big blue ocean

The Gulf of Mexico, yesterday a turquoise mirror, is feathered with whitecaps this morning. I’m shimmying ungracefully into a clammy, slightly smelly wetsuit. It’s too tall for me, giving me a neoprene spare tire. I tromp awkwardly down to the dock, where a motorboat bucks violently in the choppy water. I climb aboard and am forcibly seated as it speeds off. Apparently, we’re in a hurry because the wind’s picking up.

At an isolated buoy in the middle of watery nowhere, we do the falling backwards off the boat thing. It’s all very spy movie, but instead of combing the unstable horizon for bad-guy speedboats, I’m wondering: what the hell was I thinking?

On a lark, my friend Kris and I splurged on a package vacation to an all-inclusive resort near Cancun. A touristic paradise where the ocean is so smooth and blue that it looks fake, like the painted sea in an architectural model.

After one too many free margaritas, Kris convinced me to take the beginner’s SCUBA course offered by the resort. Certified years before, she’s a dive fanatic. “You’ll never forget it.” She promised as she sipped, raising her eyebrows meaningfully over the salty rim.

She’s right. I won’t forget it. Mostly because, as much as I adore the sea, I only trust it as far as I can touch. I am terrified of deep water. And yet, here I am, far from shore, breathing canned oxygen, struggling to get my mask on. When I get it on, the experience is even more disturbing. The water line sloshes up and down in front of my eyes, and yet I am breathing air. It just feels wrong. We are humans, not fish; we don’t belong here. 

big blue ocean

The big (deep) blue. Photo courtesy of KConnors

Scuba Doo School

At least I was trained—yesterday, for four entire hours. Now, as one of five heads bobbing in the big (deep) blue, I wish I had taken dive class more seriously. My classmate Joe and I were strangers on vacation, at school in a resort. After a couple of hours of lecture, we dressed up as divers and played in the pool. We made Darth Vader jokes, did the elbow shark fin thing. Ha ha.

We did learn some fun stuff, like regulating your vertical position with your breath: inhale, float up, exhale, sink. How to do the squid: let your flippers do all the work while your arms trail unnaturally beside you. And, of course, we learned the diving thumbs up.

Scuba diver doing thumbs up in the ocean

The scuba thumbs up. Photo courtesy of Star5112

Carlos, our handsome young dive instructor, spent an inordinate amount of time on the thumbs up. Over and over, we “practiced” this—the signature gesture of drunk frat boys and the Fonz. Repeatedly, Carlos interrupted our pool scuba play to ask the silent thumbs up question (Are you OK?), to which the silent answer was: thumbs up (Yes).

Of course, I’m OK, I thought. We’re in a pool and the water’s four feet deep. But Carlos doggedly insisted, earning increasingly goofy, exaggerated thumbs up.

Out here by the bobbing buoy, there’s Joe and me, Carlos, and two cocky, impatient guys—actual, certified divers—who came up from Cozumel, where diving was cancelled due to high winds. While Joe’s looking wan, the divers appear a bit too avid, as if they plan to rob us once we’re underwater.

Carlos checks our tubes, gives last minute advice. Again, with the thumbs up? I obediently lift my opposables out of the water. I’m OK, already! The diver guys are so supremely OK, they’re jumping out of their second skins.

But Joe, he doesn’t look so OK. He’s not upping his thumbs. The instructor shouts over the wind in broken English: “Make up jor mind, Yoe, or we’ll all get seasick bobbing around here.”

The power of suggestion.

As I watch Joe vomit, I think, absurdly, Oh, the current will carry it away. Then I’m treading water in a cloud of shredded chicken and cheese and tortilla bits. My next thought: He had the chilaquiles for breakfast. Carlos lets out a piercing whistle and the boat roars over to pick Joe up. Decision made.

Wow. I am literally swimming in vomit. But before the thought has time to turn my delicate stomach, I catch the pro divers’ faces. Grinning and leaning towards me, they’re just waiting for me to freak out. That does it. I tighten a mental belt I didn’t know I had and give them an aggressive thumbs up. They lean back. Carlos asks again. Six skyward thumbs.

We’re good to go.

Going Down?

Slowly, we begin to sink into the deeps, thanks to our weighted belts. After ten or so feet, my wetsuit gets way too tight. Something cold and slimy creeps into my stomach: fear. I try to deny it, as I’ve been taught by countless motivational posters and protein bar ads.

Fear is for cowards, not for me.

Back in scuba class, Carlos had said a random, weird thing: “You may feel like you want to take your mask off.” I had rolled my eyes. Now, as I glance at the quicksilver surface further and further above me, something in my head snaps. Ice water floods my chest, flattening my lungs. My heart swells until it’s about to explode. I can’t breathe!

Of course, I’ve felt fear before. Rattlesnake. Car crash. Burglar in my house. But all that, I realize, was nothin’! This is the biggest, most all-encompassing terror I’ve never imagined, coupled with a single, irresistible, implacable urge—an absolute imperative: to rip off my mask, in order to stay alive, twenty feet under the surface of the vast, inhospitable ocean.

It made perfect sense at the time.

We’ve stopped descending, and Carlos is doing underwater charades. He looks at me. Freezes. My eyes must be giant, fish-like, panicked orbs. In an instant, he’s beside me, staring into my mask, asking the thumb question: You OK?

Huh? I think. (I’m usually quite talktave. Only panic makes me monosyllabic.)

You OK? He wiggles his thumbs, like maybe I can’t see them.

I will be, just as soon as I get my mask off so I can breathe. Now, where are my arms?

Are you OK? His thumbs are now an inch from my mask.

Ok? Am I? That’s a good question. Let’s see…

Carlos’ eyebrows have popped over his mask. His thumbs are now yelling: ARE. YOU. OK?

Am I OK? I look at the divers as if they can answer the question for me. In tandem, they roll their eyes with a complete and utter lack of compassion. With that, a plug is pulled, the freezing liquid in my chest starts to drain, and the urge to unmask myself passes. Rationality bubbles in: Guess what! I’ve been breathing this whole time. Go figure. Next thought: Jerks!

Somehow, their mockery breaks my paranoid terror trance and some semblance of logic returns. (Well, as logical as one can feel, breathing underwater, several yards below the surface of the ocean.) I give Carlos a belated thumbs up.

His eyes scrunch in a smile, and we set off into a dream.

Breathing Underwater

scuba diver breathing underwater

breathing underwater (with the fishes)

Squidlike, we glide effortlessly in and out of undersea canyons, past graceful turtles and prehistoric-looking king crabs, through kaleidoscopic clouds of darting, shimmering fishes, flying through a forbidden fantasy universe of coral castles and technicolor sea creatures. For a little magical while, I am free as a fish. Free of gravity, buoyed simply by the air in my lungs, hovering in supreme, exquisite, silent beauty.

And, I get it.

I get now why the divers so resembled junkies looking for a fix. And why Kris talked me into doing this. (I even forgive her.)

Later, as we speed back to the resort, the big, strapping diver men are shivering like mad, but I’m not cold. Quite the opposite. I’m tingling all over—radiating heat, energy, and conquered fear.

Funny thing, fear: like vomiting, it’s not voluntary; like breathing underwater, it’s not always rational; and, like snarky diver dudes, it’s not always the enemy. Sometimes fear is there to keep us from harm. And sometimes it’s an invitation to truly live. As the boat races over the bumpy sea, I sit right up front on the bow, facing into the wind, grinning like a maniac.

I am so very, extremely OK.—Part of our Adventures series…enjoy!

Join in! What was your peak fear experience and how did you overcome it?

At 5:54 am on the second Saturday in June, I am catapulted out of sleep by a brass band playing under my window. Several trumpets, a trombone, a giant bass drum and an actual tuba for the requisite oom pah pahs. Oh, yes, can’t forget the cymbals. A dozen pair, by the sound of it.

It is not, alas, a romantic serenade. (Such a suitor would be summarily dismissed.) It’s the day before el Dia de los Locos, San Miguel’s yearly celebration of Saint Anthony of Padua and lunacy in general. This Sunday in June is reserved for crazy people. The entire town, and then some, participates.

For the hip, there are two places to be in San Miguel on Locos Sunday: in the parade or watching it. If you’re in the milling mile or so of costumed revelers and flatbed floats with blaring, competing, not always appropriate soundtracks, you dance across town all morning and into the afternoon. Of course, in your foam and felt frog/fat lady/ex-president costume, there is a risk of heat exhaustion. But you get to pelt spectators with candy, which makes it all worthwhile.

If you’re watching the parade, you may be in the crushing two-meter thick throng on each side of the road—a human wave of people that police have to keep pushing back to the sidewalk so that the show can literally go on. If you’re into efficiency, you’ll be holding an upside-down umbrella above your head as a candy catcher/shield, which can also be used as a parasol if you ever get over your pre-diabetic greed. Or, you might be one of the privileged few with balcony or rooftop seats, watching the colorful chaos from on high, with a mid-morning margarita in hand, ideally wearing a funny hat.

Uncool option number three: you could be lame, like me, happily holing up in your momentarily quiet house. (The parade is downtown now, and, blessedly, out of earshot.) Around one in the afternoon, you might suddenly laugh out loud, startling the dogs, when you imagine just how horrific traffic’s going to be for the next couple of hours. And you’re so peacefully chez you! But the Locos always get the last laugh.

If you live in Colonia San Antonio, like me, you didn’t sleep well last night, even before the musical wake up call, and you won’t again tonight. Not for a few more days, in fact.

The cuetes (gargantuan bottle rockets from hell), which first woke you a couple of hours before the band, will start again late this afternoon, continue sporadically all day and night tomorrow, and on into Monday, with a few more artillery-style early-morning crescendos. Sunday evening after the parade, there’ll be a big, loud baile at the San Antonio church, sadly only two blocks away. The music will reverberate off your pots and pans and rattle your windowpanes ‘til the early morn. Around three a.m., you’ll be up Googling industrial-strength earplugs.

And then, after two days of madness and just for good measure, and right as you’ve finally fallen asleep, most likely, there’ll be another fusillade of cuetes at dawn on Monday morning. (This one, at least, I understand—Monday morning being a concept highly worth protesting.)

Costumed revelers on los Locos day in San MIguel de allende

Local locos in San Miguel

But for now, outside my bedroom at 5:23 a.m. on the day before Locos day, the insanity has just begun. Rilke, my reared-in-the-U.S.A. rescue dog, is terrified of loud noises, and thus extremely ill-equipped to live in Mexico. During the cuetes a few hours ago, he was under my bed, whining operatically. Now he’s at the window, barking wildly at the band. I would bark too, if I thought they would hear me.

Once my heart resumes its customary pace, I get up and stumble across the room to close the window. I’m laughing, because it’s the only possible sane response. By the time I get there, the band has stopped playing. Gracias a Dios! As the sky begins to lighten, the musicians sip cups of hot spiked ponche offered by the neighbors as a ritualistic “thank you for waking us up” gesture. As they launch into a spirited, carnivalesque encore, I fall back into bed with a pillow over my head. At last, they oom-pah-pah off to rouse somebody else.

San Miguel de Allende photography workshop photo

As published in the Atención San Miguel newspaper, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico 

Seeing San Miguel for the first time, again.

San Miguel de Allende photography workshop photo

Do not adjust your Monitor. This picture is blurry. Read on to find out why.

Remember the first time you laid eyes on San Miguel de Allende? I don’t, but I imagine it must be a splendid sight. Unforgettable, even.

My first eyeful came in 1969, when my bohemian mother moved us down here (I was 18 months old). While mom learned to paint, I learned to speak. Along with the smell of linseed oil, I got very used to San Miguel’s riot of shape and color.

Our little time-warp municipality, with its unique palette of ornate colonial architecture, blazing colors and improbably blue skies, should be enough to provide daily delight for anyone’s retina. But I have to admit I seldom see the beauty that surrounds me.

I pass by our improbable pink cathedral nearly every day, but months will go by without me looking up at it at all, much less in wonder. It seems I’ve succumbed to one of the risks of living in a postcard place: I’ve developed immunity to it.

My ambient blindness is a serious problem. If I’m not seeing San Miguel, I might as well live in Detroit. (I hear parking is easier there.) So I formulate a plan.

Each October, throngs of photographers descend on San Miguel under the auspices of the Santa Fe Photographic Workshops. They come to indulge their photographic obsessions, to hone their skills, and to find inspiration in our abundance of eye candy. Last year, I joined them.

With income in mind, the small, adult part of my brain chooses a workshop called “Travel Stock Photography.” But really, what I want from this course is a reintroduction to my hometown.

Just before sunset on a Sunday evening in early November, I wander into the courtyard at the Hotel Posada de La Aldea. We, the workshoppers, are to meet for drinks before orientation. A chilly fall breeze blows, rustling the leaves of the ficus trees. The sound of shutters whirring competes with the trilling of the crickets—the place is crawling with photographers.

As the light fades, they reluctantly detach their faces from their equipment and gravitate over to a cluster of wrought iron tables, where a bar has been set up. Inadequate schmoozer that I am, I’m a bit tense. So many new people, and I’ve never seen such big lenses. (My camera, I realize, is woefully inadequate. My lens is Lilliputian.)

Aside from being quite friendly, my new comrades are dedicated photophiles. Entirely willing to forgo the leisure part of travel, they’ll spend the week shooting from golden hour to golden hour, edit long into the night, and not feel they missed a thing. As a frizzy-haired woman next to me, hugging a camera the size of a toaster says, “What could be better than spending a week with your camera and new friends in an exotic place?”

Monday morning. After an early breakfast with Santa Fe faculty and fellow enthusiasts, we file into our conference room/classroom at the Aldea. The lights soon go off and the images go up. Each participant has prepared his or her ten best-ever photographs for this introductory show.

Seeing each person’s work is illuminating — a bit like looking inside them. We get a glimpse into each other’s quirks and affinities, style, and “eye.” Then it’s time for class.

Unlike most Santa Fe workshops, a large part of ours is lecture, stock photography being a singular and exacting genre. Normally, spending several hours a day taking notes and looking at slides in a dark room isn’t the ideal way to pass the time in a major travel destination like San Miguel. But in this case, it’s perfect.

First, because instructor Patrick Donehue—ex-vice-president of Corbis, the world’s number two stock photo emporium—is as engaging a speaker as he is encyclopedic about his field. Second, because it’s all about photography. What could be dull about that? The morning flies by.

In the afternoon, we are let loose on an unsuspecting San Miguel with two assignments: to take quality photos for an imaginary high-end travel article, and to garner great stock photography. Images that—if we are very lucky, skilled and savvy—could make us a fortune (or at least pay for a cappuccino at Cafe del Jardín).

Before setting out, I pore over my notes and compile a meticulous shooting schedule. Once behind the camera, however, the plan flies out of my head and I find myself compulsively clicking away. Then the sun is setting.

The five intervening hours have somehow vanished, and the molten light has my brain tingling. I run into our instructor in the Jardín. “The town is sparkling,” I babble. He smiles. I’m still out on the town at 7:00 pm, when it’s time to go to the Angela Peralta for photo presentations by the week’s faculty. More inspiration. More eye food. It’s a feast, and I’m pigging out.

I head home around 9:00, yearning for rest. But I have homework: comb through more than 500 pictures, try to pick ten worthy of imposing on my group tomorrow, and then tweak them on the computer.

When I finally get to bed, I can’t sleep. I can only think about images I’ve seen, made or might make tomorrow. Much later, I doze off—only to dream about taking photos.

Tuesday begins with everyone’s Monday best, and I’m eager witness to my classmates’ first impressions of San Miguel. Despite feeling like I may have seen it all around here, many of their images are surprising, fresh—new, even. Maybe I’m on the right track here.

We move on to lecture. I’m a bit distracted. While I’m sure it’s vital to know about the different stock photo rights and payment systems, I’m itching to get out on the streets again.

Peering through the viewfinder that afternoon, I’m less frenzied than the day before. After all, I think, I do live here. I could do this every day. So I try to stroll. Take my time. Before long, I am happy, very happy. Also slightly insane. Shameless, I accost complete strangers to get a picture, chatting them up in the hopes of coaxing a natural look.

 Smiling San Miguel de Allende street musicians on a break

San Miguel de Allende street musicians on a break

I approach the young woman selling esquites (corn on the cob with mayo and chile); four members of the Tuna Oratoriana—buskers in antiquated velvet costumes complete with puffy sleeves; five teenagers lolling on the cathedral steps; mariachis chatting on cell phones; the newspaper vendor; the shoe-shine guys; all my favorite waiters. Apparently, no one is safe from me when I’m armed with a camera.

Wednesday brings a discussion of trends in a different kind of stock market. After class, I go to market—specifically, the Mercado Principal, where my mother used to take me as a child to get produce and flowers. I still frequent the place in search of my own bouquets, but his time, the old mercado is transformed.

Mounds of Technicolor fruit beckon sweetly. The veggies exude a savory allure. I lose myself in photographing a shy young girl at a torta stand festooned with religious icons; a laughing man making licuados for friends; a tangled profusion of flowers; legume vendors entranced by the telenovela that echoes from nearly every stand; an icon of the Virgin Mary haloed by the colors of the Mexican flag—jalapeños, red chiles and onions. Hours later I emerge, rapt.

Thursday, our last full workshop day, means more in-class enlightenment—portfolios, agencies, money matters—and our final afternoon of shooting. By now, I figure, I should be a seasoned pro: my vision keen, my images impeccable, my trigger finger honed and twitching slightly as it hovers over the shutter button.

Instead, I am lethargic, paralyzed by an utter lack of inspiration. Listless, I roam the streets of my picture-perfect town, half-heartedly waving my inferior camera around. People, color, old buildings. Yeah, whatever. This must be burnout from an intense week.

At a loss, I start messing around with my focus ring. I take a deliberately blurry picture. Before I know it, I’m in the zone, annoying taxi drivers who do not appreciate my squatting in middle of the street to get the perfect shot. I end up with 206 decidedly not-sharp pictures of Hidalgo Street.

The vivid red, ochre and pink buildings, the darker rooflines zigzagging against the blue sky, the cobbled street leading out of the frame and into parts unknown. Ahh. Another indistinct image traces the soft white arches of the church on San Francisco behind a dreamy soft palm tree. Ahh. For some reason, these pictures bring back my childhood. (Was I nearsighted as a kid?)

Instead of wasting a day, I feel I have captured the smallest bit of the essence of my own San Miguel. The magic of this town, I realize, resides not only in the fine details of its historic architecture, or even in its singular people.

Abstract photo of San Miguel de Allende palm with church spires

Abstract San Miguel de Allende palm with church spires

 

It’s also there in the abstract—in large blocks of rich color, in the geometry of stonework accent lines, and in the cerulean sky embracing it all. So, I spend my last afternoon of directed shooting drunk on beauty and, once again ignoring the assignment, cruising the calles with my pupils dilated and my lens unfocused. My town, once again, is splendid.

On Friday morning, the group is very kind about my images, but I‘m pretty sure they think I’ve lost it. Huh. Maybe she dropped her camera? Maybe a screw or two did unwind, but of the ludicrous number of images I’ve shot this week, these are my favorites.

Of course, my blurred epiphanies are not included with the sharper images in the Friday night dinner show, celebrating our week of work, but I still love them. Partly because my brain tingles when I look at them, and partly because they are physical proof that I found a way to really see my hometown in all its glory, without recourse to psychotropic substances.

It’s been nearly a year. Sometimes I still forget to see. There I am in the car, cursing the kid on the four-wheeler that just cut me off instead of enjoying the color of the morning light on a stone lintel, the burnished glow of an umber wall.

Fortunately for me, in San Miguel, beauty is always just around the corner. All I have to do is open my eyes. And take another workshop.

(As published in Atencion San Miguel)

As published in the Atención San Miguel newspaper —

Businessman Turned Sculptor Makes an Art of Recycling

donkey face 4x6color

Donkey sculpture outside Casa Reyna 2

       Raul Reyna Viscaya is a master of reinvention, starting with himself. In 49 years, he’s gone from poverty on the rancho to entrepreneurial success in San Miguel, with many colorful stops along the way. Not one to rest on his laurels, he’s at it again. But this time, it’s art.

Reina’s many incarnations began in 1959, in Rancho Tres Palmas, about 25 kilometers Northeast of San Miguel. The youngest of 12 children, he grew up in a rambling old adobe house with 24 bedrooms and a huge mesquite tree in the courtyard. The Viscayas had once been wealthy—a long, long, long time ago. Reyna’s father inherited the century-old family home, its mysteries and rumors of buried treasure, and no money. Dad farmed and cared for livestock, while Mom ran the house and a tienda in one of the rooms. Their son, the last child left at home, helped them both.

Reyna’s education was homespun. “My mother would put me in front of a book and a notebook while she washed clothes,” he says. ‘Read me this, then write it out.’ She’d tell me. If I didn’t, I got a strong pinch.” His farmer father taught him his trade, the attendant skills, and then some. “Papá made his own plows out of mesquite,” he remembers. “Then others in the rancho had him make theirs.” Not surprisingly, Reyna grew to be quite a handy young man.

After his father’s death, nineteen-year-old Reyna convinced his mother to sell the rancho and move to San Miguel. They bought a small house on Relox and he set out to look for employment. The big city wasn’t kind to Reyna at first—nobody would hire him. To them, he says, he was just another kid from the Rancho, who didn’t know how to do anything useful. Out of desperation, he agreed to a plan of his sister’s, a nun at Las Monjas. She taught him another family skill and sent clients. For the next eight months, he did embroidery to support himself and his mother.

Finally, he found a job as a waiter. Not long after, more work came along at a nearby carpenter’s. No more embroidery! Reyna spent the next two years working literally night and day, saving as much money he could. “Some days, I‘d only get a couple of hours rest,” he recalls with a smile.

Reyna finally got to go to school when he was 24. “I’ve only come to learn to divide,” he warned Maestra Carmelita at the Escuela de Sollano. “And then, I’ll be leaving.” He needed division in order to progress as a carpenter, so he underwent a formal education…for a couple of weeks. Then he got back to work.

His many labors paid off when he was able to buy a small carpentry workshop and quit his jobs. He began making and restoring furniture. By now a confirmed workaholic, Reyna also started selling at markets around the area—used clothing, pens and pencils, anything and everything. “People started saying to me ‘Raul, you’re good at selling things,” he remembers. “‘I have a chair or a table,’ they’d say. ‘Will you sell it for me?’”

In 1982, Reyna heard that the Hotel Colonial on Canal (what is now the Plaza Colonial) was being remodeled. He tracked down the owner and bought all his vintage doors, on credit. Soon after, in the front room of Reyna’s house, San Miguel’s first used furniture bazaar, “La Puerta Vieja,” opened its (old) doors. Sensing a budding market, he kept buying beat-up doors, carrying them home on his bicycle. Soon, Reyna had five stores in town. He bought a truck and started driving all over the region, bringing back treasures to fix up and sell.

raul inside crop-color

Reyna in his main store

Fourteen years ago, he opened Casa Reyna on the road to Celaya. It’s hard to miss the barn-like emporium, festooned with objects from the beautiful to the bizarre—stone carvings, ancient doors, massive “Harleys,” strange cultural relics. Even Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage was once part of its everchanging display. In 2000, Reyna opened another roadside attraction—a second huge store on the highway to Queretaro.

His shops are a baroque blend of gallery, museum, yard sale, and grandma’s attic, whose eccentric abundance would make Gabriel Garcia Marquez blush. In Reynaland, boredom is not an option. Sensory overload, maybe, but never boredom. And we’re not just talking about the merchandise. Interspersed with antiques, bric-a-brac, and oddments, are Reyna’s offbeat displays of creativity (the fishing boat staircase at the main store, for example). And now there are the sculptures.

Reyna’s most recent obsession began with a case of buyer’s remorse. About three years ago, he bought the contents of a defunct silver mine, sight unseen. When a mountain of iron junk of dubious marketability (including 1,600 shovels, 160 wheelbarrows, a bunch of minecars, and scores of picks and chisels) was unloaded at his place, he got a bit nervous. “What am I going to do with all this stuff?” he wondered.

For the next year, question dogged him, regularly waking him up at night. (The elderly shovels weren’t exactly flying off the shelves.) Finally, an answer came. “I got this idea to make a shovel into a mask,” explains Reyna. “And then, I thought ‘hey, maybe I can make an animal.’”

This epiphany, however, lead not to more good nights’ sleep, but to fewer. Soon after, visions of a wheelbarrow ostrich woke Reyna at two a.m. and propelled him to his workshop. “My wife thought I was crazy.” He explains, “But I didn’t want to lose the idea.”

Inspiration now routinely hauls him out of bed, sending him to either notebook or studio. Mrs. Reyna is not as thrilled with this rampant creativity as her husband. “She is always mad at me now,” he says with a what-can-I-do? shrug. “Because I don’t let her get enough sleep.”

huge chair-color

Baroque chair

Maybe he has gone a bit nuts. Or perhaps he’s a visionary. Either way, he’s turned a pile of dross into a body of work. His materials include discarded industrial equipment, dead mufflers, old rebar, junked tools, and worn-out horseshoes. The resulting sculptures are large and whimsical, yet grounded in attention to detail and affection for both animals and objects. Reyna’s reincarnations run the gamut from tractor dinosaurs to a meatgrinder chandelier (a personal favorite) to the myriad manifestations of the shovel. He’s created over 100 sculptures, the latest a life-size, three-dimensional rearing stallion made of 600 horse shoes, for his first show.

Raul Reyna, the gregarious man with the booming voice—the embroiderer, salesman, junk collector, antiquarian, carpenter, artist—has always enjoyed life. He’s just that kind of guy. But now, he’s really having fun. “If you find what you really love to do, you’ll be happy for the rest of your life,” he gushes, beaming. “I’ve been very lucky.”

Reyna’s art has transformed his life and his landscape. Ostrich now roam the grounds of Casa Reyna, and firewood-laden burros loiter in the shade. Pegasus forever strains for the sky, while titan motorcycles await their mythical riders. Dinosaurs keep silent vigil over his vast and quirky empire. And Reyna? Well, he keeps waking up his wife and turning trash into art.

little ely-out sml bw

 

Françoise Lemieux is a writer, photographer, and recovering thrift store junkie living in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

Text and photos By Françoise Lemieux

Miami Herald, Mexico Edition —

Reporting on the second annual San Miguel Writers’ conference. 

Text and images, Françoise Lemieux

Herald Article Gonzalo

Miami Herald, Mexico Edition —

A profile of a San Miguel native’s return to Mexico as head chef at a historic local hotel.

Herald Article Gonzalo

 

Text and images, Françoise Lemieux

 

Atención San Miguel newspaper, San Miguel de Allende, Mexico

Announcing the return of photographic workshops by a renowned photography school.

SF_wk2._72

Casita de las Flores, before remodeling

or How to Start a B&K (Don’t Try This at Home)

What a trip!

Once upon a time, eleven years ago, in a land sort of far away… a dusty, overheated and traumatized (Mexican roads) 12-year-old Nissan Pathfinder rattled into the yet-to-be-fully-discovered town of San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.

The car, more tan than red at this point, lurched to a stop next to the (then only) Pemex gas station on Ancha de San Antonio, the main drag. Muffled sound emanated through the closed windows, and the attendants in their green coveralls looked at the car sideways…is that a cat howling? Is that women arguing?

“I’ve just got to stretch my legs!” I shouted, slamming the door and stalking away. A few deep breaths in the nostalgic noise and fumes of Mexico, my childhood home, calmed me (oddly enough).

My temper was frayed, to say the least, after three days cooped up in a car with:

• My mother (very cranky)
• My cat (also cranky)
• My two large dogs (good sports, really)
• Blurry childhood memories
• Absurdly high hopes
• No idea whatsoever of how to make a living in Mexico.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

A few months and three days earlier, I had started packing up 15 years of life, college, work, grad school, and then more work in San Diego, California. I had decided to move back to San Miguel, where I lived as a kid. Where my mother still lives. She kindly came up to help me pack, not realizing it would take more than a month to finish dismantling and dispersing said unreasonably cluttered life.

We set off on a three-day road trip, visiting family on the way. We never drove more than eight hours a day, but it felt like 28. We stayed at whatever strange lodgings accepted pets. Or we snuck them in.

Crossing the line

When we hit the border two days later, my mother got the dogs out of the car for a stroll. The Mexican customs official came over to the open rear hatch of my car, leaned his folded arms on the tailgate, and, lifting the top blanket, surveyed the two-foot-thick mass of densely packed items that lined the back.

The top layer was only a taste of the madness that lay below. An hors d’oeuvre, if you will. Ie: a cast iron frying pan filled with rolled-up underwear. A French-English dictionary the size of a toaster oven. A box of Triscuits (regular flavor). A set of knives, forks and spoons bundled with a rubber band. The base of a cordless phone. A cheese grater with several pair of socks stuffed inside. A pair of folded flare-leg jeans (be kind — it was 2000, after all).

My “baggage” was huge, and deep. It had levels, it had strata, it had echelons, even. My mother, the self-appointed Master Packer, had convinced me that her method was the most efficient. “More stuff will fit without boxes,” she said, wedging my hair dryer next to a framed photo of my father wrapped in two sweaters. “If I just pack it very carefully.”

What resulted was a three-dimensional possession puzzle, like a huge lasagna, composed of my worldly goods — topped off with my bedding and an old dog blanket. Rilke and Buddha, my dogs, rode 3,000 miles to Mexico on top of what was left my life, basically.

As Isolde, my cat, meowled indignantly from her cage behind the driver’s seat, the customs guy dropped the top blanket and put his head down on his folded arms. I just stood there, smiling my best kiss-up-to-uniformed-third-world-authority-figures-so-as-to-be-on-my-way-soon smile. Looking up, he turned to watch my mother carrying on a loud one-way conversation with the dogs as they sniffed at a post a few yards away. Finally, he looked at me.

“You got any guns or drugs in there?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at my lasagna.
“Why, no.” I answered, grinning madly. “Of course not.”
“Bien.” He said, slapping the car as he turned to walk away. “You can go.”

The rest of the trip was pastel (cake.) And so, my mother and I made it home to San Miguel, without getting pulled over into secondary inspection (which, in unpacking and repacking, would have delayed us by at least 12 hours) or killing each other.

How to start a b&b (not)

I wasn’t trying to get rich (not going to happen), but I needed to be able to support myself in the style to which I hoped to become accustomed. So, hourly Mexican wages were not an option. I also had to have time for creative projects (whatever they might be), so a normal, full-time job was equally out of the question. After several months of dawdling around trying to find a non-toxic way to pay for a modest life here, I decided real estate had to be the thing.

Through several strange coincidences, I found a very odd little property in a great, as-yet-ungentrified, older San Miguel neighborhood not too far from the Centro. With five bedrooms, a kitchen, two baths and no living room, the house sat on a dirt rubble “road” (read: riverbed), but it had a second entrance on a nicer street. (Both streets have mercifully been repaved since.)

As often happens when I get excited about an idea, I leapt without looking (at more than one place). I bought my cute little hovel and started fixing it up immediately.

Somewhere during the 3 months that turned into a year of renovations, I had a conversation.
“What are you going to do with it when it’s done?” asked a friend as we poked around the construction site, choking on cement dust.
“Make it a vacation rental, I guess.“
“You’d probably make more money if you made it a B&B.” He said.
And Casita de las Flores was born. (Thank you, friend.)

The Casita (technically not a B&B but a B&K — Bed and Kitchen) started out on the thinnest of shoestrings in 2002. A garage sale fridge, a garage sale stove. Mattresses on tapetes (woven straw mats) on the floor.

The very first weekend we rented was the infamous erstwhile Pamplonada, when 20 or so young people paid to not sleep at my place. (They were very busy partying all night and vomiting in the town square.) Other than a very messy avocado/guayaba fight, the Casita survived their onslaught. (PS: in September, our trees offer you all the free avocados and guayabas you can eat — NOT throw.)

This inauspicious event helped me pay for bed frames, closets, desks, and chairs. For the website, I had to go into hock. Soon after, Casita de las Flores really opened for business.

We started out charging US $20 a night for one person. Less than US $400 for a month. My very first guests stayed before construction was totally done and are now lifelong friends. (I was so happy to have them there. Such forgiving women.) Spring just had her first baby and Tina is coming to stay with me again next month.

San Miguel business school

Of course, I had no experience whatsoever in the field (other than having traveled a lot, and having often been a guest/critic at different accommodations). Business plans are much worse than Greek to me — they’re like math (shudder). My minimal market research, as there was no affordable online hospitality market then, was tooling around on the internet to see if the name was taken. (Since then, the Casita name, website text have been stolen wholesale by a place in Chile, thank you very much. Even some of the pictures! Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, or so they say. Note to travelers: be sure to look up your lodgings on at least a couple of platforms/websites to make sure they’re real.)

But I’ve always felt I knew better than most how things should be done (much to others‘ chagrin), so I figured I could handle it. And I knew in my bones that San Miguel needed a comfortable, accessible place for real travelers to stay. Not some fancy shmancy US $120 a night place, but something even I could afford. A place where I would want to stay. A place where I could have both my privacy and an opportunity for social interaction (a much different interaction from what can be had in an impersonal hotel, a sterile lobby, or a sloppy bar). Those were my guiding principles. That and a love of art projects (none so huge, before the Casita).

Casita de las Flores took a while to catch on. Our first year, earnings were laughable (cryable, mostly), but I kept meeting great people and business slowly grew.

In the first months, we had a particularly difficult guest who complained about absolutely everything. The noise from doves and roosters. The sounds from the high school across the street. The occasional noise from neighbors. The lights’ sporadic flickering. The dust. The breeze. The sun. (Basically, she was complaining about Mexico.) “It’s not as nice as a Motel 6,” she said of the Casita, sniffing, as she left. (The profoundest of compliments, I’ve come to realize.)

As soon as her taxi sped (well, rolled) away, I grabbed my web guy by the collar and told him we were making some changes. I went back into my lovingly designed and written website and dressed it down. I took out all marketingspeak and made things sound less inviting. Consciously working for the frump factor, I spoke of Mexico in all its gritty glorious reality.

Since then, we’ve mostly gotten travelers (a very different breed from your average tourist). These are people who’ve been around. Who know that things are unavoidably different in other countries (that’s actually why they go there.) And who know that finding an oasis of comfort, security, charm, and relative peace in any foreign country, much less a developing nation, for under US $50 a night is not to be sneezed at. They are grateful for my efforts, and I am very grateful for them. My customers and I get along swimmingly now. Mostly. (See Lesson 2).

Build and learn

Back to the shoestring. We started out with a garage sale fridge and stove, and minimal furnishings or decor. Seven years later, we have a fancy newish fridge (time flies) a garage sale stove (still works perfectly), and quite a bit of cute stuff. (But not too much—I hate cluttered decor. The Casita is of the little-known Mexican Zen School of Design.) We make a living. More importantly, we have made tons of friends and family. Even more importantly than that, we’ve learned a lot.

(And the place has changed a wee bit…)

img 17031 The Casita de las Flores Story

Casita de las Flores, after…

Lesson 1: 99% of people are really great (at least in our price range). Oddly enough, this business has increased my estimation of human nature, which wasn’t terribly high nine years ago. Through this very social enterprise, I have met quantities of fabulous people, many of whom are now friends and neighbors. And, thank the modern gods (demons?) of rampant anonymous criticism, the large majority of our reviews have been good ones. Though the occasional malcontent and his/her (snarky, public) bad review still hurts (see Lesson 2).

Casita de las Flores is fortunate to have many return guests who enjoy coming home to us, year after year. (I hope they like the color we just painted the kitchen, and Gayle’s room—I’m expecting some flack. People get attached.) My favorite example: a group of women (three of them named Gail, in various spellings) who met at the Casita years ago returned for a “Casita Reunion” here last October.

It was a time of much giggling.

At least once a month, be it at a party, an art opening, or at the grocery store, I run into a former guest who is now a San Miguel resident. I love this brand of deja vu, and I love knowing that my Casita was their first home in this town. Together, we’ve survived the real estate boom, world renown, the cartel hysteria, the swine flu hysteria, and even (more or less) the first-world media. They are now my men- and women-at-arms, my hairdressers and acupuncturists, my vecinos and compadres.

Lesson 2. You really CAN’T please everyone all the time. Unfortunately, that less-shiny one percent of guests — the ones who are never happy no matter how much you do, no matter how much you give — sometimes seem to outweigh the other 99%. They have made me, on more than one occasion, consider selling the business. But then the 99% moves in again and I feel better, and I keep on.

Lesson 3: Humans are (mostly) sociable animals. Sure, there’s been the occasional fight over cheese ownership (we now have a separate fridge shelf for each room) and we’ve had a few feuds. (The Casita is its own little ecosystem, after all, evolving with each group of guests.) But mostly, people have fun. They befriend one another. They end up having dinner parties and outings and trips together. Sometimes, they even become good friends and correspond with each other, and me, for years. (This whole people-getting-together thing was a huge, unexpected fringe benefit buried within the “let’s start a B&K, shall we?” pseudo-plan.) Of course, socializing is optional. If you simply “vant to be alone,” we’ve got privacy, too.

Lesson 4. It is possible to make a meaningful life outside the box. Ok, Casita de las Flores is not saving the world. (It may be saving my life, however, as I slowly recover from 9 to 5 fluorescent lights.) I’m no Mother Teresa, but, I take my role as a Vacational Therapist™ quite seriously.

Vacational Therapy™

I now know (yes, in my bones) that this “job” is not really a job, and that it’s far from just a means to an end. Ok, so Casita de las Flores makes us a living (nearly every month!), but more importantly, the Casita helps people. Not in any huge, earth-shattering ways, but in small, yet meaningful ways. Having this unusual little nook in which to be at home while not at home helps our guests to make connections—with San Miguel, with fellow travelers, and (most importantly) with themselves. (Often by allowing them to have a moment, or many, to simply be.)

The magical, stress-dissolving hammock

After hours and hours of travel and years and years in the hectic realms of the first world, people often arrive stressed out, exhausted and extremely cranky. They blow in the door, blasting cold first-world anxiety around them, like one guest I’ll call Molly:

“My luggage…it didn’t make it on the plane!”
“My cell phone isn’t getting reception!”
“I left my wallet in the cab!”
“What do you mean there’s no TV??!!!!”

After a few days, it’s a different story

Fast forward two weeks. On a particularly technicolor-blue sky, big white puffy-cloud, birdsong and butterfly day, I wandered out to the patio with my pruning shears. There was Molly, gently swaying in the hammock, lazily trailing her fingers back and forth on the patio bricks.

“Whatcha doing, Molly?” I asked.
“Watching the laundry dry,” she replied.
I smiled, turned and tiptoed away.

Another Vacational Therapy™ success story. Life is good.