The evolution of Mexican wine—Wine tasting, hacienda style 
By David Ramirez, April 5, 2007

When man makes war, he attempts to assassinate the universe; when he makes wine, he steals a kiss from the Earth.

¿Que culpa tengo yo, que me gusta el vino?

Is it my fault that I like wine?–from a Mexican song.

Eleven years ago, when I wrote the first guide to Mexican table wines, Mexican Vinos for Gringos, I could find only eight wineries in Baja on which to report. The current brochure on the subject lists 19, more than existed in the whole country at the time.

Rather than drive our cars to the wine tasting at Hacienda Las Trancas, some 14kms on the other side of Dolores, we were encouraged to take the luxury buses from SMA, a wise suggestion in view of the profusion of wines that were to be offered to us.

A restored antique car of about 1920 vintage greeted us as we stepped off the bus in front of the restored hacienda, a bit more mod in appearance than those we use on the house and garden tour. Our tickets were quickly checked, and we were ushered inside the large square interior plaza.

The presentations of the wineries were arrayed one after the other along the sides of the plaza, ready to dispense liquid poetry from the vine. I decided that my plan would be to try the whites first, then the reds, and go back to those I missed, as my capacity allowed. On this report I will group the wines of each winery together.

The first displayed was that of the largest Mexican winery, L.A. Cetto (LA being for Luis Alberto, the name of the principal owner), whose wines I know quite well. I started with the owner’s reserve, quite a well-balanced Chardonnay for about 250 pesos and much better than their popularly priced Chad at 75 pesos, hardly recognizable as such. Perhaps their best reasonably priced wine is Fumé Blanc at 75 pesos. This name was invented by Robert Mondavi, of Napa Valley fame, to indicate a lightly oaked Sauvignon Blanc, although many wines currently labeled as Fumé Blanc have never seen the inside of an oak barrel. Many wine buffs think that the best value in a Mexican red wine is Cetto’s Nebbiolo at 150 pesos. This is the grape from which Barolo and Barbaresco, the prestigious Italian wines, are made. Their Petite Sirah (73 pesos), which won an important international prize, is also notable.

I know Valmar’s wine maker, Fernando Martain, better than the others in Baja. Reluctantly I selected his Cabernet Sauvignon as the best red wine I tasted for the wine guide, now out of print. I say reluctantly because then it could not be bought outside of the Ensenada area. A couple of years ago at an Ensenada Wine Festival function, Valmar literally killed the fatted calf…and BBQ’d it for their guests. In this ambiance, with the free-flowing Valmar wine, I was presented with a few bottles of Vicente Fox Vino Tinto, which the winery had been engaged to make for his inauguration. It was a powerful red that improved greatly after I held it for a couple of years. For this wine tasting, Fernando brought only Cabernet Sauvignon and Tempranillo, which is becoming increasingly popular with Baja wine makers and which he thought was the better of the two. They were both so good, I couldn’t decide.

Chateau Camou had the best white wine I tasted: their Special Reserve Chardonnay (275 pesos) that had just the right combination of oak and grape flavors. Their first Chard of a few years past was over-oaked and over-priced, and their Chard-like Blanc de Blanc at less than half the price was better. Their 2001 Zinfandel is by far the best wine of this variety I have tasted in Mexico and could stand up to most of the California Zins.

Next I came to Baron Balache, a winery that was not yet opened on my last wine excursion to Baja. They had the most expensive wine I saw at US$100 a bottle, which they would not let you taste unless you bought it, which one chap did. They also had the most unique wine I found at the tasting: Doble Blanco (150 pesos). Upon inquiry about this unusual name they told me it was a Blanc de Blanc, which is a name the French invented, probably to make the pseudo-sophisticated think they were buying something special. All it means is white wine made from white wine grapes. This newly named wine was somewhat effervescent and reminded me of what the Spanish call Vino Joven (young wine), often bottled with a champagne cork, and vinho verde, the vin ordinaire of Portugal.

By this time the rather ordinary botanas had begun arriving. The best of them were the mussels, called patas de mula in Baja, where I used to throw them on a charcoal grill until their shells opened so that they could be doused with butter.

I believe that most of us thought there was going to be a sit-down lunch or a buffet, to be prepared by three Ensenada chefs: beef bourguignon, mushroom risotto, pork with apples, etc., as indicated by the poster advertisements.

Fortunately, one curious person found out that the botanas were all there was and the promised delicacies would not be forthcoming. Thus enlightened, we attacked the botanas with more enthusiasm to fortify ourselves for the last half of the wine tasting. I think it was better that we did not have to plough through a sit-down meal, which would have kept us from trying as many of the wines. In any event, to keep going, one had to pour away much of the wine into the artistic vases provided at every wine stop to dispose of excessively generous servings.

On my last visit to the Ensenada Wine Festival, I had visited Adobe Guadalupe, a ranch and guest house as well as a winery. In chatting with the personable owner, I told him that 11 years ago I had written that I thought there was no climatic reason why one could not make wines in the Guadalupe Valley in Baja as well as in Napa-Sonoma. His response: “We already have.” His wine project had much progressed since my visit. His several red wines are all blends of Cabernet Sauvignon, Merlot, Malbec, Syrah and Grenache. They all cost US$30. They are all exquisite but slightly different.

Also in the same geographic area as Adobe Guadalupe and Chateau Camou is Monte Xanic, which might be considered the vanguard of the boutique winery invasion of the Guadalupe Valley. They make several high-priced reds, but I think their Viña Kristal at 140 pesos is their best value. I also think it is the best Mexican Sauvignon Blanc I have ever tasted.

Further south along the Tecate-Ensenada highway is Liceaga. I found this small winery to be particularly hospitable and generous in serving samples of their several Merlots, which are all they make. The prices are US$25 and up, but the wines are worth the prices they ask.

On the other side of the highway is Mustafa’s Restaurant, owned by a friendly Moroccan who has helped me in the past with my winery investigations. The restaurant is surrounded by his vineyards, from which he makes the red house wine that is a good compliment to the lamb dishes served there. This is a good place to recuperate after a hard day tasting Baja wines.

In Ensenada, Santo Tomas was for many years the standard bearer of Mexican wine, until the mantle was taken from them by L.A. Cetto and Pedro Domecq, who are now challenged by the newer so-called boutique wineries, some of whom in their publicity masquerade as the inventors of the Mexican wine industry and do not give much credit to their elder brothers. In central Ensenada, Santo Tomas has a colorful restaurant and tasting room (decorated with wine-making murals) and a wine-gift shop. Their original wine processing was done here, but after an infusion of capital and a revival of fortunes, they have built a state-of-the-art winery in the beautiful Santo Tomas Valley (south of Ensenada), where most of their vineyards are located. They produce a wide variety of high-quality reds and whites. I particularly like their Barbera, a wine not often made in Mexico, although it does particularly well in the Baja climate. Their lightly oaked Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay are pleasant wines, but have been made mostly for 
export. These wines will cost in the vicinity of US$20.

I was pleased to find Casa Madero represented at this tasting. Founded in 1597, it is the oldest surviving winery in this hemisphere and is located not in Baja, but in an obscure oasis, surrounded by an inhospitable desert. It has its own winery village, such as one finds in various European countries. It is a few kilometers outside Parras (which means grape vines), so named by the Spanish because they found wild grape vines growing around the oases. Cortez ordered cuttings brought from the Spanish vines to be grafted onto the native varieties. Thus began the Mexican wine industry. This winery is a little-known national treasure and undoubtedly the most interesting Mexican winery to visit, and nearby Parras reminds one of Mexico 50 years ago. One can visit the area and taste their excellent wines during an easy over-night trip. Upon my recommendation an SMA visitor took Madero’s 1994 Merlot back to his wine club. I didn’t expect to hear from him, but I received a nice letter indicating that in a blind tasting 
this wine got 27 points and the other two Merlots (from California and Chile) received 21 and 22. The Madero Merlots have only gotten better since then, about ten years ago, when the three wines cost about US$10 each. Now, in SMA, the Merlot costs about US$20, as do most of the other Madero varietals. One of the Madero employees at the tasting, a guero Mexicano of light eyes and Nordic features, told me that his favorite Madero wine was Shiraz. I have had few to equal it and certainly none in Mexico. For those who like an un-oaked Chardonnay, Madero’s version of this wine is hard to beat.

It is said that all good things must end. When I could hold no more red wine, I made my way to the table of Freixenet(the only other non-Baja winery represented) to end the evening with glasses of their excellent brut sparkling wine, commonly called champagne in spite of the objections of the French. Their facility, the Mexican branch of the huge Spanish producer, is located outside the village of Eziquel Montes, not far from Tequisquiapan. Of their several champagnes, I think the Petillant Brut is the best value. It costs 69 pesos at Europea in Querétaro and 82 pesos at Espino’s. As well as champagne, they are now producing table wines. Among other things, they are making what they call Tinto Joven and Blanco Joven. These young wines have appeared at times as house wines in SMA restaurants. They are agreeable, if unpretentious, and are good values at 50 pesos each. Some travel agencies have arranged tours from SMA to Freixenet’s champagne caves and winery. Easily in a day, one can drive there, also have lunc
h in Tequis, and return to SMA.

Conspicuous for their absence at the tasting was Pedro Domecq, second only in size to their friendly rival, L.A. Cetto. They are situated across the highway from each other south of Tecate at the entrance to the Baja wine country. When Domecq, which started in Mexico as a branch of the huge brandy and sherry concern (of the same name) in Jerez de la Frontera, was beginning their operations, they bought grapes from Cetto. Standing on Domecq’s verandah, one can look across the highway to Cetto’s facilities. Like Cetto, they produce a wide variety of wines, as well as the leading Mexican brandy: Pedro Domecq. Their best value is Pedro Domecq Cabernet Sauvignon XA, which sells for around 70 pesos. It was nurtured by the since-departed Ronald McClendon, whom Domecq hired away from the Napa Valley wineries. Eleven years ago, I said this wine was better than any imported red that one could buy in Mexico for less than 100 pesos. I have not changed my mind, and I have not recommended it to any one who did not think it 
was a good value. The Mexican version of the consumer’s guide made a stronger statement. The Cab XA had the best score in their blind tasting of Chilean, Mexican and Spanish wines, including the Chilean Castillo del Diablo (widely adored by SMA gringos) and the heavy bodied Rioja (Spanish) wines of little complexity that are over priced at more than 150 pesos: Marques de Caseres and Marques de Riscal.

At about 10:30pm the bus for SMA left with the last stragglers. Among them were some affluent young Mexicans. To entertain ourselves during the hour-long trip, we sang joyous, wine-laced Mexican songs of unrequited love, philandering men (mujeriegos), ungrateful women (ingratas) and lonely nights ending in some forlorn bar with a sad flood of tears (un triste llanto).

I think this was a well-organized wine tasting. There were more wines than one could possibly sample…although many of us tried. It was certainly better than any of the several wine festivals I attended in Tequis: they left a lot to be desired. Since this cutesy resort village is largely patronized by DF’ers who generally prefer Tequila or other beverages to wine, SMA, with the highest per capita wine consumption in the nation and its wine-appreciating gringos, would be a better place for a festival of several days or a week. A few years ago, a temporary SMA resident thought so also and enlisted my help in planning for such a festival, which was to be held at Posada de Aldea, a perfect place for this type of event. Because he had retired from organizing trade fairs, he wanted the wineries to pay to participate. They were unwilling to do so, although they would have contributed wine without cost. Some of us local residents tried to persuade the prospective organizer that if we went ahead and staged a successful 
event, we could make the wineries pay the following year. Miffed that the wineries wouldn’t pay up, he cancelled the event and departed our fair city for the delights of Tlaxcala.



And when like her oh Saki* you shall pass,

Among the guests imbibing on the grass,

Dispensing liquid poetry from the vine,

Lament me not…turn down an empty glass.

Omar Khayyam

*Saki—the cypress-slender mistress of wine











PULL QUOTE: You kind of smile at gringo guys with grey pony tails. Then you realize (if you are a guy) that at least they have enough hair to actually grow a tail. You wonder whether they make clip-on grey pony tails and where you can get one. 


You know you are in San Miguel when …
By Jim Blakley, April 5, 2007

I love Mexico and San Miguel so much. But still, there are a few little odd things that strike me as funny or interesting. So, here are a few thoughts about “you know you are in San Miguel when ….”

You hear more car alarms go off in one day than you hear “back home” in an entire year. And, of course, no one here really notices or cares and any would-be car thief is unlikely to be hindered in any way. You also have memorized the cycle of different sounds that most car alarms have. It is kind of like listening to the tracks on a CD.

You notice that when locals emerge from a narrow store doorway onto the street or come to a blind corner where two sidewalks come together at the corner of a building, they typically don’t stop and look first, they just move out onto the sidewalk in an act of blind faith. You are aware that you are also now doing the same thing and it seems perfectly natural. Every thing works out in Mexico.

You see drivers easily squeezing in and out of parking spots so tight that you would never even consider trying it.

You kind of smile at gringo guys with grey pony tails. Then you realize (if you are a guy) that at least they have enough hair to actually grow a tail. You wonder whether they make clip-on grey pony tails and where you can get one. You have become obsessed with this idea and are searching the internet.

You are prepared for Mexican women to cut in front of you in line at the store and take action to stay very close to the person ahead of you while assuming a “strong stance” position.

You see a greater daily police and transit official presence than you have ever seen in any other (at least Canadian) city in your life, even though there does not seem to be a crime threat that matches the staffing response. (One night recently I saw 20 police officers attend a fight between two skinny drunk young guys at a cantina near my back window.)

You are seized with a desire to beat a rhythm on the side of a car or truck backing up, thus signaling that the driver can keep backing up safely because you see the young guys working with the bus drivers do it.

The previous slight annoyance you felt about the poor timing of the church bells ringing (plus or minus five minutes to the exact time at the hour, half hour or quarter hour) has been replaced by a feeling of contentment and appropriateness. This seems like the right way to do things (also see the category, “You know you have been in San Miguel too long when…”)

You notice that car horns are not only used to warn of an impending accident (the real reason for a horn) but for social interaction, retribution, to express anger, as a signal to other drivers, as a replacement for getting out of the car and knocking on someone’s door, and to ineffectually tell other drivers ahead that people behind are waiting. But of course, in a traffic jam and the mini-gridlock that is common in San Miguel, none of this does any good at all (except perhaps to make the horn-honking driver feel better). While working lights seem optional on many Mexican cars, a fully functioning blasting horn is critically important.

George Carlin, the comedian, has said to women, “OK girls, men only care one thing about your eyebrows. Do you have two? End of story.” Perhaps women are a bit too concerned about their eyebrows, but older gringo men (especially those without a woman around to control those wild growths), often have eyebrows that look like mini-forests, with hairs of different colors, lengths, and thicknesses emerging at many different angles. Come on guys, a trimmer or a pair of scissors will quickly cut the “forest” down to size. In movies and on the stage, professional make-up artists use those huge, sprouting, exploding eyebrows to make a 30 year old guy look 80. We need all the help we can get.

Jim Blakley lives half-time in San Miguel and the other half of the year in beautiful Ontario, Canada.









Out of Cuba 2007, Part II of II 
By Lou Christine, April 5, 2007

(After a recent trip to Havana, Cuba, local writer Lou Christine penned some of his observations in two parts, this being the second.)

As mentioned last week, countless old Fords, Chevys, Hudsons and Studebakers rumble along Cuban boulevards as rusted hulks held together by who knows what. The state of public transportation is atrocious.

People are crammed tight into deteriorating buses with no room for their guardian angel. With the heat, sweat and mass of humanity one can only gasp and say, “but for the grace of God.” Taxis are too expensive for most except for community cabs that are packed to full capacity, dropping some off and taking on others. Many hitchhike, standing in droves, off sidewalks, waving down anyone who might pick them up. As the pecking order goes, the young and better looking stand a better chance to hitch a ride, as opposed to the elderly or decrepit.

The men are forward and the women receptive. I eyeballed women, whose dresses were alluring and enticing while dolled up in some tawdry chic featuring enticing curves and plunging necklines, primarily because, in reality, that is all they have to show for themselves. In most other places chicks wiggling their behinds in such a way while planted in exaggerated high-heels and wearing short-shorts would be perceived more like cheap strumpets. Inside Havana, that look is hardly out of the ordinary. The men’s dress on the most part was shabby and wrinkled. I suppose, in the men’s case, their well-defined bodies do their beckoning.

Love or lust is constantly in the air. No sent smile goes unnoticed. Even the most unsightly tourist, fat, bald or snaggle-toothed can be seen as a desirable Romeo. That is, of course, if he has fresh money in his pocket. That easy availability of women mostly arises out of hunger and need. Cuban women do showcase a certain, one-of-a-kind sensuality that seems innate. Their returned actions, regardless of the extent, might place a few extra staples on the family table. Horny men attracted to such vivacious women might just shrug their shoulders and sum, “When in Rome…” or those with a conscience may ask themselves if they are taking advantage of an undeniable female commodity or participating in some sort of lurid exploitation? In an ideal man’s world, every female on Earth would be required to attend finishing school in Cuba.

Under the surface breathes an oppressive state. Jesús warned me there are street-corner snitches and police everywhere. A woman just sharing a taxi or walking down the street with a foreigner can be whisked away by the police. Often, consequences have females spending a couple of months in the slammer and a mark on her record to boot. Girls constantly talk and worry about the police.

The government is well aware of the prostitution, yet for the hooker in Havana, it’s a Catch-22 situation. They have to be tricky to procure tricks. Cuban women of any profession are discouraged from frequenting with tourists other than in the daytime and, even then, only in public places. Only female employees are allowed in hotels. Yet just outside of some boom-boom joints, on the sidewalks sanctioned by the government, the girls gather in bouquets and are permitted to enter if accompanied by a tourist. Then it seems the government turns a blind eye that makes the whole man-woman thing seem ambiguous at most. Many, in actuality, are not professional streetwalkers but country girls merely in search of a meal, some drinks, a nice time and pocket money. Yet the pocket money they receive for their charms often equals a month’s pay. For men, reciprocated affection offered by women is almost automatic; “You were nice to me so now I’ll be nice to you.”

Cuba does hold claim to the world’s lowest AIDS rate. Reason being: Random HIV tests. At first people infected with HIV were whisked off to a sanitarium, for life. In 1998, the government permitted patients, who have been properly indoctrinated and treated, to return home but under a state of house arrest.

Many young gals from the countryside apply and anxiously wait for coveted visas permitting them to stay in Havana for up to two or three months. They apply for the get-away visas under the guise of schooling or to visit relatives. Yet, for the most part, they know Havana has brighter lights and a slew of generous men from around the world who seek female company—(M) their possible escape. Cubans do not have access to the Internet’s super highway. They can email and telephone but are kept much in the dark about what is taking place in the outside world. They see only what the regime wants them to see—(M) period!

I queried some about their impression of foreign men and men in general. My sampling had some of the gals telling me they don’t like Italian men, especially those from the south. Women, even streetwalkers, have their dignity and the girls said Italian tourists were rude and presumptuous. The French, Greeks and Spanish, in their view, act stodgy and above them. German and Scandinavian are said to be polite yet hold back something. When I asked about other Latinos the girls pointed to their elbows and patted them with their other hand, a sign that indicates cheapskates. “And they lie,” said Magalia, saying how they promise marriage faster than the rest. American and Canadian men are generous but too loud and brag too much. As for Cuban men, Magalia made a face and opened her palm and counted off her fingers one by one emphatically, “Uno, dos, tres, quatro novias, siempre… ellos el peor!”

During multiple conversations with Havanans, the men were more restrained about Cuba’s situation and I refrained from pushing the subject. Men of age wanted to speak about the glory of the long-ago past. Taxi drivers openly spoke about long hours but the money was great. Only one cabbie tried to sell me that Cuba is a wonderful place where everybody is equal and it’s only getting better. There are devilish billboards showing Bush and Hitler as equals. Posted images of Che are everywhere yet there are not many of Castro. Women looked to the future and were more expressive about the state of things. “Get me out of here!” shouted out from within them. “Everybody’s afraid of the police,” one woman told me in a low voice inside a tourist restaurant, as two cruised outside. “They make us go to rallies.” For bigger rallies thousands are bussed in from the countryside with a 48-hour pass to stay and party in the capital city but only after attending a mandatory rally. “We cheer real loud; if we make the government ha
ppy maybe they will cut short the rally. Then we can go party.”

I find it ironic that Marx and Engle’s utopia of socialism has failed worldwide and, today, that sort of non-functioning lifestyle hardly survives other than in a few bastions of repression like Cuba. I find it just as amazing that a taxi driver or tour guide can make ten times the money compared to the government stipend trickled down to a trained doctor, engineer or scientist. The general population is rationed some rice, beans and few other staples on a monthly basis that I was told lasts no longer than a week. That’s the reality of life in today’s Cuba.

Then, in spite of the failed dream, there is the elite who enjoy the status of privilege due to government appointed professions and housing. Cuba claims to have a 100 percent literacy rate and free medical for all. Cubans expressed to me that the bureaucratic hoops they have to jump through for health care isn’t worth the hassle unless there is an absolute emergency. Havana’s embassy row is as stately as it gets, where upscale embassies bask along side botanical finery while facing a wide, sparkling thoroughfare. Hotel Nacional is a first class hotel. Its staff is bilingual and sharp. Black, sleek, Mercedes’ taxis wait outside for tourists or big wigs in the government. Yet the gal tending the bar yakked on the phone and finished her smoke before waiting on us. There are a few square blocks, surrounding the capitol, impressively restored and pristine. Hotel Raquel glistens with marble floors and columns’ indicating a re-gentrification is in vogue yet out of the reach for the average Cuban. The Museum of the 
Revolution and Art Museum are well cared for, as are a few other buildings and cathedrals in the vicinity. That’s about it.

Maybe I should have done more clubbing or drank where Hemingway once did, or maybe I should have delved more into the artsy social scene and eat at trendy tourist traps or rode around in a horse drawn carriage. Maybe next time. I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the music. One has to be dead to not appreciate the hot Latin tunes along with the enticing lyrics and tight rumba rhythms. That part of Cuba’s soul can never be replaced or squashed by a warped system. It’s their national treasure. When Cubans play or sing music they appear as free as birds. But when I peer into the tired and worn down faces of Jesús, Dora and the all the others who have been denied the advancements of modern society, regardless of capitalism’s own pitfalls, I can’t help but think about Cuba’s once glorious past, minus Batista, and what would have occurred if Cuba wasn’t so abused and neglected. 

Perhaps my mind-set parallel’s Jesús’ the same way he looked down upon today’s spoiled and pampered Major-League baseball players. Just as Jesús wonders about what happened to his beloved baseball, I wonder about what happened to the first city of the new world which might have us both asking, “Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?”

(As earlier stated this piece is a postage stamp perspective observed by one man over a short period of time. I’d like to thank Detlev and Dagmar Kappstein, along with Viajes San Miguel, for making this eye-opening trip available.)

When less is most definitely more

A novel approach to movement and bodywork
By Trisha Vargas, April 5, 2007

It is probably true to say that the majority of people today would dearly like to have more energy. If at the same time they could free themselves from any residual aches and pains, general stiffness or discomfort and feel more, as the French say, “comfortable in their skin” then so much the better.

There are exercise classes for every kind of bodily need, but many—though obviously not all—still treat the body as, if not an enemy perhaps an unruly creature that we are forced to live with, which must be controlled and coerced if we are to get any work done at all. “No pain, no gain” can seem logical to us, immersed as we are in a culture of self-recrimination and the desire to avoid seeming “lazy.” Even yoga, which offers the wisdom and tranquility of several thousand years’ practice, can be hijacked and modified to serve these punishing desires.

However, it is possible to be on very good terms with your body—treat yourself as one holistic being and discover how much more fluid and agreeable every action becomes. “What I am after is more flexible minds, not just more flexible bodies,” said Dr Moshé Feldenkrais, who began teaching his Feldenkrais Method in the early 1970s at California’s Esalen Institute. 

The “exercise” involved in practicing the Feldenkrais Method is no such thing, just a series of very gentle movements, verbally directed by a practitioner, which increases awareness and experience of the body and allows you to replace ineffectual and habitual movements with ones that are unhampered and consume far less energy in achieving their goals. Energy which is thus available for other activities. Meanwhile, every movement we make transmits an image of itself to the brain, and making slight differentiations lays down new images, which are used by the cortex to create new movement patterns.

Feldenkrais, a physicist and pioneering martial artist, was concerned with motor function and altering brain patterns to break old and unproductive habits. For Stanley Keleman, founder of Formative Psychology, a similar approach leads into “learning the language of how viscera and brain use muscle to create a personal skill for managing one’s life, in one’s own way, with vitality and emotional truthfulness.”

Richard Adelman is a Guild Certified Feldenkrais Practitioner who began studying the method under Feldenkrais, himself, in 1973. His studies with Keleman began in 1970 and he still takes his annual workshops in Berkeley. Adelman has developed a unique approach which combines the methodologies of both men to produce a system of gentle, guided movements, repeated and observed by the mind, which allow you to recognize and reorganize self-defeating habits. 

While reducing or eliminating pain and its associated emotional distress, the method also improves breathing, posture, balance and co-ordination. 

In one sense it’s a therapy, in that it helps relieve pain and stiffness, but in another it’s also education. As Adelman says, “It’s not good education to strain, because you’re obviously not practicing what you want to achieve, which is to not strain. The values you seek should already be present in how you conduct yourself during the learning process, so that it becomes a formative experience.”

One of the chief obstacles to physical well-being is the stoical acceptance of discomfort as part of one’s daily lot, something to be borne with resignation, or even pride. After practicing these movements, people living with pain invariably experience something beyond the immediate sense of relief; there comes a huge flood of energy, a feeling of being unfettered. Such release greatly benefits self-confidence and the way in which an individual interacts with the world at large. 

An important aspect of Adelman’s work is to help people understand through experiencing what their particular patterns are, then guide them through the modifications which can make better use of their movements. “A lot of it is just improving and using what you’ve already formed for yourself. I do not critique or denigrate how a person moves, frequently they simply lack information.”

It isn’t necessary to have a pre-existing condition to benefit from the gentle rhythmic movements Adelman teaches. Previously unrecognized kinks can be discovered and ironed out and everyone can experience the sense of being grounded and “at home” in their body. “Forming a more friendly, intimate relationship with your bodily self,” he says, “can contribute greatly to your emotional and spiritual as well as physical health.”

Hal Cox, PhD, a biologist in Berkeley who took classes every week for five years summed the method up as follows, “Adelman’s approach is delightfully counterintuitive: the more slowly and gently I do the movements, the more dramatic the benefit I derive from them.”

No special clothes are needed, just something comfortable. All the movements are performed in a calm and supportive atmosphere which engenders confidence and relaxation. In private sessions, Adelman uses tablework for hands-on, fully-clothed non-invasive touch. For sufferers of specific conditions, including deep and chronic pain, these sessions can eliminate pain immediately or set that elimination in process. Personalized movement lessons, which are taped so they can be followed at home, create an even clearer picture of the body in the mind’s eye. “When people are able to feel themselves more sensitively and accurately, they become more rooted within themselves and can deliberately intervene to eradicate painful or inefficient patterns as they discover them.”

Adelman (M.A. Psychology) is one of the few people in the world to be fully certified in both Pilates and Feldenkrais. A musician and teacher of music in the San Francisco Bay area, he originally became interested in the work of Feldenkrais and Keleman as a way to improve his own playing. He now has over 30 years’ experience as a practitioner himself and has also incorporated body techniques in his music teaching to over a thousand students. Another aspect of his work is helping fellow musicians and computer users prevent or overcome the damage caused by repetitive strain injuries.

He lives in Xalapa, Veracruz, where he gives workshops and private sessions using his integration of Feldenkrais, Formative Psychology, Pilates and Osteopathy. In his 60s, he points out that he uses these methods himself to maintain vitality and is moving toward a new specialty where he helps older people to regain some functioning and “learn to cultivate a friendlier, less antagonistic attitude towards their bodies.” He continues to play music every week with a Cuban son group.

Richard Adelman is coming to San Miguel to give an introduction to Feldenkrais at Lifepath. This begins with a talk next Friday, followed by a weekend workshop and a week of private sessions. In May, he presents a second program entitled “Aging Gracefully.” He plans to visit and work in San Miguel on a regular basis, at four to six week intervals. Future programs will include the relief of upper and lower body pain, and special workshops for musicians, artists, computer users, athletes, dancers, yoga and Pilates enthusiasts and meditators. He gives private sessions in English or Spanish, according to requirements.


All are welcome to come to next week’s talk and discover more about this life-enhancing path to true physical and emotional well-being.


Getting to know me

I first heard of Richard Adelman by attending a talk he gave in Xalapa, because a friend in Europe had been raving about the Feldenkrais method for years and I was curious to learn more. After listening to Richard and experiencing some of the movements he guided us through, I became, like Alice, curiouser and curiouser. 

I’ve been going to class every Wednesday for over a year now; it’s an oasis of gentle self-discovery and downtime in a busy working week. We do the movements—sometimes sitting or standing, at other times lying down—very, very gently and then I leave again, in what feels like an entirely new body. 

It’s extremely difficult to describe the movements, because you’re hardly doing anything, and even more difficult to convince anyone that so little activity can have such a far-reaching effect. But I have seen people stand several inches taller at the end of class, and felt myself more erect, better balanced, more centered and confident.

I’m fortunate in that I don’t suffer much from pain or stiffness but I still go every week because the process of discovering oneself is constantly surprising and rewarding. I’m learning about my bones, muscles and other structures in a way far removed from school biology lessons; from the inside. I can visualize my own spine, for example. Before, it was just a vague presence.

The sessions are totally positive, there’s no sense of anybody doing anything ‘wrong’ or misusing themselves, just a gentle, supportive feeling that we’re there to make life better for ourselves. And although Richard never refers to ‘normal’ or ‘not normal’ it’s always a buzz to realize that what felt fine already has just been upgraded through several layers to feeling marvellous and renewed.

I’ve had private sessions as well and experienced the strangest thing: I lay on the table as he touched me, oh so gently, along my arms and spine, legs and feet. He wasn’t doing anything really, it felt almost like when a small child explores you while you’re distracted with something else. When he’d finished one side he asked me to notice how I felt. The half that was still ‘normal’ now seemed to be chunkier, clunkier, to be made of lots of angles and bits, while the side he’d been working on was an integrated, smooth whole. Fortunately, we were only halfway through the session.

As a rule, I don’t go in for hyperbole and I don’t do things for kickbacks, but I’ve recommended Richard to friends both fit and doubled in pain and I strongly advise you to do as I did, and find out what his method is about for yourself. I promise you’ll be glad you did.