same life -- new location

shots of grace

2009-12-18T00:05:00.002-06:00

It is 2 AM, and I am awake.

I could have said the same at 1 AM.

If my computer had not decided to be the central element in a Mr. Science project, I would be sitting at it. Drafting this post. Or talking to the type of close friends on the West Coast that would not mind having Martha Mitchell as a friend.

But the computer is toast. I wlil be stuck at internet cafes until I get back to Oregon for Christmas. At least, I now what my gift to myself is going to be this year.

I know why I cannot sleep tonight. I am in a place of junctions.

I received a letter fom a long-time friend today informing me that he was making a major life change. It was almost as if the Pope had called to tell me that transubstantiation did not make sense to him, and he had decided to be a Quaker. My friend´s choice is his to make. It simply caught me off guard.

Another friend sent me an email that his well-planned life seems to be unraveling bit by bit. Work. Relationships. Nothing seems to be going as he thought it would at this stage of his life.

And Wednesday night was the last night of my Bible study on prayer. I enjoyed presenting the series, but there is something bittersweet when it is all over.

I suspect that a lot of this musing has its root with the loss of computer access. It provided me with immediate communication with friends, acquaintances, and total strangers. Using the internet cafe is a bit like relying on a third-rate Methadone program.

For the past eight months, I have been struggling to get through Anne Lamott´s Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith. I picked it up again on Tuesday after I moved into the new place, and started from the beginning -- where every good story should start. And I finished it off on Thursday morning.

Anne can be a challenging read. She is neurotic. A bit depressing at times. Even mean. But she is authentic. Even when I disagree with her, I always learn something new.

When she is on point, her essays cut right to the heart -- of the matter, and yours.

I ran across one of those passages in the last essay of this collection.

The gist of the story is that faith and grace will not look as they do in Bible stories, wlil not involve angels, flames, or harps. Some pitiful thing appears or occurs, entirely inadequate to help shift this grim situation, and it can´t possibly be enough, but then it is.

Simple. But, from my experience, true.

So, I am going back to bed. To find that ¨pitiful thing¨that wlil give me some space for rest.

Whatever is unsettling me will also find its place of rest.

Of that, I have faith -- and, I hope, the grace to accept it.

making a list -- another one

2009-12-17T00:06:00.000-06:00

Santa Claus came to town on Tuesday.

So did Joseph, Mary, wise men, shepherds, and an assorted cast that would do Cecil B. DeMille proud.

It is Christmas in Mexico and cultures are clashing.

There were few signs of Christmas in Melaque until this week. The school had its Christmas tree. A few shops had small decorations.

But it was difficult to distinguish the red and green motif for Guadalupe home decorations from Christmas lights. I think there may be another assimilation point embedded in that bait.

With Guadalupe duties out of the way, my neighbors have launched full throttle into Christmas. And I mean Mexican serious.

Around noon on Tuesday, I was rushing back to the house with some ice. Of course, the street was blocked. It seems that every time I get into a rushed northern mode, something gets blocked. The streets. The store aisle. The toilet.

This blockage appeared to be a group of mothers -- with cameras. I have one of those. I should have known what I would find.

If I have learned anything in Mexico, it is this: If you cannot go forward, stop, get out of your car, and enjoy whatever is going on.

I´m glad I did.

The mothers were photographing what mothers the world over photograph -- their children.

But not just their children. Their children dressed up in Christmas pageant finery. Mexican Christmas pageant finery. Not your dad´s left over robe or a worn-out sheet.

Stars. Mary. Joseph. Wise men. Shepherds. Angels. And some not-so-apparent assorted cast members.

Even though they were infant school by age, they formed willingly into a solemn procession. And processed.

They walked only two blocks with faces set sternly showing that Serious Work was being done on the cobblestones of San Patricio.

And they were accompanied by song. I say ¨accompanied¨ because the children were too intent on their roles to join in song. The mothers and teachers provided the cinematic soundtrack for this trek to Bethlehem. They sang full-throated and with joy -- except for the frequent maternal note trapped on the border between singing and crying.

Then they stopped. More singing. More photographs. And the distribution of candy to the entire cast. Solemn faces breaking into smiles of unexpected gifts.

This is, of course, the opening of the season where a very young Mary and an equally-young Joseph will walk home to home seeking entry -- only to be refused. But a door will finally open to admit them to provide succor from their long journey.

A good lesson on life´s vagaries and subsequent grace.

There was not so much grace with the arrival of Santa in San Patricio that evening.

No solemn procession for Saint Nick. He arrived with an entourage of tracer light bedecked vehicles -- including electronic reindeer who appeared to have escaped from the Costco zoo. And there was the omnipresent Mexican fiesta accessory: the speaker-topped car blaring, in this case, Jingle Bells in Spanish.

It was pure Vegas with the odd exception that Santa was on a wooden-wheel cart. Perhaps humility tarted up in show girl lights?

Santa was thin as a Grinch, and as European-featured as -- well, Santa Claus.

The children ran for blocks to greet him. Or to greet the candy he was showering on them.

The parade ended under a giant piñata that was whacked and whacked until it disgorged its bounty of sweets -- sweets that were scooped up by children gone wild. Sugar must be the foundation of everything Christmas in my small village by the sea.

I am not one of those outsiders who rails against American and Canadian culture ruining Mexican holidays.

The ancestors of the people in this village have been dealing with waves of invaders for thousands of years. Each wave has been assimilated into the existing culture. The result being the current menudo that surrounds us.

So, bring on the kids learning about the incarnation and the salving balm of grace. But we can also fit a bit of Santa into the day to celebrate the sheer joy of life.

I suspect the young Jesus would have liked his whack at the piñata.

Note:

I have some great photographs to be added to this blog when -- and if -- my computer returns from the land of the undead.

the wages of hubris

2009-12-16T00:04:00.001-06:00

For nine months, I have been quite smug when the topic of home invaders comes up.

Sure, I have been fending off ants, cockroaches, land crabs, assassin bugs, spiders the size of dinner plates, biting flies, biting gnats, mosquitoes, crickets, bees, bats, swallows, geckos, lizards, and snakes (OK. Snake.).

But I always amaze my neighbors when I say I have never seen a scorpion in the house. In fact, I have never seen one in Mexico.

Well, ¨had¨ never seen.

When I was a boy scout, we would visit a fossil bed in central Oregon for weekend camping. It was the perfect boy spot. Open spaces. Heat. Lots of rocks to crack open. Cliffs to scramble across. And a cool river for a swim at the end of the day.

If I was in a non-social mood, I would slip away from the camp fire and wander off to look at the night sky or, in my fondest dreams, to catch a glimpse of a coyote loping across the desert.

On one of those adventures, I crept up to a ridge, lying down at the crest, to see if I could spot any wildlife. I was Cochise on the hunt.

But there was nothing. The moon lit up the valley as bright as any stage, but nothing moved.

Then I felt something on my right hand. A scorpion. I had never seen one before. This one was small. Dark. Perhaps because of the moonlight, it looked menacing and fascinating.

Sensing that I was neither a good meal or even a hint of imminent danger, it scampered off in search of something to eat -- something to keep it alive for just one more day at a time.

I thought of that incident when I spotted my first Mexican scorpion this week. I was on my way out the door to shake a rug when I saw a small brown object on the floor.

I immediately knew what it was. We seem to be hard-wired to recognize some dangers.

It was probably the shape. Nothing has that chunky rectangular shape topped off by an inquiring question mark tail.

I nudged it with my foot to see if I had a corpse on my hands. It was so still, it could easily have been dead.

It wasn´t. It started an evasive scamper.

For one brief shining moment, I considered the life option. I had not killed the scorpion on my first encounter: why kill this one? After all, it was headed right toward the door.

Hard-wiring won out over compassion.

For all of their fearsome appearance, scorpions die easily. But not without retaining the hope for venomous revenge. When I picked up the carcass, the tail was still moving slowly in the small hope of scoring a point against my own goal.

For nine months, I have walked barefoot in the house. Common sense tells me there is a reason to modify that practice.

Unless I want to ante up on another hubris lesson.

farewell in sea minor

2009-12-15T00:08:00.002-06:00

I was going to spend a lazy afternoon; but, it spent me.

One of those tropical winter days -- all heat, light, and sound.

Joel Grey sings I am a Sentimental Man in the background.

I am not a sentimental man. I profess no love of mawkish emotionalism.

But this is a week to start toting up life´s ledger. To let the left side of my brain dance on its own balcony.

I am moving house. To a sedentary laguna with its sunning crocodiles and hyacinth-hopping grebes.

Away from the one thing that has defined my months in Mexico -- the Pacific. The sea drew me and has held me here.

I have always loved large bodies of water. As a sailor, a tourist, a sometimes resident. Whether the Pacific, Aegean, Atlantic, Indian. North, or Caribbean.

I have been as beguiled as Odysseus by their siren calls.

With the exception of stormy days, my experience is that waves lap the shpre.

Not in Villa Obregon. When I arrived in April, the waves would crack against the beach. Not crash. Crack.

They were loud enough to startle Jiggs into believe we were in the midst of thunder. The impact was great enough that the house would shake with each wave. I have missed several earthquakes -- some this week -- because I mistook the shaking for waves.

I have a friend who is a videographer. I have told him several times he should come to my beach to record the waves.

He could create a complete sound effect library. Rifle shots. Car crashes. Subway trains. Fighter jets. They are all there. In the waves.

The price to pay for the symphony is dangerous swimming water. More than once the waves have introduced me to the sandy bottom.

Bikers get road rash. Swimmers in Villa Obregon get beach rash.

For six months I lived with my tempermental neighbor. Then, one day in October, the mood switched. Sunday the equivalent of broken crockery, Monday all sweetness and light.

I thought I had traded places with Islagringo. The effefct was almost Caribbeanish. The waves caressed the shore. Swimmers enjoyed the surf without worrying about spending the rest of the day getting sand out of their suits.

The only people disappointed with the change were the skimboarders.

Perhaps, Poseidon was content. If so, his bipolar disorder flared up again last week.

The waves are back with all of their fury. Living up to their nickname La Playa de las Tambors -- Beach of the Drums.

I entered this play when the sea was thrashing the shore. I now leave it almost as it was nine months ago.

There is something comforting in that. Consistent unpredictability.

But I leave without sentiment. Because the sea does not care if I am there or not.

And I am pleased to know it will always be just as I left it.

Waiting -- if I decide to return.

turn on the green flash

2009-12-14T12:58:00.006-06:00

Before there was a Captain Jack Sparrow.

Before there was At World´s End.

There was the quest for the Green Flash.

Like most heroic sagas, its origin plays hide and seek with the fog of my memory.

My favorite theory (and the only one I can conjur up these days) is that I heard of the Green Flash in a National Geographic story about Key West. The accompanying photograph showed a crowd -- each person with the expectant gaze of religious pilgrims. As if some apparition was going to show up as a tropical projection.

In a sense, it was. They were all waiting, on the outside chance, that they would see the Green Flash.

For all of the romance attached to it, the Green Flash is nothing more than light refraction.

If conditions are just right, as the last portion of the sun slips below the sea´s horizon, for one brief magic moment, that crumb of the sun seems to turn green. For less than a second. For a mere -- flash.

In my years of sailing, cruising, and living on or near oceams and seas, I have seen the Green Flash only a few times. Once, on a cruise off the coast of Namibia. At dinner with my friends Roy and Nancy in a restaurant on the Oregon coast. And, now, three days in a row on the beach of Villa Obregon.

Is it a talisman? Of course not. That would be supersticious twaddle.

Is my life better for seeing it? I think so. At least, in the sense that it reenforces the drive to see magic in every day.

And for at least a few more months, I can continue that quest on the beach of my small fishing village.

Jack Sparrow could not wish more.

please stand by

2009-12-13T14:46:00.004-06:00

I wish I could find one of those old ¨technical difficulty¨signs from the early days of television.

You know the ones . ¨Please stand by. We are experiencing technical difficulties.¨

The problem is that I would not be able to post it if I found it because I am experiencing technical difficulties.¨

Well, my computer is.

It appears the sea finally won its tug of war. I took my laptop to the local computer guru when my wireless card failed to work properly. It turns out, the computer was ¨full of water.¨ I hope that was more hyperbole than diagnosis.

Hyperbole or not, my computer will be out of operation for the remainder of the week.

Coincidentally, I will be, as well. I have some symptoms indicating that I may get the privilege of having a touch of tropical ¨flu.¨

That means I will miss the ballet tonight. As soon as I finish this post, I am off to bed for the remainder of the day. I need to retain some strength for moving house on Tuesday.

If an opportunity arises, I will post. Otherwise, I will be back on line as soon as I can get a computer (and fingers) that work.

cheating with cheetos

2009-12-12T00:03:00.000-06:00

They say confession is good for the soul.

They are correct.

One way or another, our short comings always find us out. In my case, usually around my waist.

My name is Steve -- and I am a junk food junkie. No sugar for me. I cut right to the salt and the grease.

When I started visiting Mexico, I was impressed with all of the unusual flavors for potato chips: chili and lime, habañero, jalapeño.

But it did not take me long to discover that all of the bags contained essentially the same taste: chili and lime. Even the pizza-flavored chips tasted like -- chili and lime.

What was once exciting became boring. But that was fine with me. I was in a weight loss frame of mind -- and cutting junk food out of the picture made the inches melt away.

This week I drove down to Manzanillo to pick up my mail. That drive and some recent life episodes put me in a rather pensive frame of mind.

And I could feel the temptation building when I stopped at the Oxxo to buy a Coke Light. The racks of chili-lime-infused chips called to me.

But it is easy to avoid temptation when the temptress is singing a song with no allure.

All went well until I spotted a familiar package. The Cheetos cheetah. There they were. The very epitome of junk food -- Cheetos puffed corn balls. Every kid in America was weaned to them.

Without one bit of guilt, I grabbed a bag. Grabbed my Coke Light. Paid. And was on my way. Bag ripping open as the pesos soared mano a mano.

I was not out the door before I realized the wages of sin are counted in artificial flavors of -- chili and lime.

Right. I neglected to look at the bag very closely. See the icon at the top? These are not your every day Cheetos corn puff balls. They are chili-lime Cheetos corn puff balls.

If I have learned one thing in Mexico, it is this. Whatever life deals you, enjoy it.

So, I ate my corn balls and drank my Coke Light as if I was dining on squab at Antoine's.

And I bought another bag the next day.

But that was enough.

Because abstinence does not make the heart grow fonder.

my best girl

2009-12-11T00:05:00.001-06:00

My Aunt Bessie was the Queen of Spain.

The East Wind.

The fifth card for an inside straight.

Every family has a Mame Dennis -- their own Auntie Mame. Bessie was ours.

My family valued Piety. Humility.

Not my Great Aunt Bessie. She was different. She drank. She smoked. She swore like a madam. And she laughed with a cackle that could make Calvin Coolidge smile.

Her goal was to enjoy life and to be the center of attention wherever she went. She was not going to starve at life's banquet --and she was determined that no one she loved would even lose weight.

Aunt Bessie and Uncle Don had no children of their own until I was well into elementary school. I had the honorary role of being their boy. From time to time, I would stay with them and join them on their adventures.

The year was 1958. The Fourth Republic had given way to the Fifth, and Charles de Gaulle was the new president of France. It was an era of hope in Paris.

I can still remember the little night club on the Left Bank. Almost as if the set of Casablanca had been transported to Paris.

The lights dimmed. The haute couture set fell silent.

In the burst of a spotlight, there she was. As small as the light was bright. Dressed in black -- stark against her silver heaven.

Edith Piaf. The Little Sparrow.

There are moments we will never forget. For me, that light, that figure are burned in my memory.

The haunting opening strain of Le Fete Continue. The dry cough -- barely short of a hack.

And that little voice. Hoarseness echoing smoky years. But growing stronger with each bar -- singing with the power of a torch singer who can exercise the magic of music to put her flame back in her life.

That night is one of my favorite memories.

Unfortunately, it never happened. There was no trip to Paris. No night club. No Edith Piaf.

But I am convinced that I would tell the same story under hypnosis. It is that real to me. I believe it happened. I just know it didn't.

So, why does it keep replaying in my mind like an out-take from a Claude Chabrol film?

I forgot to tell you one thing about Aunt Bessie. She was a master story teller. The best. Garrison Keillor could have taken lessons from her.

Every tale improved over time with each telling -- like a Chateau Margaux aging to its prime. Occasionally it was even possible to recognize the original event.

But she was also a dreamer. The youngest of seven children, sixteen younger than the oldest, she was allowed to be the princess and to spin dreams.

The last time I saw her was in 1998. I was showing a young English woman around Oregon when I received news that Aunt Bessie had been hospitalized. The years of enjoying herself at life's banquet had weakened her heart, but not the heart of her life.

The moment we entered the room, Aunt Bessie was on stage. And we were pulled into her gravitational pull. The moons of Jupiter would have had a better chance of escaping than we did.

The moment Aunt Bessie heard my friend was English, I was reduced to a supporting cast member. She asked my friend to sit beside her on the bed.

They talked of gardens and castles and manor houses and dead kings. They would have gone on for hours if the nurse had not scolded us for overstaying our visit.

As we were leaving, Aunt Bessie took our hands and said: "Thank you both for taking me to England."

At the time, I took her comment as one more of her heartfelt, slightly hyperbolic statements of gratitude.

That was the last time I saw her alive. Her heart simply could not go on sharing life's bounty.

When her daughter went through her effects, she found a note that she forwarded to me. Aunt Bessie wrote the note about a year before her hospitalization -- obviously knowing the end was near.

The note said that she had only one regret in life: that she had never been able to visit England. But she hoped someone would take her there -- one day.

That note was almost a Rosetta Stone to my aunt's character. It helped to explain her emotional thanks in the hospital.

But more than that. My aunt was one of those people who could eke life out of every experience -- by traveling, by reading, or by adopting for her own the experiences of others.

Did I see Edith Piaf in Paris with my Aunt Bessie and Uncle Don?

The answer is as much yours as it is mine.

But I know two things.

I enjoyed my trip to England with my aunt.

And I have no doubt -- she was the Queen of Spain.

deconstructing la mesa de computadora

2009-12-10T00:05:00.000-06:00

I admire people who can do things with their hands.

They are all over the Mexico blogs. You cannot read very long before running across this crafty lot.

Calypso with his tools and construction projects. Theresa and Nancy with their knitting and sewing skills. Even Felipe with his grassy dreams.

Not me. When I see the initials "DIY" on any box, I know it is not for me. It is not coincidental that the term should be pronounced: "DIE."

And I come by it honestly. My father was great at many things. Fixing things was not one of them.

Over the years, I have proven this defect in my skills. I have a list of disasters that would make Warren Harding look like a piker.

With that load of neuroses in my backpack, I wandered off to Manzanillo to buy a computer table for the new house.

It seemed to be a simple task, but nothing was offered assembled. Everything came in a box. From China.

I finally chose a nice wood and glass combination that would fit perfectly in the guest bedroom. About $200 (US). But it looked nice on the box. The fact that the floor model was falling apart should have been some sort of warning.

The home owner allowed me to start putting the table together this week.

I looked at the instructions. I knew my Spanish would not be up to the task. But the Chinese manufacturer must not have had Spanish skills, either, because the instructions were in picture form. Great, thought I. Forgetting that lots of Mayan hieroglyphics have yet to be translated.

Another pleasant surprise, the entire table could be assembled using a little allen wrench. And it was enclosed with the hardware. How cool is that?

Within ten minutes I had the full frame put together. With everything as pictured. I was impressed. My confidence was building.

Then I noticed, there were no holes drilled for the wheels. And no screws. No problema. I could borrow a power drill and screws are sold everywhere. Hurdle crossed. Angst stuffed back into the backpack.

I knew the next step would be a little more difficult. The surface for my laptop was a large slab of glass supported on two metal columns. Snazzy look. I put the glass where I could reach it to balance it on the columns.

I know what you are thinking. But just wait. Show some respect for the master builder.

OK. Now you can start doubting.

I am still not certain what happened next. I must have budged the glass with my foot. I know it did not fall over. Instead, it simply exploded into thousands of shards. Almost as if a sniper had barely missed turning my head into an exploding melon.

I was left was a nifty little building project that has ended similar to all of my past construction projects. I have a great topless table.

The clever ones amongst you will have a lot of suggestions on how to salvage this. For now, I am simply going to use the kitchen table.

Next time, I will simply take a ball peen hammer and break the glass before I start another project.

May as well jump to the chase.

being good on the cheap

2009-12-09T00:01:00.004-06:00

My good friend, Gary Denness, over at The Mexile, needs your help.

For the past four years he has taken on almost Herculean labors in the name of good works. Out of pain, he hopes to raise money for his favorite charity: Wildcoast.

Because you are a clever lot, your minds are already rushing ahead of me. Just say the word "charity," and the excuses start forming: "I gave at the office."

Lower those defensive shields. There is actually good news. Very good news. No need to reach for that beloved coin purse. He is not hitting us up for a donation.

He is doing the hard work: raising money by running advertisements on a blog he has created for this grueling event.

And here is all you have to do. Click on either of the following two links: Insurgentes Mexico City or Tours Mexico City.

That's it. By doing that, you will improve Gary's event page ranking on Google. Advertisers like that.

Doing good could not be easier.

You'll feel better. And the Pacific coast will be the better for it.

the russians are coming; the russians are coming

2009-12-08T00:04:00.001-06:00

But don't expect to see Alan Arkin, Carl Reiner, or even John Philip Law.

This time the Russians are not invading New England.

Russians are clever enough to forsake winters that remind them of their own. This clever lot is coming to Manzanillo to dance their hearts out for a public starved for haute culture.

Do not expect dancing bears or prancing Cossacks. We are talking ballet here.

And if it is Russian. And if it is Christmas. Can the strains of the celesta be far behind?

The lucky folks who attend will get their annual fix of sugar plum fairies and waltzing flowers from THe Nutcracker Suite. Not to mention the vaguely disturbing presence of "Uncle" Drosselmeyer. Every piece of good art needs tension.

But they will get more. The Russian company will also present several other dance pieces.

For those of us who complain that the Mexican Pacific coast is short on high cultural events, this is an opportunity to put our pesos where our mouths are and our butts in seats.

So, when is all of this happening? Next Sunday, 13 December at the Marbella Salon in Manzanillo.

One of our favorite bloggers, New beginnings in Manzanillo, is promoting this event. And those of us who know her should be there to lend our cultural-starved hands. It was through her efforts that Professor Jiggs lived as long as he did in Mexico.

No. That sounds manipulative. We should be there because it will be a good time. And fun is a good enough reason for anyone.

I know it is for me.

pearl harbor has a competitor

2009-12-07T01:28:00.002-06:00

For two years, I was an only child. And then my parents turned on me.

Just short of my second birthday, my mother brought a blanket-covered competitor into our house in Powers -- my brother, Darrel.

I welcomed my new brother in typical style -- by throwing a toy truck at my mother and breaking her glasses.

That incident was followed by arrows, pellet guns, and broken violin bows. Between the two of us. By that point, our pother had reverted to her sacred honor of being a fairy princess.

My memory says all of those violent acts were not my doing. But, hey, it's my memory and my blog. And we were boys.

But there were much better times, as well.

The best of those have come during the past decade after our father's death. The two of us have become much closer. Sharing accomplishments and losses. Drawing closer as time draws its boundaries around us.

He helped me moved to Mexico and stayed for the first month to ease my transition -- taking time away from his own family and job. And he repeatedly helps me keep my computer operating in my brine-doused beach house. Without him there would be no blog.

It has been a certain number of years since that fateful day in December when I discovered that the world did not revolve around me.

It is my brother's birthday today.

And what better time to thank him for being my best brother. My best friend.

Happy birthday, guy.

pot on the streets

2009-12-06T00:10:00.003-06:00

Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahtz!

Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahtz!

Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahtz!

The old man was walking down the main street of my little village. Repeating his nasal call.

It was not loud, but it was the tone. I am certain it pierced every concrete and adobe wall.

Of course, he was not saying "Pots." It was something in Spanish.

But the word didn't matter. His was a call, as the psalmist would (and did) say: "as deep calls to deep." Penetration trumps comprehension.

I did not need my Spanish dictionary. It would have done me no good because I could not understand what he was saying.

But I knew by the ceramic pots strung over his shoulders what he was selling. Just like The Streets of Laredo, I could tell by his outfit that he was a salesman, too.

That got me to thinking, who is his target market?

I understand the vegetable truck, the enchilada man, the water guy, the boy selling dulce pan, the knife sharpener. They are all selling products that when the señora de la casa hears the honk, cry, horn, or Tarzan yell, she knows she has an immediate need for the product. Most often, it will be off of the truck and on the dinner table that day -- often within the hour.

But a ceramic pot? Who sits around the house thinking: "Gee. I wish someone would wander through my neighborhood selling ceramic pots."

Maybe there is a high incidence of people transplanting house plants without first thinking: I need to buy a pot. Thank heaven that man is coming down the street.

But it is not just ceramic pots. Trucks cruise our street selling mattresses, couches, chairs, and dressers. And not once have I seen anyone run into the street to stop one of these travelling Wal-Marts with a look of relief that a mattress crisis has been resolved.

I love the convenience of being able to buy so many necessities right in front of my house. But it appears that a good idea has gone just a bit astray.

I am not certain which category I would place the drugs and sex that are for sale on the next block. With a little imagination, someone could add rock and roll and market it as The Boomer Trifecta.

I don't even want to think what that wall-piercing call would sound like.

on the road with Steve

2009-12-05T00:06:00.002-06:00

Rumors persist that your intrepid correspondent does not actually get out of the boundaries of his small fishing village by the sea.

Here is proof positive -- without the magic of PhotoShop.

My friend, Roy, his sister, Marcia, and I are strolling the ever-pleasant streets of old town Puerto Vallarta. It was a practically perfect day -- for all of us.

sunset boulevard

2009-12-04T00:05:00.001-06:00

I promised some time back that I would post no new sunset photographs.. After all, I will be at the beach house for only two more weeks. There are a lot of objects to photograph other than refracted light on the sea.

This sunset on Wednesday evening changed my mind. It looks like a peacock in the sky.

I have never seen clouds with that type of texture isolated as a sunset canvas. Click on the photograph and see them in detail.

It was magnificent enough that locals and tourists alike stopped on the beach to watch it develop.

I would not be meeting my blog duty if I let it pass uncommented.

coming clean

2009-12-03T00:08:00.000-06:00

I finally succumbed to another luxury of Mexico.

In The States, I would never consider taking my laundry to a stranger. That would have been the moral equivalent of airing my dirty linen in public.

Oops. I guess that is literally what I did. (Notet to Joe Biden. This is what "literally" means.)

We were all taught from a young age how to use the washer and dryer, and how to fold and store clothes. Asking someone to do that for you would have been unthinkable. Lazy. Sybaritic. Just not done.

Well, after eight months of fighting the washing machine at the house on the beach, I surrendered. I had three weeks of laundry (starting with clothes from my two-week vacation), and I simply did not want to deal with a machine that manages to get grit in clothes after they are washed.

When my brother was here, he found a laundress two blocks from the house. That was in May. But I am a bit slower than my sainted brother. It took me a bit longer to get there, but I dropped off my large pile of laundry this morning.

She weighed it, asked me to fill out a claim form, and then showed me the price: 660 pesos -- due on pick up at 5 this afternoon. As I was driving away, I started thinking about that figure. It seemed just a bit high to me. That would be about $51 (US). Of course, there were lots of clothes, and they were really dirty.

The calculator she used had about six zeros following the 66. I just assumed the decimal point. 660 pesos seemed too high. But 66 pesos seemed ridiculously low (about $5 (US) for over a suitcase full of laundry.

For those of you who have used these services, you know the answer. The bill was 66 pesos. For the cost of an American magazine, she washed, dried, ironed, folded, and packaged three weeks of laundry.

This is a service I am going to use more often. My Protestant ethic will simply need to be readjusted. Certainly, I can do my laundry myself. But she does it better and it takes one camping inconvenience off of my things to do in Mexico.

Luxury or not. My laundress has a new customer.

bugging out in melaque

2009-12-02T00:15:00.003-06:00

Somewhere some modern Pharaoh (I suspect Hugo Chávez) is holding Chosen People captive.

My request: Let them go. My legs and arms can't take any more.

This past week we have had a visitation of mosquitoes.

No. Visitation is not the word. That sounds like respectable ladies in white gloves and haute couture hats making their rounds in The Hamptons.

Infestation is more like it. Genesis plague material.

My small fishing village by the sea has always had more than its share of biting-stinging insects. Every paradise comes equipped with its own serpent. The cost for admission in Melaque is the occasional bite from some unidentified bug.

Now that I have become a regular sea bather, a bite now and then was worth the joy of life by the sea.

But, as the Monty Python troupe would remind us: "And now for something different." Well, not so different. Just more.

This past week the mosquitoes have been out in force in their death squadrons. As if they know their wintery death draws nigh.

Monday night is a good example. I had dinner with a neighbor at an open-air restaurant near my new house. Due to bites earlier in the week, I slathered myself with DEET 100 -- the NOB variety unavailable in Mexico. The owner had also taken the precaution to set out coils of burning citronella to ward off the mosquitoes.

It worked no better than the Maginot Line. The mosquitoes had their way with both of us. And I think it is the first time I have ever seen mosquitoes bold enough to land on food to rest. Maybe they have an undiscovered affinity for quesadillas de camarón.

Even my house offers a great buffet for mosquitoes. Wherever I am, mosquitoes find me. Reading on the couch. Cooking dinner. In bed. Chicken pox could not look less attractive on me than my current collection of mosquito scars.

Mosquito bites heal. However, a portion of the mosquitoes around here belong to Aedes aegypti -- pictured above. Easily identified by those white knees. Like some mini-skate board dude.

The name should sound familiar. We all heard it in grade school. It is the mosquito that almost stopped the Panama Canal. Its bite is not the problem. What it carries in its gut is. This is the prime carrier of yellow fever.

Thanks to William Gorgas, Walter Reed, and Carlos Finlay, we now have a vaccine to protect us from yellow fever. I recently had a booster.

But Aedes aegypti carries another virus, as well -- dengue fever. Melaque is currently awash in dengue. In comes in four varieties -- the nastiest is a hemorrhagic variety with a high mortality rate.

The common variety, however, is usually not deadly. You just wish you could die. What you get is fever, bladder problems, constant headaches, eye pain, severe dizziness, and a complete loss of appetite.

Oh, yes. When you move, the pain is so bad in your joints that it feels as if your bones are breaking. Thus, its common name: "bonebreak fever."

For me, concern over dengue fever is right up there with the fear of being eaten by piranha in my bath tub. But it would be a real pain to get it while I plan a trip to Oregon for Christmas.

So, wherever that Pharaoh is, I will put in my request, again: Let those people go -- wherever they are.

And just skip the plague of biting flies. We've already had them.

tripping with steve

2009-12-01T00:09:00.003-06:00

Monday was the day I was to start my mini-trips away from Melaque.

And I did just that.

The result was not quite what I had anticipated, though.

I decided to start my journey with the place that first attracted me to coastal Mexico: La Manzanilla.

It is just a half-hour drive up the highway. But it was a perfect place to start for three reasons.

The first is the ocean. Now that I have overcome my head under the water fear, I have been swimming off the Melaque beach. Our waves are not as brutal as usual.

But the waves at La Manzanilla are almost as caressing as those on the Caribbean. The Melaque waves pound; the La Manzanilla waves swoosh.

La Manzanilla also has some rock formations that make for interesting snorkeling. So, I tossed my mask, snorkel, and fins into the truck with the anticipation of finding the wily Pacific Octopus.

The second reason for choosing La Manzanilla as a starting point was Lora Loca's -- one of my favorite eateries. Laura, the owner, puts together one of the best baked enchilada dishes I have ever eaten. And her restaurant is right on the beach.

The third reason was fortuitous. My blogger friend, New Beginnings in Manzanillo, is working for a charitable organization that is sponsoring cultural events in Manzanillo -- the first this season is a Russian ballet company. (I will post more on that topic later this week.)

She told me that she would be in the jardin selling tickets on Monday. It was a great opportunity for me to see her again and to catch up on the last few months. I also wanted to thank her for all of the assistance she gave me when Professor Jiggs was ill.

That was the plan. Three fun things to do on a day trip. Should be easy. What could go wrong?

My first stop was at the jardin. My friend was there. We talked. We laughed. I bought a ticket. We had a great time.

Just like a good day trip should be.

Because the afternoon was getting on, I headed over to Lora Loka's -- where my run of good luck appeared to end. The place was closed up tighter than my Uncle Asher's wallet.

But I am not easily deterred when it comes to food. I noticed that Jolanda's was open. She is an amazing woman. Dutch, by birth, she lived in Indonesia and other parts of Asia. Her cooking reflects that background. I remember how surprised I was to find an Indonesian restaurant in little La Manzanilla during my first visit.

I probably sat there far too long. I really do not know how long it was. But the soft purr of the surf, the sand, the sun, the palm trees, all added up to what most of us seek when we come to tropical Mexico -- a sense of serenity. It is also probably the prime cause for more than a few expatriates becoming unrepentant alcoholics.

Before I could be lulled into becoming part of Jolanda's furniture, I headed out to the beach with my snorkel equipment. It then hit me: I forgot a towel.

No problema. The day was warm enough to dry off au naturale.

The French had barely left my mind when I realized I had a related problem: I forgot to bring my swim trunks with me. I was not going to drive all the way to La Manzanilla without getting in the water.

Now, I could do the math. With my walking shorts and underwear there were at least four possibilities to let me enter the water. One would potentially run afoul of the local authorities. Another would guarantee that I would be miserably wet driving back to Melaque.

So, I either swam in my walking shorts and rode back to Melaque in my underwear or vice versa. I chose the Mexican solution. Simple. Elegant. Modest.

And I had a great time.

La Manzanilla was just the start. Tomorrow I hope to head inland a bit -- to see the towns in the foot hills surrounding Melaque.

calling buddy holly

2009-11-30T00:01:00.002-06:00

Tropical Mexico is a huge vaudeville theatre.

For six months, The Amazing Swallows had top billing. Swooping. Diving. Pooping. Then they were gone.

The Scuttling Land Crabs starred for two months. And then they were gone.

The Bumblebees for two weeks. The Biting Flies for five month. Cameo appearances by snakes and various lizards. Here. Then gone.

With the exception of the ever-present (and abundant) las cucarachas, there are no long-term billings in this theatre.

This week's act is The Infernal Chirping Crickets.

They are certainly not the solitary crickets of my youth in Oregon. Up north, I would hear one or two crickets in my back yard. Chirping now and then. As if chirping was not quite cool.

Like everything in the tropics, the crickets in my back yard are not constrained by anything as non-Mexican as seeking a quiet cool. These crickets know how to communicate.

To call it a chirp would be an insult to the decibels these crickets produce. If I did not know better, I would estimate their size somewhere between a city bus and those giant grasshoppers from the 1950 horror films.

But big they are not. I tracked down several. They look just like the crickets I knew as a boy.

Why the larger sound? For one reason, there appear to be more of them. A bunch of young males out to impress the girls at the local singles bar. I am surprised that they do not produce enough friction to simply disappear in a poof of fire.

And perhaps it is the sense of desperation that fills the air in every meeting place of the young as the clock slides near 2 AM. Failure to meet Ms. Right Now means that there will be no little crickets to book into the theatre next November.

So, I sit out on my balcony in the evening enjoying what has become a loud, but intriguing, chorus. And wonder just how Jiminy Cricket got his start in show business.

He must have been booked into a different theatre. Perhaps La Scala.

the perfect servant

2009-11-28T21:06:00.001-06:00

As Mrs. Wilson, the head housekeeper of Gosford Park, Helen Mirren gets one of the classic lines of cinema:

I'm the perfect servant.

I know when they'll be hungry and the food is ready.

I know when they'll be tired and the bed is turned down.

I know it before they know it themselves.

I had one of those practically perfect experiences today on my third (or fourth, depending on how we're counting) day of Thanksgiving.

My small fishing village by the sea is not without its patina of sophistications. Most of our eateries are of the taco-burrito variety. Food that fills without really satisfying either the stomach or the soul. But there are exceptions.

One of the best is Restaurant Maya. I first ate there in July of 2008 when I test drove the house where I am now living. I loved the food.

The owners did not have the place open this summer. Instead, they were in British Columbia. But they are open now.

I was a bit reluctant to stop by -- for two reasons: 1) I was wearing my beach bum outfit and 2) I was afraid my gluttony over the past few days would take the edge off of the food.

Let me tackle ambiance first. Maya is not a shorts and flip flop place. If that is what you are wearing, you will be welcomed, but you will immediately feel as if you stepped onto the wrong sound stage. That was exactly how I felt sitting amongst my better-dressed expatriates.

I purposely use the cinema analogy. If Shakespeare is correct that all the world's a stage, Maya is the Cole Porter Theater.

I sat there tonight looking at the self-conscious arrangement of the well-manicured tables with their tidy candles and cutlery. The ocean and sunset as a backdrop. A canopy of palm trees as a roof. Subtle jazz drifting through the open air. Almost as if Erté had taken a tropical turn.

Even if the food had not been good, the visual effect was enough to make you believe Clara Bowe or Norma Desmond could be sitting next to you at dinner.

But the food is good. No. It is excellent. Considering the ambitious nature of the menu, I am amazed at the consistency.

The menu changes. But the current menu offers the following entrées: vegetarian, 3 fish, 2 prawns, chicken, pork, and beef.

I tried a mahi mahi marinated in lime, basil, and garlic -- along with side dishes of spinach risotto and a carrot-based puree.

I do not like fish. But this I liked. Of course, I also stuffed in a plum flambé with vanilla ice cream.

The total: $290 (including three soft drinks and a coffee). Or about $22 (US).

Try that in Manhattan or Montreal.

But, best of all, were the waiters. Black-clad as any stage hands, they disappeared into the darkness to appear even before the diners knew they needed anything. The perfect servants. Hardly the usual reticent service where waiters need to be summoned with gongs.

Thus ends my journey of self-indulgence. Well, this bout, in any event. Another thing for which I can be thankful.

If all goes as planned, this coming week, I will start some mini-journeys around Mexico. I have no plans. I intend to just head out.

Some of the trips may take me away from the house. If so, I may miss a post now and then because the wireless connection is not working on my laptop.

But you will hear it here first. I may not be the perfect servant, but I will stay in touch.

tail of the turkey

2009-11-28T01:45:00.002-06:00

So, here I am. Three days into my turkey bender. Even though there was a bit of pork sandwiched in between -- as if I were a congressman from Boston.

I have enough tryptophan in my bloodstream to have a go at the Rip Van Winkle Open.

On Friday night I dined with two local attorneys, a hotel owner and his wife, and a friend from Tuxpan. Our conversation was primarily in Spanish. I discovered my listening skills have improved over the past eight months -- to the point I could enjoy (or, at least understand) the lawyer jokes.

We ate at one of the beach spots where herds of expatriates congregate -- usually. The type of place you could not swing a cat without causing abuse concerns from a score of Canadians. In a normal year, the place would have an orderly queue of expatriates waiting for a table.

Not Friday night. Tables sat vacant like jilted lovers waiting for the wandering scoundrels to make amends.

The upside was we enjoyed amazingly attentive service. The downside is if the wanderers do not show up, there may be no place to swing my cat.

The photograph at the top of this post illustrates the problem. That is the main shopping street in the village. On Friday night. If mouths are to be fed, the shops should be filled with tourists willing to exchange hard-earned pesos for shells and sandals. It is simply not happening.

A recent issue of The Economist puts the Mexican economy in perspective. It is hurting.

Fourteen years ago, Mexico's economy came close to collapsing. The peso was devalued in the midst of a bad recession. The United States put together a $50 billion rescue package, and the Mexican economy started to soar with the additional boost of the North American Free Trade Agreement.

I lifted the following graph from The Economist article:

It illustrates that the current recession is deeper than the 1996 recession (with almost a 10% shrinkage of GDP this year) and a drastic decline in exports. So far, inflation has not been a problem.

Mexico is often a slave of its own history, even when it attempts to toss off its yoke.

One goal of the Revolution was to make Mexico less dependent on outside economic forces, especially the United States. Mexico abandoned most of that principle with NAFTA.

But another historical factor undercut that brave move. Even though Mexico had trade agreements with other countries, they were primarily ignored in favor of trade with the United States. When Mexico was a colony, Spain allowed Mexico to trade only with Spain --with all of the troubles that come from a closed economic system. Inadvertently, Mexico resorted to historical type -- and has now paid a very high price for the slip.

But what does this have to do with living our lives in Mexico?

Successive Mexican governments have failed to address a major flaw in Mexico's fiscal health. For historical reasons, almost all taxation is imposed by the federal government. Mexico collects only 11% of its GDP in taxation -- one of the lowest in the world.

As a libertarian, that figure seems just about right to me.

The problem is that the figure has nothing to do with liberty. Mexico collects nothing more because the wealthy are powerful enough to prevent any additional taxes and the poor simply cannot pay more.

The Mexican government recently went through the political equivalent of a slap-down merely to increase the VAT by 1%. And raising taxes during a recession is usually counter-productive -- especially for raising revenue.

Some politicians have raised the possibility of an expatriate tax -- with details remaining increasingly vague. The problem with that option is that it would cause more problems for the government and raise very little revenue. But that is a logical response to a system that thinks it needs money.

If it is to recover from this recession and protect itself in the future, Mexico is going to have to make some very hard choices.

The domestic economy must be reformed with the goal of keeping Mexican labor at home -- rather than relying on remittances as if it were some Third World banana dictatorship. That means repealing regulations that prevent businesses from starting and operating; jettisoning the system of favored monopolies that stymie innovation; reforming trade union laws to remove their veto power over important economic matters.

Can it happen? Certainly, with a political will.

Will it happen? Mexico is about to enter an interesting time. Next month PRI -- a party not known for its reform affection -- will take control of the Chamber of Deputies. We will see if it has learned anything during its exile from power.

In my small fishing village by the sea, the big question is going to be whether the government will simply get out of the way to let turkey dinners be served to restaurants filled with tourists willing to part with their cash.

day two -- and counting

2009-11-27T00:11:00.002-06:00

Today I felt the Newtonian tug of nostalgia.

I mentioned yesterday that Thanksgiving is -- by far -- my favorite holiday. The day that should be spent with family and friends.

Lacking any local family members, I celebrated the holiday with acquaintances from our local church. We share no memories bittersweet with time, as I would with my family or old friends. But, after dining for almost three hours, I certainly have the foundation of good friendships.

Earlier in the day, I must have been suffering from post-stimulation withdrawal of the cruise-Disneyland trip. While walking through the village, I realized I was simply bored.

Part of that was the realization that I was not sharing Thanksgiving with my family. I solved that by calling several people today.

But the dinner also proved there are people wherever we go who can help us share our joy and burdens.

For that we can be thankful.

Every year some postmodern smart-alec journalist tries to impress us with the shocking news that our teachers lied to us in grade school. The rap is the pilgrims did not celebrate the first Thanksgiving in what would eventually be the United States.

I have yet to meet anyone who ever heard a teacher say any such thing. Journalists often confuse straw arguments with reality. The implication being that the earlier Thanksgiving did not comply with the Puritan Myth -- being celebrated by Catholics and Anglicans, you see.

But here are the facts.

On September 8, 1565 Pedro Menéndez de Avilés and 800 Spanish settlers founded the settlement of St. Augustine in what would be Florida. The landing party celebrated a Mass of Thanksgiving. Menéndez then laid out a meal and invited members of the Seloy tribe to participate.

In 1619, the English settlers at Berkley Plantation, Virginia celebrated a modest Thanksgiving on the banks of the James River -- a task they were obligated to perform by their charter, and executed with all the enthusiasm of a 13-year old boy cleaning his room. Considering the civil problems of the settlement, they were probably thankful they had not throttled each other.

On April 30, 1598, early Spanish settlers held a Thanksgiving ceremony and mass in the city of El Paso, Texas. That is them at the top of the post -- just hanging out together in artistic order.

The pilgrims, who obviously had a far better public relations department than the Spanish or the Virginians, did not celebrate their Thanksgiving at Plymouth Plantation until 1621 -- where they handed out construction paper pumpkins and turkeys to Indians who looked as if they had just stopped in from the American plains.

What those four celebrations had in common is that each group had faced long odds and thanked God for their survival.

Which group was first is irrelevant. They were thankful. And we should be, as well.

Without their derring-do, we might be eating our turkey somewhere in the depths of Lower Silesia.

on the first day of thanksgiving

2009-11-26T00:06:00.001-06:00

If I work it correctly, I may be able to stretch this Thanksgiving into a Chanukah-length holiday.

We will skip over the fact that I already cheated by celebrating one Thanksgiving in October -- Canadian style (thanks for the memories). And a nice celebration it was.

But it is now time to celebrate American Thanksgiving -- and I got a great start on Wednesday night. Thanksgiving Eve, if you will. Now, there is a holiday we need to add to the calendar.

An American friend, Jean (she of cinnamon roll fame: buttery buns on the beach), invited a few of her closest friends for Thanksgiving dinner at her house. The bargain was simple. If the invitees brought a side dish and their own beverage, she would provide everything else.

I do not come from a very large family. The most family members I have seen at a Thanksgiving dinner ranges around ten or so. We cannot even fill out a decent Last Supper tableau.

Jean's invitation garnered about 42 guests. And it was a diverse group. Well, as diverse as most expatriate groups are. I sat next to people I had never met before. Because they had just arrived with the snow bird migration.

As is true with all potlucks, there was enough food left over to feed a good portion of our small village. The turkey was very good, but Jean's sister brought a star attraction with her from Portland: a genuine bone-in ham. Her sister then whipped up some of the best pies I have ever tasted, including a blackberry pie made with fresh Oregon blackberries. I could not have asked for anything better at home.

Tomorrow, I will have another dinner at a local restaurant with our new pastor. I suspect the dinner will not come close to Jean's extravaganza.

And on Friday I may have one more. Reservations are still open for Saturday.

Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday. It is not encumbered with the sense of mandatory joyful gift-giving and fears that something is going to go wrong that will end up with half of the family in psychoanalysis for at least forty years. Christmas and Valentine's Day come to mind as the prime candidates for that type of fun.

To me, Thanksgiving is the holiday where you can get together with family, eat a nice meal, have great conversations, play a board game or two, and perhaps catch a football game. I cannot think of one Thanksgiving where disaster struck -- or, if it did, it was not met with humor.

For that reason, I will miss having dinner with my family tomorrow. But I can still be thankful for many things:

That I have a family where I feel safe and loved.
That I have a brother who is my best friend.
That I have a group of marvelous friends throughout the world -- people who know me well from as long ago as grade school to as recent as this past year.
That I have met a fascinating network of people through this blogging process -- people I would never have met, otherwise; some I have not met in person and may never meet; but people who I feel as close to as I do to some of my old friends.
That I have had the opportunity to start this retirement adventure in Mexico and that I am prepared to take it to the next level.
That I enjoy freedoms in Mexico that I would never enjoy in Oregon.
And, most importantly, that the God I know has taught me that sharing His love is the most important thing I can do each day.

And I suppose I should be thankful that the weather is cooling down. That means I can get out on the road and walk a bit more to fight off the pounds that I hear sneaking up behind me.

Maybe that is why Thanksgiving is a holiday best served in daily portions.

we were young together

2009-11-25T00:02:00.000-06:00

"12 is the perfect age."

My friend, John, leaned across the lunch table to make his point, in his best professorial mode.

"You are old enough to have a vague idea how life works, but you don't have any of the adult responsibilities. You know how to fix and maintain a bicycle. How to eke out the most fun in an afternoon with friends. How to avoid adults and their silly obsessions. Practically perfect."

I should point out that it was a well-appointed lunch table in an upscale restaurant he was leaning across. Neither of us could carry off the 12-ishness with much aplomb. Like old men muttering in their country club about socialism.

But, he is correct. 12 was the perfect age. And I have heard that same sentiment from several of my friends recently.

That may be how I ended up in Disneyland for almost a full week -- to be Magic King-demned.

Depending on which version of family history you choose to believe (more of that in a later post), I have not been to Disneyland since 1955 or 1956.

My belated homecoming was originally unplanned. When I decided to take the Mexico cruise, I thought I would immediately jump on an airplane after I disembarked from the ship.

Not so fast, sport. There is only one flight to Mexico on my chosen airline -- and it leaves LA on Saturday. Only on Saturday. My ship came in on Sunday. Sunday is not Saturday.

What to do in Los Angeles for six days?

Well, some friends had the perfect suggestion: join them in looking at the technical side of Disneyland. So I did.

Now, spending a week trying to figure out how Disney works its magic does not mean that you cannot enjoy the fun that Disney offers. And I did.

I have always enjoyed amusement rides. Anything that goes fast, throws you around, and promises even the hint of severe injury will win me over for repeated rides. That means variations on roller coasters operating in the dark or the light. Fake elevators plummeting to the ground. Faux flight simulators. (Hold it. I think just turned Soarin' into an actual flying machine. In Spanish, there would be no problema.)

What pulled it all together, though. was the music. Anne Lamott once wrote about the power of music: "We're walking temples of noise, and when you add tender hearts to this mix, it somehow let's us meet in places we couldn't get to in any other way."

I thought about that quotation as I walked around the amusement park. Disney has installed high-quality speakers throughout the park, and they play uncompressed music that convinces you there must be an orchestra on the other side of the building. Music that is not intellectually challenging, but that is appropriate for families enjoying time together.

I suspect this is what Marx had in mind -- if workers could net $200,000 annually.

Would I go back? Sure.

But the next time I am stuck in Los Angeles, I will probably want to log some more roller coaster time.

I need the address for Six Flags.

And another swig of that "Now-You-Are-12" potion.

the friend ship

2009-11-24T00:41:00.002-06:00

So -- what am I doing on a cruise ship off of the Mexico Pacific coast?

If you have read can you spare a cruise?, you will know the question is rhetorical -- because I have already told you why I was there. You know it. I know it. It is a cheap writer trick.

But here I go, any way.

My former work colleague, Roy, and his sister, Marcia, booked the Mexican cruise before I moved to my small fishing village by the sea. They wanted me to spend the day with them in Puerto Vallarta.

Instead, I signed up for the full cruise.

I am glad I did. It turned out to be a great time -- for a very predictable reason. I thoroughly enjoyed spending a week with close friends.

There was nothing unusual about the ports (Cabo San Lucas, Mazatlan, Puerto Vallarta). I have visited all three regularly on my birthday cruises.

But I do not go on cruises for the ports. I would have been happy to spend seven full days at sea -- simply because the big ships are destination resorts. Most people can find something to keep them stimulated for the entire cruise.

For me, it was friends, food, adventure, and entertainment. Let me put food and friends together -- because we certainly did on the cruise.

Robert Frost said there is something about a wall that wants it down. Steve says there is something about friendship that makes us down food.

In addition to the regular dining rooms, our ship had two speciality restaurants: a steak house and an Italian restaurant. For a small additional charge, we had some of the best food I have eaten outside of Paris and Florence.

Beef eaters know that Mexico does not offer much in the way of tender steaks. The ship did. Even though I am not supposed to be eating beef (triglycerides and all), I stocked up on my annual intake in one week.

I suspect we could have been eating tractor tires, though, and we still would have had a good time. My friends know me well enough that we do not need to fall back on social conventions to keep conversation running. We ran out of food long before we ran out of laughter. That is something I have been missing in Mexico, and that I am now trying to remedy.

Despite what I said about the ports, the adventure element came on land -- or partially on land.

In Cabo San Lucas, I para sailed. That was not a new adventure. I did a tandem para sail several years ago in the Caribbean. This was a solo job. And great fun. At full altitude I could see the whales in the bay. But it was a bit lonely up there. I kept wanting to point out sights, but there was no one there. Do you see a theme here?

In Mazatlan, I went zip lining. I have done zip lining three or four times before. But it never ceases to thrill me. The speed. The height. The sense of impending danger. The shared comradeship. They were all there. And I would gladly do it again.

My only regret about zip lining is that it took so much out of the day, I was unable to get back to town to meet Nancy of Countdown to Mexico. But she was as gracious as she is in her blog. One of these days we will actually meet.

But the top reason I cruise is live entertainment. The ship is filled with small bands and pianists. But my favorites are on stage. And I get my most energy out of the singers and dancers of the ship's company.

I have stopped calling them kids because, even though some of them are just starting their careers, a number of them have been practicing their talents for a few years.

I have mentioned that I try to sponsor an appreciation dinner for the cast on each of my cruises. This cruise was no exception. The full cast showed up, and they were delightful conversationalists.

But their talent is far beyond conversation. They performed two Vegas-quality shows on a moving ship. Singing. Dancing. All with the professionalism you would expect from a Broadway-trained cast.

In fact, at least one performed on Broadway: Adrienne Fiske. Pictured at the top of this post. She is a true star in her own right.

I have now taken twenty-some cruises. But this one will be memorable because friendship ran like a thread through the full week.

And what could be a better result than that?