What we’ve worn, never to be worn again
When Stew and I moved down from Chicago some twenty years ago, the packing began in an orderly fashion, boxes clearly labeled and sealed—books, tools, kitchen utensils and such—but we were nowhere finished when the crew from United Van Lines showed up. The pace of the packing grew frantic and chaotic until we finally waved to the moving crew to essentially take the stuff away. And so they did, carefully wrapping fragile items, putting the clothes in cardboard wardrobes. Even before the packing was over, the stuff we had accumulated over thirty years in Chicago took most of a semi-truck. Meanwhile we loaded our Volkswagen Passat station wagon, including another bundle of stuff tied to the roof, and shoved our cats, Paco and Ziggy, by now howling disconsolately inside two plastic pet carriers—a protest they maintained for most of the five days it took to get to Mexico. But our Border Collie Pooch got to sit regally on the back seat, his head out the window, ready to sniff the landscape from Illinois to Mexico. To bystanders in Chicago this motley menage must have looked like a rerun of The Beverly Hillbillies but in reverse: Instead of travelling from the boonies to the big city, we were going from Chicago to the boonies of Mexico.
It would take about a month for the moving van to clear Mexican customs and our stuff to arrive in San Miguel. The unpacking revealed good and bad news. The movers had packed everything perfectly and nothing was even cracked or even nicked. Bad news was the movers forgot to check a space above the pantry and some less-used kitchen utensils—mandolins, pasta makers and such—were left behind. Far worse news was the realization that we wouldn’t have any room or use for at least half the stuff from Chicago, which led us to rent a storage locker. In retrospect we should have donated most of it the Salvation Army and the left the rest on the sidewalk for nosy neighbors or homeless people.
We whittled our stuff systematically down approximately to one household worth, in about six months. Except for clothes, which until last week remained untouched in plastic wardrobes, twenty years after our hegira to Mexico, like sacred relics. It made no sense. Heavy wool suitcoats, from Brooks Brothers and other gear perfect for Chicago now useless in San Miguel. Or pinstripe suits, de rigueur at the office now ridiculous in Mexico where jeans and khaki pants are more commonly worn. A barely used pair of dress Florsheims, unscuffed and with practically virgin heels and soles. Along with pleated, baggy pants that looked like something Cossack men would wear to a wedding, but for the waistbands that could hardly contain my expanding girth. For a split second I mused that maybe—just maybe—I could lose ten or fifteen pounds and reuse some of this wardrobe, most of it quite expensive. Reality then called: Fat chance.
Most disconcerting was the discovery, in a bottom drawer, of a bundle that looked like veritable antiquities: Complete all-weather biking gear, by now wrinkled and dusty, that I wore for two entire years when I pedaled along Belmont Avenue to the bike paths along Chicago’s spectacular Lake Shore Drive and Lincoln Park, about five or six miles, to my job downtown. I pedaled sometime leisurely, sometime furiously, through all the weather Chicago threw at me: rain, snow, sleet, subfreezing temperatures and wind. It was a physical fitness frenzy that I hadn’t experienced before or since. During warm weather I sported spandex biking shorts, gradually replaced by sweat pants supplemented by long johns underneath, gloves and goggles for when the weather turned really sour. Surprisingly, I was hardly alone during my pedaling days, and other fanatics and I would wave at each other. For a change of pace, sometimes I would bike down Clybourn Avenue, one of the city’s diagonal boulevards. Other times I braved city traffic, mostly unscathed, except for one crash that sent me to Illinois Masonic Hospital’s emergency room for a couple of stitches. Stew thought I was crazed, but the results were undeniable. I lost about about 20 pounds and gained the lung and cardiac stamina of a much younger man. Ahh, the old days.
As for the clothes, we donated them to our housekeeper Rocío, which she eagerly took home, in Crate&Barrel shopping bags, another reminder of Chicago. The clothes are way too big for her teenage son Fernando, except perhaps for a Day of the Dead getup. Her husband José, however—undergoing his own middle-age expansion—might use some of our clothes. Then there’s always Rocío’s weekend sidewalk clothing sale.
Going through all this memorabilia inevitably triggered brief flashbacks of the of the good, and often miserable times, during the thirty years we lived in Chicago. Either way, we both still miss the buzz of that great city.
As for the biking gear, I didn’t throw any of it out, particularly the spandex biker pants even if my ass has sagged southward on a non-stop trip to Buenos Aires. And the bike of my younger days still hangs forlorn in our garage. I have gotten on it a few times and pedaled again, but not very far, age and increased poundage slowing me down. But no, I’m not getting rid of it. Something about hope springing eternal .
El Rancho Santa Clara 
Al,
Ah yes. I brought my mountain bike down from Buffalo and used it regularly until 2019 (riding to Alcocer and back) then switched to the Gym. Took the bike to our son in Woodstock. Then came the pandemic. Stopped the gym and thought, “gee I wish I had the bike.” (I might add the bike has been sitting in my son’s garage unused since 2019. He does run regularly and that has not yet ruined his knees). I guess we have not been here long enough. I still have a closet full of suits, dress clothes and winter coats I even have my Army uniform from my Vietnam days (which does not fit).Maybe I’ll get to them in 4 years when we’ve been here for 20 years. Loved your piece and best to Stew. Luke.
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You could wear your U.S. Army uniform around San Miguel the next Day of the Dead, and see what happens. Given the state of U.S.-Mexico relations, you’ll either scare the bejeezus out of the natives or have the crap knocked out of you by an angry crowd.
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Oh man, can I ever relate! I just recently got rid of tons of clothes from my life
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Who inherited your clothes?
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Like you, I brought everything down. And most of it, one way or another, has found a good use. I took a few household things, like this Venetian punch bowl I hated to the consignment store in SMA. I would go on to sell my mother’s mink coat, throwing in a mink hat for good measure, and the buyer was happy. Last Christmas, a gringo bought my grandmother’s Persian lamb 3/4 jacket that I wore when I first started practicing law, telling his dubious girlfriend how his mother and grandmother had Persian lamb coats, that they would wear forever. I saw her a few months ago, and she told me that the coat was indeed amazingly warm. From time to time, I prepared boxes and bags of old clothing that I know I’ll never wear, giving them to the retired nuns who sell second-hand clothing.
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I’m not a PETA fanatic, but I wouldn’t wear a fur coat, though I understand they are amazingly warm, probably too warm for Mexico. I wonder if the nuns sold your clothes or wear them around the convent when no one is looking!
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Luckily I had FIVE huge sales before I left Houston! All that I brought art, books and some clothes fit in the back of the pickup truck of my former paint crew who worked for me for 20 years and would not allow me to pay them for bringing it to San Miguel.! They were originally from Jalisco.
I love the photo of the shoes!
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I remember you had a huge sale when you moved to Los Frailes. Wish I had known because you had some beautiful stuff.
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Very little left now!
Yahoo Mail: Search, Organize, Conquer
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I was very fortunate when I made the permanent move to Mexico City. The owners of the condo that I had been renting and then bought left all of the furnishings, right down to the dishes and bedlinens. So I had less than half a moving van of stuff to ship down here… a few pieces of custom-made Amish furniture that I wanted to keep, a new TV set, some of my art work, a few kitchen supplies and mementos. Everything else in the house was cleared out by liquidators.
Once I had decided that I was moving, on each trip south of the border I packed more clothes (I already had plenty at the condo). So I also have an overabundance. Thankfully, the condo has plenty of closet space. There have been very few occasions where I have needed the dressier clothes, and this winter in Mexico City was brief and not too cold, so I didn’t even need to use most of the jackets and warmer clothes that I had packed.
Another enjoyable, humorous and well-written post on your blog!
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We should have done what you did and leave just about all our belongings (crap) behind, particularly since the apartment where we stayed for the first six months or so was fully furnished. Cheap, ugly Mexican “rustic” furniture, but something to sit on anyway. We’ve kept some winter stuff in case we go visit the U.S., which is unlikely while Trump is in the White House. Are you guys doing anything for Holy Week? Processions on Good Friday? Walking around the city wearing one of those penitential costumes with the pointy hats?
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Sunday, we’re doing a hot air balloon over Teotihuacan.
Nothing special planned for Holy Week. I want to go to the furniture expo at the World Trade Center next week.
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I’ve had a few big moves over the last few decades. The ones to and from Mexico were obviously their biggest. But we are not of like minds here. Perhaps it’s because I just don’t like manual labour of any sort, but especially packing. But I see a big move as an opportunity to dump most of my stuff. Have I used it it in the last year? No? Dump it. There’s about two thirds of stuff gone right there at step one.
I also have a Specialized bike. Mine specialises in sitting in the bike shed unused.
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Laziness seems to be a universal affliction. I too have a Specialized bike that hangs in the garage waiting for the right moment which never seems to come. Obviously neither you nor I are of the Dutch persuasion, those weird folk in northern Europe who’ll bike to the hospital even when they’re about to have a baby.
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