Jennifer Rose keeps it real at Red Shoes are Better than Bacon.
A Chevrolet Suburban and Carretera Federal 57 and a couple of Cadillacs from time to time and sometimes jet planes brought me to Mexico.
Red Shoes are Better than Bacon
All of about 15 seconds went into naming this blog. I like bacon just as much as the next person, but what I really love are red shoes, particularly Ferragamo Vara flats in red with a stacked, not covered, heel. The Red Shoes fairy tale, The Red Shoes film, The Red Shoes ballet, the pope’s red shoes, and Dorothy’s ruby slippers are all about granting the wearer the power to do what she really wants to do, even if the pope isn’t a she.
Red Shoes does not limit herself to any particular area or aspect of Mexico. While there usually is some nexus with Mexico, blog posts may reflect upon the serial comma, Kilgore Trout, or shameless self-promotion.
I write for me. If others find my blog entertaining, enlightening or educational, that’s a cherry on the cake. I’m not paid to promote Mexico, expatriate living, or even Pingüinos. I’d settle for blogging more frequently than I do. Plans? Red Shoes are Better than Bacon will likely remain an eleemosynary institution.
My favorite post’s usually the one I just published, followed by those with the most visitors.
None of the topics I have posted about were difficult to write about, really. I do not blog about heart-rending, gut-wrenching issues. Well, I might if my dog died.
My tenure in Mexico doesn’t have an expiration date. For me, Mexico’s not a hotel where I’ve got a checkout date, or a program I’m expected to graduate from, or even some kind of waystation. It’s not a junior year abroad, and it’s not a retirement haven. It’s where I live, it’s where I am, and it’s where I have my citizenship. And I’ve never lived in any one place as long as I’ve lived right here in Morelia, Michoacan.
My advice for those moving to or traveling in Mexico…. Wait a sec. I’m not turismo, and I’m not the Welcome Wagon. Back before blogs were the rage, I used to get email all the time from strangers wanting to move to Mexico, and I was gullible enough to answer their email. And then those same folks would get their knickers in a twist when I would tire of corresponding with them, when I no longer wanted to be their tour guide, and when I would tell them that if I were truly interested in real estate, I’d be in the real estate business, which I’m not.
Not all Mexico-based bloggers are in the advice and evangelism racket. (We’re not all curmudgeons, either.)
All right, here’s the advice. Do your research, and then don’t believe everything you read. Or hear. Think of a map of Mexico superimposed over a map of Europe, and you’ll see that it extends from Ireland clear over to Bulgaria. That’s a lot of territory. What’s par in Benjamin Hill, Sonora, isn’t par for Tlaxcala.
Don’t give me that crap about “I love the Mexican people.” We’re not all cut from the same mold, we don’t all break into dance at the drop of a hat, we’re not all hard workers, we’re not all honest, and smiling is not the national hobby. No, not any more than all blondes and Swedes are dumb or all Jews are good with money. The Mexican people, just like the people from wherever you’re coming from, are all over the map.
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