How Wine Survived Prohibition

Posted on June 11, 2009 by admin

By Thomas Ajava

wine7 North American wine is now considered excellent and comparable, if not better, than any wine in the world. This seems oddly so given the fact of prohibition. It takes time to develop a vineyard and wine. How did North American wine survive the plague of prohibition?

The year was 1920. A conservative, religious movement had reached full steam. Its target? The evils of alcohol. With the passage of the Volstead Act, alcohol for libation purposes became illegal in the United States of America. The concept was better known as Prohibition.

As we know now, prohibition was an utter failure. It costs states and the federal government billions in tax money. It also introduced a huge upswing in organized crime as the mob moved to provide supply for the inevitable demand that existed for adult beverages. While beer and hard alcohol are the focus of the period, what about wine? It was included in prohibition as well, but winemakers are a subtle group.

Wine has many uses. It was in this area that pockets of the wine industry were able to survive the decade plus of prohibition. They focused on niches for legal uses of wine and supposed legal niches that could be subverted for more rollicking affairs. Lets take a closer look.

Medicinal wine is an amazing thing. Have a headache? Drink it and youll feel better. Had a hard day? It can make things better! As you can probably guess, medicinal wine was wine with a few additives that all had one interesting trait they all hardened and settled to the bottom of the bottle when the wine was chilled! Oddly, statistics showed many people seemed to get sick on Friday and Saturday nights. Imagine that!

The backers of prohibition had another problem. Their movement was a religious one. As you can imagine, this led to problems because many religious ceremonies include the drinking of wine as a symbolic act. This problem was dealt with when wine use for religious purposes was exempted from prohibition.

You can guess what happened next. Yes, churches and synagogues started popping up everywhere. Why, you could find many an adult suddenly finding religion again. Oddly, masses and gatherings were held during the evening, not the more traditional morning. I wont even begin to describe the nature of the new priests and rabbis!

For these reasons, the North American wine industry did not have to start from scratch once prohibition was repealed in 1933. Still, prohibition did a world of hurt to the wine industry and it would take decades before it returned to prominence. Fortunately for us wine drinkers – it did.

Thomas Ajava is with http://www.nomadjournals.com – makers of leather journals to preserve your wine tasting experiences in.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 10

Posted on July 2, 2004 by admin

Tango Magic in Oaxaca
By Cherie Magnus

Imagine a large leafy square with fountains and huge trees, surrounded on four sides by the colorful arcades of ancient colonial buildings. Imagine the kiss of a chocolate scented breeze on your skin. Imagine a concert band playing a classical concert with elderly couples rising casually from their benches to dance an elegant and sophisticated Danzon.

I didnt have to imagine it, because I was in Oaxaca, a state capital city in southern Mexico that is as breathtaking as everyone says it is. Oaxaca is the second poorest state in Mexico but one of the richest in tradition, cuisine, culture, and natural beauty. I could have chosen no better vacation spot for the week I was away from my home in San Miguel de Allende, twelve hours north by bus.

Although a large city, it felt small and accessible, and it seemed I could walk anywhere I wanted to go. I did get into a car to visit the ancient ruins of Monte Alban on my second day. I booked a tour through my hotel, but it would have been just as easy to go the 6 km on the public bus. The guide, Guillermo, explained to our little group of four the history, poetry and romance of the sacred historical site from 500 B.C. His English was eloquent and his knowledge of Mexican pre-history vast, as he had studied archaeology and anthropology at the university.

I also wanted to visit the Monte Alban City of Death, or Mitla, which was 50 kilometers along the Tehuantepec road, plus some stops at craft villages. So the next day I wandered into a tourist office and talked to Jorge Jimenez Rodriguez about a trip for the following day. Jorge didnt have Guillermos expertise at explaining ancient archeology or even English, but he did have the gift of gab en espagnol.

Mitla is an unique archaeological site with Mixtec buildings of great artistic beauty. This is where the priests of Monte Alban lived and died, and some of the tombs may be visited.

After Mitla, we made an unscheduled stop at a mescal factory by the side of the road, and toured through the many steps from maguey to bottle, I tasted some of every kind. Who knew there was cappuccino and coconut flavored mescal? I bought what tasted the best to me, but also because of the worm in the bottom of the bottle.

The various craft villages all specialize, and you can meet and purchase directly from the artisans. San Martin Tilcajete in the Valley of Oaxaca is where you find the woodcarvers whose colorful fantasy animals are famous around the world.

At the weaving village, Teotitlan del Valle, the little shops of the many different weaversall women–were set cheek to jowl, meaning you didnt have to cover a lot of territory to do a lot of shopping. I wanted to buy everything just because it all was beautiful, the weavers themselves were so lovely, and the prices after good-natured bargaining, seemed like stealing.

One of the weavers I purchased from was a young girl with beautiful braided hair. When I asked her if I could take her picture, she requested copies and I took another picture of her writing down her address in my notebook. She spoke Zapotec, Spanish and English.

We also visited the Casa Rosa pottery factory in the village known for its black pottery, San Bartolo Coyotepec, and watched a demonstration by Rosas grandson, himself an old man, who made an exquisite jar of the local black pottery using the ancient Zapotec Wheel, meaning no wheel at all but a saucer turned by one hand as the other shaped the clay.

We had lunch in a restaurant near the Tule Tree, a immense cypress supposedly 2,000 years old. Its easy to disparage such a tourist attraction, but actually it was awesome. The entire town of Santa Maria del Tule appeared to have been built around the tree with tourism in mind, with flower beds and elegant walkways. Theres a fence around the tree, so that you must pay the 2 pesos entrance fee to get the closest look at the allegedly biggest tree in the world, at 53 meters around and a little more than 41 meters tall.

Thrilled by the gorgeous work of the local artisans I had seen in the villages, I found my way to the Mercado des Artesanias, just a few blocks from my hotel. It was hot and close inside, as well as dark, not like the cheerful outdoor shops in the villages. The wares were superb, and I shopped, but I remain haunted by the sight of a young boy of ten or eleven selling an armload of very wilted white flowers. He had exhaustion in his eyes as he shuffled through the stiffling airless mercado, slumped like an old man. His skin was blotchy with patches of white on his brown face, and his eyes were weary. How I regret not buying his flowers.

That night I went to El Sagrario, a three story café-restaurant-pizzeria-nightclub close to the zocalo. Good thing I got there early, because by ten thirty there was standing room only. Two live bands alternated, so there was constant music but little dancing until a group of three young men from Veracruz arrived. Luckily they sat near me, and once the band got their salsa groove, the three of them alternated dancing with me. Soon I was invited to join them at their table, and I thought I had died and gone back to Cuba. Juan Carlos, one of the most handsome men I ever met, danced like a Cuban.

Sunday I went to mass at the elegantly rococo Santo Domingo church. The inside is dazzling gold leaf, the outside a gorgeous green limestone. Later that evening I returned for an outdoor chamber music concert by the Mozart String Sextet with the full moon rising behind the church as a backdrop.

After mass, I headed back to the zocalo for the noon concert of the Oaxaca State Concert Band. I had attended the previous nights concert, and was impressed with the professional sound and lighting, as well as the musicianship and artistry of the performance.

Today they had set up under the large trees instead of in the art nouveau fantasy bandstand, the plazas centerpiece. The many folding chairs were already full of Sunday best elegant locals, European tourists, gringos, indigenous folk in their ethnic clothes, children and babies and grandmothers, teens and the many shoeshine men, who kept on working during the 90 minute concert on customers happy to listen as they sat in comfortable padded chairs on wheels. The eclectic program included Bolero, Granada, and Deep in the Heart of Texas.

A little boy selling Chiclets stops in his tracks, enthralled, a foot away from the first trombone player and appears hypnotized for the length of the piece. Another Chiclets vendor, a middle-aged indigenous woman, stops working the crowd when the band strikes up the Pineapple Dance from the local Gueleguetza folklore, and claps joyously with the music. Everyone jumps to their feet and sings the final piece, Oaxaca Linda, the state anthem, with love and pride. I had never seen such a magical blending of an audience, although I know music does that.

I was so filled with joy that after the concert I couldnt do anything but relish it. And so took a table at one of the many zocalo cafes and ordered a cup of chocolate and watched the parade going by my table.

Good natured vendors of small wooden toys plied their products to us sitting ducks at the outdoor cafes. To the contrary of being bothered by the vendors, it was a pleasure to sit in that lovely spot and have the wares come to me. And if I refused (how many chicken paddles can you use?), the sellers continued on with a smile.

A beautiful dark and slender young woman balanced a huge basket of red roses on her head as she crossed in front of me like a dancer. A candlelight peace vigil was making a presence in these last days before the Iraqi war. A mandolin quintet, with claves, was singing everyones favorite songs for a price.

The many colossal balloon clusters of invisible vendors seemed like eerie, silent witnesses to the life in the plaza. They bobbed, pulsed, breathed, appearing to me like living plastic and mylar beings of great wisdom. Zocalo life could come and go, but the balloons saw it all and werent telling.

Returning to my hotel, I glanced into the courtyard of an ancient building and saw dancers moving together without music. Stopping I looked harder because what they were doing reminded me of tango. A closer look told me it was tango, or was supposed to be.

Drawn like a magnet, I went in and asked a seated woman if this was a rehearsal for a dance performance. No, it seemed this was a tango class! Well, I said, I am a tourist here, but I am a professional tango dancer.

The class came to a sudden halt, and I was swept toward the teacher, a skinny toothless old man. Someone punched play on the boombox, and nothing would do but the old man and I had to dance a tango together for the camcorder! After what was a very painful experience because he hadnt a clue how to dance but must have picked up some choreography from Rudolf Valentino movies, they turned the video camera on me and asked me to dance solo! I danced a solo tango which is now preserved on video in Oaxaca, Mexico! I talked to some of the students, danced with young Alejandro and exchanged email addresses, and I sashayed on my way feeling like a movie star.

Sad to be leaving the next morning, and challenged to get all of my purchases packed for the bus, I put off thinking about it and went to an internet ice cream store. I ordered two scoops of nieveZapotec Dreams and Tamarindo with Chileto refresh me as I pounded out descriptive email to my friends who had never had the good fortune to visit Oaxaca. And I stayed for quite a while, having another iceMescal this timeas the internet cost only 8 pesos per hour (about $.75).

Maybe Ill postpone my return to San Miguel and go back to that fabulous museum in the Ex-Convento of Santo Domingo, and while Im at it, revisit the Tamayo Museum, too. And since there are seven types of mole and Ive only had two of them, some more meals on the zocalo also seem like a good idea. There is so much to see and doand eat!in Oaxaca.

About this author: With degrees in English, Dance, and Library Science from UCLA, Cherie has published many articles in professional journals and magazines. Her solo travels to Europe and Latin America have inspired several pieces published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie, JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad, Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly, the-vu, and various online magazines. She was the dance critic for the Cerritos News in Orange County, California before moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She is currently at work on a novel situated in France, when she’s not out dancing. Follow her blog at http://tangocherie.blogspot.com/

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 8

Posted on May 5, 2003 by admin

Corpus Christi in San Miguel
By Cherie Magnus

My first day back in San Miguel de Allende after three weeks, I ran around doing errands, unpacking, organizing, but I wasnt too busy to notice the hanging of red and gold satin and velvet banners from balconies along the main streets. Thinking a weekend fiesta was in the making, I went about my business. I was tired and almost ate a quesadilla standing at the stove, which is my usual dinner fare. But I decided to go out for a margarita instead and see if I could find any of my friends, since I already was missing my Los Angeles people.

Noticing that the streets were covered in fragrant herbs like a lawn, I stood and stared at the cobblestones for a while as if the green were a mirage in the dusk. My eyes just couldnt process what they were seeing. Then I noticed large bouquets of crimson and gold flowers placed on the sidewalks outside several grand colonial doorways, openings that ordinarily are entrances to apartment buildings, shops, and restaurants.

Peering inside one such doorway, and not wishing to disturb the silent worshippers there, I saw a glorious altar, all in red, gold and white, with God the Father reaching down from a cloud. In another doorway-turned-chapel, was a tiny girl dressed as an angel sitting on a white satin stool in front of the altar. As my eyes got used to what to look for, I saw many altars, all different, in the center of town.

Soon, naturally, a procession began to wend its way from the Parroquia and down the mint-and-flower-strewn streets. Stopping at every altar, the men carrying the litter with the Sacraments kneel, a priest takes it inside, and a prayer is read for that family, amplified by the speaker one man carries over his shoulder. The people on the street often kneel too and make the sign of the cross and the men remove their hats. And then a rocket is shot off into the sky and explodes, either to scare away evil spirits or to alert God of whats going on here in San Miguel de Allende.

The procession moves slowly forward along the proscribed route of crimson banners while a choir sings behind the accompanist who plays a Casio keyboard carried by four boys. Fresh bread rolls, flowers, and herbs are given to the people at every altar. Sometimes the rocket frightens the roosting pigeons, which scatter, fluttering, as if they were released for effect on cue.

The small official procession is enlarged with hundreds of the faithful following behind, who respond to the liturgy with attentive Amens. The air is perfumed with incense and the streets become the church, the Body of Christ is literarlly brought to the people. Corpus Christi is more than a town in Texas, it is a holy festival day nowhere more celebrated than in Mexico.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 5

Posted on May 1, 2002 by admin

Not All Mariachis and Margaritas
By Cherie Magnus

Many people come to San Miguel de Allende for a vacation and end up buying a house. Folks fall in love with this place, ardently, illogically, hopelessly. Its that kind of town.

I decided to move to San Miguel, a colonial city of 50,000 in the heart of Mexico, with my head and not my heart, and maybe thats why Im often reminded that life for me here isnt quite the paradise I had hoped for, or thought to find. From the mundane and profane to the urbane, its not exactly what I expected.

I came south where the living was supposed to be easier, cheaper, and more romantically beautiful. But after four months I have to say, maybe, maybe not. Easy things are more difficult, prices are about the same as in the States (at least here, the costliest town in Mexico), but it sure is more romantic, sometimes unbearably so. (People with plenty of money, of course, only have to worry about finding the romance.)

So as petty as it may sound, the little annoyances of daily life can add up to maddening frustration for those of us who cant hire things done. Errands take an inordinate amount of time and trudging about the steep stony streets under the hot sun, schlepping laundry, groceries, shoes to be repaired, packages and mail. Everyone is carrying something in San Miguel, and the gringos are also carrying cash.

All bills must be paid in person with cash. There is the regular need to change dollars into pesos and so constant attention to the handwritten exchange rate posted at the Cambios is a part of life.

Because fresh fruits and vegetables must be disinfected before using and gringos have to be extra careful about water, shopping and food preparation is more complicated. Few convenience foods and pre-prepared items are available, and absolutely no frozen entrees or TV dinners. Whats in the frozen section of the supermarket? Ice cream, bags of vegetables, shrimp, and ice.

Its also harder to stay clean and well-groomed. There are no self-service laundromats, but lots of fluff n fold type establishments, which, after a few times through their machines, tend to gray and dinge your clothes.

On the sidewalk, large birds and cascades from roof runoff pipes assault you from above. If the dog poop and water puddles dont get you from below, smoke-belching vehicles splash your white pants or bare legs while they foul the air of the narrow streets.

The constant dust gets all over your clothes, skin, hair and in your nose, lungs and pores. Almost no one has a bathtub or enough hot water to fill one, and showers are always short. The huge U.S. selection of beauty aids and products just isnt available here, and so one makes do with generics.

Walking the streets can be dangerous as well. If you dont watch your feet instead of the local color and the historic buildings, you can easily slip or trip on the undulating, uneven sidewalks of slippery stones. Gringas soon learn to wear only shoes with rubber treads, or they easily fall. Newcomers with scabs and ankle bandages abound.

If you dont watch your head, especially if you are tall like I am, you can bang it into a protruding stone windowsill with iron bars, or a bus or trucks side-view mirrors can take you out.

In Mexico it isnt respectable for women to wander around alone in the dark, which makes it difficult to go anywhere in the evening without an escort, and especially to return. Taxis are not easy to find at night, and sometimes the drivers come on to women unaccompanied by a man. In a macho country, every woman by herself is assumed to be looking for a man – isnt it only natural? This can be daunting for independent women used to going solo wherever they wish.

Its also almost impossible to get in or out of town, which has a lot of charm in a Brigadoon sort of way. Its tough to get here, and hard to leave. Leaving the country includes many taxis, buses, and planes (no trains), and its not so great for people like me who travel frequently.

As someone who enjoys the passion in the culture of latin countries such as France, Cuba, Argentina, I dont see the same joie de vivre in Mexico. Joy here is not a moving, pulsing force, but something to relax in. Good food, fun and peppy music, lots of beer and tequila, family togetherness and church. The only ecstasy I witness is in the many fervent religious activities. I miss the zest and energy on the street and in the music that I have found so compelling elsewhere. Or maybe I just havent found it yet in Mexico.

And dance, well Ive tried everything dance-wise in San Miguel with no satisfaction. Ive searched it out in studios, schools, clubs, theaters, parties, and discos. Ive tried Sweat Your Prayers on Sunday mornings, folk dance at the Bellas Artes, contact improvisation, Mexican folklorico, salsa in classes and clubs, and gone as far as Mexico City in search of Argentine Tango. Who knew?

I can live without much hot water, a car, or a telephone. But I cant live without dancing.

San Miguel is famous for its many fiestas, but in lieu of dancing in the streets, there are fireworks and church bells at all hours of the night, and related non-stop barking of the ubiquitous roofdogs. The many roosters crow all day and all night.

In addition to this festival of sound is the incessant noise of construction going on six days a week next door to no matter where you live: the chink chink pound pound sounds of one- and two-man teams of workers laboriously either tearing down or building up.

In every country where there is tremendous poverty, tourists are looked upon as rich. The attitude in San Miguel is perhaps even more so due to the large percentage of gringos whose presence has inflated the local economy. And so sometimes foreigners are taken advantage of, shortchanged, pickpocketed, and objects often just seem to disappear. San Miguel de Allende is very safe with little violent crime, but the small stuff is constant and usually unreported. Well maybe I really didnt have as much money as I thought. Or its possible I left my watch at home. Or didnt bring those pretty gold earrings after all.

There are two very distinct cultures in San Miguel: the Mexican and the gringo. For that reason many norteamericanos find it easier to live here than in perhaps more Mexican towns. Most businesses with services and products appealing to gringos speak English, the tourist restaurants serve disinfected food, the lectures and movies at the library are in English or have English subtitles, and the plays at the Teatro Angela Peralta are in English. There are norteamericanos who have lived here for thirty years and dont speak Spanish; they dont have to.

However all of this convenience comes at a price.

There is even a kind of gringo ghetto, the Jardin, where the tall pale visitors in shorts and jogging suits sit in front of the Parroquia and meet their friends in the bright sunlight. The Mexicans sit on the opposite side of the Jardin, in front of the police station and in the shade.

Despite the myths, living in Mexico isnt much cheaper than in Los Angeles, except for apartment rentals and food shopping, which are somewhat less. When planning on moving to Mexico, many people such as I dont think about hidden costs like computer/internet access, storage fees in the hometown, transportation costs (all those taxis and buses), medical/dental care without insurance, high telephone bills, Spanish classes. Just like at home, there are cover charges to listen to music, and you wont hear any mariachis unless someone is paying them $6.00 per song.

If you dont want to be a part of the ghettoized, and are not fluent in Spanish, you might also feel a bit on the fringe. Being a small town, anything you do is noticed in San Miguel, any visitor you receive, every companion on a bench in the Jardin. But because the population is so transitory, when you do meet people you like and want to be friends with, they often leave.

And if someone doesnt happen to have a romantic partner, it can be painful to live in one of the most romantically beautiful places on earth. As there are thirteen women to every man in San Miguel, probably many women are home alone tonight as Im writing this, looking out their windows with longing at the gorgeous sky and the lights of the Churrigueresque skyline of San Miguel de Allende twinkling below.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 3

Posted on April 3, 2002 by admin

Auto Mexico
By Cherie Magnus

After a mind-expanding long day with ghosts, pyramids, and mysterious ancient art in Teotihuacan, our little tour group cruise along the Autopista with just two hours to go before hitting San Miguel de Allende and home.

Gene, an archeologist from the University of Texas, Jaime, our Mexican guide/driver, and me, a transplant from Los Angeles, are basking in the afterglow of history and art when the ´95 Oldsmobile’s engine suddenly quits as we tool along in the fast lane. Luckily we are coasting down hill, and Jaime gets it started after repeated tries, and the three of us breathe sighs of relief as the car chugs forward.

Then the engine quits again, and with skillful maneuvering through the trucks and rush hour traffic, Jaime is able to get us on the right shoulder where we roll to a stop.

When the car starts once more , we exit at the next off-ramp and inch into a tiny town that seems to have nothing more than a little tienda, a big cemetery, and, thank goodness, a garage. It’s dark by now, and the mechanic rigs up a light to check under the hood. Three other men and a boy playing with valeros (those 2 clacking balls on a string)–and Jaime, of course–watch him do it. Gene and I observe the animated discussion and gesturing of all six of them through the windshield.

Gene mumbles in the back seat that the problem is a speck of dirt from bad gasoline clogging up the fuel filter, but the committee under the hood thinks it’s the fuel injection. They fiddle with that, the sparkplugs, and the engine–which before had a smooth and quiet idle–now sounds like a threshing machine. When they give up on the front, they jack up the rear and change the filter. Gene and I are still in the car as it lurches upward. The street is totally black but for the light bulb on a cord dangling from one man’s hand.

I have to go to the bathroom. Gene says that he doesn’t want to sound like a chauvinist, but I am the only woman here, so I shouldn’t get out of the car. I have no fear, but I can’t imagine any toilet anywhere near. So I stay put.

Gene had forgone a fabulous lunch at the La Gruta Restaurant in order to see more of the Teotihuacan pyramids, and even though I had been plying him with snacks from my bag, I worry about him. He seems to have low blood sugar or something. I thought there was nothing left, but I find a tangerine from the previous night’s Posada. He gives me back half and I give half of that to Jaime out the window. Jaime retains an air of cheerfulness and confidence. Because I had taken a previous tour with him, and because of our wonderful day today, Im not at all worried about how we would get back to San Miguel. Jaime will take care of us. Hes young, but smart and inspires confidence. At least in me.

Not so with Gene. He frets about the different mechanical possibilities of the car trouble, and tries to figure out plans B and C if we are indeed stuck. He has good reason to worry as he is scheduled to leave tomorrow for Texas at 6 a.m.

Finally the car won’t even start, it is now after nine, and all six surrounding the car agree no more can be done tonight. Gene and I confer that we think there are too many cooks under the hood. Jaime talks to a tow-truck guy who is flat bedding a car to Queretero, half way home for us. But we would have to sit inside the car on the truck. Gene and I don’t like it, but we say what the heck and get out of the Oldsmobile, stiff after so many hours of sitting there. But the driver reneges, it seems it is illegal to do that. One of the kibbitzers then agrees to take us up to the Autopista toll booth. By this time, Gene and I don’t ask any questions, we just get in the car with Jaime.

Up at the toll gate, Jaime talks to the policeman parked in his unit, I guess he was explaining why we were up there. Then along comes a bus marked “San Miguel de Allende.” Jaime flags it down, and–a miracle–the bus stops. We run, and climb on board. Incredulously sinking into seats, we can’t believe our luck: very few buses to SMA at all, and we got one! We flagged down a bus on the autoroute and it stopped! Gene and I laugh, only in Mexico!

At Queretero, everyone but us three and a snoring guy across the aisle get off, and a woman carrying a decorated snack tray gets on. Jaime hops up and takes orders from us, water for me, Coke for Gene (the sugar thing, I think), and Coke and chips for Jaime. We all debate about telling the sleeper we are at Queretero in case it is his destination, but no one does. Almost immediately on the road again, Jaime asks me for a plastic bag, which he uses in the back of the dark bus as a urinal, and then tosses out the window. The cars behind the bus must think its raining. My problem isn’t so handily solved and I try not to think about it.

When we drag off the bus at last in San Miguel, Jaime finds us one taxi and he takes another. Kisses all around, handshaking, muchas gracias. adios.

Gene and I agree as we part at his hotel that the pyramids were incredible, but our car trouble was a fascinating Mexican experience of its own.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 2

Posted on April 2, 2002 by admin

Heart of Fire
By Cherie Magnus

Dear Ones Back Home,

When I searched the Internet last summer for a San Miguel apartment, I only had five requirements–reasonable price, quiet, accepts Phoebe the Cat, no more than a fifteen minute walk into town, and a wood-burning fireplace. I soon found one which had everything on my list (well ok, not the inexpensive rent part.) God bless the Internet.

Some landlords in my search told me via email that it´s not P.C. to burn wood here because there is so little of it and so their fireplaces are gas or they don’t have them at all, only electric heaters. But I rationalize that a few logs from dead trees burned to help me keep my sanity is less damaging to the S.M. environment than a big American car driving around El Centro and I had left mine in L.A. Or a gringa run amok!

A fireplace is important because I live alone (except for Phoebe) and I know from past experience that a real fire is a living presence and company on lonely nights. I stare into it, adjust the logs, watch the color of the flames, smell the soul of the burning wood. Gas logs just don´t cut it for emotional warmth. So I reserved the apartment for the winter, and enjoy the occasional log fire those nights when I read or study Spanish. But in the middle of January the cold snap hit, with two days of icy rain. Hey, I´m from L.A., I know what it´s like to be cold in the house during the winter.

But one small fireplace to heat a whole apartment on several levels when the temperature is below 35? Sure, I know people have lived here for thousands of years without heat, but they perhaps became acclimatized. After only a couple of weeks in Mexico, I wasn´t.

When I asked my landlady for a small electric heater to use in the bedroom and the bath, she refused on the basis of the electric bill, and had the gardener bring in more wood, lots more. At the same time, the gas ran out and I had no hot water or cooking facilities. So now as I write this I am sitting (with Phoebe on my lap, she who never saw fire until we moved here), my feet on the hearth, and am enjoying the flames and embers for more than aesthetic and emotional reasons. More in touch with the reality of what is primarily important. I need the fire to warm my cold body–as well as my soul.

And another of my requirements, the one about the 15 minute walk to town? I got that too, but didn’t know it is 15 minutes straight up! Which now is OK, too, because my body is in better shape and I can eat all those enchiladas and guacamole with impunity! And the hike keeps me warm.

Warmly yours (at least for the moment)

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 1

Posted on April 1, 2002 by admin

Mexico, Christmas Milagros, and Me
By Cherie Magnus

Well I made it! After leaving work and selling my furniture as so many have done before me, Phoebe the Cat and I arrived in San Miguel de Allende to begin a new life.

It had been a difficult time these past three months, having garage sales, getting rid of my collections on eBay, packing and storing, saying goodbye to Los Angeles where I had been born, raised and lived all my life, saying farewell to my job, friends, and the tiny family I still had since my husband died a few years before.

A Mexican Xmas Tree

However, my carryon bags never made it out of the Leon Airport in Mexico. You know, the bags where I put everything too important to be checked– camera, address book, eyeglasses, jewelry, medication, computer cables, software, family photos, business papers and bills, Phoebes favorite toy rat, my tango shoes? I don´t know exactly what happened, you cant relax your vigilance for one second in life. I turned my attention to Phoebe, and poof, everything changed. And the timing couldnt have been more poignant–it was right before Christmas!

After getting Phoebe organized in our new place and searching endlessly through my two remaining bags, I couldnt sleep. I only tossed and turned with worry about the loss of my irreplaceable belongings. I pictured someone picking up the bags, searching them for things to sell (my jewelry items only, probably), and tossing the rest out the window of a pickup truck on some dusty Mexican road. The image of my family photos blowing through the cactus just made me sick.

The next day my new landlady called the airport for me because as yet I had no Spanish. But the news was bad: no found purple bags. She counseled me to forget it and move on. Easy for her to say in the middle of her Texas mansion plunked down in a garden in a beautiful, small central highland town in Colonial Mexico. Not only did she own her huge hacienda and my apartment, she also had built and rented out a casa and a casita all constructed in the same walled compound. And of course all four dwellings were full of her things. I only had a cat and four suitcases, and now the two most important bags were missing.

This new loss after so many recent losses in my life caused me to mourn for days. I went to lovely St Paul´s, the gringo Protestant church, and prayed to accept the inevitable. The day of Christmas Eve, the town was full of people carrying baby Jesuses hurriedly through the streets on their way to all the Nativities where the Holy Child would later appear. That night I went to a party given by a friend of a friend, and like seems to happen so often in San Miguel, in talking about a problem, help happens. I am learning that serendipity is the way here.

At the party I met someone who was leaving the next day for New York from Leon, and she offered to inquire at the airport for me about my bags. I hadnt gone back myself because of the transportation difficultyone hour, forty-five minute taxi ride and $70– and my lack of hope in finding them.

These past few days since my arrival I had been really lonely and depressed. I had taken the bus up to the supermercado on the hill and bought some new underwear and a little bit of makeup, although all of the shades were too dark for me. I wore the same pair of earrings every day, but had purchased a beaded bracelet and necklace from an indigenous woman hawking them over her arm in a restaurant next to the Jardin.

Thank goodness at least I had Phoebe. I certainly would not have traded her for the missing bags, or anything else I didnt have. After five days, acceptance was growing. I figured this was just another lesson in how we dont need things, how we are here not to accumulate but to live and do. Looking at the poverty around me of the Mexican and indigenous peoples gave me a new perspective. I didnt really need so many pairs of earrings, how often did I look at those photos anyway, and if my friends wanted to contact me they had my address, even if I didnt have theirs. It would all work out, and I would be a better person for it.

Recently I had lost my husband, our family home and furniture, my mother, my job, and my own physical health. I was sick and tired of loss, but wasnt this just another lesson in how to live on my own? We come with nothing, we leave with nothing; we cant take it with us, possessions are just a burden, etc. All the helpful cliches spun around in my head actually making me feel better.

Early Christmas morning the phone rang: “Cherie, your bags are here!” It was the lady from the party, calling from the airport on her way to New York.

I immediately called Vicente the taxi driver who had originally picked me up and brought me to San Miguel, and woke him too. “I´ll be right there!” He felt terrible and unnecessarily guilty about the loss of my luggage. It was my responsibility, my job, he moaned in Spanish.

Twenty minutes later we were tearing along the empty Christmas morning road to Leon. At the airport we searched through the lost luggage and my bags weren´t there, although there was a similar purple one and I thought probably that was the one my new friend saw. But Vicente also wanted to check in Customs up by the gate. And when we approached, we saw my orphaned bags behind locked doors. There they sat, both of them, like my oldest friends in the world. Traveling unlocked with me on the plane, now they sported plastic security seals.

I offered a tip, but the officials waved it away, smiling at the tearful reunion of a gringa and her stuff. Gracias, muchas gracias, Feliz Navidad! I called, walking through the airport hugging my luggage. Vicente and I laughed all the way back to San Miguel where, after cutting off the plastic locks, I found everything completely untouched. I was thrilled to see my jewelrysome of it last gifts from my husband, and inherited pieces from my mothermy medications, my family photos, my precious address book which was my connection to my old life.

Getting my things back was a true milagro and the best Christmas present I ever received. But those five days without the security blanket of the cherished contents of my bags gave me perspective. I could have managed without them, I had been managing. And it had not been the end of the world. I had even learned something about myself.

Nevertheless because of the kindness of strangers and a miracle of good luck, I had a very Feliz Navidad in my new home town, and an incredible Bienvenidos a Mexico. And Vicente invited me to his extended family´s Christmas celebration that night. But that is another story of milagros, magical realism, and me in Mexico.

La Salsa Cubana Experience

Posted on June 1, 2001 by admin

By Cherie Magnus

These days ladies alone do pretty well anywhere in the world they travel. The world has gotten used to women on their own in airports and hotels due to business traveling, and more recently, vacationing.

I’ve traveled alone in many countries and I wholeheartedly recommend it for those decisive independents who don’t get too lonesome at dinner. I’ve wandered by myself through Paris, Florence, Buenos Aires, as well as all over the United States.

But the one country where it doesn’t work out well is Cuba.

I had fallen in love with the country and its people in January on a cultural exchange in a group of about forty people. Not wanting to wait until it got too hot or until the end of the rainy season which would soon begin, I went back on my own in April. (To be sure I had my U.S. Treasury License to do research with me.) Wanting to avoid both the high cost and tourist ambiance of the big hotels, I rented a room in a crumbling 18th c. palacio on the Malecon, with a balcony overlooking the sea and the lighthouse across the bay.

The owner was friendly and accommodating, the location was fantastic, I had maps and a list of phone numbers of people I had met in January. Oh and the weather was perfect.

But I had a problem. I was an American woman. A tall, pale-skinned redhead, there was no way I could blend in as I always try to do wherever I go. It is impossible to walk down any street in Havana day or night without every man on it calling out to a female tourist. It isn’t dangerous, just not comfortable. Mostly of course it’s the younger men, and I suppose it’s equivalent to U.S. construction workers–just part of their macho roles as men. The older Cubanos’ machismo translates into courtliness.

I took a bicitaxi one afternoon from the Cathedral clear across town to calle San Miguel to deliver a letter from the States. The little old man cycled me over potholes and around pedistrians and trucks to the remains of an old hotel. Without comment, he chained up his bicycle and led me into the lobby, inquiring of several people the correct room. I could tell that there was no way he was going to let me fend for myself in that dark warren of habitacions, like a medina in Cairo. He was only satisfied when we found the correct room, which was divided into three tiny windowless areas altogether no bigger than a broom closet.

Two men were playing chess in the middle space in the front of the open door. When they didn’t understand my explanation of why I was there, the woman across the hall came over and instantly got a handle on the situation, and I delivered my letter.

The taxista was sitting in the shade by his bicycle when I came out into the sunshine, as I had asked him to wait for me. From there he pedaled me back across the square and plazas to El Floridita, where I had to change my $20 bill in order to pay him. Then I joined all the tourists drinking daiquiris and flashing their pocket cameras while posing in front of the Hemingway memoribilia on the walls. I joined a table of Belgian girls and we talked about Jacques Brel and sang some of his lyrics together. It felt good to be in a group of women.

A tourist woman alone feels vulnerable in Cuba wherever she goes, despite the policeman on nearly every corner day and night. She can’t lose herself shopping, because there isn’t any. People-watching on the Malecon or Prado is an open invitation to be hassled or hustled.

She’s more comfortable in the bars, lobbies and dining rooms of the tourist hotels because there is a security person for every few guests. But then she’s just meeting other tourists, and probably those from her own country. Cubans aren’t allowed in the tourist hotels, except in the public areas by special invitation.

This is the one country where I suggest going in a group. Especially if you are a dancer like me. In Buenos Aires I boldly go alone each night to the tango halls where I dance until dawn with no problems. There is a strict formal code of behavior there, and in my six trips to Argentina, I never once had any sort of difficulty.

Cuba doesn’t work like that. There are very few salsa clubs per se, and I wouldn’t recommend a woman entering them alone, hoping to dance, as she might in Buenos Aires.

The Cubans dance all the time, but informally at parties and casual gatherings. They can’t afford the clubs which are very expensive. And so it’s mostly other tourists who are at the clubs anyway.

So unless you meet local people who invite you to their fiestas, a Havana trip will not usually provide hours of salsa dance experiences.

Live musical groups perform in bars and cafes everywhere so you can listen to some great stuff, but in order to dance, you must bring your partner.

Women who want to dance salsa or to study folklore and religion or education or medical care in Cuba will learn more and have more fun in a group of like-minded individuals.

And as a matter of fact, I will be taking a small group of salsa dancers from Los Angeles in November 2001 to study Cuban music and dance, “The Salsa Cubana Experience.” Now that I know the ropes, I want to share what I learned about where and how to dance in Havana with other dancers, and to have fun in a mixed group of Americans and Cubans together. Also to help foster understand between our two cultures, where there is so much misunderstanding and misinformation. Let the music and dance bring us together.

With degrees in English, Dance, and Library Science from UCLA, Cherie has published many articles in professional journals and magazines. Her solo travels to Europe and Latin America have inspired several pieces published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie, JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad, Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly, the-vu, and various online magazines. She was the dance critic for the Cerritos News in Orange County, California before moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She is currently at work on a novel situated in France, when she’s not out dancing. Follow her blog at http://tangocherie.blogspot.com/

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