put it on my card

"[His coach] incorporated beds, dining facilities and a library. Such [coaches] were designed not only to free the traveller from the discomfort of public transport but also to display wealth, status, technological superiority and, as John Ruskin put it, to achieve 'the abashing of plebian beholders.'"


When I read that portion of The Economist's book review of The Smell of the Continent: The British Discover Europe, I was positive the reviewer was discussing some latter-day motor homeowner. Caravans to Normandy -- and all that, what what.


But I was wrong.


The coach described is Lord Byron's. I find it somewhat amusing that even in the early nineteenth century, Byron would pack up his own peculiar vision of This Sceptred Isle while trundling off on The Grand Tour.


I chuckled imagining the author of The Destruction of Semnacherib, scratching out his iambic pentameter on the equivalent of a Winnebago captain's chair.


My middle brow tendencies are exacerbated by the mere mention of Lord Byron's name. It is hard to get Ogden Nash's Very Like a Whale rhymes out of your mind once they are ensconced. And, far as I know, Ogden Nash never sat in a Winnebago -- nineteenth or twentieth century versions.


All of this musing on motor homes, Byron, and Nash started on Sunday afternoon when I realized I am creating a project dilemma for myself -- and I see no way out of it.


I am starting to take my Spanish lessons more seriously. Merely going to class one hour a day, three days a week is not getting me where I need to be with the language.


The positive side is that I am having some conversations with Marta where we actually pass information. Our conversation about the king snake (la culebra) was fun and filled with malapropisms.


And I am wading around in nouns and verbs at the shallow end of the pool with the local merchants. Sometimes even getting my face in the water. That is something.


But the only way I am going to develop any proficiency is to start applying some of the suggestions I have picked up from Mexico Bob.


He suggested a thrifty (and effective) way to expand vocabulary. I modified it a bit by purchasing some 3x5 index cards and a recipe size box.





I then spent Saturday and a good part of Sunday writing Spanish words and phrases (in maroon) on one side of the card with the English translation (in blue) on the other side.


I learned in law school that if I hear something, write it down, and write it down again, I will retain it -- as long as I then put the information to use. Back then, it was case law. Now, it is Spanish case and tense.


Tedious? You bet. I can tell when I am losing my effectiveness: I start mixing up my colors for the two languages. That also mean I am not retaining the new words.


I wish I had started this method when I began my classes. But I was not certain what to expect from the in-class time.


Once I get caught up with the prior class notes this week, I can then reduce each new day's words to cards on the evening of the class itself.


On Monday we are going to start conjugating the verbs "to be" and "to say." That will give my analytical mind a target.


The dilemma is: until I get my cards created, I am not going to have time to get away from the house. (I will confess that I have been catching up on some of my magazines.)


And, after I get the cards done, I am going to need to devote more time to studying. But, I also know, I cannot make Spanish my sole occupation for the next few months.


The moment I try that, I will be jumping in Lord Byron's motor home and heading north across the border where culebra is just another word for nothing else to lose.

minus the hare

Richard Burton mocks us in song.


"A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot."


Of course, Camelot was not located on the Mexico Pacific coast.


It is about midnight and the temperature in the bedroom is the first two digits of an emergency call in The States.


Now, some of my colleagues in the Yucatan will probably point out that 91 is a cold snap for them in July.


For Steve and the Professor this is hot.


And other life must find it hot, as well.


I had dried out the tarps that were once under the swimming pool (another post to come). A few mornings back, I decided to fold up the tarp after it was dry. It had remained undisturbed for a few days.


One thing I have learned in the tropics is that turning over anything can reveal some of the most interesting surprises -- from the tame (cockroaches and land crabs) to the more problematic (venomous centipedes and scorpions). At least, there have been no jumping vermin (other than that odd hopping spider) -- yet.


I slowly turned over the tarp. Several usual suspects scurried away, leaving behind something new: today's photograph post.


At first, I thought it was a tortoise. But as I look back on it, I think it may have been a turtle. About the size of my hand. But it was shy enough that I could not see its head or feet. I took a single photograph with its head partially exposed, but the photograph is so out of focus, I could have been photographing my left foot.


I notified fellow blogger Gary Denness of The Mexile (and tutrle master extraordinaire) that I would be posting a turtle or tortoise photograph. I also noticed that his blog was no longer updating in my blog rol. That is now fixed. If Gary is in your roll, be certain to have his current address posted.


So, folks. I open the floor. With this limited photograph, any idea what this particular creature is -- living in my ever-growing wild kingdom in the back yard?


Ethel Merman is now belting out "We're Having a Heat Wave."


The Professor, the turtle, and I are willing to agree. Richard Burton is full of garbanzos.

why mexico?

Strangers in paradise.


I am repeatedly amazed at how often I receive great advice from people I know through no other source than this blog.


It happened again last week.


A reader, who once lived in Melaque, was going to be in town on business. He wanted to know if I would be interested in sitting down to discuss Mexico -- and Melaque, in particular.


The evening was as typical as any July day on the Costa Alegre. Hot. Humid. Lazy.


We decided to eat at a restaurant we both enjoy: Señor Froy's (yes, with a "y"). He for the lasagna -- "second best in the world."


But the evening was not about eating; it was about living in Mexico.


He told me how he had been retired for several years and traveled the world before he settled on Mexico as a retirement site. Melaque was first. But the summers were too much -- reminded him of why he had left Indiana.


He eventually ended up in the mountains above Colima on the way to Guadalajara. After moving there, he married a Mexican national. (This seems to be a theme amongst single men in Mexico.) He seems to be genuinely happy.


I had been soaking in the information, when he fixed a serious eye on me, and asked: "So, why are you in Mexico?"


For a moment I felt like Ted Kennedy in 1980 when Mike Wallace asked him in a 60 Minutes interview: "Why do you want to be president?" Teddy blew the answer. From that moment on, his quest to topple President Carter was doomed.


And it was not a new question for me. Several people have asked the question of me -- just as pointedly.


My standard answer ("For the adventure.") left him unfazed.


"What is that supposed to mean?"


I am not certain I got to the core of some of my reasons for being here: archaeology, wildlife, learning from new people.


Friday I drove from Melaque to Cihuatlán -- essentially, our county seat -- to buy some goods. As I drove down the coast road, I came to a small rise: part of Isla de Navidad. At the crest of the hill, I saw something anew that I must see two or three times a week: another answer why I moved to Mexico.


Looking south, you see a large alluvial plain with miles and miles of nothing but coconut plantations. The verdant enormity has its own understated beauty. Like most wide vistas, it is difficult to capture in a small photograph, but my attempt is at the top of this post.


Those moments -- and meeting more strangers in this fallen paradise -- may be the best answer to why I am in Mexico.

home to roost

Her name was Susan.


She was small, but energetic.


A face half-way between café au lait and crème caramel -- with freckles.


Her almost-yellow eyes radiated far more interest than intelligence.


I was six and in love with her.


She was not my first pet, but she was one of my favorites. A bantam hen that I raised from a chick at my grandmother's.


Before I left Salem, one of my tasks was to repair a portion of fence around my yard. I told you about in my ducks in a row.


The fence came down in a storm, and I made a MASH-like repair of chicken wire to fill the gap. The quick fix ended up lasting for almost two years.


Last March, I humorously noted that "my neighbors and friends had a vague fear that I was going to introduce a flock of Rhode Island Reds to our very proper urban block."


Little did I know that a chickens-in-the-urban-boundary battle was brewing even as I wrote those words. Some of my fellow Salemites were petitioning the City Council to allow residents to raise up to three hens.


I have been thinking about this post for about a week. But my friend, Al French, brought it to a head on Thursday when he sent me link to The Wall Street Journal. It appears that the chicken wars have come to a head in Salem.


For those of us in Mexico, the arguments on both sides sound almost silly. Chickens are loud, dirty, attractive nuisances for predators. Chickens are great pets, economical, and green.


I was returning from my Spanish lesson earlier this week and had one of those where-is-my camera moments. A hen came dashing out of a house on the corner, and dashed right back inside.


I am not an advocate of chickens in the living room. But after living here, I do not understand why Salem's residents cannot loosen up and stop worrying about what their neighbors are doing with their animals. The horse at the top of this blog lives on a residential lot two blocks from me in Villa Obregon.


Ten thousand people live in this little village. Few of the streets are paved, and they are filled with artillery shell size potholes. There are no traffic signals. The stop signs that do exist are treated as parental suggestions. With a mix of cars, trucks, buses, pedestrians, horses, and Twitter-addicted young women on scooters, no one seems to get hurt.


My former neighbors would not be able to navigate. I know that because it has taken me three months to start feeling comfortable driving through the equivalent of a mayhem video game.


I am a libertarian. I came to Mexico believing it was a proto-socialist state. It isn't. There are lots of rules, but very few people pay attention to them. As is true in most societies, custom trumps law.


This is not a libertarian paradise. But it is a place where people tend to follow their own drummers.


And what happened to Susan? Our Chihuahua-Manchester Terrier mix buried her alive.


It was a tragic end for her.


She would be pleased to know, though, that in my little village by the sea, the local dogs and chickens seem to get along just fine.


Not quite Isaiah's wolf and lamb. But it's a start.

it's the photographs that got small

I met her on the airplane coming south from Los Angeles. July of last year.


She was from one of those cities in central Canada that always cause me to shiver when I hear the name.


Recently divorced, she had come to Mexico for a week to experience A New Life. She was almost giddy with the prospect of seeing the Magic of Mexico. You could almost hear the extraneous capitalization of nouns.


I ran into her on the streets of Melaque several times.


Everything was Perfect. The People were the Fiendliest People she had ever met. The weather, though hot and humid, had touched "The Center of My Soul."


The Little Fishing Village was filled with nothing but joy for her.


I was happy for her, but I was starting to worry that, like Billy Pilgrim, she was beginning to come unstuck in time.


The last time I saw her was on a street corner. She was looking dreamily into the middle distance. We began chatting. Suddenly, her eyes went wide. And she started looking frantically in her beach bag. If we had been in Detroit, I would have thought she was looking for a hand gun.


"Where IS it? Where IS it?"


I was beginning to think she had become unstuck from more than merely time.


I then glanced over my shoulder. An elderly Mexican woman with an umbrella was walking toward us.


Ms. New Life raised her camera just as the woman was about to walk past us.


But that did not deter her. In English, she said in her best Cecil B. DeMille voice: "Excuse me. Could you go back and walk toward us? I would like a Photograph."


The Woman With The Umbrella (as the photograph would be known) would never enter the world of art. The Mexican woman looked bewildered but continued on her way.


Ms. New Life looked at me, pure exasperation airbrushed on her face. "They are so friendly, but frustrating."


Every time I think about this story, I find it hard to believe that it happened in Melaque. This is the type of story that keeps San Miguel de Allende residents amused -- because they have seen it happen.


But how does it happen? I have been using cameras for almost 55 years. I cannot imagine going up to a stranger and asking her to repeat her walking pattern merely to satisfy my desire to control my enviroment. Melaque is not merely a sound stage put together for the benefit of people hunting for A New Life.


But I am a bad example, I find it difficult to take photographs of people. I have lots of human backs in my photography collection -- some of which you have seen.


Did she ever find her New Life? I don't know.


I certainly have not seen her around this year. Perhaps, she is chasing The Magic in another Village.


But I am listening for the echo of: "Are you ready for your Close-up?"

s'wonderful, s'marvelous, s'sssssss

I live in a tropical jungle.


OK. So I live in a little town near a tropical jungle.


But we have all the jungley things one would expect.


Palm trees. Vines. Thick foliage. Green everything (until the rain stops).


We even have a guy who sells bottled water with a recorded Tarzan yell. What could be more jungley than to have Johnny Weissmuller shilling agua?


And wildlife. No lions. No tigers. But you know all about our iguanas (pictured above) and crocodiles.


Monday morning something new appeared.


Around 7 I heard the swallow colony in pure commotion. I walked out on the balcony and saw them swooping and chattering.


I was positive I knew the cause. Monday is Marta's day to work in the garden. I thought I would walk downstairs and find her in full battle mode with her garden hose and stick doing a full demolition of the remnant swallow condos.


So, downstairs I go. But no Marta.


Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. And not just any movement. A slithery, supple, subtle movement.


A large snake was making a hasty retreat into the neighbor's garden.


I should say: a very large snake. I estimated it to be just under 6 feet. But it was traveling at "get me out of here" speed, so I would swear to the length.


But I saw enough to identify it. The dark brown body with creamy stripes marked it as a common king snake.


Anyone who has ever had a pet snake knows that king snakes make the best pets. And they are among the best snakes to have in your own garden. Their favorite comida includes the types of varmints most of us would like to not have around: rodents and venomous snakes (including, coral snakes). They also have a certain fondness for birds, chicks, and eggs. That helps to explain the swallow panic.


The sad thing is that the snake will most likely come to an untimely end. Humans have very little regard for even the most beneficial of snakes -- especially, humans with well-sharpened machetes. And this fellow will not go unnoticed because of his size.


He could not possibly support his metabolism in these meager gardens along the beach. I am guessing that he is an inhabitant of the laguna, displaced or disoriented. If I could have caught him, I would have taken him back over there.


This was a pleasant encounter. I have seen only two other live snakes in this area: both in La Manzanilla, and both venomous. Interesting, but not pleasant.


But La Manzanilla is rural. It plays upstate New York to Melaque's Manhattan. You can see the carcasses of very long snakes on the road to La Manzanilla -- victims of herpetolgical road rage.


The king snake has most likely survived years of such dangers. I wish Godspeed to my Monday morning encounter.


But -- it is a jungle out there.

slicing the sacred cow

Schadenfreude.


I am not certain when I first learned the word. In my not-to-be-trusted memory, it was in my high school German class.


But the concept is a bit too sophisticated for those post-adolescent years.


It is far more likely that I picked it up in those infamous 1968 Gore Vidal - Bill Buckley debates during the Democrat convention. The word -- and the concept -- certainly would fit their exchange.


Whatever its genesis in my writer tool bag, it is a great word.


A friend once asked me for a quick definition.


I offered the following:


Ivan and Nicholas were neighbor Russian peasants. Ivan's uncle died and left him a cow. Nicholas was jealous of Ivan's new prosperity, and confessed his sin to the priest, who told him he needed to pray to God. Nicholas prayed: "Dear God. Please kill Ivan's cow."


This week I had a similar experience.


I have previously written about my friend John (a cup of good faith). The two of us are about as far apart on politics and religion as two people can be. But we have always managed to have interesting conversations without breaking a bit of crockery.


John is retired. Just like me. Every now and then, he wants to do Something Worthwhile. Just like me.


His most recent proposal was to put together a group to read Ronald Dworkin's new book: Is Democracy Possible Here?: Principles for a New Political Debate.


Dworkin starts with the assumption that a broad moral consensus exists in the United States in favor of two principles of human dignity: the intrinsic value of human life and the principle of personal responsibility.


HIs argument is that liberals and conservatives are merely talking past one another without realizing how much they have in common. If they start with the common principles, agreement will follow.


In his invitation, John said he would like the group to read the book and to then determine an action plan of how its principles might be implemented.


John informed me he did not receive a single rejection. What he received was mere silence.


I took no real joy in the fact that John's project was -- as he put it -- stillborn. But I understand the danger of wanting to Do Something in retirement.


In my case, I have been trying to control the urge. If I give it full rein, I will be back in Salem volunteering full time in my old community.


I want to, at least, enjoy a year of retirement before I start any new grand projects.


I would never pray that God should kill John's cow. And I do not want one of my own.

I intend to lie down in my green pastures.