This little gem was photographed surreptitiously with the crappy camera that comes with Apple’s iPhone at one of Cancun Airports Terminal 3 gift shops.

The employee was busily accommodating merchandise on the shelves so I was able to snap this wonderful sign that made my afternoon a little more pleasant.

My therapist thinks that my neurotic posts are working, but is suggesting that I also accentuate the positive, as I see it.

There’s nothing better than coming home from work on a scorching 40 degree day, with a throat parched from the 40 plus degree Yucatan heat and finding a stash of cold, ripe bright orange with a hint of green mangos in the fridge! I like to eat 5 or 6 at a time, leaning over the kitchen sink with sticky mango juice running down my chin and forearms, taking in that sweet pungent nectar and savouring rapturously their soft exotic flesh…

And no amount of flossing seems to want to remove those tiny little fibers from between my front teeth!

I had the opportunity to meet some fine folks who write blogs about their lives in Mexico at a recent get-together that saw bloggers attend from here in Merida and also Cancun, Playa and Isla Mujeres. It’s actually still going on as I type this. The common thread is that we were all foreigners writing, in one form or another, about life here in Mexico!

There was a half-day of presentations which I found interesting, especially the parts about making money with your blog (forget about it) and finding inspiration. My inspiration has always been kick started by something that really gets under my skin ie pisses me off, but this made me think about other, less energetically angry motivations to write.

After the presentations there was a cantina lunch at La Ruina, which the Casual Restaurant Critic comments on himself so there’s not much point in going on about it here. If you’ve ever been to a cantina, you know that you can do much of your entertainment shopping (CDs, DVDs) there as well as having your shoes polished or perhaps buy smokes or candy from outside salespeople off the street. What really stuck out was the enthusiasm shown by many at the table for the pirate DVDs offered at the cantina. I’m not saying it’s only Mexicans that buy pirata, just that it came as a surprise to see that level of interest.

Thanks to Theresa for setting all this up – I think I am going to invite Jorgito next time there is one of these blogger meet-ups!! I’m sure he would have a blast.

The automobile financing through HSBC was a bust.

After several more phone calls back and forth with my crest-fallen ejecutivo, who would have loved to have made his December quota of loans, and was prepared to go as far as to remove my mothers maiden name from the six-year-old bank records in order to have the loan application be approved, it became apparent that the loan was not to be.

At one point he even admitted to me that upon filing the paperwork, he ‘discovered’ that I had been registered as a ‘Mexican’ and that is why I had been assigned the second last name, just like any normal Mexican national would have. I found this just a little hard to believe and asked him why then did they have a Canadian passport on file as the principal form of identification for this Mexican and was this common, for Mexicans to use foreign passports to identify themselves. He insisted that I was indeed a Mexican in their ‘sistema‘ at which point I mentally closed the HSBC credit application door and decided that either they were completely incompetent or mildly retarded (no offense to anyone suffering from mild retardation).

At the same time, when I sensed that the credit application at HSBC was not going anywhere, I had gone ahead and processed the same information through Scotiabank. (In the interest of fairness, I did inform the HSBC executive of this move) Interestingly, although I was a complete stranger to them, they did NOT require a co-signer for the loan application. Apparently, they did approve the loan, but again, the stumbling block was my mothers’ maiden name; and some sort of ID was needed that had that name on it. The salesman at the car lot insisted that it could be anything, even the most absurd little piece of identification since he ‘knew’ the manager of the bank branch in question and that she knew me and that it would be enough to see the maiden name on something.

Nothing came of this loan application either, but it is notable to compare the attitude and flexibility of Scotiabank, where I have never had an account, to that shown by the trogloditos at the ‘world’s local bank’ where I have banked for six years.

And what about the car, you ask?

Well it turns out that a neighbor was selling one of his cars and lo and behold, the price was right and the amount he was asking fit right into the amount left in my pocket after paying off some debts after the sale of the yellow car!

End of story.

HSBC – the worlds’ worst bank? Maybe not. But they are definitely in the running.

Besides implementing such shoddy hiring practices that have resulted in the lower primates appearing at the front lines of the banking industry in Merida, they have provided me with this latest gem in banking logic that defines Mexico for me (the admittedly neurotic foreigner) in all its Kafka-esque wonder.

Having sold the Yellow Car, the neurotic foreigner aka William Lawson, aka me, finds himself with enough cash for a down payment but not enough for a complete whole car; neither a decent enough used one nor a completely new one. So I figure, what the hell, I have had an account with HSBC for the last six years, with HSBC, faithfully – and supposedly – building up a relationship on both a business and personal level with this ‘world’s local bank’ (their slogan, I didn’t make this up)

So I visited a reputable used car lot (I found one), found a reasonably decent used vehicle that I liked and was told that I could apply for credit for the balance through one of two banks:

• Scotiabank: the only Canadian bank with the balls and the vision to invest and remain in the country after Salinas re-privatized the Mexican banks some years ago (it’s a long story; Canadian banks were very strong, the Mexican government was giving banks away at a way-below market prices, the markets were already established and potential for growth huge), this Canadian Mexican hybrid bank – Scotiabank bought Inverlat – is very aggressive in the car loan market, and offers very competitive (the best actually) interest and insurance rates, or;
• HSBC: the world’s local bank. Indeed. Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation has taken the term ‘local’ to a level perhaps previously unheard of in the banking industry. They are also aggressive in the car financing area, actually offering a lower rate of interest than their main competitor, Scotiabank. Where they get you though, is in the insurance. They insure through ING and over the period of a longer term, the difference in the insurance will make a big difference in the amount of money paid on the loan.

I decided on HSBC, figuring it would be quicker, since they already had all my info on file, such as income and ID information which would make the application a breeze, while at Scotiabank I was a complete stranger.

It did however strike me as strange and rather onerous that they would ask me for photocopies of my passport, FM3, proof of domicilio (photocopy of my telephone bill). Didn’t they already have all this on file? Well, perhaps they need this because I am a foreigner and something might have changed, although a quick glance at the activity in my bank account would ascertain, that no, there was plenty of movimiento, money coming and and going out daily, as in any business.

In addition to the above, it turned out that my bank needed a co-signer/guarantor, because I was, after all a foreigner. Make a note of that. At this point of the application, I AM A FOREIGNER. So, along with everything else, a photocopy of my wife’s ID and a completed application signed by her as co-signer of the loan. I have the bank account, the debit card and a credit card issued by this very same bank, that I have had the misfortune to max out this past September October November thank you very much and only pay the interest on.

But, I need a car and don’t have that last chunk of cash. So I am thinking: whatever.

My income information, I was assured, would be pulled from ‘el sistema‘ so it wasn’t necessary to provide photocopies of three months of banks statements. Well thank goodness for that. As my new friend Lynne would say, with just a touch of sarcasm ‘happy dance’. Not.

Later on in the day, after not receiving the promised phone call, I managed to contact the ‘ejecutivo‘ who informed me that ‘chispas‘ (literal translation: sparks, but actually a euphemism for ‘chinga‘ which is much worse and considered a ‘bad’ word) there is a problem.

The problem is that the ejecutivo needs an ID with my second last name on it.

This is where the fun begins. As you may or may not know, in Mexico, people use their second last names ie mothers’ maiden names. Thus, William Lawson becomes William Lawson Walker, for example, Walker being my mothers’ clan, who also became famous in their own right in the world of scotch – you may have heard of them. Whether or not this is a good thing or a bad thing, I will leave for another day, but that’s the way it is here. Unfortunately, it’s not the way it is in Canada, the USA, Germany or most anywhere else…

So my bank, the bank I have been dealing with for the last SIX years, has me on file with both my last names. At some point, upon opening the account, they asked me what was my mothers maiden name and I told them. At no point did I show them an ID with my mothers maiden name on it because such an ID DOESN’T EXIST.

When I applied for a credit card, they issued me one, with the offending second last name ON THE CARD. When I applied for an increase in the limit on said credit card, it was approved, OFFENDING SECOND LAST NAME AND ALL.

Now, it appears that they need some sort of ID to validate this strange last name that has somehow come to their attention. After SIX years. This is the bank I have been dealing with for the last six years. They have my personal and business accounts.

My business is registered with the Mexican version of the IRS, called the SHCP, under my name which is my FULL name and that includes my mothers maiden name. So when the fine HSBC ejecutivo offered to ‘remove’ the offending last name I kindly reminded him that such an action would cause some serious problems with the federal tax authorities, he had to concede that yes, that would be a problem and repeated, in a hopeful but sad little voice ‘chispas‘ couldn’t I find an ID that had my mothers’ maiden name on it?

……………………… to be continued ……………………..

Most of you already know that Merida, the formerly white city, now boasts among its many attractions, an ice rink where public skating is offered to those Yucatecans (and people who have that aspecto fuereño thing going on) brave enough to overcome their reluctance to rent skates that were worn by who knows who and take to the ice.

Located in the Galerias Liverpool mall, the ice rink is also used for – get this – hockey practice! Being a Canadian, it was certainly strange to observe a group of kids ranging from 6 to about 14 years old decked out in full hockey regalia, shooting frozen pucks around the rink while shoppers and passersby watched with interest and amusement.

What I thought was interesting was that when the practices were over and a little scrimmage or mini game was played, it became evident that the referees (teenage kids) did not have a whistle! I can’t envision any kind of hockey practice without the shrill sound of a referees whistle, and it did seem to make it harder for the referees to get their point across during the practice.

But the overall impression was of how small the world has become, when you can buy salsas El Yucateco in any grocery store in Canada and play (or watch) ice hockey in Merida.

Finally all that boring stuff at the church is thankfully done with and everyone is in agreement that it was really a beautiful ceremony. It matters little how dull and uninspired it might have been, or how the priest doing the honors was really talking down to his congregation as if they were a bunch of Matamoros chicken farmers, his self-important speech, political references and grandiose hand movements that inspired me to think that his real arms were under his robes and that there was another priest behind him, out of sight, moving his arms along with priest 1’s words. His robes moved back and forth under his sweeping arm movements, like a fat lady’s arm flaps applauding at a football game, only in slow motion.

Yes, no matter what it really was like, it’s always a beautiful ceremony, mostly thanks to the radiant bride, with whom all the ladies present feel some affinity and/or pity, depending on how their marriage(s) have worked out.

Enough of the mass already! On to the party!

Once you arrive, you make your way to a table. This is done as quickly as possible since you don’t want to arrive late and have to sit with some people you don’t like and make small talk as if you enjoyed their company. I mean, all that ‘talk to strangers’ stuff has already been taken care of in the church, when the lady next to you in the poofed hair and heavily freckled exposed shoulders turns to you and says something about ‘paz’.

On your way to a table, you try to not to look desperately around for familiar faces of people you would like to spend the next few hours yelling across a table with while scooping mystery dip off a plate with your supply of Ritz crackers. Thankfully not all weddings serve Ritz n Dip, but it IS a popular menu item with many caterers.

Once you are seated, and if it is a good party, you can count on a waiter asking you what you would like to drink. If it is a really good party, the hosts will have printed for you a menu of the evenings dining opportunities as well as a list of the wine selection, cocktails and hard liquor available so you can avoid having said waiter tell you that most famous of local phrases: ‘no hay‘ (that isn’t available) Along with your drink, you can begin the scooping of the afore-mentioned dip with your Ritz crackers or, in the case of a classy wedding, help yourself to some fine cheeses and crackers that are not of the Ritz variety. There will be background music which will be of a volume conducive to conversation as people arrive and are seated.

Once the tables have filled, the music will start, a live band of some sort, doing cover versions of popular songs in different genres. The volume will be cranked up to the point where you are yelling at the person next to you and causing what I term ‘auditory fatigue’, where you become glassy-eyed and sit, looking at the people around you but unable to carry on any sort of conversation with anyone at your table, with whom your interaction is limited to occasional smiles, hand signals and shoulder shrugging whenever your eyes should cross paths.

At some point the bride and groom make their triumphant entrance, at which point everyone applauds. Sometimes there’s a toast, sometimes there is only the applause and then the hopefully happy couple, stressed and probably relieved that the hard part is over with, officially commence the dance portion of the evening. There is much animated yelling on the part of someone in the band designated with the challenging task of firing up the crowd. To this end, he or she will continue with frequent, repeated full-volume exhortations to get everyone ‘excited’. If you are not on the dance floor, nor have any plans to do so, your evening will be quite grim as you stare, numbed by the noise, noise, noise, noise (quote from my good friend the Grinch) at people around you in similar funk or at the fun people are having on the dance floor.

Speaking of music, the typical scenario is a live group, with what seems like an excess of vocalists. There will be some sort of percussionist, perhaps a bass and electric guitar, and the omnipresent keyboard/laptop filled with enough sonic effects to provide a soundtrack to a mission to Mars.

As far as the actual music goes, they will play cover versions of hits. The genres inevitably covered, in no particular order and played at every single party in Merida that I have ever been to are:

• tropical salsa and merengue, featuring predominantly Celia Cruz’s Carnaval;
• cumbia and reggaeton (the latter a new addition to the musical lineup);
• swing and 40’s tunes for the old folks, often in the form of a neverending medley;
• 70’s music, where YMCA will ALWAYS be included, along with Gaynor’s I Will Survive;
• the Timbiriche set (All Mexicans love the old pop group Timbiriche it seems – they go wild when this pap starts

If you have been to parties in Merida, from 15 años or weddings to birthdays, you will recognize each of these genres. Again, the quality of the interpretation of each of these yawn-inducing musical moments varies greatly according to the budget provided for it.

The music take a break, announced by a little theme song and choreographed stage movements aka vamps. It is before / during this break that the Ritz n Dip plates are removed and dinner is served. Again, depending on the budget, this can be a one plate affair or consist of first course like a salad or soup (or both) followed by the actual dinner itself. It is mealtime when the quality of Rigels’ catering really becomes apparent, because his food is cold when it should be and hot when it needs to be hot. It is also tasty and well presented. There are one or two other good caterers in town, but there are also a lot of improvising cheap ones as well.

As you are eating, if the event is planned well, there will be soft background music that will help in your actually enjoying your meal; poorly planned events overlook this small detail and will move into the next round of an eardrum-crushing onslaught guaranteed to make that limp, lightly salted, boiled cauliflower floret want to jump right out of your esophagus.

Once dinner is over, there will be desserts which range from the cloying, tasteless yet sweet corn-starch variety to some really delectable items. On a memorable occasion (last night for example), fine Belgian chocolates from L’Amandine along with home-made Arab pastries.

After that, the evening consists of two options:
a)either drinking in excess and joining the crowd on the dance floor, where all manner of fun is being had with the help of ‘props’, ranging from styrofoam headwear to maracas to slippers to balloons to you-name-it; all matched to the particular set of music being played at the moment. During Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, for example, it is not unusual for the singer to put on a black afro wig and pretend to be black. Celia Cruz, well you get the picture and
b) drinkling in excess and staying at your table amidst an ever-dwindling crowd as people go home, having been fed and entertained. Bleary eyed, you patiently and determinedly attempt to finish all the whisky available and perhaps, if you wait long enough, will get to enjoy the late feeding at 5AM involving tacos and tortas de cochinita, another wedding and party tradition for those who party all night.

…. more later….