It's come to this: Kathleen has had recurrent bouts of depression over her hearing-ear dog being locked away less than half a block from where we're staying.
Last week while I was sleeping she underestimated her rum intake, went outside, roused Derek from our van where he sleeps, and together they tried to break in to the place-- only to have the evil son of our former maid slam the door on Derek's now blue fingernails.
Ouch!
Afterwards the police picked them up and impounded the van.
I woke with my wife, car, stepson and some money missing.
As this was not the first time Kathleen had... err... indulged in an adventure, I didn't panic, I just stayed home and waited. The police called near 2PM; I had them bailed out by 4.
They were more afraid of seeing my face than being in jail. ;-) I was briefly angry but could not stay angry long. I saw that the health of my family was more important than our dog, my manuscripts, or my folder of two hundred or so original songs. So we hope to transfer power of attorney to our friend Carlos and bail, and if I have to come back, I will, by plane or train or automobile-- some day.
Yet, as luck wouldn't have it, our attorney informed us that we cannot transfer power of attorney without obtaining a new FM 3, or resident visa, for which they charged us 4000 pesos to
cancel (we were a month late) when we crossed the border. This will take more time, more fees, photos, paperwork-- the usual bureaucracy from Kafka Hell experience. But we shall endure.
Our case, by the way, after two months, is right back where it started, with the investigators. The prosecutors sent it back twice because some detail was missing or some form out of order. Mexicans love to have their paperwork right, then never look at it again, in my experience.
I'm up to 30,000 words in my essay on Eliot's
Four Quartets, just two movements from the finish, and I'm becoming a bit peevish with him. Must be overexposure. When he tells us in "Little Gidding" that the self and its attachments both vanish and are forgotten, I ask: "Then why should I read the forgotten attachments of your vanished self, Mr. Eliot?" Grrr....
Anyway, though embarrassed, Kathleen and Derek are fine.
"Pray for us sinners at the hour of our death" (by the hands of Mexican lawyers).
Gotta sign off now and consult another lawyer.
--CE
Last week while I was sleeping she underestimated her rum intake, went outside, roused Derek from our van where he sleeps, and together they tried to break in to the place-- only to have the evil son of our former maid slam the door on Derek's now blue fingernails.
Ouch!
Afterwards the police picked them up and impounded the van.
I woke with my wife, car, stepson and some money missing.
As this was not the first time Kathleen had... err... indulged in an adventure, I didn't panic, I just stayed home and waited. The police called near 2PM; I had them bailed out by 4.
They were more afraid of seeing my face than being in jail. ;-) I was briefly angry but could not stay angry long. I saw that the health of my family was more important than our dog, my manuscripts, or my folder of two hundred or so original songs. So we hope to transfer power of attorney to our friend Carlos and bail, and if I have to come back, I will, by plane or train or automobile-- some day.
Yet, as luck wouldn't have it, our attorney informed us that we cannot transfer power of attorney without obtaining a new FM 3, or resident visa, for which they charged us 4000 pesos to cancel (we were a month late) when we crossed the border. This will take more time, more fees, photos, paperwork-- the usual bureaucracy from Kafka Hell experience. But we shall endure.
Our case, by the way, after two months, is right back where it started, with the investigators. The prosecutors sent it back twice because some detail was missing or some form out of order. Mexicans love to have their paperwork right, then never look at it again, in my experience.
I'm up to 30,000 words in my essay on Eliot's Four Quartets, just two movements from the finish, and I'm becoming a bit peevish with him. Must be overexposure. When he tells us in "Little Gidding" that the self and its attachments both vanish and are forgotten, I ask: "Then why should I read the forgotten attachments of your vanished self, Mr. Eliot?" Grrr....
Anyway, though embarrassed, Kathleen and Derek are fine.
"Pray for us sinners at the hour of our death" (by the hands of Mexican lawyers).
Gotta sign off now and consult another lawyer.
--CE