1X_ahjI9P4hNmZBKpUNSGnITM5mkAYf-HENa-KzVEppzTYylOfHk9VxKuDhB2bOjdgdWiBetDLpDJktF8U/s1600/IMG_2152.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm2dm-Smxxv3lXIwclY4dEb5U40ZX9bpOG_YT_8tpJmvKfdg-6rz5SguPDr1X_ahjI9P4hNmZBKpUNSGnITM5mkAYf-HENa-KzVEppzTYylOfHk9VxKuDhB2bOjdgdWiBetDLpDJktF8U/s400/IMG_2152.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Feliz Navidad"</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">So slowly and silently did it creep into my room that I didn't notice the smoke that was settling around me. Suddenly, the night erupted with hundreds of explosions which shook the building and sent me flying from my bed.<br /><br />11:59, read the clock. Christmas Eve. <br /><br />Quickly tossing on a sweatshirt and flip-flops, I grabbed Arayo's leash, ran across the courtyard, through the long lobby, up a flight of stairs and out into the cool Mexican night.<br /><br />The scene that met me was surreal. All up and down the cobblestone street flames danced to the music being pumped out of simple homes. Children spun round in the middle of the road as they twirled giant sparklers. Parents and grandparents warmed themselves by the fires they had built near their front doors (and their cars) and visited as they roasted huge pink and white marshmallows.<br /><br />I leaned against a wall and watched the scene playing out around me, then strolled closer to better see what the next family over was doing.<br /><br />"Feliz Navid", the mothers said when they spotted me watching.<br /><br />Speaking only a few words of Spanish, I had no way to explain how magical I thought this tradition was.<br /><br />Occasionally, throughout the night, I awoke to hear more explosions, but when I took Arayo out to potty at 6 am - the fires near me were out. The families in bed. Towards town I could hear a Christmas party still in progress.<br /><br />Perhaps next year I will have the words to better connect and with luck I'll be invited to be part of this Mexican Christmas tradition. I can still twirl a mean sparkler!</span><br />
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-71103979210979775092013-12-25T11:02:00.000-08:002013-12-28T16:46:07.319-08:00A Mexican Christmas Eve<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9A4lB9YE6B9_tRXdaoB4QPTjbae-OcGp_UVMXlTp1wmlu6o5CjbN46LbLVAR07TBolEch5AT-M2exlC3uu2EhcsP0N3R-7SISUpqPxhpWGykJYCs1EbzjZ6_43TYkV2_esb8DhnMmqWY/s1600/IMG_2144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9A4lB9YE6B9_tRXdaoB4QPTjbae-OcGp_UVMXlTp1wmlu6o5CjbN46LbLVAR07TBolEch5AT-M2exlC3uu2EhcsP0N3R-7SISUpqPxhpWGykJYCs1EbzjZ6_43TYkV2_esb8DhnMmqWY/s400/IMG_2144.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Perhaps the bottle of Tequila helped this Mary and Joseph stay happy</td></tr>
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<span id="goog_590280647"></span><span id="goog_590280648"></span>The angel yawned, the king crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue. Mary's frustration showed on her face as she held the squirming baby and popped a bottle into his mouth. Joseph wore a Mariachi uniform topped by big sombrero. At his feet, a bottle of tequila.</div>
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The Church was alive this Christmas Eve. Mexicans and gringos alike entered the walled courtyard and made their way around the parameter to see the living nativities. Conceived and constructed by the various neighborhoods of Ajijic, children performed the central rolls of Mary, Joseph and an assorted cast which included angels, babies, wise men (or not), toy animals, and a couple reindeer for good measure. </div>
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After an hour or two of posing, some actors continued to appear reverent as their photos were taken, though boredom showed on a few faces. One living baby apparently got cranky and was removed, only to be replaced by a hat.</div>
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One scene portrayed Mary and Joseph dressed as peasant Mexicans. Another rendition of the sacred scene was played out by Mary in bright colorful Mexican party wear with yards of skirts, ribbons and a bright orange headdress. She seemed to be the happiest Mary - perhaps because her Jesus was made of wood and wasn't putting up a fuss in the cool Mexican night air. Or maybe she snuck in a sip of Joseph's tequila!</div>
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In the center of the church courtyard, a huge piece of art had been constructed of colorful saw dust, depicting a bright red and green poinsettia on a beige backdrop. Words at the bottom proclaimed "Feliz Navidad 2014".</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVwL-6Yru2ojRp5bfqk7vyUcX8NTCw8LZ78GoKdEbfupwCQS_dy9mwxRz-1UbCCW7l3zPOXfjvBAl6V6THc5g-LlQM0_xfgcWQfQXPCWr8cwm82rXntYqGnmGvj25MVrrKQDNZzX7KHc/s1600/IMG_2142.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKVwL-6Yru2ojRp5bfqk7vyUcX8NTCw8LZ78GoKdEbfupwCQS_dy9mwxRz-1UbCCW7l3zPOXfjvBAl6V6THc5g-LlQM0_xfgcWQfQXPCWr8cwm82rXntYqGnmGvj25MVrrKQDNZzX7KHc/s400/IMG_2142.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus, Mexican Style!</td></tr>
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As a series of bells rang, the faithful made their way through the giant doors of the old stone church for Midnight Mass. The priest, once young and energetic, has seen a few Christmas Eves, and with age comes wisdom - or perhaps a desire to hit the hay early. Through the years, Midnight Mass was moved to 11, then 10, and now is held at a more practical hour of 8.</div>
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Curious, I followed the crowd and stood at the back of the sanctuary. The building was filled to capacity, yet people continued to push through the doors. I realized I was depriving someone of space within these walls for whom this service carried great meaning, so I made my way back outside and left the faithful to worship on this Christmas Eve.</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-57080335628095819112013-12-20T19:06:00.000-08:002013-12-20T19:08:29.439-08:00Celebrating A Virgin with Charlie Manson<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQ6vjp9XS1zsCTbu0QcLWWMl8kyfHm7Ly520Y6UWG9GF5ioFKxzGnAvhn-AazetLjyq6ogZ-yVZaCwes1yv6YFPz31nakzBzjXS1tVwHY8rLJJg7HGR4juOChWl_HP0OpmdvbzcCaw5A/s1600/IMG_1992.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQ6vjp9XS1zsCTbu0QcLWWMl8kyfHm7Ly520Y6UWG9GF5ioFKxzGnAvhn-AazetLjyq6ogZ-yVZaCwes1yv6YFPz31nakzBzjXS1tVwHY8rLJJg7HGR4juOChWl_HP0OpmdvbzcCaw5A/s400/IMG_1992.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Virgin is honored with alters outside Mexican homes</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">11 pm. The streets were deserted as I took Arayo for her final nightly constitution. As we headed back inside, I was drawn through the night to view the alters which had been erected outside the homes in the neighborhood.<br /><br />Encircled with colorful strands of lights, the alters shared a common theme - brown paper or fabric supported a variety of plants and climbed in height until they reached a print or figurine of a brown woman, dressed in robes, head bowed.<br /><br />It was December 12, the final day of the celebration of the Virgin of Guadalupe, the patron Saint of Mexico. She is the Virgin Mary who appeared to Juan Diego and instructed him to build a church in her honor atop a mountain. It is said she is the reason many Mexican's became Catholic.<br /><br />As Arayo and I walked, we began to hear strains of music and followed the street until we arrived at a festival a few blocks away. At the entrance to the area, a mariachi band played, and beyond them were several blocks of vendors selling food, drinks and gaily lit trinkets that flashed in the night.<br /><br />Arayo and I wandered to the far end, under a fireworks display which was being erected in a much too cramped area, and to a stage where more progressive and louder music was performed.<br /><br />As we don't often hear a true mariachi band, we walked back to the entrance and stood with grandmothers and families to listen a while. Accompanied by violins, guitars and trumpets a short stocky guitar player held center stage, belting out words I could not understand but with a strong tenor voice. I was enchanted.<br /><br />There were 8 musicians in all, though a carefully dressed lad of about 2 wondered amongst them, strumming a toy guitar. He had the makings of a rock star with big brown eyes and the ability to work the crowd.<br /><br />As the musicians began a new number, a man staggered into their midst. Dressed in a filthy button down shirt with GUCCI written across the breast pocket, his pants were several sizes too large and tightly supported by a frayed belt. (Thank God!) The hair sticking out from the NYC ball cap fell in clumps to his shoulders and matched his unshaved unbathed face. He supported himself with a cane and gripped a plastic cup of beer in his other paw.<br /><br />The intro completed to the band's song, this man, who could have been a twin for Charlie Manson, opened his filthy mouth wide, lifted his chin towards the night sky and in nearly perfect pitch stole the position of lead singer. Where had this man learned to sing? Had he professionally trained, then fell into a bottle to be lost to the world of music?<br /><br />Between verses, Charlie leaned on his cane, took deep swigs of beer, then wiggled his hips at the audience. It was a stunning, macabre sight and though no one bothered to toss him into the street, the band was obviously not amused.<br /><br />Song after song, Charlie refused to relinquish his place center stage, and with disgust on their faces, the band packed up their instruments and left. His back-up musicians gone, the beer drained, Charlie wobbled off into the night.<br /><br />Looking back towards the party still in progress down the street, I shook my head, wondered at the things that happen in Mexico, and mentally said my goodbyes to another Saint celebration as we headed home to bed.</span>Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-64347984372747412832013-12-12T10:29:00.002-08:002013-12-20T19:07:44.753-08:00Up REALLY Close with Things That Spit Flames<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtBXNwt0mO6yeBMy0RlPNW1rAY35euh2tfSpyZVIuVicx1RxWEH6c0dZAggE5xPvyfscz1Cbul-RsIMhJjI_reLujf1DD4fSVfCgc9RtY2-4ScRp8hDaAsEUNG-TtokImuRlEUt0ubUU/s1600/IMG_1917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvtBXNwt0mO6yeBMy0RlPNW1rAY35euh2tfSpyZVIuVicx1RxWEH6c0dZAggE5xPvyfscz1Cbul-RsIMhJjI_reLujf1DD4fSVfCgc9RtY2-4ScRp8hDaAsEUNG-TtokImuRlEUt0ubUU/s400/IMG_1917.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sparks and flames shoot onto spectators below.</td></tr>
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Sparks were flying, flames shooting about. The crowd of hundreds laughed and watched as pieces of fireworks fell back to earth. A few brushed burning embers from their hair. We sucked in smoke filled with sulfur and God knows what else - maybe blasting powder or TNT.</div>
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Pinwheels were mounted onto a 40 or 50 foot rickety looking wooden tower, supported by a few ropes anchored to walls and the church. No one seemed concerned that the flames from the pinwheels might sever the support, sending the tower falling into the crowd.<br />
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At one point, a technical difficulty is detected so a man is sent to climb the tower with an enormous knife, unsheathed. Never-mind he could stab himself or drop the blade onto someone below. <br />
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Families were seated on the church steps, maybe 15 feet away from the fireworks display. Well, what can go wrong - we're on the CHURCH steps, after all. Shouldn't that insure complete protection?<br />
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A pinwheel was lit and a small black dog rushed from the audience towards the burning, spinning, flashing and screaming ring. To him this was a game - jump in the air and try to capture the flames and sparks as they shoot about. Though many wanted to, no one rushed to save him for fear of losing their own hair. At least THAT was too close. (In the interest of full disclosure, he was captured before the next display was set ablaze.)<br />
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Various groups were in charge of these spectacles. One group, perhaps, should have kept with their chosen field, which was not the construction of towering fiery displays. A few too many pieces of it flew, burning, towards the crowd. We moved and watched from the safety of the street and behind a stone wall.<br />
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Our American friends were in awe of these demonstrations. Rarely was an area marked off to maintain a safe boundary, and that safety field could be measured in a few feet. Those making a living as employees of OSHA would be looking for other work here in Mexico.<br />
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I find this 'living on the edge' to be freeing. Here, if you are burned by a falling fireworks ember you don't call a lawyer and look for someone to sue, you say "gee, maybe I got too close!" </div>
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Mexico is reminding me of the days of my youth, when people took responsibility for their actions and their outcome. As the flames and sparks flew, I looked at the height of the tower, and while I didn't hide a block away, I stood at the back of the crowd. The thrill seekers and those with a belief that the power of the church would protect them were welcome to feel more of the heat.<br />
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I'm glad they have the right to do so. <br />
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-12178582385334929152013-12-04T18:28:00.001-08:002013-12-05T10:38:11.002-08:00Dancing Half Naked Men on an Evening Stroll<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFVQF6gZ_r7lpY9gmF3_TTITW2yC2_1ykLHK_6_RLAAezet2-dsa8zY9et9DCtgBzwQTiW1MI802HQAREc8Jyum0vOyc_tVOG73id0Z_ClfGrw_TxlS_CXD7RTmdQtmdNtfzkq9Fx1iTM/s1600/IMG_1482.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="281" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFVQF6gZ_r7lpY9gmF3_TTITW2yC2_1ykLHK_6_RLAAezet2-dsa8zY9et9DCtgBzwQTiW1MI802HQAREc8Jyum0vOyc_tVOG73id0Z_ClfGrw_TxlS_CXD7RTmdQtmdNtfzkq9Fx1iTM/s400/IMG_1482.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunday evenings, the Mexican Malecon fills with people</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">I hadn't expected the semi-naked dancing men, but they greatly improved what would otherwise have been just a lovely evening stroll.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">The plan had been to meet another Newfoundland and her owner at the malecon, the paved walk that runs along the the lake. It was Sunday evening and a stroll is always a great way to end the day - watching as the sun sinks and finally sets behind the mountains, painting the sky shades of orange, and tossing color across the lake to land on the lucky who wait there.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">Sunday evenings are special at lakeside, with families coming to visit, picnic, play, and stroll. This evening, we were greeted by sounds - a little bluesy, a little gutsy, a little Janis Jopliny. Now THIS is the kind of music I can get in to. I told myself we'd come back, enjoy the concert after a little more exercise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">We visited with people interested in the big dogs, reached the west end of the pavement, then turned to see girls in grass skirts parading across the lawn. They were cute but I might have passed on were it not for the half naked men milling about. (Hey, I'm not dead yet!)</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGVWzVzjkYpBq5KUCGaqh1tagh-rjR6dRsovs0kczJyMrPFwRAFcoxpwYiuemA2PFh3ufligYslxjS6Ssv1HfPJRPmCUoN7VcYPqvmd3TwohANe_91xrgs2TjaNlGL4nd8FY6lNvNTOSw/s1600/IMG_1470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGVWzVzjkYpBq5KUCGaqh1tagh-rjR6dRsovs0kczJyMrPFwRAFcoxpwYiuemA2PFh3ufligYslxjS6Ssv1HfPJRPmCUoN7VcYPqvmd3TwohANe_91xrgs2TjaNlGL4nd8FY6lNvNTOSw/s400/IMG_1470.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Families come out to watch the evening entertainment</td></tr>
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</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A woman began walking around those assembled near the scantily clothed group and slipped leis over our heads. (Arayo looked cute decorated in a necklace of white flowers.) Then, the drums began beating, hollowed pieces of wood of various lengths were played and the dancing began with the swinging of hips.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then the men took the stage. Covered only by fringe on their calves and rather long loin clothes, they squatted, pranced and dipped. The muscles of their legs were long and defined. I was amazed how low they could go and still keep moving. I was amazed that they could dance like that and expose nothing! We were mesmerized.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />One should never second guess a Mexican evening stroll. One never knows what one will find just waiting outside. (But, dang - I've GOT to start carrying my camera more often!)</span>Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-19276788598554896542013-11-30T12:02:00.001-08:002013-12-05T10:40:10.420-08:00Arayo's Mexican Hell<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRKPBP_mF4JmnGuDTvIQz37bmsOE7MHIImvguCN0KAh-na2zwFdlApr4eH5RBjyNbTAN-Za0L5QbFacLYH3OVjWwHeB46hQ7tVDY87v5bXXJpIlHHWZIWzsjugOzQHe-d7CaHA1Axu9g/s1600/IMG_1873.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTRKPBP_mF4JmnGuDTvIQz37bmsOE7MHIImvguCN0KAh-na2zwFdlApr4eH5RBjyNbTAN-Za0L5QbFacLYH3OVjWwHeB46hQ7tVDY87v5bXXJpIlHHWZIWzsjugOzQHe-d7CaHA1Axu9g/s400/IMG_1873.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pinwheels of fire light the church courtyard</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">The lights flashed, whirled, spit fire and screamed in high protest as the fireworks display splashed against the backdrop of the church. The final display announced "Gloria" in flaming sparklers, and featured an outline of (we assume) San Andres and from them, showers of dancing sparks fell upon the crowd, sending those who were too near to dash for safety.</span><br />
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Families with toddlers, grandparents, and teens dressed to be seen, joined together to applaud the end of the display as skyrockets exploded in the night sky.</div>
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Our small group had been enjoying the evening which took place in the chilly Mexican evening. We snacked our way between the booths, testing Mexican holiday sweets, drinks made of corn, stewed mixed fruit and cow eye and cow head tacos (blah!). Few people over-indulged in the beer and tequila, for this was a family affair with rides for the children, live music and dancing for adults.</div>
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Arayo accompanied us to the square for the festivities. She, too, tasted local hot dogs, greedily lapped a bit of Corona and had her photo taken by many, but when things got too loud, she was happiest under a table, putting a distance between herself and the confusion.</div>
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As the grand finale drew near, we made our way to the church to watch the fireworks display which featured visual messages of a heart, fish, cross and an outline of San Angelo. Finding a spot in front of the 40 foot tall display structure, we leaned against a wall while Arayo took refuge between the wall and our feet.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOazmZef5geEcpPWQzQItLzjHCalIm-NrYuba872kh5zpNv6KY7hfZWhERLlivHrj93TyxwYHt_8pqZT0X5ZM6zNIYKaNlcgrrN3Rncz77pKxsZw_br5Ri3YsWBfC3xwWKQeonrzPcAE/s1600/IMG_1880.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcOazmZef5geEcpPWQzQItLzjHCalIm-NrYuba872kh5zpNv6KY7hfZWhERLlivHrj93TyxwYHt_8pqZT0X5ZM6zNIYKaNlcgrrN3Rncz77pKxsZw_br5Ri3YsWBfC3xwWKQeonrzPcAE/s400/IMG_1880.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ajijic's Saint Andrew in flames - an evening tradition of the festival</td></tr>
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For 20 minutes pinwheels of fire and light filled the church courtyard and with the end of the event, we turned to go, but Arayo had found her spot. Like a soldier who has sought safety in a foxhole, or a Kansan who dives for a tornado shelter when the skies turn wicked, Arayo had found her safe place and had no intention of leaving. For, between us and the wall was a 6" wide by 4" deep ditch. Somehow, my 100 pound Newfoundland had managed to mold herself to this space and within it she had found comfort as the bombs of fireworks were going on around her.</div>
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My friends have come to adore Arayo and we had debated taking her with us on this evening or leaving her home alone to listen to the explosions which signify Mexican celebrations. At least, with us, she could nestle near, we could collectively give her hugs and try to assure her that all was well. As a group we nudged her from her hiding spot, and pulled her close to try to reassure her that all was well and she was loved.</div>
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Arayo, my sweet, the celebrations will not go forever. In fact, for this particular 9 day celebration, tonight shall be the end and things should be quiet for a while.</div>
Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-90971725931505317562013-11-28T18:36:00.000-08:002013-12-05T10:40:58.602-08:00San Andres Festival<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nCXPBlR8LetY3361i7p9zicGqTXDVP-ewqKkXAwcTiVrPXmfOezrwCpyjtDpsy-nGLR7WQPoKrhCynxIIkNPu8ou6JDYN1MNESc05_JKpB5pGIE0csCF4NseiErEMHrMwWtickWRjWg/s1600/IMG_1944.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5nCXPBlR8LetY3361i7p9zicGqTXDVP-ewqKkXAwcTiVrPXmfOezrwCpyjtDpsy-nGLR7WQPoKrhCynxIIkNPu8ou6JDYN1MNESc05_JKpB5pGIE0csCF4NseiErEMHrMwWtickWRjWg/s400/IMG_1944.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The nightly procession to mass goes by our hotel nightly</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">In the distance, church bells ring, calling the devoted to 7 o'clock mass, and from the opposite direction of our cobblestone street, the sounds of shelling can be heard marking the beginning of the evening procession from Six Corners to the church.</span><br />
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As we wait each evening in the darkness, we hear the signature "fuiiiiit!", see the sparks shoot high into the sky, then the ending "boom" shakes the buildings and sends the animals rushing for safety. The devices,<i> cohetones</i>, which resemble bottle rockets on major steroids, are thought to send evil spirits into hiding. They may be right.</div>
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The procession leaves 6 Corners, three blocks or so from our hotel, and makes its way to the city center and the church, six blocks or so in the other direction. Led by alter boys dressed in white robes, they are followed by the devoted, many carrying baskets of food. The 9 days of celebration of the Ajijic city Saint, San Andres (Saint Andrew) are sponsored by area groups - the carpenters, the hotel owners, the agricultural workers and those who have left town. One procession may be accompanied by a brass band, another by a drum corp. A group is led by native dancers in costumes and feathers, yet another is silent except for the chanting from the priest and the echoing prayers of those walking with him.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnCkSzAv6W6iG0r-4BmmV9iu5ACC7M7gi-HSofQ7RGqOPNdxO4d5lpA3pzJ8y1hppM9tbPUGwO2ljalDMA25gcgPO-Z8JpY1JVlU8u9U_7kfezcRiTRNPBYyfc0kQMSUouJeJKK-lGdI/s1600/IMG_1949.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRnCkSzAv6W6iG0r-4BmmV9iu5ACC7M7gi-HSofQ7RGqOPNdxO4d5lpA3pzJ8y1hppM9tbPUGwO2ljalDMA25gcgPO-Z8JpY1JVlU8u9U_7kfezcRiTRNPBYyfc0kQMSUouJeJKK-lGdI/s400/IMG_1949.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The devoted carry candles, or offerings as they make the walk to church</td></tr>
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One night, many of the walkers carried candles which were protected by large holders shaped like flowers. They were followed by the accompaniment of a large Mariachi band playing guitars and violins.</div>
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The celebration of Ajijic's town Saint is the community's largest celebration of the year. Spanning 9 days, the 'bombs' begin around 7 a.m. as the devoted head for morning mass. At noon, the church bells ring and more explosions are heard. At night, after mass, the town joins in celebration in the community square and the sounds of people enjoying food, games, carnival rides, beer gardens and pony rides mix with live music which is performed from the gazebo in the center of the square.</div>
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At 10:30 (give or take a few minutes or an hour - this is Mexico, after all!) the nightly fireworks display takes place in front of the church - the day's sponsors vying for the most spectacular display of the festival. </div>
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In Mexico, life seems to be lived outside and festivals are a vital part of community life. As one woman told me, "if we don't have a festival going on, we make one up!"</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-69992855836714724262013-11-22T17:20:00.000-08:002013-12-05T10:41:37.068-08:00Running in the Rain<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_Mp5eIIzyUEGXUyNyc6YviUddyJ24g0M9eZylbc4PhcCBxqfHhdQIXFSFF_zowDuiHl9BwQOoDS8JpfgyZz38-qrKAPXEVksTmJKYET5dIJ1AZETga_z2azHdovjZDPVtBrerkEpAQc/s1600/Mexico_1303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_Mp5eIIzyUEGXUyNyc6YviUddyJ24g0M9eZylbc4PhcCBxqfHhdQIXFSFF_zowDuiHl9BwQOoDS8JpfgyZz38-qrKAPXEVksTmJKYET5dIJ1AZETga_z2azHdovjZDPVtBrerkEpAQc/s400/Mexico_1303.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Little one - before the rain</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">The music was fabulous and much of the town was there. Children, parents, grandparents, teenagers. Most people were Mexican with a few gringos scattered about. Some dancing, some sitting along the short walls that surrounded the raised gazebo/stage in the center of the square.</span><br />
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A strangely dressed person in an odd pink dress with a wig and mask danced around the stage. She'd chase the young boys that came near and they'd scatter as though she was breathing fire.</div>
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I felt in the way, as there was no place to stand to watch where I wasn't blocking someone's view, but Arayo took care of that problem. Quickly she became a magnet for the adults, but mostly children, that wanted to pet her or have their photo taken with the big black Newf.</div>
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One little girl, perhaps 2, became attached to her and posed for photos with this creature that was 3 times her size. When her mom was finished, the little girl came up to me and insisted on giving me a thank you kiss. THAT doesn't happen in America!</div>
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The band had just finished a number when something flew from the sky. I thought maybe someone had tossed a water balloon off the gazebo as the crowd gave a collective gasp and everyone began running. </div>
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Perhaps the size of the wet splatters on the pavement should have tipped me off. Used to the rains of the Pacific Northwest, when a bit of water falls from the sky, you just keep on doing what you are doing. But these folks were scrambling as though threatened with machine gun fire.</div>
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30 seconds later, I got it. The skies opened and a flood poured on the group. People headed for the streets, crowded on the stage and some of us got as close to the gazebo as possible to take advantage of a small overhang.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFuX-Fhc_3p54KCWnM7fUAXKIvDUiNGz_uM-baL98GCMU_kIxjKp_tUB8dQNO1ifshwgXhiIEf_2akC8CsXWqjgz0BLDlWbfNYU78OjsNb5urrs03rxWMuHr0LB4WKR9Op-YJMaY9OqE/s1600/IMG_1544.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFuX-Fhc_3p54KCWnM7fUAXKIvDUiNGz_uM-baL98GCMU_kIxjKp_tUB8dQNO1ifshwgXhiIEf_2akC8CsXWqjgz0BLDlWbfNYU78OjsNb5urrs03rxWMuHr0LB4WKR9Op-YJMaY9OqE/s320/IMG_1544.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After the rain</td></tr>
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The lightening and thunder began and unbelievably the rain got stronger. For 10 minutes we waited but there was no sign of it letting up, so covering my glasses with my hand and pulling Arayo tightly to me, we dashed towards the street and home. </div>
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It is about 6 blocks from the square to my hotel. As we zipped past overhangs, water ran off roofs in sheets and drain spouts shoot water into the street that could easily be coming from a fireman's hose. </div>
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I couldn't help it. The entire thing cracked me up and as we waded raging rivers that had once been cobblestone streets, I was laughing like some kind of maniac!</div>
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Occasionally we'd stop for a second to catch our breath, and, like kids, I'd giggle with others also trapped in the rain. Though we shared no spoken language, the camaraderie of being caught in this sudden storm helped form a short bond.</div>
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Back at the hotel, still laughing with glee, we opened the door, raced through the lobby and out across the garden patio, only to find a couple inches of water in front of my room, and water making its way inside. But, before damage could be done, the rain tapered off. </div>
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Tonight I must say I'm glad I'm not sleeping in a tent. But oh, how I love travel!</div>
Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-29307565886090269492013-11-12T12:53:00.000-08:002013-12-05T10:42:28.335-08:00Catrinas: or You, Too, Shall Die<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsF9XVXdBWcTu2PENcGHwUUK8BD0dtFvdOk8-8hgtH2-cqJ64SZoiD9BXvw9wBgDcClV7fFudGTEmv91d7UL-kuOca2Jh0eDx8Qw9v8Ho50AJBjb0784z9idSFdwCq8cOaIfyykeRDMAE/s1600/Mexico_1274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsF9XVXdBWcTu2PENcGHwUUK8BD0dtFvdOk8-8hgtH2-cqJ64SZoiD9BXvw9wBgDcClV7fFudGTEmv91d7UL-kuOca2Jh0eDx8Qw9v8Ho50AJBjb0784z9idSFdwCq8cOaIfyykeRDMAE/s400/Mexico_1274.jpg" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arayo with her new Mexican amigos!</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">They stare at you from all directions. Bleached skulls, teeth intact. Soulless voids, once filled with seeing eyes.<br /><br />Dressed in finery - a skeletal bride and groom. An extravagant damsel ready for a ball. Another adorned in the most beautiful of hats with matching flowing long dress, as though the queen were about to pay a visit.<br /><br />Throughout the Ajijic community square and along the walk by the lakeside, the skeletons pose, holding court over the Day of the Dead festivities. Silently, they watch as the living ride their bikes, stroll with their children, dance, eat and play. For all their finery, no longer can they participate in these earthly endeavors.<br /><br />They are Catrinas, designed and decorated by area artists, groups and schools. Most are made of recycled materials. Look closely at the elegant dress or the flowers the woman is holding and you will see that they may be made of pop bottles which are cut, shaped and painted. <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbr7Pywn-fKHp7iHHwlnduiyq_CyHmkh5kOD7gOB_APFJ9Y2njxadeIVg08dvjyuwV6FKFz5ewWJYOZvQuocIAXMx4XuHNmbnZCuVOgW7Lr1z0mjDRIyA45X4ir6jAp9xKIaIH4HVEUI/s1600/Mexico_1267.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKbr7Pywn-fKHp7iHHwlnduiyq_CyHmkh5kOD7gOB_APFJ9Y2njxadeIVg08dvjyuwV6FKFz5ewWJYOZvQuocIAXMx4XuHNmbnZCuVOgW7Lr1z0mjDRIyA45X4ir6jAp9xKIaIH4HVEUI/s400/Mexico_1267.jpg" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Catrinas adore the village square</td></tr>
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Old trash bags are stuffed and combined to form a puffy black skirt. Small shells become teeth. Fishing nets, a mop of hair.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><br />Originally created 100 years ago by Mexican artist Jose Guadalupe Posada, the skeleton in her elegantly dressed attire satirizes the life of the upper classes. The art is a reminder that no matter what one may have in this life, death will, indeed, find you, too.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsF9XVXdBWcTu2PENcGHwUUK8BD0dtFvdOk8-8hgtH2-cqJ64SZoiD9BXvw9wBgDcClV7fFudGTEmv91d7UL-kuOca2Jh0eDx8Qw9v8Ho50AJBjb0784z9idSFdwCq8cOaIfyykeRDMAE/s1600/Mexico_1274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> .</span></a>Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6936035466502490028.post-36409857721702617392013-11-04T09:41:00.001-08:002013-12-05T10:42:53.488-08:00Day of the Dead<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmSKfywaQcYTjSWJ7BxyKnOkWOZqyHWM-0_uoBD67Qz28owLm4J7XixS491kkTwJts8JLUtYmfTa2XhKCZx_byzLLhi5mKPMNh36af6GN8eW6S7p2MCyQkz6VPq1286New06vtINGiRo/s1600/Mexico_1409.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfmSKfywaQcYTjSWJ7BxyKnOkWOZqyHWM-0_uoBD67Qz28owLm4J7XixS491kkTwJts8JLUtYmfTa2XhKCZx_byzLLhi5mKPMNh36af6GN8eW6S7p2MCyQkz6VPq1286New06vtINGiRo/s320/Mexico_1409.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Graves are decorated the celebrate Day of the Dead</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">As an American, the Day of the Dead seemed like the strangest of events. But, having experienced one, I think this is another tradition that we could learn from. In Mexico, November 2 of each year is the day set aside to commune with loved ones who have passed on. With roots going back 2,500 - 3,000 years, the modern celebration begins on November 1, celebrating deceased infants and children. The passing of adults is honored the following day.</span><br />
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On this day, the cemetery comes alive. It is packed with people - young and old - carrying flowers, banners and candles. Alters are built displaying photos of those honored and adorned with favorites - food, beer, milk and cookies. For one man - paint brushes, a sample of his art work and gifts of his favorite foods were arranged around a large photo of him. There are crosses made of marigolds, thought to attract the souls of the dead. In a tree over a grave, someone had hung a music CD, a broom and some chocolates. Bands roam the area, playing at the graves.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGVeM8Fr8KnyiVGbfuP7TOTaPKJmLabvxRXFo_qReB0AXAkv3vGX2pBPvaeobK-Ly-6FLl2YJniwwNSgXrnWkNktL5yOpZx2qhft1zwh4fTN7iq7Cw7vBs-NHW5x99lUu6ydchvc7A-4/s1600/Mexico_1423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGVeM8Fr8KnyiVGbfuP7TOTaPKJmLabvxRXFo_qReB0AXAkv3vGX2pBPvaeobK-Ly-6FLl2YJniwwNSgXrnWkNktL5yOpZx2qhft1zwh4fTN7iq7Cw7vBs-NHW5x99lUu6ydchvc7A-4/s320/Mexico_1423.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young and old alike gather at the cemetery</td></tr>
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There are hundreds of people. Some are cooking and feeding their families in the cramped space by Grandma's grave. Others sit quietly. A couple of men string banners of flowers from a grave to the edge of the site.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3dbej9toic8ER6U9pqOASS9VkpXze-e6fxTAT1-i6ehlNAxfhQlvOFxvQnzDxS4wJWxmZQ1WAn3xstC-4rNbc8AXzJD1L0Gj23Qm0nv25KTma8NrfT90xAzlwjuvLtG2cGkaV4ngJHI/s1600/Mexico_1431.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf3dbej9toic8ER6U9pqOASS9VkpXze-e6fxTAT1-i6ehlNAxfhQlvOFxvQnzDxS4wJWxmZQ1WAn3xstC-4rNbc8AXzJD1L0Gj23Qm0nv25KTma8NrfT90xAzlwjuvLtG2cGkaV4ngJHI/s320/Mexico_1431.jpg" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everyone comes to honor loved ones</td></tr>
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I don't believe my loved ones rest in a grave so I rarely visit there. But even so, how nice would it be to come spend a day with everyone else in town, celebrating the lives of the people you loved the most? I pondered what I'd bring to share with my parents. Cookies, donuts, yogurt, Arby's sandwiches. A ham radio for my father, some sun screen and perhaps a toy airplane. For my mom, a book, a basketball jersey from Kansas University, some red lipstick and anything that says "Oswego, KS". We'd sit around and play Big Band music and tell funny stories about our lives with them. </div>
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As night comes on around the cemetery in Ajijic, people begin to congregate. Most are dressed up - adorned in all black, though a couple are in wedding dresses. Their faces are painted like skeletons. After dark, they parade a mile or so down the dark cobblestone street in front of my apartment towards another celebration in the community square.</div>
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I'm becoming a big fan of the Day of the Dead. Next year - I'm celebrating!</div>
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Karyn Carpenterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17900259106102345908noreply@blogger.com2