MUSSELS IN BRUSSELS
We drove into Brussels about an hour before dark. Sally was consulting “Europe on $5 A Day” looking for hotels under the label “cheap”. “If we go straight here, then turn left, turn right, we will be in the “cheap” hotel district”.
I went straight, turned left, turned right, and there we were. Several hotels lined the street on both sides. We parked and walked to stretch our legs. A small town square was at the intersection of several streets. There were no bombed out buildings, no US military rampaging. There was a sense of peace though, a quiet that we wanted, a quiet that we needed. It was like the sound of the world had been turned off. The people of Brussels walked these streets, mingled in the town square, with the sound off.
As we walked, holding hands, Sally said, “I need a nap. Let’s find that cheap hotel”.
There were many hotels in block of buildings near the square. They all looked the same. Storefront window, narrow street entrance door, brown brick exterior. We checked in, carried our luggage up 2 flights of wooden stairs, went into our room, laid down, and went into a deep, recuperative sleep. The sound turned off.
The sound seemed to still be turned off we went down to the street after our nap. We walked into the square where people gathered to chat, feed the pigeons, generally lounge. We were invisible in the square. Or perhaps just another couple strolling as the day turned to night.
We were hungry so we looked for a restaurant. Next to our hotel there was a neon sign in a store front window in 3 languages- Moules, Muscheln,Mussels. Mussels in Brussels.
We walked through the door of the Mussels restaurant and the sound turned on. It was full of diners of every type. Working people, men and women in business attire, people sitting alone, people in groups. Classical music played softly and was mostly drowned out by the sound of clinking glasses, the clatter bussing of tables, and the chatter of the patrons and wait staff.
We were seated by a host in a white shirt and black apron. A waiter came up to us quickly as we looked at the menu and we asked in English what was recommended. He said, “Mussels in red sauce, our house bread, and our house salad.” He spoke English. Of course, we were in Europe. The land of multilinguals.
We both looked at the waiter and said, “Okay”.
Our dinner arrived. Muscles and pasta first. Just as we began eating an older women entered the restaurant. For a moment the restaurant quieted as the patrons watched her entrance. She was dressed like an aging, yet still glamourous, Hollywood actress, in a sequined green dress with white fur collar. The green dress bulged a little in places it likely fit perfectly 40 years ago. She stopped just inside the restaurant door as if she was waiting for applause. None came. Her face was made up with pancake makeup and her lipstick was ruby red and slightly wide of her lips. She had a large white bulldog on a leash. The bulldog was tranquil as the restaurant host and a waiter walked up to her together. The host took her arm and guided her to what must have been her normal table.
The older woman was seated with a flare as another waiter immediately arrived with a bottle of white wine, a glass, and a basket filled with a sliced baguette. The waiter stood next to her, slightly behind, and out of her field of vision. She ignored the dinner crowd. The white bulldog settled under the table and promptly fell asleep. Wisps of quiet snoring leaked into the room.
This was and orchestrated and well practiced event. The soup arrived, the waiter whispering something to the grand lady. The waiter departed. Another arrived 15 minutes later with the fish. A new bottle of wine was produced and poured. Then cheese with another wine. The bulldog snored.
Sally looked at me, “She must be an actress or a faded society person. She does put on a good show, but I’m tired. Let’s pay and go.”
We walked out into the street. Night had settled in. But it was not dark. We walked a little, hand in hand. Down the street, in the direction of the square, the store front windows were glowing with red light. We walked a little way and wondered. In every window a young women sat in a chair, legs crossed, wearing lingerie. Some were smoking, some reading, some doing both. The sound was still off in the red glow of the street. We turned into our hotel, past its storefront red light, and walked up the stairs to our room. The day of quiet was over.
So you are hanging out in your house in El Norte, the heat is turned down to 60 as you are really getting tired of the $500 utility bill at your suburban home in the beautiful Rancho Rolling Hills of Tuscany. From under your REI, gortex sandwich, Shetland Wool blanket, where you and your beloved are reading the latest Vampire Trilogy with your trusty Maglite flashlight, you poke your head out and look up at your constellation glow-in-the-dark ceiling. You wonder if there any annoying Vermin in Baja. You hope not, as you are longing for a golfing, surfing, romantic, drunken, WARM vacation in Area Sur. And you are afraid of bugs, snakes, mice, rats, lizards, scorpions, and such. This has been a long-term problem for you ever since your mom let you watch Deadly Mantis, Black Scorpion, and the Fly in one night on Turner Classics “Bugfest”. You couldn’t go to school for 2 days after that one. Had to detox with 4 teddy bears cuddling in bed. Bug flu.
You and your beloved land in Cabo. You love Cabo, the food, the golf, parachute rides behind a ski boat in the blue bay, the giant Sombreros with attachable beer bongs in this perfect holster thingee. You spend a few days of revelry in the sun and sin capital of Baja. You have conquered the waiters at the Giggling Marlin by throwing up on their shoes. 10 straight shots of mescal, BAH, child’s play. You have played the perfect round of golf. 18 holes of triple Bogie. You did the parachute ride, no biggee. But enough fun is enough fun(read you really need some sleep). Plus the Greens Fees are getting to you. SO it is time for a road trip to Pescadero, 45 miles north of Cabo. A little time in the country. 
A long time ago, perhaps as much as 40,000 years, a lone grey wolf entered into the light of the fire ring of the human family. This wolf was less afraid than other members of the pack. Or perhaps it was very hungry. That first family had always been afraid of wolves. They are wild animals. But this time it was different. The human fear of the wolf and the fear that the wolf felt was a little less than before. The wolf found a scrap of food and ran from the light of the fire ring. The humans did not give chase.
The next night the grey wolf came back. Maybe it stayed a little longer, maybe it had a companion. Later somewhere in the well of time that wolf became the camp dog. Then it became camp dogs. Everything for the human family changed. A symbiotic relationship unlike any other in human experience became a part of daily life. Man began to rely on the dog for protection, comfort, warmth, companionship. The dog relied on humankind for food, protection, comfort, warmth, companionship. The human family became the parent of a former wild animal.
When we first came to Baja 25 years ago the descendants of that first dog were often the 3rd class citizens of Todos Santos and Pescadero. The local population was mostly very poor. And, as in poor third world or developing countries everywhere, the dogs had to struggle for food and care. They were on the outside looking in and often stranded in loneliness and illness.
On our first trip to Baja we were walking through a palm forest. A medium size black dog was following us. We would stop, he would stop. We looked at each other, wondering. We wondered about the dogs health, whether he was eating regularly, if he had a family.
The dog looked at us with a type of hopefulness. We could not return that gaze. We couldn’t respond at that time as we were new to the area, didn’t know what would be appropriate, didn’t have the time or circumstance to reach out.
Over the years everything has changed for the local dogs. Groups have formed to help dogs in distress. A retired women who settled here opened a refuge for dogs, providing shelter and medical care for rescued dogs, as well as adoption services. A young couple developed rescuing dogs as a way of life. Free spay and neuter clinics have been set up a few time per year to help reign in over breeding that results in an increase of at-risk dogs.
Today we see fewer dogs that are in very poor shape in the 2 towns nearby. Usually they are picked up by one of our many caring neighbors that live here and in other Gringo neighborhoods. They receive medical attention and are brought back to health in a loving environment. Often they are adopted by the rescuing families or a neighbor. They also find homes through a pipeline of dog adoptions from Baja to both the U S and Canada.
Sally and I have found and brought to health several dogs over the years. Our dog Mari is one. Nine years ago she followed us home from a beach walk. Apparently abandoned and very thin but not ill she became ours in 1 day. Two of our rescues were so ill they did not survive but spent their last days in comfort and in companionship with other dogs and people at the refuge. The others we have adopted out. These are dogs that have always given more than they get.
Rescuing a Baja dog is a type of alchemy. The alchemists of history attempted to change lead to gold. The process was both a physical process and a ritual of personal change. When a rescued dog experiences healing in the company of humans the rescue families go through that same experience. We hope the dog gets better, that it is allowed to reenter the fire ring of the human family and become the dog it was meant to be. As this happens we become the people that we are meant to be. We become the healers that are healed by the dogs of love.
Off the coast of Southern Baja, about 50 miles north of Cabo San Lucas, the Espiritu de Jesus fished the waters of the Pacific for shrimp. By day she moored out to sea about 1 mile, straight out from the little town of Pescadero. By night her crew ran Espiritu de Jesus up and down the coast several miles, dropping the big shrimp trawls into the sea to catch their livelihood. She usually worked and moored near the shrimp boat La Rana (The Frog) named for its green paint. La Rana was owned and operated by Capitan Gonzales, a man of many years fishing.
Juan Rogelio was born to the fields. His life was measured by planting, hoeing, harvesting. As he grew up he was happy in the fields. But he was much happier once he had his own small farm. It wasn’t much, but his uncle had left him enough land to live, to grow food, to tend animals, to sell some of what he raised to pay the taxes and raise his family. It was a life of hard work. But a good life.
