On Wednesdays, 160 or more of San Miguel’s elderly people gather in the courtyard of the largest church in town. They gather for a home-cooked meal. The weekly soup kitchen, “So Others May Eat,” was started 21 years ago by the spunky Antoinette, a native Filipino who, with her husband, runs a hotel in town.
Hotel profits provide funding for the meal each week, which usually consists of rice, chicken, mole, tortillas, salad, and juice. Volunteers from the expatriate community in San Miguel help serve the meal, which is prepared y employees at Antoinette’s hotel.
Antoinette’s vision expands beyond the Wednesday meal. She encourages people to take up a small craft, like embroidery, and helps them get started on such endeavors. She hopes that each individual will be able to make a small income, rather than begging on San Miguel’s street corners. Fortunately, there are people like Antoinette all over the world. San Miguel’s Antoinette inspires me as I help out in the soup kitchen. She inspires me to think beyond myself.
On May 12, I was cleaning the house—sweeping the black-and-white tiled floor. I lifted up the wastebasket and there was the scorpion, not more than two inches in length. Scorpio did not move, and neither did I. We both froze. I called “Bob, Bob,” but Bob did not hear me from our rooftop bedroom where he was playing music. What should I do? I wondered. I didn’t have the guts to kill the thing, and I figured if I went upstairs to get Bob, the scorpion would disappear. Sure enough, when Bob and I came down the stairs, there was no sign of Scorpio. He had retreated into the hole in the plaster from whence he had come in the first place. Bob took the vacuum cleaner to the hole, hoping to suction him out, but who knows whether that worked.
Two days later, after a big rain storm, the second sighting took place, only this time we were ready for action. Bob and I walked across our star-lit rooftop, flashlights in hand, into our bedroom. Bob immediately felt that we were not alone in the room. He walked over to a side wall and shone his flashlight on the floor. Sure enough, there was Scorpion #2—not moving at all. Bob took off his flip flop and smashed it dead within seconds. In my mind, I had rehearsed doing this myself since the first sighting. Bob had said, “Don’t think. Just kill.” That first day, I was initially spooked. I walked around wondering when and where the next scorpion would appear, afraid to be barefoot. Bob reminded me, “This is Mexico, and only the little light-colored ones have a fatal sting.” Linda consoled me, “The sting doesn’t hurt any more than a bee sting.” With their heartening words, I decided to have courage, and I soon got used to the idea that we were sharing our apartment. Now each morning when I come down the stairs, I greet our friend in the hole in the wall. “Hi Scorpio. How are you today? Are we going to see you today?” Now, instead of me, it seems Scorpio is spooked—at least he’s hiding out. 