Dear Daughter,

The shuttle driver, conveying a van-full of us to San Miguel from the Queretaro airport, agreed with me, "La regresa parece más corta," the return trip always seems shorter. The return layover was objectively shorter, but the time in the air also seemed to just fly by.

I didn't speak with every passenger in the van, but they all seemed to be snow-birds coming down to winter in San Miguel, and good for them.

Earlier, when we were all getting into the shuttle, an eighty-year old and I had a brief discussion about which of us deserved the front passenger seat.

Comparing our relative disabilities, he mentioned that his eight-month-old knee replacement was still a little tender. I countered with just two words: "I puke."

With that he graciously yielded, taking only a little more care to climb into the seat next to his wife, while recommending ginger as a cure for my motion sickness.

I really do get nauseated in the back of those vans. On an earlier occasion, I had to ask the driver to stop and let me out to breath deeply or there would have been a mess.

The driver of this shuttle had a much better time with me having won the rights to the front seat as we carried on a very pleasant conversation completely in Spanish. That and the delicious Greek salad you packed made for an easy transition back to Mexico after my month with you in New Orleans.

Arriving at my apartment, on opening the door, I was shocked to see the mess inside. what first caught my eye was a small assortment of tablespoon-sized lumps of cat turd pressed and dried onto the blanket I keep on the sofa. Then, in the bedroom, on top of the sheet I spread out over the bed to keep the dust off in my absence, there was a mess of cat hair in a nest-like depression where the two pillows meet and the fabric was soiled.

To my credit, and his, I never suspected my own cat, Fellini, of perpetrating these offenses, but just set about unpacking and wiping down the kitchen.

A couple hours later, my downstairs neighbor, who had been feeding Fellini, solved the mystery, informing me that street cats were finding their way into the apartment by way of the bridge I made for Fellini to find his way out.

Below the soiled sheet, the bed was clean. And as to the shitty blanket, having done 36 weeks of human dissection, something that can be fixed with a pair of rubber gloves and a little pre-washing just doesn't faze me.

The plants, except for two in the patio set off from the others, were all watered. The car started. The rear wheel of the bicycle went flat, but is holding air well enough for me to take my daily 20-minute rides through the neighborhood each afternoon. The repair shop is on my way into town, but I haven't ridden that way yet.

I never would have imagined it, but, in what seems like a metaphor for the difference between the States and Mexico, after the beautiful, smooth bike paths up there, riding on these bumpy cobblestones still has its own strange attraction.

Knowing that Saturday's market would be a few days away, I left some food in the freezer. I did make a trip to the corner store here. (Some of the pesticide can be washed off of nonorganic vegetables with dilute Dr Bronner's soap.) But the almond butter and jelly sandwich you made still hit the spot the day after my arrival. There's nothing in town that compares to your challah.

Fellini must have been bullied and somewhat deprived of food by the cat invaders. And my neighbor, I don't know why, did not feed him his tuna. I found most (or maybe all) of the cans of tuna on the kitchen table right where I left them. Whatever the case, he wants to spend his every waking moment cat-napping on my lap.

One of those street cats, small and black, came twice to the little roof outside my livingroom window. But I'm not going to invite him in. There are plenty of mice and lizards in the neighborhood, it wouldn't be fair to Fellini, and we got off on the wrong foot.

I just cooked dinner with the little frying pan that you gave me. It's the perfect one portion pot. It even fits into my tiny sink. Thanks.

Thanks also for all the meals that you cooked for us. You took very good care of me. There's nothing new in that. But there is in my ability to receive your care.

It's always a pleasure to visit you. But this visit I was better able to drink in that delight. Like being in a lucid dream, I could better participate in the wonder of understanding and being understood, of loving and being loved. Thanks for your hugs: physical, emotional and intellectual.

I could go on, but it's 10:30 Saturday night and my assistant is waiting for this last article, to translate it, so I can publish this week's San Miguel Sunday Magazine. Maybe you'll read it when you wake up tomorrow morning.

Love,
Dad

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Dr. David Fialkoff presents Lokkal, our local social network, the community online and off, Atención robustly reborn for the digital age. If you can, please do contribute content, or your hard-earned cash, to support Lokkal, SMA's Voice. Use the orange, Paypal donate button below. Thank you.

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