Sic Transit Gloria's
You’ve heard of the elephants graveyard - the mythical place where elephants are thought to head to when there time on earth is over. Well it’s a myth. One thing that isn’t a myth is that Yelapa is the Hippie Graveyard - the place where old hippies go to fade away. When your in Yelapa there is a sizable population in their sixties who still wear headbands and “some flowers in their hair.” Except in the case of the guys there isn’t much hair, and the women's’ hair are steel gray and bound in a long single braid. A bra-less woman is her sixties is nothing to stare lustily at any more. More like looking directly into the sun then screaming “I”m blind!”I met one of these at dinner the other night at Ray’s. She noticed that I “was of an age” and wanted to know if she had slept with me at Woodstock. I cagily answered I didn’t remember.
“Whether you slept with me or were at Woodstock?” she asked.
“Both,” I replied.
There is a pecking order for these aging hippies: those who first visited Yelapa B.E. or after B.E. (Before Electricity). You don’t even rate if you first visited after electricity came to Yelapa about ten years ago. The lady beside us bragged that she had first visited Yelapa 35 years ago.
“I came down from the states in an old school bus,” she reminisced. “Had to leave it at Chacala then take a burro into Yelapa.”
“What did you do with Owsley and the rest of the Merry Pranksters? Leave them on the bus?” I asked.
“Who?” she asked.
Their discussions of the “Grateful Dead,” are no longer about Jerry Garcia (no relation to the Garcia’s in Yelapa) and the Grateful Dead, but more about their departed friends. With their disintegrating hips and knees a major trek is now the few hundred yards to Gloria’s or Mimi’s to listen to bad Mexican bands attempting to belt out CCR and other sixties hits they think the gringo’s want to listen to.

Several of the old hippy types had left their walkers and walking sticks at the table and were up singing - I swear one of them was Janis Joplin. The music was bad, but seemed to get better with the more beer you drank. By the end of the evening I was playing along on my beer bottle xylophone.
The funny thing is that in the nine years I’ve been coming here (I just missed the B.E. badge)I never saw a live band playing local music. Maybe the guys who run the bars think that all the gringos want to hear is old sixties songs - and judging by the crowd last night at Glorias they might be right. Sic Transit Gloria’s Monday (and Tuesday and Wednesday…..)
In case you've been following I've been including some "Flash back" entries from a time before my blog. This week's continues my "learning" expedition to Costa Rica.....
Costa Rica May 23, 2009
Three weeks
have gone by quickly. School at times was difficult. I had two teachers: Daisy was quite easy to
get along with. Her teaching style was more laid back and often non structured
- like attending a college tutorial. My
other teacher, Ilse (who I dubbed
the she wolf of the SS [Spanish Senioritas])was the complete opposite: she treated our sessions more like a trip to
the dentist. It was drill, drill, and
more drill.
During my first week of lessons with Ilse,
I attempted to maintain a positive mature attitude – after all I was actually
paying for this. But as the weeks
progressed my “inner child” finally won out and I entered into a guerilla war
with her.
“Buenos Dias, Jeffrey.” She’d proclaim as
she marched into the room.
“No entiendo (I don’t understand)” was my standard
reply.
¿Qué no entiendes? “(what don’t you
understand?) She’d demand.
“Nada!”
(Nothing) was my response.
I’d see her eyes dart around the room as
she hopefully looked for a pointer or meter stick to whack me with. Luckily for me all weapons had been removed
from the room.
My denial of understanding anything Spanish
didn’t deter Ilse as she launch into the days lesson of reflexive verbs,
pronouns and vocabulary.
The problem for me when it came to learning
Spanish, my brain is divided into two completely separate rooms:
The first room consisted of “Orderly
Jeffrey” who neatly processes all Spanish vocabulary and stores it in clearly
labelled easily accessible drawers. If I
need to say anything in Spanish, the Orderly Jeffrey quickly opens the drawers
and strings the words together for me to say.
Talking, and reading aren’t
really a problem. [As I read this years later and countless hours of Spanish
lessons I realize NOTHING has changed!!]
The problem was in the other part of my
brain – the other room- the listening, understanding and translating room. The Other Jeffrey is not so organized. Words and bits of phrases are strewn all over
the place in no particular order. When
someone speaks to me, it is this “Jeffrey’s” job to try and make sense of it
and the only two words this Jeffrey knows for sure is : “No entiendo”
When someone speaks to me in Spanish the
spray of words pour into this room and the Other Jeffrey looks on in hopeless
confusion. He might understand the
first few words, but then he falls behind.
Much like the famous I love Lucy scene where Lucy tries to keep up with
the chocolates on the conveyor belt.
At times, Isle would get desperate and haul out books of Children’s
Nursery Rhymes and hand them to me to read and translate. One of these was the “Three Little Pigs.” in
Spanish. To avoid translating I would
fire back deep philosophical questions to Ilse:
“Why did the Pigs mothers throw them
out? Was she arrested for child abandonment?”
“Why didn’t the pigs just go down the
street to the lady who lived in a shoe?
There were only three of them. Surely
she would take them in.”
“Were there no building codes where the
pigs lived?”
“The pigs are forever getting building materials
from a guy on the road? Is there no
Home Depot? How did they pay for it?”
When all else failed, I pulled out the
religion card: “As a Jew I find this story of eating pigs deeply offensive. If
I were a Muslim would you try and make me read this? I bet not!”
This would be met with a lot of eye rolling
and huffing, and stony silence as we entered a waiting contest. I wouldn’t proceed until my questions were
answered, and she waited for me to give up and keep reading in Spanish. Luckily it was just about recess and I could
take the Jeffreys out for donuts.
The following day the nursery rhymes disappeared
and a series of children’s games arrives: a version of battleship. There are two identical units of people’s faces. Each person picks a card from a deck and asks
questions to see who can be the first discover who the character on the
opponents card is. It only took me a
few moments to figure out how to cheat and win in only a few questions. I
quickly win three games in rapid succession which doesn’t improve Isle’s mood..
(Roughly Translated). “One day I went to visit my friend Willy, but
he wasn’t home.The door was open so I went inside. I couldn’t find her in the living room. He wasn’t in the bedroom, or the
bathroom. Finally I looked in the
kitchen. He wasn’t there, I decided to wait for him and have a beer and
chilli con carne. When I opened the
fridge I found a body cut in four pieces……”
(Who would have thought that the vocabulary from the “Three
Little Pigs” would come in handy so quickly…
Isle stopped me there.
Meanwhile in my class with Daisy, she moved
our conversations into controversial areas.
What did I think of abortion?
What about gay rights?
I had to stop her and tell her I didn’t
think these were subjects I’d be discussing
very often in Spanish. I was
more interested in useful topics like
“Can I get fries with that Hamburger?
and “Excuse me, there is a rat in my room.”
On
Thursday they took me and one other student into San Jose to visit the
National Museum, which on the surface, seemed like a good idea. After all, they wouldn’t have to teach me that day.
After being dragged around the museum we finally
arrive at “the ritual area” which has a
large display of penises of all shapes, sizes.
Both women seemed a bit uncomfortable around this display and want to move on to the pottery
display. Sensing their discomfort I decide to show some interest.
“¿Qué son estos? “ (What are these?) I ask
in a loud voice.
In hushed terms they try to explain (The “other
Jeffrey “ missed the bus to the museum, so I don’t have a clue what they’re
saying.)
“No entiendo” I reply loudly.
They try again.
“Hablar más alto. No puedo escuchar.” (
speak louder I can’t hear you.) I
respond.
“¿Qué más se les llama?” (what else are they called?)
and finally, the piece d’resistance (not
spanish)
“"¿Dónde van las pilas?" (Where
do the batteries go?)
I am quickly ushered from the museum by the
two beet red faced teachers and put on a bus home. Luckily for me there is only one more day of
school left.
So did I learn anything useful? Well when my wife Michele now asks me to do
something I smile and reply:
“No entiendo.”
I just better make sure there are no
pointers or rulers nearby