¡Arigato, José!

My father was the funniest mathematician I’ve ever known. In his younger days Dad’s humor was often at the expense of others and frequently tended toward the acerbic. Since I didn’t grow up in the same household, I was mostly spared the barb of what could be a quite sharp wit. But I did develop early an appreciation for the occasional concise and cutting insight.

As he grew older, he seemed to develop a capacity to appreciate the more generally absurd aspects of living and so the point of his humor then frequently found expression in the more mundane and less personal aspects of the human condition and its subsets.

I’m happy to report that near to the end of his life I even noticed a capacity to find amusement in his own decisions, circumstances and self. Even at his most acerbic, Dad always appreciated a good job, well done.

He was an aficionado of Japanese food–perhaps in part because there is so much that is necessary to do well in preparing a decent Japanese meal. Wherever he lived for any length of time he managed to locate at least one more or less acceptable Japanese restaurant. Good job, dad!

I first appreciated the maturation of his humor when we were leaving a restaurant outside of Chapel Hill, NC after a particularly nice meal of tempura and sushi accompanied by a chillilin of warm sake. Dad detoured from the door and approached the sushi chefs, Mexican all, and warmly thanked them: “Arigato, chico!”

In linking those words plucked from two distinct cultures Dad implied a wealth of appreciation for much more than the chef’s artistry. His “arigato” acknowledged the guy’s culinary accomplishment, sure, but by this particular tip of his linguistic hat he managed to convey a genuine respect for a good job, performed well in an unusual profession and meeting the expectations of two cultures foreign to the chef’s own. Way to go, Chico!

Really, Dad’s verbal feat seemed to me at least as elegant as the Mexican’s sushi. And so, like any number of his better phrases, I appropriated this one and began the long wait for the appropriate occasion to properly employ it.

In the little Dominican village where I am living there is a restaurant, “La Adventura de Jean.” The locals all know it as “Francis’s place.” The food is consistent and fresh and good, the menu is varied and the prices fair; the ambiance is pleasant and the pizza is arguably the best in town. And now, on Friday evenings, the regular kitchen staff at Francis’s place is joined by a Dominican named José.

José is known for his barbecue and for a number of other things. ¿But sushi? Who knew? Hell, who could have guessed?

And so on Friday I had a very nice miso soup, an excellent tempura and some totally acceptable California rolls all fresh and reasonably priced right here in Las Galeras!

Arigato, José.

And thanks to you, too, Francis.

There aren’t a lot of Americans here in Las Galeras. The few who live here as “residents” are more occasional visitors rather than full-time occupants in the village. Katie and Paul are the exception, and Katie is simply exceptional.

Paul is retired, I think from the constabulary in Boston. Except for three or four weeks each year, he and his wife live here year-round and have done so for more than a decade. Paul’s special time is the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas. He’s a real traditionalist and for those few weeks beginning with Black Friday he is a very credible Santa Claus. I think there’s a photo of him in his “casual Santa” outfit somewhere back in the archives of this blog.

I’ve given up trying to anticipate Katalina. It’s much easier–and more rewarding–to simply marvel in her presence and enjoy the way the world swirls around her and she through life. This is not to imply that she’s in any way a superficial person; there are seemingly depths to her beyond what we mere mortals can apprehend. And she, modestly and charmingly, blithely continues along as though we ALL have a share in these wonderful qualities, a characteristic that to a large extent appears to govern her life. She is perfect for this place as it in turn is perfect for her.

Paul and Katie have animals, apart from a normal complement of wildlife. They have cats and chickens. They have two dogs. Somewhere on YouTube, there is a clip of Katie feeding her donkey a passionfruit by mouth. (This was shortly before the animal went completely and demandingly out of control resulting in several days where Paul and Katie were barricaded in their house. Eventually, cooler thinking prevailed and the donkey was returned to a more normal if less interesting existence on the farm of Sr. Quinengo down on the flat at the foot of the little hill on which we live. But this note isn’t about Matilda the donkey. It’s not about la lomicita. Nor is it about Paul–in or out of uniform, and neither is it about me (other than to the common extent that it’s ALL always about me.)

Rather, I want to tell you about their dog, specifically the bigger of the two, the one with the maybe smaller personality but the more reflective disposition, Buddy.

Yesterday I drove down to the village at 6:45 AM to pick up Pasquala, who cleans and cooks a couple of meals for me about once a week. Yesterday Pasquala was late; the normal gua-gua driver was in the Capital and so all bets were off as to her timing. She called and told me that she would take a moto-concho up to my house whenever she arrived in the village. And so I returned home.

At the turn into the lane leading to my house I encountered Buddy the dog. I stopped. My window was down. We regarded each other. I asked him: “Buddy, Where’s Katie?” He looked at me as if to say “What does it matter?” I suggested that he’d better head on home, and then I did likewise.

A few minutes later, Buddy materialized on my walk. He regarded me once again. He helped himself to a little drink, stopped over for a brief ear-scratch and then he settled down on the concrete veranda, maybe waiting for the sun to come around and make it pleasantly warm.

Pasquala arrived. Buddy settled in. I called Katie. She answered the phone with “Is Buddy with you?” and I said, “well, yes he is.” She asked me to send him along home and I did so but, honestly, my effort was half-hearted. I sort of liked the idea that he’d taken it upon himself to come calling. This is something he’d never done before, even though both he and Saucy (Ms. Canine Personality) frequently accompany their master when visiting here.

After about a half hour my phone rang. It was Katie. “Is Buddy still there?” I said that he was and allowed that he showed no sign of wanting to leave anytime soon. Then Katie said–and I did not see this coming–“let me talk to him.”

Pasquala’s eyes widened. She does not speak English but it was pretty evident what was going on as I held the phone out to the dog and said “It’s for you.”

If you’ve ever had the pleasure of living with a really smart dog you will understand fully when I characterize the look that passed over his face as something like “…this is a call I would really rather not take,” even as he took a hesitant step and a half towards my outstretched hand holding the cell phone. I could hear Katie, in a voice not at all authoritative let alone commanding as it squeaked from the tiny speaker “Buddy, I want you to come home.”

It took a beat or two for this to register before–I am not making this up–Buddy deliberately turned and just as deliberately began to pick them up and put them down as he headed off for home. He didn’t even say goodbye, thanks for the water, see you around. Nothing. He was simply off away home.

Katie, who of course couldn’t see this, continued yammering something or other into the phone. Perhaps she was asking him to pick up a loaf of bread on his way. (That’s what I choose to believe this afternoon, anyway.) As her small voice continued to rattle from the phone in my hand Pasquala and I just gaped, first at each other and finally at Buddy as he disappeared up the lane.

All of this occurred before my second cup of coffee today. And some of you wonder what I do here!

Well, I marvel; I simply marvel.

Hi,

A review of the El Otro WA archives reveals that I’ve spent a surprising amount of time talking with you about the roads around here. I’ve written in particular about the disastrous 35 km. stretch between Santa Barbara de Samana and Las Galeras. This is what Philippe once referred to as “the small road–the one with the big holes.”

Now, in fairness and with full realization that several sets of you are heading this way and will eventually see for yourselves, I find that I must hit the subject of the Dominican highway at least one more time.

Move along if you’ve had enough, I’ll understand.

Nearly everything about this small road between the two towns is different. This is also true for several of the larger roads. (But, really, enough is enough—yes?)

For small road starters, the water main is now laid all of the way from the treatment plant in Samana to the foot of the hill where I live in Las Galeras and most of the leaks have been repaired. (No, I won’t have public water anytime soon.) Where the pavement was formerly relatively intact (almost nowhere), the service cuts in the asphalt have been carefully and completely patched. Where for years there was no pavement to speak of (which was most of the distance between Las Galeras and Samana) there is now decent asphalt laid over a well-compacted if sometimes oddly banked base.

The folks who live around here had no sooner gotten used to this startling turn of events—a paved highway–than the line-painting crew showed up to make a yellow line down the middle of the road.

Our centerline is a good line. Clean. Crisp. Bright. And right exactly down the middle.

Mostly it’s an unbroken line. At several locations it’s dashed, indicating that it’s OK to pass, even if in one place or two it’s dashed around a blind curve. Curiously, the dashed line also indicates that it’s OK to pass while crossing over two of the “sleeping policemen” speed bumps, these in front of the local elementary school. So take the new centerline with a grain of salt, but do enjoy it as an aid no navigation. I do.

Some people were complaining about this stripe down the middle of the road, asserting that it was sure to cause accidents. They actually made a half-way decent case for the argument, at least until the white lines at the sides of the road materialized. Now all of those bets are off.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but traffic has even seemed to slow through residential and commercial areas, if not so much around the blind curves. Go figure.

A few weeks after the stripes were apparently finished on the road I found myself returning from the Capital in the dark. I try to avoid doing this for a whole host of reasons, some of which may be obvious and many of which are reasonable. But a night-time return often happens anyway–the day can just get away from me in Santo Domingo. So, driving in the dark and passing through the washout just before La Balandra I snapped on my headlights and—I am not making this up—there were REFLECTOR BUTTONS glued down the middle of the road! It felt as I imagine one must feel when bringing a 757 in for a smooth night landing! Incredible! Astonishing! Wow!

Shortly after the revelation of the reflector buttons there came one other. Professionally painted road signs materialized, identifying each wide spot on the road between Las Galeras and Santa Barbara de Samana. Even after six years here there were a number of names that were new to me and several places that I hadn’t even recognized as discrete barrios. It’s wonderful. There’s even one yellow “curve ahead” sign.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get much better in the road department, they began to raise the manhole covers to the same elevation as the pavement, eliminating that jolt when your tire suddenly drops six inches off the pavement to the steel manhole cover at 60 kilometers an hour. Actually, that has to happen only once before you commit every manhole between the two towns to memory…

And now there is a GUARD RAIL CREW installing shiny new guard rails in lots of interesting places!

I’m thinking that the engineering specs and the stamping machines may be right out of 1950’s and ‘60’s USA, even if the placement is 100% present-day RD. Most of you remember the old-style guard rails that could just IMPALE a car at either end, I know you do. Well, we got ‘em here now. Secure in the middle, though.

Now, late in 2011, the ride to Las Galeras—all of the way from the Capital, nearly all of the way from Santiago and—especially–all of the way from Santa Barbara de Samana into downtown Las Galeras is pretty quick; the ride is quite smooth, and it is still remarkably beautiful.

Keep an eye out for that idiot who’s recycling the manhole covers, though.