Emilie Vardaman

Today I became cool, according to my sister anyway. I have entered a new era. I shed my five-year-old flip-phone and got an iPhone 5.

Gulp.

I am terrified of the cost. I just doubled my cell phone bill.

And I have a lot to learn, and a lot to unlearn. I think the unlearning will happen pretty quickly.

On my old Sprint plan, I had a limited number of minutes because I had the cheapest plan. My new Verizon plan is unlimited. So already today, I have received two phone calls, and because they came mid-day, my first thought as I answered the call was, “Oh, no! This isn’t my free minutes time!”

Well, I have to unlearn that. Unlimited means just that. I can now take calls mid-day without worrying about going over my limit.

Will I now start making phone calls willy nilly? No, I won’t. But I also won’t worry about them. I’ll probably substitute that with worry about my bill at the end of the month, I suppose.

I also got an Otterbox to protect it. I had a choice of pink, gray, or camouflage. Not what I wanted (purple). But given the selection, I went with the girly color. I’m going to see if I can find a purple one on line, and if so, I can return the pink.

Then, of course, are the things I have to learn, beginning with the most basic. Like how to answer the blasted phone.

I got a call shortly after my purchase and I managed to disconnect the call rather than answer it, and it was from my friend Christina, and she was inviting me to lunch! Almost a disaster. By the time I figured out I had missed the call and not just tried to respond to a strange sound, she’d already eaten.

But I did all right. To celebrate the phone as well as provide consolation over the missed lunch, I took myself out to a sushi restaurant. Soft shell crab rolls. M-m-m-m. Perfect. Disaster avoided.

Then, of course, my smart-ass sister who’s had an iPhone for quite awhile stretched my learning curve by sending me a photo. I actually saw it! There must be a way to enlarge it so I don’t have to pull out my reading glasses in order to see it, but I did successfully view the photo. But, lots more to learn here.

Then I have to learn texting! I have never had texting. I asked my niece who is a texting maniac not to OD on sending me texts.

I learned how to use the voice recorder. I wanted it for when I travel as it seems as I drive along I always want to take notes of things I see or thoughts that zip around my head. Sometimes I can pull over and write things down, but when traveling in Mexico, pulling over often means driving off a cliff.

Now, all I have to do is grab my phone and poke two buttons and begin to talk. Easy! And the first button is a little microphone. No mistaking it for something else or poking a different button when I want to record. Maybe not on a curvy road, but for sure I can manage it on a straightaway.

More things. How to take a picture. How to send the picture. How to put pictures of the people on my call list with their names so I can see the photo instead of a shadow form.

And then there is the whole ring tones thing. I guess I can now download special ones, and I can spend hours assigning certain tones to specific people. As if would remember which sound meant which person.

But I have time, and I am going to get a basic book on how to use the phone. Plus, Verizon offers free classes on how to use the phone as well as how to use my iPad. Free, I can afford.

Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to go. Play with my new phone.

There’s a new restaurant in Bisbee. Well, it’s been around a few months, so it’s not brand new, but it is fairly undiscovered. It’s located at 316 Pirrung, and if you live in Bisbee and have no idea where that is, you’re not alone. If I’d had just the address, I’d still be driving around hoping to find it. So let me just tell you: El Minero is located across from B&D Hardware, right next to The Hitching Post.

The decor? Well, with the name El Minero, what would you expect? A mining theme, of course.

You’ll enter through a mine tunnel and step into the small dining room which holds four booths and five tables, plus a counter with eight stools. A Mexican radio station pumps tunes through speakers and it’s not too loud for comfortable dining.

The highlight of the decor is, to me, the murals. Large murals cover each side of the room. They stand maybe six feet tall. One runs about eighteen or twenty feet long and the other maybe fourteen feet.

Then, the big reason for coming to El Minero: the menu.

I wanted something light, so I glanced at the appetizers (guacamole, nachos, papas), and then a variety of a la carte items like burritos, chimis, tortas Sonoran hot dogs, and…

Wait. Sonoran hot dogs??!!?? Stop right there!

I was just in Kino for two weeks but didn’t get to a Sonoran hot dog, and as soon as I saw it on the menu, I stopped my perusal. For only $1.99 I got my dog. Now, I actually don’t even like hot dogs, but the Sonoran ones are a different story.

I had mine without the traditional bacon, figuring it was now almost a health food, piled as it was with beans, onions, and tomatoes. Oh, my it was good!

But back to the menu. There are quesadillas and tostadas, and then there are combo plates and full dinners.

The most expensive item on the menu is the Steak Ranchero, steak diced with peppers and onions, for $9.99. Today’s special was posole, for only $5.

There are all the traditional restaurant drinks plus, of course, horchata.

Still have some room after dinner or lunch? There’s pastel de tres leches, flan, or bunuelos.

If you’re in the Bisbee area, give El Minero a try. The prices are great and I’m sure you’ll like the food!

I have heard the word ‘abomination’ used only a few times in my life. Until last night, that is, when I heard it probably a dozen times.
The word was used in reference to many of my friends, friends who had to sit and listen to the terrible bigotry spewing from mouth after mouth after mouth of “good Christians.”
The setting was the Bisbee City Council chambers. All eighty seats were filled. Also, people lined the back wall and both side walls, and then another twenty or so sat on the floor up front. A line of people snaked down the hallway in both directions from the room, and the veranda to the back of the room was filled with people watching through open windows.
The topic? Item three of the council’s agenda: legalizing civil unions in the City of Bisbee.

The ordinance was brought to council by member Gene Connors, and two weeks ago, the council  had the first reading. Last night was decision time.It seems a few van loads of Christian conservatives came to city hall early and stood in line to be the first to share their views.

Most of their speeches were firery. A few were soft spoken. Three were rambling and confusing, and two were just plain unintelligible. Two speakers said they just might have to leave Bisbee if the ordinance passed, and a number of us thought, Oh. Please do.

Finally, about an hour and twenty minutes later, almost all of the other side had spoken.

Here are some of the words I heard:
Bible, God, and Jesus. Repeatedly.
Abomination.
Disgusting.
Sinful.
Pervert.

Here are some of the fears expressed:
Bestiality will be next.
AIDS will spread throughout the town.
Homosexuality is a malady that has to be fixed.
Passing the ordinance will destroy individual rights.

My friends had to listen to themselves being described and degraded, for well over an hour.

And these speakers were mightily applauded, though by a minority of those in attendance.

I could not help but wonder how my friends felt, having to endure it all.

But then, others spoke.

There was an outpouring of love and compassion by people who were straight, and examples of horrible abuses by those who were gay. One of the best moments, though, was when my friend Mark walked to the podium holding his lover’s hand and simply said, “I am not an abomination.”

The room erupted for him, for my friend James, and for several other speakers. It was an hour and a half of kindness and hopefulness.And then it was time for the vote.

The first council person called, Shirley Doughty, voted nay. Then four voted aye. Then the only other female councilor voted nay.

I found it interesting that while, in general, straight females tend to be a little more relaxed about gayness than straight men do, it was the four male councilors who voted for the ordinance.

Then the final vote by mayor Adriana Badal. Aye. And she declared the ordinance passed.
The room erupted. Cheering and clapping. A standing ovation. Laughter and tears of joy.
People spilled out of the council chambers to the cool evening. Lots of hugging and congratulating. More laughter and tears.
And we all went home carried by the soft, sweet winds of hope.

Our trailer here at Islandia doesn’t have a water heater. Everything works just fine! said the woman when we bought the trailer. Liar, liar pants on fire. The list of things that didn’t work is endless. But back to the lack of hot water.

In summer – when it’s too hot to be here – the lack of hot water doesn’t matter. The water pipes are just a few inches under the sand, and the cold water makes for a perfect shower. But last fall when it had become cooler, showering become a project.

We use the bath house for our showers. No problem, except this was November and the hot water hadn’t been turned on yet. I’d taken a shower three days previously and vowed I’d stay dirty if the hot water didn’t come on. That morning I begged Manny to turn it on, and he did so immediately. An hour later, I packed up my shower kit and strolled on over.

Turned on the hot water. Nothing. Waited. Nothing. Tried the other shower. Ditto. Tracked down Manny and he went in back to investigate. Suddenly, water! Just as suddenly, it stopped. No amount of fussing could get it to come on again.

So Manny the gallant opened up an unused guest room and offered me the shower there. I turned on the water and it came out at a steady one-gallon-a-minute stream and was warm. I could do it.

Stripped, jumped in the shower, wet my hair and shampooed it. Just as I began to rinse, and just as soapy water began to slide down my face, neck, and body, the water ceased. No cold, either.

So with suds in my eyes, I jumped out of the shower and turned on the hot water in the sink. Hooray! About one-and-a-half gallon flow!

In that shallow sink, it took awhile for me to thoroughly rinse my hair clean of suds, and just as I began to wonder how to rinse the rest of my body, the shower miraculously came back to life. I jumped back in and rinsed clean in a drizzle or warm. It felt like heaven.

Note to self: buy a water heater.

While I was in Kino the last time, I had the opportunity to learn how to make red chile sauce from a man who makes the best, hands down.

We made a double batch, first breaking the dried chile from its stem, running a finger around inside it to get rid of most of the seeds, and tossing the chile into a big pot. We must have prepped maybe thirty chiles.

Then, my friend filled the pot with water to rinse dust and such off the chiles, and this helped loosen more seeds. He dumped the water and then refilled the pot and put it on the stove.

While waiting for the chiles to come to a boil, he chopped some pork – any cut, he says – into small cubes and sautéed the cubes in a healthy dose of olive oil.

He then pushed the cubes aside, tossed some flour into the oil, and made a gravy base. He cooked it a few minutes and turned off the burner.

When the chiles came to a boil, I pushed them down several times to make sure each one got well cooked. They cooked for maybe twenty minutes and plumped up just like a ripe chile, and they were soft.

Half the chiles and about half the liquid went into the blender along with a healthy portion of salt, dried cilantro and garlic powder.

He blended it up. Then he kept on blending. It turned from a sort of orange color to an incredibly beautiful shade of red.

He blended the batch for about five minutes, poured it over the pork cubes, and blended up the second batch.

While the second batch blended, he turned the heat back on under the pork and chile and brought it to a simmer. Five minutes later he added the second batch of blended chile and simmered the whole thing for a few more minutes.

Absolute heaven.

And! The best part! I came home with nearly a quart of freshly made red chile sauce. And when it was gone, you can bet I made up another batch.

My batch, as photos show, was smaller. I made two, actually – one using beef instead of pork. I wanted to see if I could taste a big difference. The second batch I made was without meat. Instead of a meat gravy, I made a roux of flour and oil, cooked it, and then added the second batch of the cooked chiles.

And now? Posole!

With thanks to R.

Crystal Cove. The name alone evokes an image of tranquility and nourishment for the mind and soul.
I’d heard of this place for years from my friend Cinda. She used to live in Crystal Cove, a beach village where people owned the cottages, but a company owned the land.

As a child in the mid-1940s, Cinda and her family house-sat at one of the beach cottages. Within a few years, her grandmother had purchased one for the family to use. Cottage #6. From then on, Cinda spent all summer, every summer, at Crystal Cove.
After she married, she and her husband had the opportunity to live full time in the family cottage. His work took them away, but eventually it brought them back. And she lived there until 2001 when the state, which had purchased the land, evicted all residents. Not without a fight, but the end result was her home was gone.
The state created a new California State Park, called Crystal Cove, and rehabbed some of the cottages to use as rentals. Though Cinda had to leave her home, it is not – at least not yet – one of the cottages the state has chosen to rehab.

While in southern California, we had the opportunity to rent one of the beach cottages because a family had to cancel their reservation. And we were joined by two of her friends – one an old friend whose family beach cottage, Cottage #11, also sits empty and not rehabbed, and the other an old friend who was once Cinda’s roommate in Cottage #6.
The three women had been back to Crystal Cove, but none had found the opportunity to spend a night.

Years ago, when Cinda and her friends were there, the hill behind the cove was covered in grass and cattle rather than the McMansions of today. Then, the occasional deer could be seen on the beach. And once a bobcat was spotted.

We had one day and one night to be in Crystal Cove, the day and night just before the full moon. And although it had been somewhat cool, often overcast, and sometimes rainy for the eight days we’d spent in Mission Viejo, the morning of our visit to Crystal Cove dawned clear and bright.
And it only got better. Warm, breezy, sparkly clear. It could not have been more perfect.
We arrived early enough to have beach time and a great lunch in the beachside restaurant before we checked into our cottage. #18, up on the hill, overlooking the whole beach and cottages below. Including Cinda’s old cottage.
Crystal Cove. Wide open sea, and twenty-six miles straight out our door, Santa Catalina Island.

Crystal Cove. Tide pools with starfish clinging to the undersides of huge rocks.

Crystal Cove. Large rocks covered with mussels, and when the word is spoken aloud, gives a whole new meaning to the term “muscle beach.”

Crystal Cove. Dolphins gliding along the coastline.

We had an afternoon of sun and beach. Time for shorts and tank tops. Scouring the sea for evidence of whales. Searching the water for dolphins. Laughing and talking. Looking at old photos. Me, feeling a bit like the interloper, listening to stories of old times on the beach.
All this was followed by an evening of sunset and wine. And more stories.
Cinda and I were up before dawn, sitting on the porch wrapped in sleeping bags and blankets. The silvery moon was a few hours shy of full and slowly turned to gold as it eased into the Pacific.

Crystal Cove lived up to its name, and to my hopes for it.

Today we thought it was supposed to be cool and rainy, so we’d sort of planned to stay in awhile and do a few things close to the house. Then, dawn. The sky was not overcast, so we went into overdrive. Ventura, home of Camino Real Park, is home to thousands of wintering monarchs.

Cinda bravely battled freeway traffic on The 5. Anyone who knows southern California knows this is one busy freeway, especially at rush hour. And we hit it at 6:45.

The 5 to the 405. Zip along. Come to a halt. Repeat. Finally beyond LA the traffic thinned a bit, then onto the 101 to Ventura.

We carefully followed the instructions to Camino Real Park and were surprised that it was located inside an old subdivision. A real neighborhood park, with trails, tennis courts, a snack shack.

What we didn’t see was a cloud of monarchs, even though the information we had said there could be around 20,000 of them.

We stopped a man out walking his dog and asked about the butterflies. He pointed to a small cluster of trees and assured us they were over there, but, he cautioned, the weather was so cool they may not be out.

We headed over to the trees. Not a monarch in sight.

Then, one of the pine tree’s cones moved. A needle swayed. The needle opened to orange and black.

I had been looking but not seeing. Watching but overlooking. The old ponderosa was covered in monarchs!

As I stood there the sun moved the temperature up just one tiny notch, enough to warm the butterflies enough to begin to move.

One floated across the grass to another tree. Another flitted from branch to branch. The ponderosa came alive.

Some were so high I could barely see them. None came to lower branches.

Then, the miraculous. Two on the ground. Engaging in monarch sex.

Monarchs often mate for an hour or more. Apparently these two didn’t mind my voyeurism. The continued their butterfly exhibitionism for about ten minutes after I noticed them, and suddenly they parted, fluttering off different directions.

Afterwards we stopped in at a local Peet’s for coffee. Cinda remarked to the barista that the drive north had been a bit crazy, first speeding then stopping. “Yep,” she responded. “Out here on freeways it’s ninety or nothing.”

Ninety or nothing. We braved it all for monarchs.

I am up before dawn. Well, well before dawn. I step outside into morning chill to see the 7/8 moon nearly midway in her path across the sky.

I stay outside, arms tight across myself to ward off the cold. Does that really help? To hug oneself against cold? But it is how I stand as I look out to black sea and black sky, and listen to the gentle waves at low tide. Soon, however, I feel too cold to stand outside. I head back in where I can still hear the waves through windows that do not snug closed.

Yesterday morning was much warmer due to heavy cloud cover. Those clouds lasted most of the day, scattering in mid afternoon and stretching across western and southern skies at sunset, turning blue to streaks of mango and raspberry.

I did my regular morning walk with a friend, pausing as always for a cup of coffee or tea at the restaurant operated by my friend Roberto. It has become a morning ritual: walk, coffee, conversations with Roberto in my broken Spanish. And then the walk home for a bean burrito breakfast.

Occasionally I breakfast with Roberto. Huevos rancheros, always. But yesterday I came home, had my burrito, and headed out for another walk, a beach walk, with four friends.

Beach full of gulls and pelicans. Fishermen bringing in the day’s catch.

And beach strewn with bodies of pelicans and boobies. Fairly fresh bodies. Some not yet scavenged. The blue footed boobie lives on Alcatraz, the island just offshore. But on this day, their bodies were scattered across the beach. What had happened for so many birds to lose their lives in such a short period of time?

I don’t know how long I’d expected to walk. But we talked, laughed, and took photos long enough to find we’d walked all the way to the estuary where we dodged dogs irritated at having their morning snooze interrupted. Gave thanks to the Virgin for escaping the dogs’ ire.

We headed home down the estuary road. Osprey filled the air. It is the season of nest building. Osprey circling overhead. Osprey carrying brush to nest. Osprey fornicating in a tree. I used my friend’s shoulder to steady my camera when shooting zoom.

Down the road, past the fishermen’s shrine.

Back toward town past the barrio scheduled for late summer demolition. Past the stand with fresh clams and past the muelle, or pier. Past beach houses sprinkled with “for sale” signs. Back to Islanda.
Home.

I left just after dawn. Headed for Kino! But it took me almost all day to get there.
It was an easy crossing. The US customs agent asked where I was headed and when I told him he said to have a good time and be careful. I got a green light, a pase, at the Mexican aduana, or customs, so I sailed on into Naco.
Then, more good luck! The army checkpoint at the highway was gone. I’d expected to be held up there awhile, but no. I cut west toward Cananea.
My plan was to turn south just east of Cananea and drive the Rio Sonora route. The road over the mountains to Imuris is steep, twisty, and can be miserably slow if there is a line of trucks. On top of that, with the recent rains in the lowlands, I was pretty sure the passes would be covered in snow.
But as I got to the turnoff, I looked south to the Rio Sonora. Angry dark clouds hung over the entire valley. I recalled the four rivers I’d have to drive through, and I began to wonder if I’d make it. If it were raining in the valley and the mountains, surely the rivers would be swollen and uncrossable. I looked ahead and there were white clouds over the mountains, but I could see no snow.
I scrapped the valley and headed across the mountains.
Cars ahead of me zipped up the road as if the drivers knew the roads were clear. There were few trucks. As I left town, I noticed a beautiful new Oldsmobile, a pale blush color. I admired it as I passed by and a bit later noticed in my rear view mirror that it, too, had pulled onto the highway.
We all made good time. No trucks to pass, so I zipped over the first set of mountains and down into the valley. When I saw the “hassle free zone” sign followed by the “aduana” sign, I knew I’d made it halfway. Up ahead, trucks were stopped in the road, awaiting inspection. I pulled off the highway onto a dirt side road, just as I always do, and followed the car ahead of me. I expected to move quickly to the lane for automobiles.
Crap. As soon as I dropped off the highway, I saw the traffic nightmare. At least thirty cars were in the dirt road, except with all the rain, it was a mud road. There were also two busses. I glanced in the rear view mirror, thinking about turning around and getting back on the highway, but saw another thirty to forty vehicles had already clambered into the line. And many were trucks, and trucks took forever to get through the inspection. So I plodded on.
As I moved closer, I noticed that the busses were at the front of the mess of a line, both awaiting a space to get back onto the highway. Some cars were in line behind them, but most drivers were attempting to cut up the slope and get back onto the highway. Conditions didn’t permit an easy return.
Folks stuck on the highway were understandably unwilling to let vehicles cut back in front of them. After all, who knows how long they’d already been in that line?
Some who tried to reenter the highway drove up the slope and slowly slide back down through the mud. At least one vehicle was stuck. It was an almighty mess.
I sat in a line to climb the slope to the highway and this big car cut in front of me. I was furious! It was the Olds.
I realized I could be stuck there for an hour or more. And I wasn’t happy. And I had to pee.
Why this huge number of people early on a Sunday morning? It’s never like this. And then I remembered the storm in the Rio Sonora valley. Of course! Surely the rivers were full, so everyone north of Arizpe had to drive way north and across the mountain to get to Hermosillo rather than take the beautiful Rio drive.
I texted my friend Tere in Hermosillo to let her know of the mess. I was beginning to doubt I’d make it there in time to have lunch with her. She’d promised fish tacos, and as I told her, I’d kill for a fish taco. Not really, but if you’ve ever had a good fish taco, you understand what I mean.
Suddenly – suddenly about half an hour later – the first bus moved out of the mud and onto the pavement. I shot out of my place in line to climb the muddy slope and zipped into the line behind the second bus.
I moved so fast that I got a good position, and I was actually moving forward. It was a gentle slope, not like the one I’d have had to deal with if I’d stayed in my previous line. I was instantly grateful to the Olds for cutting me off. He was stuck on the slope and I wasn’t.
Finally I was up to the pavement. No one would let me in. I am not an aggressive driver, but I kept trying to edge my way into the line with no success. And then, there he was. The guy driving the Olds. I lowered my window, hung out, and gestured a request to get in front of him. And he nodded and waved me in.
I made it through the aduana in record time. And then I even got a green light, a pase and didn’t have to have an inspection.
The anti-aduana gods were clearly with me. If I’d faced a thorough inspection, they would certainly wonder why one person needed as much stuff as I had with me. And the baby clothes? Just how was I going to wear them?
You need to know that when I go to Kino, I often stop in Hermosillo and drop off things for Tere. I pick up her mail and her packages in the US and deliver things when I head south. I also take baby gifts and all kinds of requests from full-time Kino residents, US and Mexicans citizens alike.
So my car was full, and avoiding the aduana was a major plus.
Across the valley and into the second mountain range. In my mirror, a car was rapidly approaching. It shot into the other lane and passed a whole line of cars. It was the Olds. The guy waved as he soared on past.
Off on a big pullout to deal with my bladder. Past the Virgin of Guadalupe painted on the mountainside. That’s when I knew I was under twenty minutes from Imuris!
Ah-h-h. Imuris. Four lane highway. Seventy miles per hour. Beautiful. But no. There was roadwork, and the twenty or so miles to Magdalena went slower than usual.
I paid the first cuota, or toll, and pulled over to buy some burritos. Four small burritos for only twenty pesos, or about $1.60. Tossed them into my cooler for tomorrow’s breakfast. And by the way, travelers, this rest stop just south of the Magdalena cuota has some of the best roadside bathrooms in all of Mexico.
On down the highway. Past Rancho del Peňasco. Past Santa Ana. Zipping along until I hit a federal checkpoint. These guys don’t mess around. Lot of men carrying big rifles and wearing bullet-proof vests. But they weren’t looking for a 60+ year-old gringa and waved me right through.
Soon I was in Hermosillo, glad to see Tere, her husband, and her kids. We all went out for fish tacos and another friend and her son joined us. Tere explained that I’d said I’d kill for a fish taco, so she wanted to hurry me to the restaurant to avoid being an accessory to a violent crime.
And by evening, I’d made it to Kino. Ah-h-h.