tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22894825112288539842024-03-05T01:37:23.390-06:00mexpatriate — in the key of stevemissives from mexico's pacific coastSteve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.comBlogger4193125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-45162487619246660152023-03-22T19:00:00.002-06:002023-03-22T19:00:30.986-06:00to bee -- or not to bee<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAG_yqycaOoGnWClscqrv7MAdgRLvNOm7P03YjzK6WdG3MU7lAQNA0uYpOgtRqekVXUw7gJBaE_kOe7I4s0-STgHuDhWZz7Egvp3XM1O3PdrRHhzUhJinAJRSHyLxVyHekDqt-HNVmosbnBwBAhB9XJzUbuwmL2eO-MaySu3VDzC-XI6AygZTK2yU/s2009/DSC08111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2009" data-original-width="1574" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBAG_yqycaOoGnWClscqrv7MAdgRLvNOm7P03YjzK6WdG3MU7lAQNA0uYpOgtRqekVXUw7gJBaE_kOe7I4s0-STgHuDhWZz7Egvp3XM1O3PdrRHhzUhJinAJRSHyLxVyHekDqt-HNVmosbnBwBAhB9XJzUbuwmL2eO-MaySu3VDzC-XI6AygZTK2yU/w314-h400/DSC08111.JPG" width="314" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Those of us who live in <i>la casa sin nombre</i> are constantly on the alert for stinging creatures. Especially, when my brother is in residence.<br /><br />He does not have a bug phobia. He is essentially fearless. Our vigilance is medically-based. He is highly allergic to almost anything that stings. Deadly allergic.<br /><br />Christy, my sister-in-law, and I keep a close watch on the upper terrace. Wasps seem to find the area as amenable as retired condo-buyers from Moosejaw find the beaches of Puerto Vallarta. I knock down at least two nests each week in the breeding season. <br /><br />I try to catch them in the foundation stage before the wasps spend the effort to lay their eggs. I am not anti-wasp. I just do not like them congregating where they can turn a pleasant dinner of carnitas into an emergency dash to the hospital. <br /><br />That is why Christy sent me into DEFCON 1 at breakfast about four weeks ago. She looked up from the breakfast counter and saw a large black spot on one of the eaves of the pavilions on the second-floor terrace. <br /><br />"How could the wasps have built a nest that big in the last hour?"<br /><br />She had a good question. One that I shared.<br /><br />I grabbed my de-nester stick (what the less-creative might call a long-handled squeegee) and set off to do battle before the nest got to a critical point. But it was not a wasp nest. It had nothing to do with wasps.<br /><br />It was a group of honey bees.<br /><br />At first, I took it for a swarm. I know the behavior because of past experience. <br /><br />A queen has left a hive and has taken an entourage of workers with her. Fattened up on honey, they will alight here and there surrounding her <i>en masse</i> until they find a new home. Under most circumstances, they move on in a day or two.<br /><br />Apparently, this lot have not read the "How to Make Swarms and Influence Your Neighbors" manual. They have now been hanging out on the same eave for almost a month. Always in the same place.<br /><br />During the day, they form what is best referred to as an apian icicle. At night, they flatten out into a disc -- one bee deep. Bees come and go from the formation. But the formation, in its various forms. stays in the same place.<br /><br />No new bees seem to join the first lot. And no construction is taking place. At first, I thought they might try to create a honeycomb to at least produce honey for themselves. But it is just the bees and their proverbial knees.<br /><br />In one of those strange coincidences, the obituary in last week's <i>The Economist</i> was about Justin Schmdt, a scientist who devoted his entire career to studying the sting of insects and developing a four-point index of those stings. His title of "King of Stings" was well-deserved. (A fact I had forgotten is that only female insects sting. Make of that what you will.)<br /><br />Even though he was fascinated with the different level of pain associated with stings, he discovered that there was not a direct correlation between the pain of the sting and the toxicity of the associated venom. The honey bee, for example, has one of the mildest stings, but is highly-toxic. And it is toxicity that matters most to the stingee.<br /><br />I have not molested my bee colony. My brother has returned to Oregon, so the medical justification for removing it has ebbed. I am more fascinated by its behavior.<br /><br />They are honey bees. I will do what I can to protect them. Unfortunately, I have heard the whirring of the vector control sprayer near the house the last two nights. So far, it has not passed by. Balancing out the danger of the ever-increasing population of the dengue-carrying <i>Aedes aegypti</i>, I would still opt for protecting this small hive of honey bees searching for sanctuary.<br /><br />We will see which force ends up winning.<br /> </span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-65899740972402628892023-03-21T19:11:00.005-06:002023-03-21T19:11:41.251-06:00the crucible of neighborliness<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMA9EPrl-d920CwER8JZMtNnuLsrmvkdXwO8LHBXvETZoNMouzpb66qzOEuigfiPgh1uw7iCmgfckb889SKzDOcfAZqc9rXdwy6WbPOwLNo8ZTIzRWbkc9U6akAZaUhOyVd8OMzeYLPPHjMughcNHBysuak3b2Dntn2NHRY_gH4sbsW8P-7hw377W/s2768/20230317_144207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1924" data-original-width="2768" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnMA9EPrl-d920CwER8JZMtNnuLsrmvkdXwO8LHBXvETZoNMouzpb66qzOEuigfiPgh1uw7iCmgfckb889SKzDOcfAZqc9rXdwy6WbPOwLNo8ZTIzRWbkc9U6akAZaUhOyVd8OMzeYLPPHjMughcNHBysuak3b2Dntn2NHRY_gH4sbsW8P-7hw377W/w400-h278/20230317_144207.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Life's lessons show up on our doorsteps at some of the most inopportune times.<br /><br />Friday afternoon I was preparing for visitors when I heard a commotion in the street in front of my house. Rushing feet on gravel. Shouts of concern. A scent in the air that something was amiss.<br /><br />But that was not the only scent. When I opened the front door, the street was filled with smoke so dense I could barely make out my neighbor's house across from me.<br /><br />Another neighbor, who owns one of the better taco restaurants in San Patricio and who lives just a block east from me, ran by shouting for the young woman and her three children to get out of their house. I offered sanctuary in mine.<br /><br />He was correct. Even though her house is concrete and brick, the smoke was quickly filling her house. The cause? The empty lots next to her place are part of an old coconut plantation. Because they are unimproved, they are the natural habitat for vegetation -- and other people's gardening debris.<br /><br />That is not necessarily bad. But we are now at the end of the dry season and the grass, weeds, and trees are a shade of gray that could be best described on a paint chip card as ash tinder.<br /><br />Somehow, a fire had started on one of the lots. It appears it was started by the owner of one lot who was preparing to put it on the market. However, it happened, the fire (essentially having no regard for property lines) quickly spread to the other two lots. When I stepped outside, the flames were not only lapping at the side of my neighbor's house, they had also raced through the trees, climbing high enough to damage a couple of coconut fronds.<br /><br />I am accustomed to these small fires. For those of us raised in northern forests, the scent of smoke is enough to cause concern. Here, the fires usually burn out on their own without endangering anyone.<br /><br />Not this time.<br /><br />While the woman of the house tried to summon help, I reeled out my hose and offered up my pool as a reservoir for a bucket brigade formed by the neighbors who showed up to help. At first, it appeared we were not going to be able to contain the fire. It just kept spreading. The tide finally turned in our favor -- even though a persistent breeze threatened to breach our fire lines.<br /><br />Our area recently joined the 911 system for emergency calls. While we were fighting the fire, the woman across the street tried calling 911, the bomberos (fire fighters), and the police. She could not get through to anyone. Nor did anyone other than the neighbors respond to the fire.<br /><br />I make the last point because I have recently talked with some northerners who believe they were told that 911 is available to solve all of their emergencies. That may be true. But I would not count on it.<br /><br />If someone has a medical emergency, relying on 911 as your sole resource is potentially obituary bait. If the emergency is bad enough, I hope people have an alternative plan to call a friend who can drive them to a hospital in Manzanillo with far more dispatch than 911 could (or will) ever respond.<br /><br />Mexico, or at least this area of Mexico, reminds me a lot of the rural area where I grew up in the 1950s. And a lot of the infrastructure feels as if it is from that era. It is one chief reasons I live here.<br /><br />A place where you can count on a neighbor, rather the government, when you are in need.<br /><br />To raise a barn -- or to keep it from burning down.<br /></span><br /><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-44579399000873024082023-03-20T08:58:00.005-06:002023-03-20T10:18:33.627-06:00celebrating virtue<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="background-color: white;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxT5VH6wF4I9qbVJkJswifRLMB98xJK57WfjSnkH4dek1OKBmd6TA0RFHRYDMjLvj7LpYslCxAgofOd7uSYqISVt-CK026gWsRI46ckbUbcWISptgdn5qb0RGBGvaJo_lfGZ3wy-V9BXswNXpbfzK9Xm_DyV35fK-TyihtFuJg3z2hD1pfsZBrips/s621/benito%20juarez-ilustrativa.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="621" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdxT5VH6wF4I9qbVJkJswifRLMB98xJK57WfjSnkH4dek1OKBmd6TA0RFHRYDMjLvj7LpYslCxAgofOd7uSYqISVt-CK026gWsRI46ckbUbcWISptgdn5qb0RGBGvaJo_lfGZ3wy-V9BXswNXpbfzK9Xm_DyV35fK-TyihtFuJg3z2hD1pfsZBrips/w400-h309/benito%20juarez-ilustrativa.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />There are certain signs that something special is happening in our little villages.<br /><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><span style="color: #333333;">Buses of tourists. Lines of SUVs at the Pemex. Full beaches. No parking.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #333333;">They all usually add up to some special event in the works. And all of the elements are on the streets this weekend. But what is the event?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #333333;">The Feast of San Patricio was last week. Semana Santa will not be here until next month.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #333333;">Then it hit me. Today is a federal holiday -- Benito Juarez's birthday.</span></span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">Well, not really. He was born on 21 March. In 1806.<br /><br />But, Mexico, like The States, has decided that voters like having their holidays on Mondays. All the better to lump them together with the weekend. The result, of course, is that citizens are far more interested in the time off instead of the man they are supposedly honoring.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />In the case of Juarez, at least, that is a pity.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />Far too many people mistakenly think that Juarez is the father of his country; its George Washington. He isn't. That honor probably belongs to that scalawag Agustin de Iturbide. And the less said about him in this context, the better. (Though, I do confess, I have a soft spot in my head for him.)<br /><br />Juarez's name and image are ubiquitous in Mexico. On the 20-peso and 500-peso notes. Street names. Schools. Cities. Parks filled with his diminutive form.<br /><br />F</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: verdana;">or good reason. Even though he was not Mexico's first president, he is its most memorable from Independence up until the rise of the dictator Porfirio Diaz. Maybe that scoundrel Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, one of Juarez's many enemies, is almost as memorable.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />But people remember Juarez for the good he did. He helped to put Mexico on the road to its national identity. He is probably better known as the Lincoln of Mexico. Liberator of the slaves. And, in that sense, he is the father of his country. The very symbol of Mexican nationalism and the protector against foreign invaders.<br /><br />He came to power during one of Mexico's interminable civil wars. This one the War of Reform, and then resisted and survived the French invasion that put the Austrian Archduke Maximilian on the Mexican imperial throne.<br /><br />Even though many of his reforms were revolutionary, he was not a revolutionary. He was a wily politician with Liberal (in the Mexican sense of the word) instincts.<br /><br />Those instincts allowed him to strip the Catholic Church of both its revenue-producing property, as well as its churches and convents. He then used that land as a resource for Mexico's first land reform program. A program that eventually left the poor in a worse state. (But that is another story.)<br /><br />He is the only full-blooded Indian (a Zapotec) who has served in the presidency. But he did not define himself by his blood.<br /><br />In that sense, he was a classical liberal. He believed that if he had made his way up the slippery pole, other poor Mexicans could do that same. All they needed was a fair opportunity to advance. That was the intellectual basis of stripping the church of its financial and political power and for his land reforms.<br /><br />He was also a ruthless politician. He had to be to survive in the political and social environment in which he operated. A lawyer, he played games with the Mexican Constitution. Ruling by decree for a period as an effective dictator and then running for re-election in violation of constitution term limits. Lincoln was accused of the first, as well.<br /><br />He had the honor of dying in bed -- even though it was a close call. An insurgency had risen against him led by a man whose name would be as familiar in Mexican history as his own -- Porfirio Diaz.<br /><br />But it is not Porfirio Diaz who we honor. It is Juarez. He is the only Mexican whose birthday is honored by a Mexican federal holiday.<br /><br />Flawed? Certainly. He was a human. There is a tendency these days to push historical figures from their pedestals for holding opinions that we now find reprehensible. In the process, we make ourselves feel better with our moral dudgeon. But we also lose our sense of what it means to be human.<br /><br />So, I am taking off my hat (if I ever wore one) to Benito Juarez today. It may not truly be his birthday, but it does us well to honor those who actually live their lives as we wished we lived ours.</span></span><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></span></div>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-59324593279793430162023-03-19T16:27:00.000-06:002023-03-19T16:27:10.751-06:00present at the creation -- and the end<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGe2xGbT1AgwLkBlHzCB0ztBd8I910OTmQa89Q1D6f97UP3u8P4lLkBNDxnX8MQ0dyGFoq7XWUDmHAxIXJIOrxMYYaPItp6-axpjqTkldfqgXb-tH4KZw1goBNUbHeim21h5qOwQwiaz_V9LUBWvpbl811lSajhgwxuS4TgGoJDlkGNKCmUzURF5De/s1600/beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1063" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGe2xGbT1AgwLkBlHzCB0ztBd8I910OTmQa89Q1D6f97UP3u8P4lLkBNDxnX8MQ0dyGFoq7XWUDmHAxIXJIOrxMYYaPItp6-axpjqTkldfqgXb-tH4KZw1goBNUbHeim21h5qOwQwiaz_V9LUBWvpbl811lSajhgwxuS4TgGoJDlkGNKCmUzURF5De/w400-h266/beach.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />We have all experienced it.<br /><br />That bittersweet experience, redolent of almonds, when finishing the final chapter of a well-written novel. Wishing that there was more, but satisfied with what was written as being inevitable -- and sufficient.<br /><br />That is exactly how I felt on Friday evening. After 21 years of plating up thousands of meals and providing a space where diners from around the world could enjoy the sybaritic pleasures of friendship, Rooster's and Papa Gallo's were closing. Permanently.<br /><br />It was my last supper. At least, there.<br /><br />The sweet part of the evening was doing exactly what made both Rooster's and Papa Gallo's such popular restaurants. I shared the evening with a group of friends. Not only with stories of past experiences at the restaurants, though there were those. But primarily tales of the day at hand and our hopes and dreams for the future.<br /><br />I suspect the bitter part might be that I would no longer have the type of experiences I had enjoyed since I moved here. At least, not at Papa Gallo's. But everything dies. And our lives move on -- until we too meet our inevitable ends. Just like the restaurants.<br /><br />But, until then, there are adventures to be experienced. And there will also be some reminiscences where we nostalgically recall nights like the one pictured above.<br /><br />When we will smile and tell Joyce and Gary Pittman, restaurateurs extraordinaire, thanks for the memories.</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><p></p></div>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-15810875534686230302023-03-07T17:46:00.000-06:002023-03-07T17:46:04.149-06:00jupiter takes liberties with venus<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXM5608LCHrRjBe-o1mbcszhdY8yKwALl9tABjdyXhpwnvUsq7FwV7Mw3x52tPv7I5rJPdgKHfOuv4xzqRSN6aYH67bq759u8s6S6V8YWw4S7HHBGb-7w7TckZaC5Igv_-Aj-T8ORyPkDVuCwev1Y5CazohU1WMJd-qPADC7mhBReqHykwgxZ2T4p7/s2408/20230302_193029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1022" data-original-width="2408" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXM5608LCHrRjBe-o1mbcszhdY8yKwALl9tABjdyXhpwnvUsq7FwV7Mw3x52tPv7I5rJPdgKHfOuv4xzqRSN6aYH67bq759u8s6S6V8YWw4S7HHBGb-7w7TckZaC5Igv_-Aj-T8ORyPkDVuCwev1Y5CazohU1WMJd-qPADC7mhBReqHykwgxZ2T4p7/w400-h170/20230302_193029.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I felt like a voyeur. And if it had not been so public, I would turned away in embarrassment at such an act of wanton behavior.<br /><br />But there it was. Right in front of me. Like some Victorian cad, a kiss was about to be stolen from a maiden famed for virtue -- the cad's own daughter.<br /><br />It only helped a little that the two lovers were planets named after two Roman rock stars with a sketchy mythological back story -- Jupiter and Venus. Or that Venus was the fast operator of the two.<br /><br />That was this last Friday. The two planets had been chasing each other across the imaginary elliptic in the night sky for the past months. Almost as if they were floats in a fantastical Mardi Gras.<br /><br />But Friday was different. Because Venus has a much shorter orbit around the sun, it appeared to be running down its seemingly-slower patronym. Thus the nearly-stolen kiss. And all sorts of tawdry tabloid headlines in the making. Just imagine what the Meghan crowd could do with that.<br /><br />My niece Kaitlyn had been staying at the house with her parents and me for almost two weeks. Because her flight date was drawing near, we decided to celebrate the Venus-Jupiter conjunction by watching <i>2001: A Space Odyssey</i>. She had never seen it. More amazingly, my sister-in-law Christy had not either. So, into the DVD player it went. (There was something a bit ironic watching a film of Man's evolution from human form on a piece of out-moded technology.)<br /><br />When, I reviewed <i>2001</i> back in 1968, it was one of my Ten Favorite Movies. Of course, at 19, the list was an exercise in The Pure Hubris. It is difficult to have sufficient perspective to develop such a list without living a bit of life.<br /><br />Having added close to 60 years to my life, I would still put it on one of those silly lists. Sure, the special effects seemed dated. The acting is wooden. The dialog is almost painful. But they always were.<br /><br />What holds up well is the idea behind the whole project -- Arthur C. Clarke's philosophical musings on life's two fundamental questions: Where do we come from, and where are we going? Darrel, Christy, Kaitlyn, and I had great fun kicking the two questions around. <br /><br />By coincidence, I had just finished reading Dan Brown's dreadful novel <i>Origins</i> (though I swore never to read another one of his grating prose pieces -- and never will again). Brown's novel poses the same two questions, and conjures up answers at the opposite pole of Clarke's. Brown sees a future where humans will meld in a utopia with technology. Clarke, of course, takes the opposite tack, where humanity evolves without the interference of technology (think HAL).<br /><br />It makes for good conversation fodder with the family. I almost felt as if I was squatting in the college dormitory hallway with my fellow students talking about Important Things. But with a bit more wisdom tucked under my balding pate.<br /><br />Kaitlyn is now back in Austin enjoying the sybaritic pleasures of the Texas hill country. To prove that our conversation was not a one-off, she used technology to send us a photograph of how she was enjoying her return above the border -- by mugging for the camera.<br /><br />Just like your correspondent.<br /> <br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXnjc34D3dgodAWWJwnjhUQ9PZpvSoQRhhe5kR52v5-SvP80z5HBQlaL3Nlcsp2lbG79lj8RCl6Fxgn0iXb2V25tYpIoLpCi8B97iI4y6v3-1DR-XmYrII80xhiip6A8rFbbX7skSsJ1ROcCVGarIZD2XIfCfC-Qs-Lvjavvj85qyEPElRr2JiLph/s1372/Screenshot_2023-03-05-17-15-58-11_a63b0f8076346d26cbdc1b971a1da2a7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1372" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXnjc34D3dgodAWWJwnjhUQ9PZpvSoQRhhe5kR52v5-SvP80z5HBQlaL3Nlcsp2lbG79lj8RCl6Fxgn0iXb2V25tYpIoLpCi8B97iI4y6v3-1DR-XmYrII80xhiip6A8rFbbX7skSsJ1ROcCVGarIZD2XIfCfC-Qs-Lvjavvj85qyEPElRr2JiLph/w263-h400/Screenshot_2023-03-05-17-15-58-11_a63b0f8076346d26cbdc1b971a1da2a7.jpg" width="263" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-86186272225843556282023-03-01T17:17:00.004-06:002023-03-01T17:30:45.161-06:00muchas gracias<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6SRV2XDrUV5JZdbKN4HdpwJZI5aS30-fdj44_UsaxoH2rQCNVsqI2SW8c1rszGj-edVZ7eY6LdTLJ59-CDiNdAiNsIlUmG76DdUqQpe5_zEpmWeujNxthTwOrtcNkIfnMooDU2Geo0kTCGh2sE7Y5fXChqmAv6xwcRm1y9-a0mvpKsgSbNQoRJ4n/s3474/darrel%20mom.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2698" data-original-width="3474" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6SRV2XDrUV5JZdbKN4HdpwJZI5aS30-fdj44_UsaxoH2rQCNVsqI2SW8c1rszGj-edVZ7eY6LdTLJ59-CDiNdAiNsIlUmG76DdUqQpe5_zEpmWeujNxthTwOrtcNkIfnMooDU2Geo0kTCGh2sE7Y5fXChqmAv6xwcRm1y9-a0mvpKsgSbNQoRJ4n/w400-h311/darrel%20mom.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />No. You are not seeing double. <br /><br />If you think you have seen that photograph recently, you are undoubtedly remembering the one I published on Monday (<a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2023/02/feliz-cumpleanos-mama.html">feliz cumpleaños mamá</a>) of me standing by the Barra Bay with Mom. <br /><br />But there is a major difference. That devilish-handsome hombre on the left is not me. Though the mistake is understandable: it is my sainted brother Darrel.<br /><br />And as luck would have it, he is currently visiting me at la casa sin nombre. To prove that the lily can be gilded, my sister-in-law, Christy, and my niece, Kaitlyn, are here, as well. In one big happy family trifecta.<br /><br />For the past two years, that last paragraph would not have been possible. Darrel and Christy had been the primary lifelines for Mom after she left her house and moved into an independent living facility in Oregon, and then for the last few months of her life, in a memory care facility. They are now free to travel.<br /><br />As will happen to all of us if we live long enough, Mom's mind started playing the type of tricks that are the price of age-related wisdom. And Darrel was there to help her. <br /><br />To talk her through how to use the remote to her television. To diagnose why she could not hear the door bell (adjust the volume on her hearing aids). To straighten out her daily medications. To answer calls to help her find her telephone (when the telephone was in her hand). To help her find which channel her beloved Trailblazers were playing on.<br /><br />At first, the calls came once a week. Then several times a week. Then daily. Then several times a day.<br /><br />Darrel was essentially Mom's personal assistant to live out her routines that had started slipping away on vacation to a beach in Greece where there was no internet. Obviously, travel for him and Christy was out of the question.<br /><br />On my monthly trips north to help him with Mom, my admiration for him increased with each visit. As did my empathy. The daily strain on him was obvious. He has always been a castle of emotional strength. But the moat was being breached. Bit by bit.<br /><br />Children should share in these burdens. My distance of living in Mexico may have been a reason, but it was not an excuse. I will owe him a debt of gratitude for the rest of my life. The question is how that debt gets paid.<br /><br />For now, the down payment will come by me selfishly enjoying the company of my family. And remembering the investments they made in building our memories with Mom.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-25262011227827045382023-02-27T00:04:00.001-06:002023-02-27T00:04:19.686-06:00feliz cumpleaños mamá<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjMF9EKBY_889EEM_2d5OsDs5vArQ4yKZOOwBJqekaf9ryOGX5cO2CxAKL3IZQkZXIw9fTKNT6Q61uLPVxrDV_fBoqGaV4DYm4258xn0xgA_3nHbCC_SccfRo3tXHMdFchHn0B1MmHqXDxGM7WV9lEQ1psQFl16T5i5rOS_x5gzcmZqB-QDGhe6_Fu/s315/mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="315" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjMF9EKBY_889EEM_2d5OsDs5vArQ4yKZOOwBJqekaf9ryOGX5cO2CxAKL3IZQkZXIw9fTKNT6Q61uLPVxrDV_fBoqGaV4DYm4258xn0xgA_3nHbCC_SccfRo3tXHMdFchHn0B1MmHqXDxGM7WV9lEQ1psQFl16T5i5rOS_x5gzcmZqB-QDGhe6_Fu/w400-h315/mom.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Today is my mother's 95th birthday. Or, at least, it is the 95th anniversary of her birth. <br /><br />Mom died this past summer (<a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-torch-passes.html">the torch passes</a>). On 4 September, to be exact.<br /><br />I promised I would write a summary of her life, but I could never find a hook for the essay. There was also another problem. I do not like obituaries. We too often strip the deceased of their humanity in the false belief that beatification will cure our grief. I have not found that to be true. If we truly love a person, we love their warts as much as their virtues.<br /><br />So, let me tell you the story of my mother's life through a simple exercise. If I had celebrated her birthday with her today, it would have centered around two things that were important to her: an appreciation of good music and a love of God.<br /><br />I thoroughly enjoyed my visits with her during the last two years of her life. If I could, I would visit her in her room by walking in with a bouquet of flowers that she would inevitably declare as the loveliest she had ever seen -- even though they were no more special than the bouquet I had brought on my last visit. Mothers are like that.<br /><br />Then, we would get down to serious matters. Discussing current events had long slipped down the list of her priorities, but we would take a quick side-swipe of some absurdity perpetrated by the government before getting to what mattered -- music.<br /><br />Mom and I had formed a bond around music decades ago when I was taking piano lessons. She was always interested in the pieces I was working on, and often added historical tidbits of back story in the style of Leonard Bernstein -- who she thoroughly admired. But it was our talks about music theory and how music could be used properly to enrich the soul or to crudely manipulate emotions that stayed with me over the years.<br /><br />I do not recall the year, but I had introduced her to one of my favorite movies -- "The Mission" -- because of its profound message of forgiveness and grace. The tale is powerful. But its message is augmented by Ennio Morricone's score that effectively complements the film's message. Especially, "Gabriel's Oboe."<br /><br />Mom loved the piece. We would listen to it over the years and find new threads in it each time we discussed it. She and I finally came to the conclusion that the piece is a good representation of our need for forgiveness and God's grant of grace.<br /><br />The piece starts simply with deconstructed major chords leading into the pure voice of the oboe that plays a very simple tune with few embellishments -- as if representing the beauty and simplicity of God's grace. The oboist then displays the upper limits of the instrument's range with an unwavering high note denoting that God's grace is not only simple, it is powerful.<br /><br />The strings take up a far less-magnificent melody as if replicating human voices asking for forgiveness. Followed by the simplicity and magnificence of the oboe in response.<br /><br />We both agreed that we wished Morricone had ended the piece eight bars earlier than he did -- on an unresolved oboe chord. It would have given the piece more intensity musically, as if grace is never ended. But this is from a movie, and Western ears like their chords resolved. Even so, we both admired the piece.<br /><br />"Gabriel's Oboe" is often played at memorial services. That is appropriate with its theme of forgiveness and grace. But, too often, I hear the piece described as "sad" or "weepy." It most certainly is not. It is a tune of joy and hope. That may be why Mom and I liked listening to it so often. And analyzing it.<br /><br />On her birthday, we would then turn to our shared love for God -- usually, by reading a Psalm together, and then analyzing it. Something llike Psalm 27 with its resounding promises.<br /><span class="text Ps-27-1" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"><i><span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;"></span></i></span><blockquote><span class="text Ps-27-1" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"><i><span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">Adonai</span></i> is my light and salvation;</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-1" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">whom do I need to fear?</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-1" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"><i><span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">Adonai</span></i> is the stronghold of my life;</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-1" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">of whom should I be afraid?</span></blockquote><span class="text Ps-27-1" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">and</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="text Ps-27-4" id="en-CJB-15461" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="text Ps-27-4" id="en-CJB-15461" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">Just one thing have I asked of <i><span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">Adonai</span></i>;</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-4" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">only this will I seek:</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-4" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">to live in the house of <i><span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">Adonai</span></i></span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-4" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">all the days of my life,</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-4" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">to see the beauty of <i><span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">Adonai</span></i></span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-27-4" style="background-color: white; position: relative;">and visit in his temple.</span></span></blockquote><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span class="text Ps-27-4" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"></span>The sad part of all this is I can never again sit down with Mom and discuss two of her passions. But I can still analyze music and practice my faith and share those passions in my life because she was a good teacher.<br /><br />And, from this day forward, that is simply how life is.<br /><br />But I can still wish her a happy birthday -- and celebrate it in spirt with her.<br /><br />Happy birthday, Mom.<br /><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2WJhax7Jmxs" width="320" youtube-src-id="2WJhax7Jmxs"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-12392834989446841402022-10-03T10:14:00.000-05:002022-10-03T10:14:08.772-05:00well, we didn't go<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrG4X55YnLCXPdjfxEDRI14f5DpjZMBcrdU1sB5a6f3P1ZVFzul12Ys4LND3-vgePa7y5GIcsPSxXTDeSOh5oT4mJ9UW9WstdfGq0YZwompe36C9pNjLKILf6duldDU6PLbFfHPrwOfZafxozLPKeP4QCflXdhtVDWKOGicApJyFtHEc8Yk5t6mOKm/s4000/20221003_092341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrG4X55YnLCXPdjfxEDRI14f5DpjZMBcrdU1sB5a6f3P1ZVFzul12Ys4LND3-vgePa7y5GIcsPSxXTDeSOh5oT4mJ9UW9WstdfGq0YZwompe36C9pNjLKILf6duldDU6PLbFfHPrwOfZafxozLPKeP4QCflXdhtVDWKOGicApJyFtHEc8Yk5t6mOKm/w400-h300/20221003_092341.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />There are very few circumstances that can interrupt my morning walk routine. But this is one of them.<br /><br />Even though tropical storm/hurricane Orlene did not even give us a buss on the cheek with its whirling dervish system, it pulled in other weather systems over us that have given us the weather equivalent of an NBA makeup call. This has been a relatively dry wet season. Not now. <br /><br />Orlene passed us by far out at sea, but it has sucked in plenty of rain clouds that were more than happy to make up our deficit. And then some.<br /><br />As I write, Orelene is poised to make landfall in Mazatlan like a stir-crazy tourist careering off of seven straight days of seas days on a cruise ship. I wish them well.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil10Nxo4Bf3vDe6jmdwzP2lmkivz-XRoiWU1KPnj9YGwyK5dLSKpTHPoxD-NDxrAcNNbBuWz-uzDuqL3r3QayLRWTIkFlLYIqtt0OnSRBTmmyEHJtZCU02a4ZL08BbG9u16liDEWIBtM2kjOvk9K0nF8Mmt8nCzoBLcPoRqeYZioO0_5UH4SQLyGNL/s1583/Screenshot_20221003_100305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1583" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil10Nxo4Bf3vDe6jmdwzP2lmkivz-XRoiWU1KPnj9YGwyK5dLSKpTHPoxD-NDxrAcNNbBuWz-uzDuqL3r3QayLRWTIkFlLYIqtt0OnSRBTmmyEHJtZCU02a4ZL08BbG9u16liDEWIBtM2kjOvk9K0nF8Mmt8nCzoBLcPoRqeYZioO0_5UH4SQLyGNL/w273-h400/Screenshot_20221003_100305.jpg" width="273" /></a></div><br />Even tough it is that far north, the rains here continue. The photograph is the street in front of my house. Whenever we get heavy rains, there is only so much water that the parched sand can absorb. The rest seeks the closest way back to the ocean. And my street is a convenient conduit. If I need to go anywhere, I will ford the stream in my car. <br /><br />Rains like this are not infrequent in the summer. But the stream in front of my house always reminds me of the old spiritual "Peace Like a River." I am certain you know it. "I've got peace like a river/Peace like a river/Peace like a river in my soul." <br /><br />My religious tradition is based on upbeat, joyful songs like that. I suspect that is the reason I am a bit turned off by some of the depressing downbeat minor key hymns that are so popular in certain churches. Not only are they not part of my tradition; they simply do not convey the spirit of my faith. As the third verse of that song says: "I've got joy like a river in my soul."<br /><br />You may have already guessed that my Alaska flight on Saturday (<a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2022/09/here-we-go-again-or-not.html">here we go again -- or not</a>) did not attempt to fly through the barrier of the hurricane that stood between Manzanillo and Los Angeles. The flight has been postponed until 8 PM today. I suspect the late time is to ensure that Orlene has hit shore and started to break up.<br /><br />So, I will be on my way to Los Angeles this evening -- if, as they say, "the creek don't rise."<br /><br />If all goes well, and there is a break in the weather, I may have time to catch up on my lost morning steps. <br /><br />Because some things should flow like a river.<br /> <br /></span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-69147936140181729352022-09-30T19:30:00.004-05:002022-10-01T00:07:27.025-05:00here we go again -- or not<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCj8vhTOjQi0PS6FoknAV9VgmSgkjLvZy3hYme3FcMOMQHJAjlu2rEykiRyBO0ye20zrno46Ff_BHc6tg9PHxzms93y8KeU9_7ZVmUNS3GB_6x1uij2EG8X0CYupyel34FhODjit14M_-wLZVMMoKpG1fZw1DjzjHarNym5Uejgm99MfCjKFV0Mh0/s942/Screenshot_20220930_185604.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="942" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoCj8vhTOjQi0PS6FoknAV9VgmSgkjLvZy3hYme3FcMOMQHJAjlu2rEykiRyBO0ye20zrno46Ff_BHc6tg9PHxzms93y8KeU9_7ZVmUNS3GB_6x1uij2EG8X0CYupyel34FhODjit14M_-wLZVMMoKpG1fZw1DjzjHarNym5Uejgm99MfCjKFV0Mh0/w400-h260/Screenshot_20220930_185604.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Turn your back for a moment -- and look what nature does.<p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">While the world was justifiably transfixed with the path of Atlantic Hurricane Ian, his eastern Pacific cousin Orlene has gone almost unremarked.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">There may be good reason for that. Orlene does not have the potential headline appeal of Ian. It is only a tropical storm at the moment. But that is about to change. Some time this evening, it will graduate to hurricane strength.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">At the moment, unless you are captaining a ship in the Pacific off of the Mexican coast, that information may not be very interesting. But Orlene is not going to remain at sea forever. As you can see by the National Hurricane Center predictive map, between Sunday and Tuesday, Orelene will be having an impact on Mexico from about Puerto Vallarta to Mazatlan.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Even if it remains at category one strength, we learned here last year from Nora that even small hurricanes that present their right side to shore as they proceed up the coast can cause plenty of damage.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The prediction from Windy is that we will be spared the worst aspects of the storm. As it passes by us tomorrow, it will be well out to sea. What we will get is some thunderstorms, rain, and a few gusts.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAstdGbodwhOXnDsyVrTR94Qu7LG2hr4W3UJ2784cvFYx8AyHSKXVMOkEjOCa5bjadL3UFa7LOF_tG6nMHdaxrSyTI2X_Mwb3etqDE5SIUG179vrksymvGeZ5CepW20zfd0JpUkqmU6U_Rg-HJHtmAHq78BQMCmzxrZNVBIgfqz3ueQFdT-faC9qrF/s1987/Screenshot_20220930_184222.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1987" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAstdGbodwhOXnDsyVrTR94Qu7LG2hr4W3UJ2784cvFYx8AyHSKXVMOkEjOCa5bjadL3UFa7LOF_tG6nMHdaxrSyTI2X_Mwb3etqDE5SIUG179vrksymvGeZ5CepW20zfd0JpUkqmU6U_Rg-HJHtmAHq78BQMCmzxrZNVBIgfqz3ueQFdT-faC9qrF/w217-h400/Screenshot_20220930_184222.jpg" width="217" /></a></div><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">My concern with Orlene is a bit more personal. I am supposed to board the Saturday afternoon Alaska flight to Los Angeles. Based on the predicted path, Orlene will be positioning itself between Manzanillo and Los Angeles just about the time the flight is supposed to arrive from Los Angeles -- and then leave.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Airlines are very reluctant to put their capital investment in danger by even getting in the proximity of winds that destructive. Twice last year, the flight was canceled on the day of departure because of hurricanes. Each time, they left the next day.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">There is no way of predicting what is going to happen. Look at the odd path Ian took -- or Patricia in 2015.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The bright side is that if the flight is cancelled and we get sufficient rain here, I will discover if last week's earthquakes created any new cracks in the house.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;">It just goes to prove that when God closes a door, he often opens a water gate.</span><br style="font-family: verdana;" /><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><br />Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-48350173167915585012022-09-05T00:22:00.000-05:002022-09-05T00:22:00.856-05:00the torch passes<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPZnQ6zGGTWrWr2SM9KHQE7sDsyFfotT4lBJOkPpvnnaZkC1B-ZRsytxRRBVvK3ZM5DSdL8lj6Ah-bxgftHesMKvngFSaGO43zVqLSiEexGkDX5UxdkLtPp4oMlyOczg-QBlnfWY4WfKFl9jY5w18oa4r3guYxuWgW4Tm1kGhcEykcmVQtGht8m4M/s478/mom%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="452" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPZnQ6zGGTWrWr2SM9KHQE7sDsyFfotT4lBJOkPpvnnaZkC1B-ZRsytxRRBVvK3ZM5DSdL8lj6Ah-bxgftHesMKvngFSaGO43zVqLSiEexGkDX5UxdkLtPp4oMlyOczg-QBlnfWY4WfKFl9jY5w18oa4r3guYxuWgW4Tm1kGhcEykcmVQtGht8m4M/w379-h400/mom%20(1).jpg" width="379" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />My mother, Marilyn Cotton died at noon today in a hospice facility.<br /><br />Darrel, my brother, informed me of her death while I was waiting in Seattle for a flight to Redmond. It was not unexpected, but startling nonetheless. <br /><br />I am in Prineville now. Starting tomorrow, we will execute her burial wishes -- to be buried in Powers in a plot next to her first-born son, Craig.<br /><br />But, for now, I wanted her friends and family to know that her soul has moved on into the presence of The Messiah, around whom she built her life.<br /><br />When matters calm down, I will write more about her.<br /><br />For now, we note her death.<br /><br /> </span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-71775724334154095362022-08-31T20:50:00.001-05:002022-08-31T20:50:38.663-05:00a winner -- hands down<p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT01Ek3MZfvQ7X7YWovDehTALPgzWEz4pydCvG6QlJJpstQo4Q7dt-OHh7HIiRtSlg5XenAbus8T38lX17Ory7nQiw936hthxhz3ynZ8VY46D_PvkOD5vGxNZyEg4FdrXXKJLuhKNZxQQSFfBa8U5Sy_rz4B9Qn4-wSI4tnPLdtiWoYRwLIQd75RO0/s3228/procession.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="3228" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT01Ek3MZfvQ7X7YWovDehTALPgzWEz4pydCvG6QlJJpstQo4Q7dt-OHh7HIiRtSlg5XenAbus8T38lX17Ory7nQiw936hthxhz3ynZ8VY46D_PvkOD5vGxNZyEg4FdrXXKJLuhKNZxQQSFfBa8U5Sy_rz4B9Qn4-wSI4tnPLdtiWoYRwLIQd75RO0/w400-h371/procession.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />The question is not a new one.<br /><br />People new to the area are often flummoxed at some Mexican custom or other. Noise for example. This question showed up on our local community Facebook page yesterday.<br /><br />"Does anyone know why cannons are going off in Barra?"<i>*</i><br /><br />Of course, there are no cannons. The last cannons fired here involved pirates in the late 1500s. (The pirates won in a double-header.) What they are are the usual <i>cohetes</i> (the skyrockets that carry an M-80 wham). And the answer is always the same. A religious feast day is being celebrated.<br /><br />This week's celebration is very special for Barra de Navidad because it celebrates divine intervention that saved the village from destruction. I am certain most of you know the story, but it is one that deserves re-telling.<br /><span style="color: #333333;"><br />The year was 1971. The night of 31 August-1 September to be exact.</span></span><p></p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">A hurricane by the name of Lily was headed straight for Barra de Navidad. It was obvious the storm would demolish a good portion of the town if it maintained its projected path.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />And Lily did maintain her path. She came ashore near Barra de Navidad with winds of up to 85 miles an hour.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />With disaster on their doorstep, the residents of Barra did what came natural to people of faith, and for people who have suddenly discovered a faith they did not know they possessed. They congregated in the church -- and prayed. As the winds battered the walls, they sought deliverance from the storm. The sailors on Jonah's ship could not have prayed more fervently.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />And then it happened. A miracle. A standard crucifix of Jesus on the cross stood above the altar. For no apparent reason, each of Christ's arms fell to his sides. And the storm abated.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3F91Vf50YM4nizD_CzF5OUi2KwkZ8a3uILVkxhuAW0yCZ_KKpKYIQ09S5GwGskOEBS3tDMh8uy2oRVVdt5JXbDXWP5x_e0T1svuJ2KRoRL84esMAXLATWOTQzPGBAo6dukhhKV3hqE60bTaCjSiJzu4WwwFGCcneAmo7R_hbqhMfclgHEaxpeQPj/s4000/christ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3F91Vf50YM4nizD_CzF5OUi2KwkZ8a3uILVkxhuAW0yCZ_KKpKYIQ09S5GwGskOEBS3tDMh8uy2oRVVdt5JXbDXWP5x_e0T1svuJ2KRoRL84esMAXLATWOTQzPGBAo6dukhhKV3hqE60bTaCjSiJzu4WwwFGCcneAmo7R_hbqhMfclgHEaxpeQPj/w300-h400/christ.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">It was like something out of the gospels. Mark 4:39 to be exact. "He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, 'Quiet! Be still!' Then the wind died down and it was completely calm."<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />Ever since then, the congregants celebrate Jesus of the Cyclone (el Cristo del Ciclón) this time of year -- as a day of deliverance and remembrance.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />As Ben Franklin once said in recounting a story about a fly reviving in a fifty-year old cask of Madeira, "Now, I do not know how scientific that tale is ... ." But it is an article of faith in these parts.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />The story goes that the parishioners wanted to repair Jesus' miraculous shrug, but the priest informed them that God had caused the arms to drop and only God could restore them. The crucifix still stands in the church in its hands-down splendor. <br /><br />This evening, the week's daily procession formed up on the main road into town. The guest of honor was carried ceremoniously to the church for evening mass.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFjkbNKXxsXBmJAC9SXtjeJUBNy1yPi4LmHsXCiqUKLmRvlDkFZ_1fZSTQAONsd5_VaYxh743HS51J5alugb1y6hDln-SqTDa9Dhmy2UAr3T2ppVtmMmpn8NOveiPdvIsq1ejmC8V_YQMSgASBnq76D1XQeRW18tCt2-41tW5Th1_Ko1CX_Kcyu--/s2769/guitar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2523" data-original-width="2769" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizFjkbNKXxsXBmJAC9SXtjeJUBNy1yPi4LmHsXCiqUKLmRvlDkFZ_1fZSTQAONsd5_VaYxh743HS51J5alugb1y6hDln-SqTDa9Dhmy2UAr3T2ppVtmMmpn8NOveiPdvIsq1ejmC8V_YQMSgASBnq76D1XQeRW18tCt2-41tW5Th1_Ko1CX_Kcyu--/w400-h365/guitar.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;">A side note. After sparing Barra de Navidad, Hurricane Lily rumbled north like Attila the Hun to lay waste to Puerto Vallarta in the worst hurricane it had suffered in 20 years. Favors apparently have a limited jurisdiction.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white;"><br /><span style="color: #333333;">So, that is why the non-cannons are sounding. To celebrate a miracle.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #333333;">I talked to talk with Sara, a local realtor, who helps organize these affairs. She told me that Saturday will be a very special day -- involving the remnants of the cross that once stood in the shipyard that built the ships that left Barra e Navidad for The Philippines in 1564. As you might imagine, their is quite a tradition that has barnacled that small piece of wood.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #333333;">Unfortunately, I will be flying north to Oregon on Saturday for my monthly check-in.</span><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br />For those of you who are in town, I have been promised that this year's celebration will be something special.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333;"><br /><i>Disfruta la fiesta.</i> And look out for flying cannon balls.<br /><br /><br /><i>* -- A friend from Alberta who lives here part-time refers to these questions as Canadrama -- closely related to their cousins Mexidrama and Ameridrama.<br /><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLZggSEKu_TJqeKyYjlQGd-ON_aF9ATjb_Pcwuib_nTBbHXoMlUTASgGJ-m-2-0bSERl7Mt_xs1vhwj1rw4lPWUuxC9udGO7BN6fSKB5VcwpA8jd86kzViRN9eVjcbLofIjsRY8YRq6qvSf0x7eIbrLPu3YyglERyS602ahc3-RO_VJnYEgnorspa/s2226/litter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2226" data-original-width="2156" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtLZggSEKu_TJqeKyYjlQGd-ON_aF9ATjb_Pcwuib_nTBbHXoMlUTASgGJ-m-2-0bSERl7Mt_xs1vhwj1rw4lPWUuxC9udGO7BN6fSKB5VcwpA8jd86kzViRN9eVjcbLofIjsRY8YRq6qvSf0x7eIbrLPu3YyglERyS602ahc3-RO_VJnYEgnorspa/w388-h400/litter.jpg" width="388" /></a></div><br /></span></span>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-33035911023247239142022-08-29T22:32:00.003-05:002022-08-29T22:32:37.481-05:00little orphan annie eyes<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJ0N-tuYKqhl5_eUJ-Lq41FiLnqfIMm4UIkUh3-s-dXV3pG20udA2GLF44TKwJvQCIdlEuu92x2CxUnONIby3G4ztWTaP71-6FHBHyicT3HXmPZzbNTnTK06v0Z6aSouNqR8SjUQnw-3vUbdz5a3YXJYmJfNj2E6672jfiv4OAz3Tr2Kg8jw_MkHG/s2865/1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2540" data-original-width="2865" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJ0N-tuYKqhl5_eUJ-Lq41FiLnqfIMm4UIkUh3-s-dXV3pG20udA2GLF44TKwJvQCIdlEuu92x2CxUnONIby3G4ztWTaP71-6FHBHyicT3HXmPZzbNTnTK06v0Z6aSouNqR8SjUQnw-3vUbdz5a3YXJYmJfNj2E6672jfiv4OAz3Tr2Kg8jw_MkHG/w400-h355/1000.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />It had been some time since I played video poker on the Banamex ATM.<br /><br />I usually get my pesos during work hours from the Intercam teller. But I recently found myself short of pesos on a Saturday night. The only option was to saunter down the street to Banamex and try my luck with one of its ATMs.<br /><br />Too often, my card will not work or the machine does not have cash or it will charge my account and leave me as noteless as when I started my transaction.<br /><br />I started with the machine on the left. It would not read my card. The next machine read my card, but was out of cash. Fortunately, the third machine turned out to be the Goldilocks option. It was just right.<br /><br />Then it was my turn to be reduced to a cultural stereotype. I took a look at the notes the ATM had disgorged -- and my eyes rolled back so far there was nothing left but Little Orphan Annie whites.<br /><br />You can see why for yourself. <br /><br />Like most ATMs in the area, the Banamex machines regularly disgorge wads off 500-peso notes. There is nothing wrong with the notes -- other than the practical consideration. Merchants here have historically not been able to handle purchases with 500-peso notes. They do not keep that much change on hand. Often, it feels as if a wad off 500-peso notes is like having no money at all.<br /><br />But what I received was even more daunting. 4000 pesos of my withdrawal were in an even more problematic denomination. 1000-peso notes.<br /><br />This version of the 1000-peso note was issued in November 2020. I did not see the first one locally until almost a full year later, and I thought they would be as rare as ivory-billed woodpecker sightings in Manhattan.<br /><br />I was wrong. They are now common issue from the Banamex ATM. I have no idea if the other ATMs in town are trying to save space by filling the bin with portraits of President Madero.<br /><br />The appearance of the notes are a harbinger of another not-so-welcome phenomenon sweeping the country. Inflation.<br /><br />For the past year, the cost-of-living has risen precipitously -- just as it has in other countries. At least, we in Mexico are not suffering as badly as the Turks or the Lebanese or the poor Venezuelans with their current 1198% rate. Compared with them, Mexico's official inflation rate of 8.15% is almost anemic.<br /><br />But official rates do not always tell the real story. Food is a prime example. I have seen lists recently from local stores with incomes totting up 20% to 40% increases. Grocers verify those ranges. As do restaurant owners who have been forced to increase the price of their menu items. I seldom leave a local grocery store without leaving a full 1000-peso (or two) behind.<br /><br />My neighbors tell me tales of despair of trying to stretch pay to cover increasing food costs. Because just like everywhere else, pay is not keeping up with the price increases.<br /><br />I was talking with Antonio, the guy who keeps the sparkle in my pool, about the cost of food. As part of the conversation, he told me the chemicals that he supplies as part of his cleaning contract with me have shot higher than a <i>cohete</i>. Until he mentioned it, I had not even thought about how supply chain problems and cost increases had cut into his profit -- not to mention the cost of gasoline for his car.<br /><br />The same goes for Dora, the magician who helps me clean my house. Both of them are feeling the pinch of local economics.<br /><br />Wages here are a bit difficult for me. I come from a culture where workers will ask for a raise when they need one or feel that they deserve one. That is not the Mexican culture. Neither Dora nor Antonio have ever asked me to increase their wages. Over the years, I usually increase their rate of pay around the New Year. <br /><br />I decided not to wait. I cannot control inflation (and the Mexican government does not appear to have a comprehensive plan to do so nationally), but I do control the purse strings of the microeconomy of The House With No Name.<br /><br />So, I have increased the wages of Dora and Antonio in an attempt to help them meet current cost-of-living challenges.<br /><br />Sometimes, every little bit helps.<br /><br />And it gives me somewhere wortwhile to spend those 1000-peso notes. <br /><br /></span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-85554182319681683322022-07-18T15:49:00.004-05:002022-07-18T15:49:39.932-05:00it takes a pillage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2ufvmLytX8hYA4oRTXhxtflBBMD_hPWVlaEXSXQ5iCKLnjQgXZvd8mLnDtO71DekPTI69oYgTDABNNYbX--PCSBHgXooVP-aHvn7cs40OEO4CEXJDnoJM_74r1cusMZe7LchS2H1shdz7zyI6EHPpyOAPKOxlrVXI6OAUg9qSeXmnPWCMZMMkaI1/s1385/map.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="1385" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl2ufvmLytX8hYA4oRTXhxtflBBMD_hPWVlaEXSXQ5iCKLnjQgXZvd8mLnDtO71DekPTI69oYgTDABNNYbX--PCSBHgXooVP-aHvn7cs40OEO4CEXJDnoJM_74r1cusMZe7LchS2H1shdz7zyI6EHPpyOAPKOxlrVXI6OAUg9qSeXmnPWCMZMMkaI1/w400-h301/map.png" width="400" /></span></a></div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The scene is inevitable.<br /><br />In every murder mystery, the detective will assemble the cast -- usually in the parlor -- to reveal the who in the whodunit. Or, even more cleverly, as in <i>The Last of Sheila</i>, arranging them by name.<br /><br />And, so it has been this season. The suspects blew in alphabetically: Agatha, Blas, Celia, Bonnie, Darby, Estelle.<br /><br />Of course, those names are not the cast in a local Agatha Christie Revival. They are the string of hurricanes (and one tropical storm) that have slipped past Barra de Navidad this season.<br /><br />From June to October, there seems to be at least one new storm being born in the Pacific off the coast of Central America. Most do not amount to much. They burn out in the formation stage. Even those that make it to hurricane or tropical storm status stay far enough out in the Pacific that we see only their tertiary effects. High waves. Some rain. Usually, not more than that.<br /><br />However, if the pressure areas along the cyclone's path are just so (as Rudyard Kipling would say), we do get to feel one of Nature's shows of strength at its rawest. Last year's Hurricane Nora is a perfect example. A mere category one hurricane that, because of its path, caused a surprising amount of damage.<br /><br />At the start of hurricane season, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) predicts whether each region's hurricane season will be below or above average. The Atlantic received the bad news of an "above-normal" season. The Eastern Pacific (our region) the seemingly-better label of "below-normal:" 10-17 named storms, 4-8 hurricanes, 0-3 major hurricanes.<br /><br />Mother Nature has an impish sense of humor. The bytes in the NOAA press release were still damp when something unusual happened in the Eastern Pacific. Hurricane Agatha struck. And she was unfashionably early. Not waiting for the season to begin in June, Agatha arrived in May -- earning herself the title as "<span face="ADTiemposText-Regular">the strongest hurricane on record to make landfall in May in the eastern Pacific."<br /><br />For added novelty, the cyclone had formed in the Pacific and then crossed over into the Caribbean.<br /><br />This may be the season for trans-storms. First there was Agatha. You may have noticed in the alphabetical list of hurricanes and storms that have already paraded past us, there seems to be a mistake. </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Agatha, Blas, Celia, Bonnie, Darby, Estelle. What is that extra "B" doing in the mix?<br /><br />Bonnie was another exchange storm. But, she started in the Caribbean and then slipped across the isthmus into the Pacific before waltzing harmlessly past us completely oblivious to the fact that she was out-of-step with the other chorines and chorus boys. <br /><br />It is an odd year. I do not know what to make of NOAA's low-count prediction. The estimate was for 4 to 8 hurricanes. We have already had five (counting runaway Bonnie), and we are only six weeks into the hurricane season.<br /><br />Fortunately, for our area, the effects have been minimal. Except for the fishers. The wave activity has played havoc with the local industry.<br /><br />I enjoy the summers here. The heat. The humidity. Nature's power in storms -- especially, the thunder and the lightning. Surviving summers here is a reminder of how survival itself can be an adrenalin rush.<br /><br />But weather is always a topic that draws me back to the keyboard -- when I can find a break in my walking routine. I will let you judge whether that is a good thing.<br /></span><br /></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-17570762717654248322022-07-12T15:09:00.000-05:002022-07-12T15:09:05.201-05:00sleeping with the fishes?<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpyjWulL4uXkz3QJqJtnn639uPtf9o-Tq9qBvRMghz2uzZQoKsI21--GzYRIOzL7sGTqMqs8E-Ap1NnLjYtnw7vb77PrlpXoOPCQZGLz00F5LFbhno6lX237EBJBLOVzWCpy2PzKS48yIW1oNfvgWeouiAfY35PMQVGxUIiOhd61x80PkO6iWAMT-4/s2036/fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1219" data-original-width="2036" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpyjWulL4uXkz3QJqJtnn639uPtf9o-Tq9qBvRMghz2uzZQoKsI21--GzYRIOzL7sGTqMqs8E-Ap1NnLjYtnw7vb77PrlpXoOPCQZGLz00F5LFbhno6lX237EBJBLOVzWCpy2PzKS48yIW1oNfvgWeouiAfY35PMQVGxUIiOhd61x80PkO6iWAMT-4/w400-h240/fish.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />That, among other queries, has come my way the past two months. Wondering about my unprecedented (and unexplained absence) from these pages.<br /><br />It is a fair question. My last post was on 21 May when I pondered the mysterious lizard that had taken up residence in my kitchen. Since then, Mexpatriate has ceased to echo the pace of my life. <br /><br />But the fish have jolted me out of my reverie.<br /><br />This afternoon I started a quick walk to the local Oxxo when I paused to pick up the trash and detritus that daily accumulates in the street in front of my house. Most of it is refuse that the guys on the garbage truck drop while toting off the neighborhood rubbish.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Amongst the styrofoam cups, potato chip wrappers, and dirty diapers was a small fish. It could not have been there long because it showed no signs of rot in the sun. Why, I asked myself, would one small fish be in the middle of the street on a Tuesday afternoon? Apparently, I had no answer because I didn't.<br /><br />Well, it was not one. I soon saw another. Then three more. And five. Between my house and the house next door, there were thirty-one lost piscine souls resting eternally.<br /><br />I have a friend who grew up in Brooklyn in the 1940s who believes that every odd thing discovered in a neighborhood is a message from the Mafia. I know exactly what he would have thought of the fish in the street. Fair warning. Of what? Well, something. And it could not be good.<br /><br />Having turned in my aluminum foil hats some time ago, I tend to default to the analysis that Sigmund Freud famously did not say: "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar." I sleep a lot better that way.<br /><br />Who knows why the fish are there? Most likely a fisher had caught them at the beach, stuffed them in a bag, and, while walking or riding down my street,the bag decided to do its impression of Hansel in the forest.<br /><br />But they were excuse enough for me to break into my walking schedule to write you a brief note to say the world goes on.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />And, should I find another open period, I will probably share a bit more of what has been happening during the past five months.<br /><br />For now, I am going to enjoy something the unschooled fish no longer can -- I am going to relish the gift of another day. <br /><br /></span></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-72485285137055053302022-05-21T19:04:00.007-05:002022-05-21T19:04:55.143-05:00my lizard in hand<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxLhM1DtD1e0Udq4leM5e96I1sw967ehTnY811HB1QNc8DxRkRMh5ClFgrjCBzu_ZQzpZwCzjyZ0-ic_C3j-arQH1X0KBicH2GYVH7eUqd70FTpRDf9jgzwc2WcD3p0dw3XRJbmpXU4WlF2XresE4-RVJ9K5WN1lPe95PvVCAnULjekAtyhq2j7XK/s2582/lizdoor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2582" data-original-width="1219" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsxLhM1DtD1e0Udq4leM5e96I1sw967ehTnY811HB1QNc8DxRkRMh5ClFgrjCBzu_ZQzpZwCzjyZ0-ic_C3j-arQH1X0KBicH2GYVH7eUqd70FTpRDf9jgzwc2WcD3p0dw3XRJbmpXU4WlF2XresE4-RVJ9K5WN1lPe95PvVCAnULjekAtyhq2j7XK/w189-h400/lizdoor.jpg" width="189" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I say I live alone in Mexico.<br /><br />I don't. There is always some new sentient creature seeking shelter at the inn.<br /><br />When I returned home earlier this week my month-long sojourn, I discovered a new roommate living in my kitchen. Rather, living on the screen door in the kitchen.<br /><br />The screens must hold some fascination for lizards because all sorts of varieties like to roost there. Iguanas. Mexican spiny-tailed lizards (often misidentified as black iguanas). Alligator lizards. Geckos.<br /><br />Maybe they like the bit of breeze that manages to find its way into my patio. Though, I doubt that. As cold-blooded reptiles, they would normally be drawn by sunlight. But not in the house. They set their screens in the shade.<br /><br />My theory is the lizards hang out on the screens for the same reason the geckos gather around the patio lights at night. It is a great place to hunt. Like a watering hole in the Serengeti. Kitchens tend to draw flies who also rest on the screen doors. Dinner on the wing.<br /><br />That, of course, is all speculation. I am not privy to the wiles of the mini-Jurassic Park that surrounds me. Nor do I have any idea what type of lizard it is. Do you?<br /><br />In silhouette, it could easily be confused with an iguana -- with those Sigourney Weaver-snatching claws. But as soon as it fell to the floor with the same sound a package of chitlins makes when it accidentally tumble to the kitchen floor, its iguana disguise was dropped.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjm6XdWS1ColmW3SI97WtLAPH2x-3GXzl2uRAnfmmYwB5A94GiCxvIzTFiwjepLiWIy_DMtF20ihuqn5bFWflAwRph1tER6A9g3OvzK9Ak34KtNpeEAc8B9q_t1Kw8a0NELH9q-7-pS8HhIW9Kslb9g80WVaYpkebGfG_u56y3XNjR7QXm36j-D8ZY/s2340/lizfloor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1120" data-original-width="2340" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjm6XdWS1ColmW3SI97WtLAPH2x-3GXzl2uRAnfmmYwB5A94GiCxvIzTFiwjepLiWIy_DMtF20ihuqn5bFWflAwRph1tER6A9g3OvzK9Ak34KtNpeEAc8B9q_t1Kw8a0NELH9q-7-pS8HhIW9Kslb9g80WVaYpkebGfG_u56y3XNjR7QXm36j-D8ZY/w400-h191/lizfloor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />With those brown spines, it almost looks like a cousin to a horned toad. Well, a horned toad that has spent a couple of months on a keto diet.<br /><br />Matters became a bit more complicated when I caught sight of the other side of the lizard while he was once again pretending to be invisible on the screen door. He looks as if his mama could have been a lazuli bunting.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rU505VaRFEAqDtA5-C6gXQ8Ubzgm7QXFvhIZseq0046TaoQ1ai2Np4oLruBr099k40m9d8GaAI2fNPobipme8AQPhzo65kjhTIv5DRAs9wkbGFt0ACgrL6jx5t6RE5tKMXvxqApMWMgUQSYPP9bHhabk6F_nN_bzPWjPVpBe-eUMfsA5SRxrPJAk/s3459/lizcolor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3459" data-original-width="2438" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rU505VaRFEAqDtA5-C6gXQ8Ubzgm7QXFvhIZseq0046TaoQ1ai2Np4oLruBr099k40m9d8GaAI2fNPobipme8AQPhzo65kjhTIv5DRAs9wkbGFt0ACgrL6jx5t6RE5tKMXvxqApMWMgUQSYPP9bHhabk6F_nN_bzPWjPVpBe-eUMfsA5SRxrPJAk/w283-h400/lizcolor.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><br />For the past week, the lizard and I have been living a peaceful coexistence. I have left the screen door open to let him escape to the brave new world outside of the kitchen. He is having none of it. Like a squatter evading his lease obligations, he hunkers down in what he now sees as his new home.<br /><br />Dora is aware he is in the kitchen. But twice, while she has been cleaning the sills above the door, he has surprised her. This morning she nearly fell off of her ladder when she ran her hand over him.<br /><br />So, in the kitchen he will stay. Probably until he shrivels up from a dearth of flies. I left out some lettuce and meat. He showed no interest. But I did manage to attract a long line of ants. He showed less gourmet interest in the ants than he did in the lettuce.<br /><br />Now, I just need to remember to turn on the light in the night to avoid my toes turning him into lizard marmalade.<br /><br /></span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-15121961982409889062022-05-18T18:21:00.000-05:002022-05-18T18:21:02.438-05:00shooting the moon<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeJ48rskLyu5UxcGjRUsBPn5b5xgGDOWpuZ68955wPz99Pl7vVXHZ518_VCNrRjKSGNJ0I25b0cyH56eS6CtppAvHDW-ohuE7LVwyZlzZOGcnCk11YMSEbDxaGTBESjHXZkzTjqUteP4gnLMndY_sHsGeJDQd-lfYAjwOjAO8Tl2Y9PWuYHjscoQL/s1080/FB_IMG_1652766644605%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeJ48rskLyu5UxcGjRUsBPn5b5xgGDOWpuZ68955wPz99Pl7vVXHZ518_VCNrRjKSGNJ0I25b0cyH56eS6CtppAvHDW-ohuE7LVwyZlzZOGcnCk11YMSEbDxaGTBESjHXZkzTjqUteP4gnLMndY_sHsGeJDQd-lfYAjwOjAO8Tl2Y9PWuYHjscoQL/w400-h300/FB_IMG_1652766644605%20(1).jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />The event had more titles than María del Rosario Cayetana Fitz-James Stuart y Silva.<br /><br />"Super." "Flower." "Blood." And the Duchess of Alba equivalent -- "Super Moon."<br /><br />It was all part of the hype that greeted Sunday night/Monday morning's total lunar eclipse. I use "hype" advisedly because I was every bit as gaga as everyone else who sat up lawn chairs to watch one of nature's most mysterious performances.<br /><br />Being an amateur astronomer, I try not to miss any of these events. Comets. Planet alignments. Exploding novas. Though I am far more likely to see a 1979 Chevy aflame before I get to see a star perform a full Monty.<br /><br />I knew exactly how to take full advantage of this lunar eclipse. I pulled my writing table and chair to the west side of the upper terrace. That would give me full range of fire from the moment the moon came over the horizon. My good camera and its telescope lenses were next. I set up the camera for a night shoot, and dug out my best pair of binoculars. Then I connected my laptop to the internet. I was fully-prepared to document every second of the evening.<br /><br />About two months ago, I was listening to National Public Radio (what a leftist friend calls "Nazi People's Radio") on my ear buds while walking just outside Barra. The newsreader had just been exercising her particular brand of bias and bigotry when the tone of the broadcast made a sharp turn into something interesting.<br /><br />She started interviewing a woman whose thesis was that, even though she was an advocate of technology, some recent inventions have isolated us from the natural world. Radio, for instance. Rather than being outside enjoying the daily sounds of life, we prefer to have a stranger read the newspaper to us. It was a good point.<br /><br />Then the newsreader slathered on her own irony. She suggested that listeners turn off their radios or remove their earbuds (in my case) and indulge in the surrounding sounds. I did.<br /><br />I cannot say what I heard was better than Bach, but it was better than NPR. Traffic noise. The shuffle of my shoes against the pavement. Birds. Children screaming and laughing. Music throbbing from the fitness center. It was life. The life I chose for myself as an immigrant to Mexico.<br /><br />I thought of that little experiment as I reached for my camera on Sunday night just as the shadow of the moon started crossing the southwest corner of the moon. My intention had been to shoot each stage of the eclipse. Until I heard a little voice ask: "Why?"<br /><br />I did not have an answer. The purpose of my tiny scientific station was not to memorialize the moment in photographs but to enjoy it as it was happening. And so I did. I sat and watched as the Earth's shadow slowly engulfed the moon turning it into the type of red that has fed the apocalyptic imagination of people the world over for millennia. <br /><br />For almost an hour, what had started as a full moon lighting my patio had turned into a shadowy presence. Until the shadow moved on and the moon revealed its true self bit by bit. Earning each of the titles it would bear Monday morning in newspaper stories. <br /><br />Super Flower Blood Moon of May 2022. And that could very well be the name of the substitute Sean Penn sends to next year's Academy Awards.<br /><br />You may already have concluded that I did not pick up my camera during the evening. I was too busy being one with the night. Well, not really. I did use my binoculars -- a lot. And I knew that one of you would be doing a good job at the heavy lifting of astronomy photography.<br /><br />And I was correct. I can always count on Vern Gazvoda to bring his camera to the party. He did.<br /><br />With his permission, I share one of his shots. It is a great way to see what we all saw here on the Pacifc coast of Mexico.<br /><br />Of course, seeing it in person was even better. Now, I will save my camera for my trip to South Africa.<br /> </span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-54477936383069644022022-05-03T17:18:00.000-05:002022-05-03T17:18:01.341-05:00sign here<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCf_rgyJZrA0iF6CNQtIAtfnLK9_-O3-SlEExlLlHX1UcX5GWCN5ZhvdNtgQx3rGmk8Z2L551OnARe83RyBs4vcZ32QLBVmyX0XBUZE-XzX4WuMAtPjBc65bGJwxAg9yicOCE90IigJhFXtcB28T4QWWcVc73DILWIre8LolimTfduv4gLKLVBCaUj/s2546/bathroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2546" data-original-width="1517" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCf_rgyJZrA0iF6CNQtIAtfnLK9_-O3-SlEExlLlHX1UcX5GWCN5ZhvdNtgQx3rGmk8Z2L551OnARe83RyBs4vcZ32QLBVmyX0XBUZE-XzX4WuMAtPjBc65bGJwxAg9yicOCE90IigJhFXtcB28T4QWWcVc73DILWIre8LolimTfduv4gLKLVBCaUj/w239-h400/bathroom.jpg" width="239" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I empathize with people who compose signs. Whatever they do, some fellow who thinks he is the next Quintin Crisp will come along to ferret out a bit of wit from the quotidian.<br /><br />Today, that fellow is me.<br /><br />Here is a sample from my meanderings of the last two months.<br /><br />Bathrooms provide a wealth of writing material. Take the photograph ar the top. The sign is from a bathroom on the Explorer of the Seas (where I now am -- somewhere in the southern Caribbean.) Looking at the sign, I was tempted to stand around and wait. It looked like an exciting place.<br /><br />I attribute that odd behavior to too many Buster Keaton films during my misspent youth.<br /><br />But it was nowhere as interesting as the list of instructions on the mirror in the men's bathroom at the Georgetown, Grand Cayman cruise terminal. In very official bright red. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhtuakdBUVmCh75K5hVv79isyfYdVPYNMiIyYVHJVojkaAwhwSiM-alNdX9XB2RQZXGAgjvGirpXXxXrIstbvDHvUc40HXXiECDqrtmXuL8c9Vtc6Chzp3z_sGTw5Lx3It57AGu4hL20XXfo04M7S3zYcb9dgsNxAt1hV2bwTrQhy4VCtx9WjZkm8/s3170/bathroom%20cayman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2427" data-original-width="3170" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhtuakdBUVmCh75K5hVv79isyfYdVPYNMiIyYVHJVojkaAwhwSiM-alNdX9XB2RQZXGAgjvGirpXXxXrIstbvDHvUc40HXXiECDqrtmXuL8c9Vtc6Chzp3z_sGTw5Lx3It57AGu4hL20XXfo04M7S3zYcb9dgsNxAt1hV2bwTrQhy4VCtx9WjZkm8/w400-h306/bathroom%20cayman.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />And it just got better. I can only imagine that people who wash their feet in face basins may be a bit confused about how to use this odd toilet -- though they know it must be flushed.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5AoJz6O11eDKwwEkyrrjH_oErCEfopddLhv34TJMA2a03jjpwQF7Ka3zVE9O2_gHtVzbQITg2uauaw_rGHySZ0qFOpwS8eGzYuTD5juVpXYeKi_PPFY8mXZbLQ869p06k2yMxV1HVNpO9hyyTXcoiMRHFsQKkUo3zSqd0aPIvOgsMfsPYCsGBvB3/s3757/bathroom%20towel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3757" data-original-width="2218" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5AoJz6O11eDKwwEkyrrjH_oErCEfopddLhv34TJMA2a03jjpwQF7Ka3zVE9O2_gHtVzbQITg2uauaw_rGHySZ0qFOpwS8eGzYuTD5juVpXYeKi_PPFY8mXZbLQ869p06k2yMxV1HVNpO9hyyTXcoiMRHFsQKkUo3zSqd0aPIvOgsMfsPYCsGBvB3/w236-h400/bathroom%20towel.jpg" width="236" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Someone may have had a similar idea when they editorialized this pedestrian sign in the Yucatán village of Chichimila.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8ewu8AjiE2aBKt2rotsGwperzif0t1-0SAl8aCXMqqithnwcK6nC8Nm-o6hN7Bnt7asre7I42dodm99FPUAy34jaWxxzrNTPp_-j8o2xnK9FUbzJSvok18O9ESUd_ttTWYJ-yTgPwOcB0zQsVQoKvIGZhi5FmGFMoSe4oF1VMQd4SFSzNpNDDu9r/s4032/shithead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd8ewu8AjiE2aBKt2rotsGwperzif0t1-0SAl8aCXMqqithnwcK6nC8Nm-o6hN7Bnt7asre7I42dodm99FPUAy34jaWxxzrNTPp_-j8o2xnK9FUbzJSvok18O9ESUd_ttTWYJ-yTgPwOcB0zQsVQoKvIGZhi5FmGFMoSe4oF1VMQd4SFSzNpNDDu9r/w300-h400/shithead.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />I will let the rest of you take this Rorschach test. I call it "Dolly Parton meets Me Too."<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhISD6xOoRgEOsetNb_-J6u9GiMapXtFNooLptnW-EY-X9k1vVmFnh6tzCTYqxJIRF_oKQ5Uo378THFDebArMsRyoLH7QK22DjKwqS7UnmNy-8dScALk04AFqtTDoyBbwi_U-bSrIjtLm1mszCW0u9CIXzE3QhJM2PUZOTZ_nB_WM5yL4_1DBIhFf/s3270/topes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3270" data-original-width="2222" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUhISD6xOoRgEOsetNb_-J6u9GiMapXtFNooLptnW-EY-X9k1vVmFnh6tzCTYqxJIRF_oKQ5Uo378THFDebArMsRyoLH7QK22DjKwqS7UnmNy-8dScALk04AFqtTDoyBbwi_U-bSrIjtLm1mszCW0u9CIXzE3QhJM2PUZOTZ_nB_WM5yL4_1DBIhFf/w271-h400/topes.jpg" width="271" /></a></div><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">She apparently has a companion figure who works on the ferry at Playa del Carmen.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUnPMpZozrrnQbEpfbTYuoBSrGclwRd630zdiHLIuaNaRj6zIplXw4DVpHTQY-PibDuVJ3Qqy3w6lLevB6y0wTta-dufTnqoLrjwUDQCck5BikHTTKKIMIoaVHyV-A26fAvxKiB2EeEzyx8_rS365iWzUlWc3YN5FhF1Zs0YvwvBzUCL6rK7NnUwY/s2578/stick%20worker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2578" data-original-width="1458" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmUnPMpZozrrnQbEpfbTYuoBSrGclwRd630zdiHLIuaNaRj6zIplXw4DVpHTQY-PibDuVJ3Qqy3w6lLevB6y0wTta-dufTnqoLrjwUDQCck5BikHTTKKIMIoaVHyV-A26fAvxKiB2EeEzyx8_rS365iWzUlWc3YN5FhF1Zs0YvwvBzUCL6rK7NnUwY/w226-h400/stick%20worker.jpg" width="226" /></a></div><br />Directional signs are almost always a good source for mixed messages -- as is that sentence. This one in Puerto Vallarta puts the following information on equal footing: showing me the way home, diverting me to Old Town, or helping me find a realtor I had no idea I needed. The Eurasian collared dove appears to be equally confused.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWOMVBhLl59Tkd2Y01sy8IZPhzVXXPJQFi3RSXOhxHKwFHA-UaES3ekz03KguKjzcmNrs9hg_rfYv3xzBKZCqefZ6k2w3L0krx9Dm1XGtCMVT7NMbr_CQyThcz1osq0MxnJfA8ZPoJEYu4s6VGOwMoVYVkPRHy5rkKiO85vSweca6K_iEESTUvSsk/s3622/barra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2227" data-original-width="3622" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbWOMVBhLl59Tkd2Y01sy8IZPhzVXXPJQFi3RSXOhxHKwFHA-UaES3ekz03KguKjzcmNrs9hg_rfYv3xzBKZCqefZ6k2w3L0krx9Dm1XGtCMVT7NMbr_CQyThcz1osq0MxnJfA8ZPoJEYu4s6VGOwMoVYVkPRHy5rkKiO85vSweca6K_iEESTUvSsk/w400-h246/barra.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The best signs are where the poster has done all the heavy lifting for me. Some fellow in </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mérida has posted that he will glady offer a free service to anyone parking in front of his garage -- tire punctures.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhOE2L5e1BeOyFbxL5KGrjggiBipujjVoZFZ6ErOFAZF8yZVsa7UVvMaWoJOBJifTJni8880TqLz_8DSRmgZs7Mh94ijZyEGzns7LT1hc_DDRoeUqGvPzdeZQwUIJyZ74zWAQhnSkNxXaG2Y87eQSTbhtudlduVn_IP4j4qO30GsrJejSo4Ouk4GY/s2914/tires.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1564" data-original-width="2914" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMhOE2L5e1BeOyFbxL5KGrjggiBipujjVoZFZ6ErOFAZF8yZVsa7UVvMaWoJOBJifTJni8880TqLz_8DSRmgZs7Mh94ijZyEGzns7LT1hc_DDRoeUqGvPzdeZQwUIJyZ74zWAQhnSkNxXaG2Y87eQSTbhtudlduVn_IP4j4qO30GsrJejSo4Ouk4GY/w400-h215/tires.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />This sign did not strike me as being a wit mine as it was surprising. I guess if cryptocurrencies exist, ATMs for the medium will be needed, as well. The juxtaposition of the jewelry store with Bitcoin made it that more fascinating to me. I always imagine that bitcoiners are also gold bugs.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4txXx973uMJ7IznIb1bVwft3-1V8bsqo0UJVZHD2OjP_C9dgupNEt-eJwcy7agXOQLYDs7gWUvcGrjwTPRdkVPhjO79RJU_N_L7hohn5jcEK-N6hkQyZYiNYvRytjxz2V3STV9QaPSaAlY_QAlSa1l_AoyfEPuBUcquRPeXwQvOTgVBBnFK-H9tdK/s2867/bitcoin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2236" data-original-width="2867" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4txXx973uMJ7IznIb1bVwft3-1V8bsqo0UJVZHD2OjP_C9dgupNEt-eJwcy7agXOQLYDs7gWUvcGrjwTPRdkVPhjO79RJU_N_L7hohn5jcEK-N6hkQyZYiNYvRytjxz2V3STV9QaPSaAlY_QAlSa1l_AoyfEPuBUcquRPeXwQvOTgVBBnFK-H9tdK/w400-h313/bitcoin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">When we were in Valladolid, the three of us drove past this house several times. I finally asked Dan to stop. There has to be an interesting story to go along with the wall. I did not inquire within, so I am free to take it from there.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaK_VdcpLigKjNBdIYaA7KorPR0WwREbqoAPde8JxYE01UCc6L-MihqXd7mPO5naupluORsZ8xg_XM8mdaF4OdAxsOg3JbAhlunwGBTeDweaMUgn5UHQpXgxa8aoauWRbAHJsxM5-4f6FmcZa40i-zZflPSIURY5EFeOP37EMybvC91FNncNxgC1V-/s3084/iraq.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2112" data-original-width="3084" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaK_VdcpLigKjNBdIYaA7KorPR0WwREbqoAPde8JxYE01UCc6L-MihqXd7mPO5naupluORsZ8xg_XM8mdaF4OdAxsOg3JbAhlunwGBTeDweaMUgn5UHQpXgxa8aoauWRbAHJsxM5-4f6FmcZa40i-zZflPSIURY5EFeOP37EMybvC91FNncNxgC1V-/w400-h274/iraq.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">This one I have saved for last because I see it on every trip to Prineville. It is so old and worn that it is hard to read, but it is displayed on the ice cream case of the Tastee Treet. Like everyone else, I tap the glass and watch the ice cream scurry about. And I always laugh.<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcr2SrfpyVU7nBz2-qOc_oNocS2y8Tax9bT2jyGD7z9hKxPNQT-Do3HCS2nSTQSDT2WZELmsr0N841Ca2a9kZ8R6ShTNU165W8kHiDHpDm2_V4zZntBdpiauiGqRfcdE0U955kbpUWH2LzlIMSpSu7H7v-QNl_ZED0S4AJFTSwvSympLXMMe0I_pQY/s4032/ice%20cream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1816" data-original-width="4032" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcr2SrfpyVU7nBz2-qOc_oNocS2y8Tax9bT2jyGD7z9hKxPNQT-Do3HCS2nSTQSDT2WZELmsr0N841Ca2a9kZ8R6ShTNU165W8kHiDHpDm2_V4zZntBdpiauiGqRfcdE0U955kbpUWH2LzlIMSpSu7H7v-QNl_ZED0S4AJFTSwvSympLXMMe0I_pQY/w400-h180/ice%20cream.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I hope you do, as well.<br /> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-18305877889941592212022-05-01T22:16:00.005-05:002022-05-01T22:16:53.435-05:00what's love got to do with it?<span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHh_RQFIXF9IoTAX54geyekUWeHoN2gqOgd1zhnENoBgne4w7bNJP4oiVebvXSz5f3Mabml4xg3PyUrv9T1NF4yHgvRb6ZHWxPhLYSlxDDwwXNyzLVQGdom9bcGPeo1PKGD4m9gpI005F65tH7BQHQKcDEyKRARZu6EM0n-W-7mb6rLP11SgEFynUt/s3115/love.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1763" data-original-width="3115" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHh_RQFIXF9IoTAX54geyekUWeHoN2gqOgd1zhnENoBgne4w7bNJP4oiVebvXSz5f3Mabml4xg3PyUrv9T1NF4yHgvRb6ZHWxPhLYSlxDDwwXNyzLVQGdom9bcGPeo1PKGD4m9gpI005F65tH7BQHQKcDEyKRARZu6EM0n-W-7mb6rLP11SgEFynUt/w400-h226/love.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Prince Charles is Tina Turner. Or, at least he has done a credible impersonation.<br /><br />In 1981, when The Prince of Wales and The Soon-to-be-and-then-not-to-be Princess of Wales consented to an interview about their engagement, the interviewer asked if they were in love. The Jug-eared (and apparently, ham-fisted) Wonder answered: "Whatever 'in love' means." Indeed. He may as well have asked the interviewer: What's love got to do with it?<br /><br />British playwright Alan Bennett may have hit a dramatic home run in <i>The Madness of King George</i> when he gave Charles Fox a sentiment I share: "If a bunch of ramshackle colonists can tell him [the king] to go, why can't we?"<br /><br />But, even this card-carrying republican can appreciate the princely sentiment. "Whatever 'in love' means."<br /><br />A couple of weeks ago, our local pastor spoke to us about that elusive word -- love. How all other Christian virtues are based on that one word.<br /><br />I found the sermon challenging. Not because the concept was new to me and not because I disagreed with anything my pastor said. Theologically, I agreed with every word.<br /><br />The challenge for me is that that the meaning of the word is as elusive to me as it apparently is to the hapless prince and the lion-maned singer. We are three souls in search of meaning.<br /><br />Sure, I have spent the last seven decades reading and hearing about love. Poems. Novels. Philosophical treatises. Movies. Some of the world's greatest literature centers on the concept. Where would Jane Austen and Fyodor Dostoevsky have been if they did not have love to bounce along with?<br /><br />A few days after the sermon, I had dinner with my pastor, Al, and his wife, Sue. While we were discussing Sunday's sermon, I confessed a deep dark secret. Or, at least, one I do not talk about readily.<br /><br />And, as Kurt Vonnegut might write, here is that deep dark secret. I cannot remember telling anyone that I loved them. Nor can can I remember anyone telling me they loved me. That I could believe.<br /><br />We batted the topic back and forth -- readily conceding that, as in most discussions, we simply might be using words without an agreed-upon defintion. I am superlative-adverse. That may be part of the problem.<br /><br />Here is the real dillema for me. To paraphrase my favorite Supreme Court justice, Potter Stewart: Perhaps I could never succeed in intelligibly [defining it]. But I know it when I see it. And I am daily surrounded by acts of love.<br /><br />In his sermon, Al pointed us to Paul's utilitarian definition in 1 Corinthians 13:4-8:</span><blockquote><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Love is patient and kind, not jealous, not boastful,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">not proud, rude or selfish, not easily angered, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">and it keeps no record of wrongs.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Love does not gloat over other people’s sins, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">but takes its delight in the truth.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Love always bears up, always trusts, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">always hopes, always endures.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Love never ends. </span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">"Love keeps no records of wrongs." That phrase seemed to sum up for me the very essence of "love." Reading it was an epiphany. At least, I felt I was learning to hold on the edges of love like Pauline dangling from a cliff. <br /><br />Or so I thought. <br /></span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I was drafting this essay on an airplane over a month ago on my way to the Yucatán peninsula, I turned in my notebook to what I thought was the next blank page. Instead, of a blank page, I discovered the words you see in the photograph at the top of this essay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The sight was physically wrenching. Startling. A stranger cared enough to say they loved me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">At first, I had no idea who would be so kind. I simply reveled in the thought. A meaningful thought.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">As I sat there looking at my notebook, the mystery solved itself. I had left my notebook sitting on the table when I went to tend to billing matters at the restaurant. My pastor's wife was the source of the gift.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">A true note of Christian love in action.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In the opening monolog of </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">Torch Song Trilogy</i><span style="font-family: verdana;">, Harvey Fierstein, as Arnold Beckoff, gives us his pithy insights on love.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><blockquote><div>And not once has someone said, "Arnold, I love you."</div><div><br /></div><div>-- That I could believe.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I ask myself, "Do you really care?"</div><div><br /></div><div>You know, the only honest answer I can give myself is "yes."</div><div><br /></div><div>I care.</div><div><br /></div><div>I care a great deal.</div><div><br /></div><div>-- But not enough.</div></blockquote><div></div><div>For those of us who have struggled with the nature of love, we fully understand those conflicting phrases. "Yes. We care."<br /><br />"But not enough."<br /><br />As a result of Sue's gesture, I am not so certain that I can say that any more.<br /><br /></div></span></div></div>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-62210177763056798062022-04-08T19:01:00.001-05:002022-04-08T19:01:24.121-05:00a tale of six cities<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQN5AbOFzfIkt0A8bPRQvd58brMVhMinlOdPhQsTFZVe7BHPrzBOaor1vQhA28sLrzCVG--PIw7f18SGji4W8ckyZxazELEWNdNyduEQy53cmhx1HGzeXwT_5WVnrP3keAxh1H0spdbvRz3MqZAleCK8GxhmOdIL1XXz_mBw88ViyU3KKqnQ7zg8Q/s3349/top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2740" data-original-width="3349" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQN5AbOFzfIkt0A8bPRQvd58brMVhMinlOdPhQsTFZVe7BHPrzBOaor1vQhA28sLrzCVG--PIw7f18SGji4W8ckyZxazELEWNdNyduEQy53cmhx1HGzeXwT_5WVnrP3keAxh1H0spdbvRz3MqZAleCK8GxhmOdIL1XXz_mBw88ViyU3KKqnQ7zg8Q/w400-h328/top.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />There are many faces of Mexico. <br /><br />When I told friends I was on my way to the Yucatán Peninsula, the response was predictable. And varied.<br /><br />"You will love it. We spent five days at an all-inclusive in Cancun. It was one of the best weeks of our lives."<br /><br />"There is no better place to see authentic Mexico. How the Maya lived -- and how they live today. With the exception of Guatemala. It is more authentic."<br /><br />"Don't miss Mérida. It is true Mexico. Its colonial and pre-Revolution architecture make it the 'Paris of the Yucatán.'"<br /><br />And, you know what? They were all correct.<br /><br />The debate (carried on mainly by people not born in Mexico) about what is truly "authentic" in Mexico amuses me because it says more about the prejudices of the participants than it does about Mexico. <br /><br />There are many Mexicos. And each is as authentic as the last -- for one simple reason. Each place exists. And it is in Mexico.<br /><br />So, here is a brief summary of the cities and towns Dan, Patti, and I visited during our expedition on The Peninsula. Each place is worthy of its own essay, but we will leave the details for the comments section.<br /><br /><b><u>Valladolid</u></b> <br /><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIrlDzw_XXt-Esl4uhzXpfPNOfKPTag9i5jC8ZyC05Dz5wqBfs2UbL1ve_BH6AG-wS8Trz0EKv6w9XI2rvJ5kF9NjxsfUTh5W0TzRWeVHwanV9pouXZsNbvdv1cfJAgtVf74R8MVueajpYNC3kYwgAZ-pPY3tx5YayKchgYtoBSwb2Euwi93uIFx8/s3441/V1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1597" data-original-width="3441" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaIrlDzw_XXt-Esl4uhzXpfPNOfKPTag9i5jC8ZyC05Dz5wqBfs2UbL1ve_BH6AG-wS8Trz0EKv6w9XI2rvJ5kF9NjxsfUTh5W0TzRWeVHwanV9pouXZsNbvdv1cfJAgtVf74R8MVueajpYNC3kYwgAZ-pPY3tx5YayKchgYtoBSwb2Euwi93uIFx8/w400-h186/V1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: verdana;">I already gave you a taste of our base camp in Valladolid for this trip in </span><a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2022/03/on-back-of-snake.html" style="font-family: verdana;">on the back of the snake</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">. That was an essay about how modern Mexico reflects its past.<br /><br />And Valladolid has quite a past. When the Spanish arrived in 1543, there was a Maya settlement, Saki, where Valladolid is now built. The Spanish used the stones of Saki to build their new city atop the ruins of the Maya town. Urban renewal by conquest.<br /><br />The Maya did not appreciate being a conquered people. They rose in revolt in 1546 and 1705, and then havoc broke out in 1847 with the Caste War when the white and mestizo settlers abandoned the city in flight to Merida. The Maya killed half of the escapees in an ambush. That war continued until 1915 when the British agreed to stop arming the Maya -- all in a dispute over the oddly-named British Honduras.</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgb-nJJGytiig6KnGwt92vYNHzb50ZuIVSFAKCeSVW1vnG_4llf7dlOXJk2I97HPdeF53ETgaCQ-X2P6gMCAkEBmIpaF6vHM4zN8h1Ot6g4T0lgpWd6rd7nY2S4nFnPOVwerHfA2PCGZmJHC-jKeBqq1hp8BaC1_9wdR-xdMiII-mUC-Qmf7JEu3B/s4032/v6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1310" data-original-width="4032" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMgb-nJJGytiig6KnGwt92vYNHzb50ZuIVSFAKCeSVW1vnG_4llf7dlOXJk2I97HPdeF53ETgaCQ-X2P6gMCAkEBmIpaF6vHM4zN8h1Ot6g4T0lgpWd6rd7nY2S4nFnPOVwerHfA2PCGZmJHC-jKeBqq1hp8BaC1_9wdR-xdMiII-mUC-Qmf7JEu3B/w400-h130/v6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />That tension is reflected in the city's architecture. Churches on The Peninsula often look like fortresses. For good reason. In times of revolt, the churches served as arks. As refuges.<br /><br />Even this tiny chapel looks more fortress than place of contemplation.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVtSg8yahZyoUpFkAollqjBhs3CoALfejB9DfzQ0vju1_Em1W6PUpajBafTkanVP67zqHg1aVZG0m6YLLuV2n2pluoOuR4nJqWMm6zAtFCr95w3yubO2loV-4YVY0-ip-GTFJGgpepl9bapw2JM_0tVkAHMpcpmICwV7IIxTEHuCGynFZCLyBICtq/s3697/v3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2937" data-original-width="3697" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDVtSg8yahZyoUpFkAollqjBhs3CoALfejB9DfzQ0vju1_Em1W6PUpajBafTkanVP67zqHg1aVZG0m6YLLuV2n2pluoOuR4nJqWMm6zAtFCr95w3yubO2loV-4YVY0-ip-GTFJGgpepl9bapw2JM_0tVkAHMpcpmICwV7IIxTEHuCGynFZCLyBICtq/w400-h318/v3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>This was my third visit to Valladolid. In the past, I went there as do most tourists -- to use it as a base to visit the surrounding Maya ruins. But this time, I had the luxury of time to see the city for what it is. A destination in its own right.<br /><br />It does not have the beautiful architecture of Mérida. But it does have a colonial core built around a town square that is as attractive as any other city of its size. It also has a certain air of contemporary quirkiness.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWocWASSG-yj13XTHvNoqoXEpfH6S8zwA4nvr0hpZrX4uxTEWmsE5VoId17gD6cdNzK02IOGQCXh7gKuZ2zc8-4vmBGj95qanBbjbAxWj7yjUwlOFvQBy26Vo2ZknvzXQ5KowHVCrnWAAa-lyG5_y4bqoz4Bt2NleAUYt55zHBMKQF1BYmCbqODaLW/s2794/v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2794" data-original-width="2391" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWocWASSG-yj13XTHvNoqoXEpfH6S8zwA4nvr0hpZrX4uxTEWmsE5VoId17gD6cdNzK02IOGQCXh7gKuZ2zc8-4vmBGj95qanBbjbAxWj7yjUwlOFvQBy26Vo2ZknvzXQ5KowHVCrnWAAa-lyG5_y4bqoz4Bt2NleAUYt55zHBMKQF1BYmCbqODaLW/s320/v2.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>One of its more interesting attractions is Casa de los Venados, a grand home restored by an American couple, John and Dorianne Venator. They filled the house with Mexican art. Each of the rooms is based on a regional theme and decorated accordingly.<br /><br />One of my favorite rooms was the formal dining room with faces of noted Mexican personalities painted on the backs of the chairs. It may be the only time that Porfirio Diaz, Miguel Hidalgo, and Cantinflas dined together.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ07zdBFAsEK2RHpcn-Il-1MUoVp1TLw6ZIPunVl_Gnm6lYbuWwV-GF0TM3KM6Dd-4Q9h0oQXvSg5NUk_duQ8n8Fy5c6YgnNypNh0imD4Y5OFvfL5TgAAuGsG7FjgkqMAOd8O_zH6AvS-ombspbgPH3fBbNKhYQR5Dlh_I0GVx9FeqcOnxzgyJfm7Y/s3243/v4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2901" data-original-width="3243" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ07zdBFAsEK2RHpcn-Il-1MUoVp1TLw6ZIPunVl_Gnm6lYbuWwV-GF0TM3KM6Dd-4Q9h0oQXvSg5NUk_duQ8n8Fy5c6YgnNypNh0imD4Y5OFvfL5TgAAuGsG7FjgkqMAOd8O_zH6AvS-ombspbgPH3fBbNKhYQR5Dlh_I0GVx9FeqcOnxzgyJfm7Y/w400-h358/v4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><b>Mérida<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiPnuiB1imkvvK4rWYNXiBCt2nsSpesSidBCcPKVD5aH7P6Nfw0l9D0L9_6mWXVH67xTGQsEweDs07SSvJIAZrkTDz0ARMQ6_n0BmnxGRKDWP6IPe5oxCb5BhH3FyMwaINEMIhQzuvKDLeYpLz2zMOB5Ftf6Rkw-gbqIQEPRL1xXsw2aymfrz7ZlB/s3961/M1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2196" data-original-width="3961" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJiPnuiB1imkvvK4rWYNXiBCt2nsSpesSidBCcPKVD5aH7P6Nfw0l9D0L9_6mWXVH67xTGQsEweDs07SSvJIAZrkTDz0ARMQ6_n0BmnxGRKDWP6IPe5oxCb5BhH3FyMwaINEMIhQzuvKDLeYpLz2zMOB5Ftf6Rkw-gbqIQEPRL1xXsw2aymfrz7ZlB/w400-h221/M1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></b><br />Mérida was familiar to the three of us, On my prior two visits to The Peninsula, I spent most of my time there. A few years ago, Dan and Patti auditioned The Peninsula as a possible retirement spot. They lived on the Gulf coast just north of </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mérida.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Our visit to </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mérida was brief. Our Valladolid hostess had a medical appointment there. So, we drove her to the city and decided to take a brief walkabout in what is one of the nice colonial restorations in Mexico.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">That was the culture part of the trip. What we mainly did was eat an early lunch (or late breakfast) at one of the city's more famous restaurants: La Chaya Maya.<br /><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWT8apKMIuAgojRcsUeB8Pxh5qFtHyaBGzg2wGu1jbE76MsbI2o5Tglwpdqvnt942HD4pgnljMNLkcoe2xp-2P6r4seAZyuiZBUrowCJwml1SkkhA3wCmvE8lUcx3im8cTOAojhaEuUACZw7_sQBoDY2H-DCwBPkshLtw9cejE_SOj-AhtTGfV0F0b/s2863/m3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2379" data-original-width="2863" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWT8apKMIuAgojRcsUeB8Pxh5qFtHyaBGzg2wGu1jbE76MsbI2o5Tglwpdqvnt942HD4pgnljMNLkcoe2xp-2P6r4seAZyuiZBUrowCJwml1SkkhA3wCmvE8lUcx3im8cTOAojhaEuUACZw7_sQBoDY2H-DCwBPkshLtw9cejE_SOj-AhtTGfV0F0b/w400-h333/m3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Everything I have eaten there in the past has been good. This time was no different. For the sake of irony, I chose </span><i style="font-family: verdana;">lomitos de Valladolid</i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> -- a pork dish cooked in a tomato sauce that is a specialty in Valladolid.<br /><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Cr_OwZiIQn7q05Gy1oabBybInQvrvKpmbGyMBpj5hWTWL5p9gXkh_51-vMY7ov1ShPUJg6OoapRXXpHY8WJiMUuCVQ0Jm6ZDa7AEQbkA6fH8komYDQKX1GsRjMvW5Ns_hX4pIBBK_txa1DpR8gbkJO9etMFYu0n-yyTOvvv7JLFr_ssC06vazAuE/s3024/m2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2723" data-original-width="3024" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0Cr_OwZiIQn7q05Gy1oabBybInQvrvKpmbGyMBpj5hWTWL5p9gXkh_51-vMY7ov1ShPUJg6OoapRXXpHY8WJiMUuCVQ0Jm6ZDa7AEQbkA6fH8komYDQKX1GsRjMvW5Ns_hX4pIBBK_txa1DpR8gbkJO9etMFYu0n-yyTOvvv7JLFr_ssC06vazAuE/w400-h360/m2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /><b>Izamal<br /></b><br />By reputation, Izamal was not new to me. But I had never visited. The city is renowned for its colonial architecture painted a bright yellow. The choice is stunning.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglHyeAnsIjQvaQ32Rh03Yvc1pwT4aa9EHUWRAQOzuKvZMcn3kYCKpX0OGN1C89qva6RuQHJ7FU1niOF9sbe2DmpS6-LNGzbFGOyzxdTh1nr-G_LkL2h1HXkzB9jKs6vO0HCTE-wjMepi9AuyK78CNRho5Ld3aoa_3bsbU0S3Evunl0azZegupcqnMq/s4032/I1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1609" data-original-width="4032" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglHyeAnsIjQvaQ32Rh03Yvc1pwT4aa9EHUWRAQOzuKvZMcn3kYCKpX0OGN1C89qva6RuQHJ7FU1niOF9sbe2DmpS6-LNGzbFGOyzxdTh1nr-G_LkL2h1HXkzB9jKs6vO0HCTE-wjMepi9AuyK78CNRho5Ld3aoa_3bsbU0S3Evunl0azZegupcqnMq/w400-h160/I1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We came for two reasons. The first was Dan and Patti wanted to introduce me to this special part of The Peninsula. The second was for lunch.<br /><br />Driving a total of four hours to eat lunch raises expectations. And they were met. The most famous restaurant in town is Kinich -- known for its regional Maya cuisine. My choice was <i>poc chuch</i>.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHt6nJgve4lMpGdz08qh6mtJ2cDmzQVGvz6gr73jJP7h0JaL4jiASaAs2T_D00iGxuy1Dv4frF5nZim4JZAYeW6rpzHQieUHUF8D2KcJOFdVDqvHXx2GMt18xLNEhDFqtLlja_m2XQ-2c1VucXhUKG8sT8T30iAoV9Hmeszy8f99sCIqHbLxLfl9W5/s4032/I2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHt6nJgve4lMpGdz08qh6mtJ2cDmzQVGvz6gr73jJP7h0JaL4jiASaAs2T_D00iGxuy1Dv4frF5nZim4JZAYeW6rpzHQieUHUF8D2KcJOFdVDqvHXx2GMt18xLNEhDFqtLlja_m2XQ-2c1VucXhUKG8sT8T30iAoV9Hmeszy8f99sCIqHbLxLfl9W5/w300-h400/I2.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />You may wonder why I tend to choose pork dishes on my taste tests. The answer is simple. Mexico's pork is some of the finest I have ever tasted.<br /><br /><b>MANI</b><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLK00wo5swKFqZi4eRzoqVaoClelAm_UDlPJLzpD9nOJKh4twfoCE7khCXVpL1E4tI2urEXSMLMfqdcKtghf2DymbzMgM1nFjPPMd0nitP5HSS-TDE54hnQvpwC7nnNtKhaKGQKkLCBZfJHrNeKYURBnoY2RBrfgIAy1x4yf51ZWFRd4f5hVILJHhu/s2380/ma1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1244" data-original-width="2380" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLK00wo5swKFqZi4eRzoqVaoClelAm_UDlPJLzpD9nOJKh4twfoCE7khCXVpL1E4tI2urEXSMLMfqdcKtghf2DymbzMgM1nFjPPMd0nitP5HSS-TDE54hnQvpwC7nnNtKhaKGQKkLCBZfJHrNeKYURBnoY2RBrfgIAy1x4yf51ZWFRd4f5hVILJHhu/w400-h209/ma1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />We had an additional special stop on our trip to the ruins at Mayapan (<a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2022/03/finding-my-inner-maya.html">finding my inner maya</a>). Mexico has a program to honor and protect some of its heritage sites -- Pueblos Magicos. Magic towns. There are 132 of them strewn throughout the country.<br /><br />The sardonic see them as a clever mechanism to lure tourists where they would not usually tread. And it works. The three of us were lured to the interesting little town of Mani because of its Magic Town designation.<br /><br />The big draw is the church -- <i>Iglesia de San Miguel Arcangel</i>. I visited it twelve years ago. Like other churches on The Peninsula, it was periodically used as a place of refuge during Maya uprisings.<br /><br /><b>San Felipe<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQRvBmPfo5YyOU0OdySibcRNLQkOu-JRM4BUZs3bnMZeNmN2anzS06tsa3ym40NtmnDH-X4iuIY3jfumvA_ozhS2pUpBIL3McG1ORF_zgD1F2gIheW3NxiU6SqlObxr9kP-SvPYL7ZxwByLU-Z5QL6BaRVonjHjLOS5inI6fFR1JhT9uPkwndxJeh/s4032/SF1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDQRvBmPfo5YyOU0OdySibcRNLQkOu-JRM4BUZs3bnMZeNmN2anzS06tsa3ym40NtmnDH-X4iuIY3jfumvA_ozhS2pUpBIL3McG1ORF_zgD1F2gIheW3NxiU6SqlObxr9kP-SvPYL7ZxwByLU-Z5QL6BaRVonjHjLOS5inI6fFR1JhT9uPkwndxJeh/w400-h300/SF1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></b>If I ever complete this series, I will tell you about our flamingo journey. On our way there, we stopped at the small fishing village of San Felipe to investigate the available boat trips.<br /><br />We did not take one, but I was re-introduced to an interesting aspect of culture on The Peninsula. Geography makes The Peninsula a world apart from the rest of Mexico. Because of swamps, distance, and other obstructions, the area was effectively isolated. The first railroad and highway linking The Peninsula to the rest of Mexico were not built until the 1950s and 1960s respectively. Before that, commercial links were by sea.<br /><br />As a result The Peninsula was linked closer with the Caribbean and New Orleans than with Mexico. That is why San Felipe has a distinct Caribbean look in its architecture.<br /><br /><b>Cozumel<br /><br /></b></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiKrqBQqpJDiPe_ELfDE2B9OEHj25rQrf0GYUn1gHLW3fAUVtJQ1pVGETmrzoXxGD7q0oyqRaQzcVeSRysrlnP8RPbEhOd_xQNfBFFCZci4625k4XKGvMV5MpxtOEUAT-809ReGpT_2savP5wPPExCYX5RPHbeTFzMHlgCuv54fmDcfK9aMM1c-XZ/s3641/COZ1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2589" data-original-width="3641" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiKrqBQqpJDiPe_ELfDE2B9OEHj25rQrf0GYUn1gHLW3fAUVtJQ1pVGETmrzoXxGD7q0oyqRaQzcVeSRysrlnP8RPbEhOd_xQNfBFFCZci4625k4XKGvMV5MpxtOEUAT-809ReGpT_2savP5wPPExCYX5RPHbeTFzMHlgCuv54fmDcfK9aMM1c-XZ/w400-h285/COZ1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />My experience with Cozumel prior to this trip was as a cruise ship passenger. As a result, I saw it as a place for snorkeling and rinsing sand out of my swim suit.<br /><br />Dan and Patti showed me it is far more than that. They ran a business and lived there long enough to establish an extensive commercial and personal network with people on the island. We have already discussed those contacts briefly in </span><a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2022/03/on-back-of-snake.html" style="font-family: verdana;">on the back of the snake</a><span style="font-family: verdana;">. <br /><br />What I once saw only as a tourist haven, I now see as a place that people call home. Much as people in Barra de Navidad see its touristy surface, while others see it as a place where they live and live nowhere else.<br /><br />That thought came to me in an odd disguise while Dan and I were walking through the market where residents do their daily shopping. One of the small restaurants caught my attention. An Indonesian-Philippines eatery tucked in amongst the butcher and fish shops.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYK6b0Ci1Ky8ivi0y0oEFuNcPDyzOeL0snuUIr7wqF4mli8oWqyIGg-U8wY0381zKhJiS5r3ecxt2vhy3OcGkVNjs2wrceSd2gqFcf2-xWz0uGrk_PQnBttfrnYKdoUWsSJ7FrBnMCSH5UFxzCjBfYfWWVUz1lj7ROtYkLvjUOjQI3lSY9ZddHvxM/s3892/COZ2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2354" data-original-width="3892" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhYK6b0Ci1Ky8ivi0y0oEFuNcPDyzOeL0snuUIr7wqF4mli8oWqyIGg-U8wY0381zKhJiS5r3ecxt2vhy3OcGkVNjs2wrceSd2gqFcf2-xWz0uGrk_PQnBttfrnYKdoUWsSJ7FrBnMCSH5UFxzCjBfYfWWVUz1lj7ROtYkLvjUOjQI3lSY9ZddHvxM/w400-h243/COZ2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It was not there to feed tourists. Though I suspect some tourists might seek it out. It was there for cruise ship crew members looking for food from their homeland. Local and international folded into one big murtabak.<br /><br />Is a murtabak folded and served in Cozumel authentically Mexican? Why not, we think of <i>tacos al pastor</i> as being "authentically" Mexican when they are simply a Lebanese </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>shawarma</i> tarted up with local ingredients.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />That was the hook of this essay. What is authentically Mexican? The question, of course, is a tautology. If it is in Mexico, it has become Mexican. And it is authentic.<br /><br />Like the pelicans of San Felipe. The Valladolid cuisine served in </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Mérida. The back streets of Cozumel with their pun-ridden restaurants. The helpful policeman in Mani handing out business cards to tourists. The Izamal shops selling foreign goods as local. Even the high-rise hotels of Cancun that suck in foreign hard currency and employ thousands of Mexicans.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Part of me wishes I had made the trip to Ukraine that this trek supplanted. But, at the end, Dan and Patty offered me two weeks of joy in a place that I will always enjoy visiting. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><i>Note -- The next (and perhaps last) installment of this series will be about wildlife on the peninsula. Or, at least, a specific type of wildlife. While going through my photographs of this trip, I realized I have some shots that I would like to share with you. If I have time (and due to family circumstances, that looks less likely), I will post them after the next installment. Without comment. From me. </i></span></p></div></div>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-85650243322265404942022-04-02T14:37:00.000-06:002022-04-02T14:37:13.865-06:00spending my time not-so-well<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoRUL1llNJGj15A7arbQChof7K964-GLIMU1vBLbzObwEP8UkXx1F6NSld-BEjjmP8rH49thzCdeiQMX-_W5NaSanRYRLnt2vOK6pbEtSt4lSgtB2OmOlqVlXczwqiUz0ziPebpBLZGJfsPyDie_7FIUY40312alAhQJkXO-OSb-G8SglPIB0jz-p/s757/MEXICAN-FLAG-CLOCK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="757" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoRUL1llNJGj15A7arbQChof7K964-GLIMU1vBLbzObwEP8UkXx1F6NSld-BEjjmP8rH49thzCdeiQMX-_W5NaSanRYRLnt2vOK6pbEtSt4lSgtB2OmOlqVlXczwqiUz0ziPebpBLZGJfsPyDie_7FIUY40312alAhQJkXO-OSb-G8SglPIB0jz-p/w396-h400/MEXICAN-FLAG-CLOCK.jpg" width="396" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />There they go again.<br /><br />To paraphrase one of the most effective lines used in an American presidential debate.<br /><br />But this time the target is not politics. At least, not directly. It is the arrival of daylight saving time in Mexico.<br /><br />Three weeks ago, I wrote about how airline schedules are skewed by an hour for three weeks on flights between Mexico and the other two big North American countries because of the two-step dailight saving time dance (<a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2022/03/the-lost-hour.html">the lost hour</a>). The United States and Canada switched to daylight saving time three weeks ago. Mexico's turn is tomorrow.<br /><br />In one of those only-Tom-Clancy-could-create-such-a-scenario, the same week the United States moodily switched to daylight saving time, the Senate unanimously passed legislation to stay on daylight time permanently. Citizens are tired of the switch. Their senators listened. There would be no more switching. Or that was the intent.<br /><br />All seemed well until the medical community jumped in to point out that everyone agreed with the problem, but the politicians chose the wrong solution. According to studies (those received wisdom studies, again), the human internal clock (especially those of teenagers) work best when standard time is used. It is called "standard" for a good reason.<br /><br />And that is where the matter lies. A dwindling minority of citizens likes daylight saving time. Now, the politicians are at sea how to choose what seems to be an obvious choice. A true Hobson's choice. <br /><br />They can choose the standard time steed beside the livery door or they can schlep around back and mount one of the pigs in the sty. Being politicians, the chances are they will simply wander back to their high stakes poker game and gamble away our money.<br /><br />That leaves us to do the tiresome duty of pushing our clocks ahead one hour tonight. Of course, in this digital era, most of our electronic doodads will set themselves, and we will be left to groggily wonder why the night passed so quickly.<br /><br />So, without commentary on whether or not I like daylight saving time (I don't), I will pass along the reminder for those of you who are in Mexico.<br /><br />I think I will steal an hour siesta from this afternoon as an investment for tomorrow morning. </span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-14523541432415705172022-04-01T00:01:00.000-06:002022-04-01T00:01:36.193-06:00when tunnels trump roads<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_7ujHncSKMCdise-VT6F_STP786DEaaEhtwJICSULNg3g535iHidZ4haQzcDZoYWFbp9ujfJgEzczkrn9YAmmgJ0zs6t7807TnSeiiWD6jonxeR5wMm3qlQTVpet5esdkjW_nIkZgfKR3RI0UozqsbwKwoE-hGqtGUFG2mJTEHMIEcXETx9dC0bc/s1680/map.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="1680" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_7ujHncSKMCdise-VT6F_STP786DEaaEhtwJICSULNg3g535iHidZ4haQzcDZoYWFbp9ujfJgEzczkrn9YAmmgJ0zs6t7807TnSeiiWD6jonxeR5wMm3qlQTVpet5esdkjW_nIkZgfKR3RI0UozqsbwKwoE-hGqtGUFG2mJTEHMIEcXETx9dC0bc/w400-h244/map.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Last week I drove friends to Puerto Vallarta. They were flying home to Canada.<br /><br />When I moved to this area of Mexico, the highway to Puerto Vallarta, 200, was a challenge. Narrow. Lots of blind curves. And traffic that would range from tractor slow to Ferrari fast. The type of drive that brings out the Stirling Moss in a lot of us.<br /><br />The quality of the highway has greatly changed. Even I would have to admit that it has improved. Newly-paved. Widened. Plenty of passing spaces.<br /><br />The only mosquito in the tortilla soup are two mountain patches. The first is just south of Puerto Vallarta where the road is simultaneously steep, serpentine, and narrow. Buses and trucks regularly constipate the flow of traffic.<br /><br />The second is a similar stretch just north of Melaque where the road has exactly the same characteristics. It seems odd that the work done between El Tuito and La Manzanilla did not include the most problematic stretches of the drive between Barra de Navidad and Puerto Vallarta. After all, it is the main north-south highway on the Pacific coast of Mexico -- starting at Tepic and heading south to the Guatemala border.<br /><br />As it turns out, something is being done. At least about the switchback section of road between Melaque and La Manzanilla.<br /><br />Today, of all days, the Mexican federal government announced that that section of road was not improved during the last 5-years of construction because there has always been another plan on the books.<br /><br />When the new bypass to Highway 80 was built, the highway designers intended it would be extended to join Highway 200 just north of La Manzanilla and it would essentially be a straight road. That did not seem possible because the same mountain spur that hosts the current road is as crooked as -- well, you can add your favorite target here.<br /><br />Everything was made clear in today's official announcement. The road (the red line on the map) is almost straight because it does not go over the mountain; it goes under the mountain.<br /><br />Taking a lesson from Swiss, French, and Italian highway designers, Mexico has opted for the Alps option. Or a mini-Alps option. The St. Gotthard tunnel is 10.5 miles long. This project will only be about half of that.<br /><br />Funding is not a problem. Pemex is flush with cash because of the increased cost of petroleum. If Mexico can build a tourist train in Yucatan to compete with Disney, it can certainly afford to tunnel through a mountain spur. After all, there are plenty of Mexican companies who are experts in tunneling.<br /><br />Including the company that dug the tunnel under the lagoon from Barra de Navidad to Colimilla back in 2016 (<a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2016/12/the-tunnel-to-somewhere.html">the tunnel to somewhere</a>). Coincidentally, that project was announced on a day similar to this day.<br /><br />Now -- what could 28 December and 1 April have in common? </span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-89216230257561979302022-03-30T16:17:00.000-06:002022-03-30T16:17:08.043-06:00putting on a happy face<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO79ABCQP60MQZsC1a4idxgEhJFWT95D6HSQ-JuEA7IvKniPORJWr_ItPV_XYIGf3vEMtofnQN1zwXRUJY4ILJm6mgTHMS3h5O39raGo7hdVf_S9KOWyMEm70K1_XMkepe-fsjdI5KTYCZByueZu-bvNuhNUouUbCvP_z2x1TmbImGpdYMMsY5C5lm/s2637/woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2637" data-original-width="1769" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO79ABCQP60MQZsC1a4idxgEhJFWT95D6HSQ-JuEA7IvKniPORJWr_ItPV_XYIGf3vEMtofnQN1zwXRUJY4ILJm6mgTHMS3h5O39raGo7hdVf_S9KOWyMEm70K1_XMkepe-fsjdI5KTYCZByueZu-bvNuhNUouUbCvP_z2x1TmbImGpdYMMsY5C5lm/w269-h400/woman.jpg" width="269" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I like silly things.<br /><br />At least, things that are silly to me. <br /><br />Pets that dress their owners in outlandish costumes. Sailing boats trimmed as Christmas trees. Or almost any Guinness record -- like the largest ball of sisal twine (in Cawker City, Kansas, if you are interested). <br /><br />Apparently, some people get stuck on one definition of silly -- "showing lack of thought, understanding, or judgment." A perfectly utilitarian use of the word. <br /><br />But it is not how I usually use it. "Silly" is anything that is not practical or serious. Something that will make people laugh. And anything that can make people laugh is a good thing. A silly thing.<br /><br />There should be a special category of silliness for those "Ten Best" lists. You have seen them. 10 Best Places to Retire that are Ruled by Authoritarians. 10 Best Dresses Worn by Women You Never Heard of at Events No one Knew Happened. 10 Best Investments in Nigerian Commodities for People who Lost All of Their IRA on Red at Caesar's Palace. All of the lists have one thing in common -- they seem to be based on some rather eccentric criteria. Dare I say it? Silly criteria?<br /><br />This morning, a headline greeted me in <i>The Oregonian</i>: "These are the 10 happiest countries, according to 2022 World Happiness Report." The report is produced annually by the Sustainable Development Solutions Network (a name that hints at its particular brand of political bias). And despite its "mutton-dressed-as-lamb" scientific fig leaf, the report is good for a laugh or two.<br /><br />After declaring that the report is designed to measure actual well-being as opposed to national GDP (implying that money does not buy happiness), the report unveils its top 10 happiest countries for 2022: Finland, Denmark, Iceland, Switzerland, Netherlands, Luxembourg, Sweden, Norway, Israel, and New Zealand.<br /><br />With all of the "beyond GDP" talk in the report, I almost expected the happiest place list to feature Haiti, Somalia, and Bangladesh. Instead, the happiest countries make up about one-quarter of the Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD), a rich-country club. It appears that money does buy happiness. (Interestingly, the top ten countries of the OECD's Happiness Index includes 8 of the same countries, adding Canada and the United States to the favored ten.)<br /><br />The reason I find these reports amusing is that they attempt to morph subjective feelings into objective criteria and then weigh the frequency of positive feelings against negative ones. But that sentence sucks me into the report's number game.<br /><br />These are the numbers that surprised me -- because they involve the countries with which I have the most contact. On the happiness scale, Canada is number 15. The United States is number 16. And, just for you Dan, the United Kingdom is number 17. All three bunched together.<br /><br />But, my home country? Mexico? Number 46. 46! Below such paradises as Nicaragua (at 45) and Guatemala (at 39).<br /><br />That alone is enough to make me doubt the objectivity of the report's findings. My frequent trips north and my conversations with Canadians and Americans here in Mexico would not support the notion that Canadians and Americans are markedly happier than the Mexicans I know. If anything, even with some of the terrible problems my Mexican acquaintances face every day, it appears to me Mexicans are far happier than the northern visitors.<br /><br />And I am not talking about the Mexican mask that figures into Octavio Paz's work. I am talking about a full-throated enjoyment of what life has to offer.<br /><br />Mexico is not paradise. A number of my Mexican acquaintances cringe when they hear northerners call this part of Mexico "paradise" because they know the struggle life offers. Two nights ago after leaving my house, a Mexican friend, while riding his motorcycle, was injured by a hit-and-run driver that also left his motorcycle inoperable. Without insurance for himself or his motorcycle (a motorcycle that is his sole transportation for work), the incident was a major setback.<br /><br />It is just one of the many stories of hardship here. Life is often lived on the edge. But, given all of that, my Mexican friends and acquaintances have a Lake Wobegon attitude of getting up and doing what needs to be done.<br /><br />I suspect what I really find silly about the happiness reports is the very word they attempt to measure. "Happiness."<br /> <br />It has taken living into my eighth decade to realize that the chase for happiness is just as chimeric as Johnny Depp's quest for the perfect cochinita pibil in <i>Once Upon a Time in Mexico</i>. To my taste, happiness is too circumstantial. Too ephemeral. Happiness, by its very nature is an emotion subject to all the tugs and pulls of all emotions.<br /><br />What I am looking for, and I think I have found it, is contentment. That state of knowing you are at ease with who you are and where you are. And that circumstances cannot erode.<br /><br />So, my bottom line is that the annual happiness reports provide me a chuckle or two with their silliness.<br /><br />And I am content with that. Just as I am content to live my life in Mexico. <br /></span><br /><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-36033743506843206282022-03-27T19:13:00.001-06:002022-03-27T19:13:41.306-06:00finding my inner maya<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6f9jpSysLKyL14JGE5qPL3tLE0HuIfKIs7zg5lKQIKFRukGAOf0pV9CtioN-YrIuGMJcq_q6HYM-azJ6bvs8PLTNebYgNojyGD1BF4q9eSJBOdvIiUDTFZM_H_7ZmwV-uzxhDTByf6yv2T4--lLJo9jtLCb0W2aQmDO6SjzggPoIPq5hv26pJOxN3/s3299/relic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3299" data-original-width="2596" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6f9jpSysLKyL14JGE5qPL3tLE0HuIfKIs7zg5lKQIKFRukGAOf0pV9CtioN-YrIuGMJcq_q6HYM-azJ6bvs8PLTNebYgNojyGD1BF4q9eSJBOdvIiUDTFZM_H_7ZmwV-uzxhDTByf6yv2T4--lLJo9jtLCb0W2aQmDO6SjzggPoIPq5hv26pJOxN3/w315-h400/relic.jpg" width="315" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />I came to archaeology late in life.<br /><br />That is not entirely accurate. I came to Mexican archaeology late in life. And I am not certain why.<br /><br />In the 1960s, I was an avid reader of <a href="https://www.reed.edu/reed-magazine/in-memoriam/obituaries/august2003/francis-s-murphy-1936.html">Francis Murphy's</a> "Behind the Mike" column in <i>The Oregonian</i>. Murphy was the television and radio critic for the newspaper. <br /><br />I found his column interesting not because it was about television (a medium I have never found appealing) but because he was a craftsman at writing. Each summer he would head off to the Yucatán peninsula to participate in newly-uncovered Maya city-states. To me, he was a cross between Tarzan and Jungle Jim. Because of his writing, my undergraduate history degree centered around Mexico. <br /><br />But not Mexican archaeology. Not yet. I came to the Maya through a back door.<br /><br />When I was stationed in Greece, I was surrounded by several archaeological sites -- including Olympia, Sparta, and Mycenae. During my year on the Peloponnese, I put my hand to trowel in a couple of digs. It never became more than a hobby. But it is one of my passions. And Mexico has turned out to be a great place to salve that itch. Especially, the Yucatán peninsula.<br /><br />Mesoamerica was filled with sophisticated cultures. Especially, the Maya.<br /><br />Unlike the Aztec, the Maya never formed an empire. If the Aztecs were imperial Romans, the Maya were ancient Greeks. <br /><br />The Maya politically organized their civilization into city-states, some of whom had greater influence over their neighbors, on the peninsula and in what we now know as Belize and Guatemala. Even though the city-states were never joined into a centralized empire, the Maya civilization shared common trade practices and religion, as well as developing sophisticated systems of writing, counting, and calculating the passage of time through an advanced knowledge of astronomy.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There are three types of archaeologists: those who divide Mesoamerican civilizations into three stages of development and those who don't. Let's pretend we are in the first group, if for no other reason than the Maya had a very long history of maintaining their civilization. Almost 4000 years:<br /></span></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Preclassic (2000 BC-250 AD) when the first cities were established and corn, beans, squash, and chili peppers were grown as farm crops </span></li><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Classic (250-900 AD) when what we now know as the great cities thrived (Palenque, Tikal, Chichen Itza) all using the extraordinarily-detailed Long Count calendar </span></li><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Postclassic (950-1539 AD) when the great cities were abandoned and the Maya settled in smaller cities until the Spanish arrived </span></li></ul><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">On my prior three visits to the peninsula, I visited the great classical cities of Uxmal (<a href="https://steveinmexico.blogspot.com/2010/12/looking-into-chacs-eyes.html">looking into chac's eyes</a>), Chichen Itza, and several of their smaller allies, as well as the postclassic ruins at Tulum that was still an operating city when the Spanish arrived. On this trip, we decided to restrict our Maya exploration to two cities: Ekʼ Balam on the eastern side of the peninsula just north of Valladolid, and Mayapan just south of Mérida in the west.<br /><br />Ekʼ Balam is fascinating because of its long history. It spanned all three historical periods, starting as a preclassic settlement that grew into a thriving classic city-state dominating the surrounding cities about the time the western calendar switched from BC to AD-saving time. And just like the other classic cities, it was abruptly abandoned, though a remnant of the population stayed in the city until it was completely abandoned before the Spanish arrived.<br /><br />Even though it is not as large as the grander sites, Ekʼ Balam has all of the elements of a great city-state.<br /><br />A ceremonial entrance arch.<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkbavPZgyDVKYHRbDbW4CDb0LtlxqbdATC41yggIsM3AFsFBPM0hQwNRxvnH2du2Z7DYzeKUXoTn36mjWcrkaG3R-O6QS_aUMa54nR0x8_B8twHyevH4TAuWswK3DEv2K8gfiETJQ03euc4zZoez_3sCz1C6CCbk5CgiQ1N7QzosG0FTYFZp2XHnY/s3343/arch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2260" data-original-width="3343" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvkbavPZgyDVKYHRbDbW4CDb0LtlxqbdATC41yggIsM3AFsFBPM0hQwNRxvnH2du2Z7DYzeKUXoTn36mjWcrkaG3R-O6QS_aUMa54nR0x8_B8twHyevH4TAuWswK3DEv2K8gfiETJQ03euc4zZoez_3sCz1C6CCbk5CgiQ1N7QzosG0FTYFZp2XHnY/w400-h270/arch.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;">A temple with an unusual oval construction -- showing an individual style within a common architectural heritage. Its geographic position indicates it also served as some form of cosmological purpose. Perhaps to calculate rainy seasons.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvd6SiXafK4wKXrQ0PwmA_K8lUvWLPTyIm5WcPxHfiZ5JSvIMqtLc_sYp7ne9LVz7eycR_yNKr4cnDObEsn2wbYIM5_ZixSdmjkrcemswGOpcui87SE8BqzHyrsgtWM6tKcRJlKmqeK27w8WTTRW5fs2MGdfJayVZYPevLSlPMzN1vyRr5hhUOb1RJ/s3023/oval.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: verdana; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1900" data-original-width="3023" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvd6SiXafK4wKXrQ0PwmA_K8lUvWLPTyIm5WcPxHfiZ5JSvIMqtLc_sYp7ne9LVz7eycR_yNKr4cnDObEsn2wbYIM5_ZixSdmjkrcemswGOpcui87SE8BqzHyrsgtWM6tKcRJlKmqeK27w8WTTRW5fs2MGdfJayVZYPevLSlPMzN1vyRr5hhUOb1RJ/w400-h251/oval.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />No civilization is ever complete without a sports arena. This one is for the traditional Mesoamerican ballgame. Only a handful of Maya city-states lack them. Such as, the grand Palenque.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0GljzqbnPIk0AsVkf-bEVQESgGypvzLcZ4A0NdbLyXUnkWF5hdMtkYAf6Cj4hxQXwOPqH5Bv_yB0ht3itA7QaJfOOHFlrB3P_XdDpMiSbiuZiNJSZl7-40PYeB7wCRsnLUPa6KtxRkszDPQ2M4cVdO4g5wMEZsqpMgmge8FjIqKNIuAYfhkMkqEH/s3705/ballcourt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1648" data-original-width="3705" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb0GljzqbnPIk0AsVkf-bEVQESgGypvzLcZ4A0NdbLyXUnkWF5hdMtkYAf6Cj4hxQXwOPqH5Bv_yB0ht3itA7QaJfOOHFlrB3P_XdDpMiSbiuZiNJSZl7-40PYeB7wCRsnLUPa6KtxRkszDPQ2M4cVdO4g5wMEZsqpMgmge8FjIqKNIuAYfhkMkqEH/w400-h178/ballcourt.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The largest and most magnificent of the buildings at Ekʼ Balam is the Acropolis. A temple that contained the mortal remains of one of the city's most famous rulers -- Ukit Kan Leʼk Tok. His tomb is under the palapa on the upper left -- the one that looks like a Kon Tiki bar in Seattle.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Cyg3CKX4t-Q8XU3nM2ZPBbMxjEkbsmfdi4SVA2PE228q0vigm2YGP21ohkhnhHquQwbDwljKk78udwUFUXJKvs0O-RquYhotDVZaq0fs9nXGLisaHVfWQWNVxyjL-XN40sUBGJCbdMyL_gdoFSSLOktDxLSfDMFOG551ff5FUziS5bHUw2Bs_aex/s4032/acropolis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1661" data-original-width="4032" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Cyg3CKX4t-Q8XU3nM2ZPBbMxjEkbsmfdi4SVA2PE228q0vigm2YGP21ohkhnhHquQwbDwljKk78udwUFUXJKvs0O-RquYhotDVZaq0fs9nXGLisaHVfWQWNVxyjL-XN40sUBGJCbdMyL_gdoFSSLOktDxLSfDMFOG551ff5FUziS5bHUw2Bs_aex/w400-h165/acropolis.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Compared with Ekʼ Balam, Mayapan is nouveau arrive. The city was not built until the postclassic period. Somewhere in the 1220s. But it was important as the capital of the Maya in the Yucatán peninsula (with over 4000 structures and an estimated population of almost 20,000) until it was almost entirely abandoned around 1461 -- just before the arrival of the Spanish.<br /><br />Like many civilizations, when they head into decline, construction techniques suffer. That is certainly true of Mayapan. Many of the buildings collapsed soon after the city was abandoned -- as opposed to most of the classic period buildings that survived even when covered by jungle.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvutoIBFRgUXWta9veKyI0mEQHReCGk6TFhP26NhyLjvBNtWkWGGiyfaFru3dHdUmXDMSFCWFyYq49v-dgblGNF9tK9k9v6xWgqVQ9LWHR2qvUcnRhFi2QRCB7F7Vdo8GQ4cFqAk1no-6V7SI2gh5PDcMZSR5mkFszL7Ds4pXsOlFRkID9ilffCM7/s4032/group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2801" data-original-width="4032" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvutoIBFRgUXWta9veKyI0mEQHReCGk6TFhP26NhyLjvBNtWkWGGiyfaFru3dHdUmXDMSFCWFyYq49v-dgblGNF9tK9k9v6xWgqVQ9LWHR2qvUcnRhFi2QRCB7F7Vdo8GQ4cFqAk1no-6V7SI2gh5PDcMZSR5mkFszL7Ds4pXsOlFRkID9ilffCM7/w400-h278/group.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />But there is a visual clue that Mayapan attempted to be the successor of Chichén Itzá. If this temple looks familiar, it should. It is an inferior copy of the much-visited Temple of Kukulkan.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RGDxHbxowCGxqu6FBBqIeGluEOqzQLIFcURTebYCF1cUxUjuREV41mZ0yA5cox63SEZTYcFWGN33d32yuIXXmvcSbK6Ic5uJkyvk0B9Cv7ApwZOJTTc3GGpUU8OMbFr5Cy7KJB_-07GJyrNn8giTpZVmQohBpgS2L4Tf3vhrY6tobfKlqXOHVSHa/s2627/ch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1914" data-original-width="2627" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6RGDxHbxowCGxqu6FBBqIeGluEOqzQLIFcURTebYCF1cUxUjuREV41mZ0yA5cox63SEZTYcFWGN33d32yuIXXmvcSbK6Ic5uJkyvk0B9Cv7ApwZOJTTc3GGpUU8OMbFr5Cy7KJB_-07GJyrNn8giTpZVmQohBpgS2L4Tf3vhrY6tobfKlqXOHVSHa/w400-h291/ch.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />It is what Chichen Itza would have built as a replica if it had a budget of only $100.<br /><br />That raises the question of what happened to the Maya. Well, what happened to the Maya city-states? We know what happened to the Maya. The people. Because they are still living on the peninsula.<br /><br />There are plenty of theories. Interestingly, the theories tend to reflect disasters that the theory-propounders are suffering themselves. The list is the usual list of suspects.</span><p></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Drought. The peninsula gets very little rainfall. When it does arrive, it quickly drains off into the underground rivers beneath the limestone surface. Unless the rivers are fed by rain, there is no water.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Overpopulation. The cities grew so fast that they may be the only place on earth where Malthusian theory actually had a practical application.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Social breakdown caused by warfare and a stratified military social class.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">A sudden outbreak of war between between all of the city-states and their allies.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">A combination of the above caused the lower classes to lose faith in their leaders. They rose up, overthrew them, and the social structure collapsed. I call that one the nightmare that keeps Xi Jinping awake every night.</span></li><li><span style="font-family: verdana;">Or -- a combination of several (or all) of those causes.<br /></span></li></ul><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">The point is that no one really knows. There are plenty of clues, but like any good mystery, they contradict one another and lead to no conclusion.<br /><br />And it is just that type of mystery that keeps drawing me back to the heartland of the Maya civilization. Each trip I have taken, I have learned more.<br /><br />What is not a mystery is that the Maya will welcome you to a land that celebrates their past -- and their present. <br /></span><br /></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-21557429729808527922022-03-21T17:44:00.002-06:002022-03-21T20:17:41.918-06:00on the back of the snake<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKA_CMESaa3KIkQ0K59kqFK66dEprZQfaThOYjpVMp2sv9ywtZ20o7SFBJ-XcjXijlAGVinUAlOJVDlFLefq7Xd6Gd29Mg673bsP2yZL50pwL-KqfvrfSm7RcdpmoNPdljWmW1EsuBcSMHKqKFL61PfdCc0fpnJquHARonGpp-sY8o7qL0n4jejfsS/s3024/top.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2884" data-original-width="3024" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKA_CMESaa3KIkQ0K59kqFK66dEprZQfaThOYjpVMp2sv9ywtZ20o7SFBJ-XcjXijlAGVinUAlOJVDlFLefq7Xd6Gd29Mg673bsP2yZL50pwL-KqfvrfSm7RcdpmoNPdljWmW1EsuBcSMHKqKFL61PfdCc0fpnJquHARonGpp-sY8o7qL0n4jejfsS/w400-h381/top.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Tolstoy had it partly correct.<br /><br />All happy trips are alike, but every trip is special in its own way. <br /><br />That was certainly true of our trip to the Yucatán peninsula. The three of us (my cousin Dan, his wife Patty, and I) have a certain fondness for the peninsula with its history that makes it feel almost like a country separate from Mexico.<br /><br />That may be because it almost became a separate country -- twice. Due to its Maya cultural heritage and its isolation from the rest of Mexico, it was almost inevitable that the people of the peninsula would seek their own national destiny.<br /><br />The first time when it declared its independence from the Spanish empire in 1823; the second when it declared its independence from Mexico in 1841 following Texas's example. Had it not been for the unfortunate Caste War, those dreams of independence may have been realized. Politically, the peninsula is part of Mexico. But, to this day, its residents see themselves as a people apart.<br /><br />There was a second reason, though, why this trip was special. Dan and Patty ran a business and lived on Cozumel several years ago. As a result, they have formed some long-lasting friendships. Around September they are making a permanent move (or as permanent as wanderers who are not lost can be) to Mallorca. For them, this trip took on the aura of a farewell tour, where my family's wish of "next year in Jerusalem" was replaced with "next year in Mallorca."<br /><br />Our first stop was to set up our base camp in Valladolid for the first eleven days of our stay at La Dichosa, a bed and breakfast owned and hosted by Carlos M. Gonzalez and Teresa Castillo, friends of Dan and Patty during their days on Cozumel. Dan told me to be ready to be amazed -- and I was.<br /><br />La Dichosa is not so much a bed and breakfast as it is a functional piece of art. Carlos is a wood craftsman. No. That does not do his work justice. He is an artist who works in wood -- and soil -- and stone -- and ceramic.<br /><br />La Dichosa currently consists of two buildings. The main house that offers a master suite, and three bungalows. Each room is decorated with Carlos's creations. <br /><br />The lamps. The tiles. The furniture. Carlos created each piece to give the rooms their own character with all of the furnishings echoing the uniform theme. It is like living in a disciplined artistic mind.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzOWYlctCXl21RHZNPNKvsxAImD7TWa3xVixK0hUxfp0LAjdQnjvU4PY2LzLTES_nHSkKlSScTEd-QJN1v3zso4tKQfQx6V0J8q5j1b23k9N33BEBdSdyUaP4TBDA9QO7WESCtJN9mJIK7LbM6Fzujt43evzdhVoO5Pt2Kxa6HJn0RbY8OEWZqKjB/s3832/room.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3832" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwzOWYlctCXl21RHZNPNKvsxAImD7TWa3xVixK0hUxfp0LAjdQnjvU4PY2LzLTES_nHSkKlSScTEd-QJN1v3zso4tKQfQx6V0J8q5j1b23k9N33BEBdSdyUaP4TBDA9QO7WESCtJN9mJIK7LbM6Fzujt43evzdhVoO5Pt2Kxa6HJn0RbY8OEWZqKjB/w400-h316/room.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Rooms are always an important consideration at any bed and breakfast, but Carlos extended his artistic theme into the surrounding pool and garden. One of the great Maya myths is Kukulkan -- the War Serpent, who is probably best known these days in his depiction of a shadow that undulates down the stairs of El Castillo at Chichén Itzá each equinox.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFs8_lBMBUZpYooM7pE76r0UbZIoxdn0OnYoOvNDgDYRK00dPela2pmQFNkecYZ9_QTIrBjwvZDbWmgYmz3m9oKTeDdm-mzKybOT6Xd8j6MqVXY512U7ML2BI_MyRFbrIgdEyrxEe2D_ABD_caEp_AO7V1HHk44KsTQwKWoPSohTyE_0zMMjWfvQvF/s3645/garden.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2462" data-original-width="3645" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFs8_lBMBUZpYooM7pE76r0UbZIoxdn0OnYoOvNDgDYRK00dPela2pmQFNkecYZ9_QTIrBjwvZDbWmgYmz3m9oKTeDdm-mzKybOT6Xd8j6MqVXY512U7ML2BI_MyRFbrIgdEyrxEe2D_ABD_caEp_AO7V1HHk44KsTQwKWoPSohTyE_0zMMjWfvQvF/w400-h270/garden.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />Carlos incorprated the myth into his design of the garden that joins the bungalows with the main house. The three levels are divided by undulating walls echoing Kuklkan's serpentine shape. A pool tops it off.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDf2W1jz-coRHEq3aleH7-GAC3QUKIm25zPQPD8sgaF1cfhcerWH_qx0SN5fZFvpd0ht15cxTbPy8X8W-X-pkYdd6l3JXhHNMCya1_F26xNGHenHmwL1sBjCfHS9ll9F1GBF65XJbJermKwzwDspMW_ma2BAaFOSeQtlPEAtxPkOLpnGaVZHPW7QND/s4032/pool.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1887" data-original-width="4032" height="188" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDf2W1jz-coRHEq3aleH7-GAC3QUKIm25zPQPD8sgaF1cfhcerWH_qx0SN5fZFvpd0ht15cxTbPy8X8W-X-pkYdd6l3JXhHNMCya1_F26xNGHenHmwL1sBjCfHS9ll9F1GBF65XJbJermKwzwDspMW_ma2BAaFOSeQtlPEAtxPkOLpnGaVZHPW7QND/w400-h188/pool.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The overall effect is similar to a secular monastery. Time runs at its own pace. The effect is complemented by the shifts of birds that visit the trees on the property each morning. Each with its own colors and song. <br /><br />I am not so naïve as to believe that the birds were there for my pleasure. Most birdsong, if translated literally, would go something like: "Hey, birds. Get out of here. This is my property. Go -- or I will peck out your eyes." Sometimes it helps to be monolingual.<br /><br />Maybe that is one reason I am an advocate of bed and breakfast accommodations when I travel. There is no better way to know an area than to sit down with your hosts and fellow guests during the day to discuss respective discoveries.<br /><br />Valladolid is not a traditional tourist destination. It is best known as a central point to see the sights of the peninsula. That is how I used it on my prior two visits in 2010 and 2014. But that is changing. And our fellow guests were examples of that. They had come to see Valladolid as much as they had come to see reconstructed Maya cities.<br /><br />And a cosmopolitan lot they were. Most of them young. Primarily European -- two French couples, two young women from Switzerland, and a young couple from Chile. And all spoke multiple languages, with the exception of an older Canadian couple. <br /><br />Carlos may have provided the artistic integration of La Dichosa, but it is Teresa that keeps it running with the loyal assistance of Alonso. Food and drink magickly appear. Dishes are whisked away. All of that is as much of an art as are the individual tiles in the bathrooms.<br /><br />We have all had the experience of tagging along with people visiting their friends -- people we have never met. For shy people like me, that can be a recipe for social disaster.<br /><br />Carlos was going to have none of that. Even though he was not my years-long friend, he made me feel a part of every conversation and gathering. He has raconteur's ear for ferreting out interests and avoiding social landmines.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApA0TB84jmyMgvNwiwc-T30PunZvTM8uCEFkAYSYcrncuBcohXF9LfoCbmIqmkd6lZhOW0ItbOb7ckk_O-xNnhJeUSrfd1EaqzBP1qN72_JPCbSFWHmKmj0O0hzN_fk3dyEiMGaN9_tjcgE5pEZikeJDm0WAN8Fbst1iWFs6rkfOPBqxA3nqg-ABI/s1600/IMG-20220228-WA0006.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhApA0TB84jmyMgvNwiwc-T30PunZvTM8uCEFkAYSYcrncuBcohXF9LfoCbmIqmkd6lZhOW0ItbOb7ckk_O-xNnhJeUSrfd1EaqzBP1qN72_JPCbSFWHmKmj0O0hzN_fk3dyEiMGaN9_tjcgE5pEZikeJDm0WAN8Fbst1iWFs6rkfOPBqxA3nqg-ABI/w400-h300/IMG-20220228-WA0006.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Of course, food is the great leveler. Yucatan food always interests me because it is different than Jalisco food. For Carlos, that meant a meat-fest.<br /><br />The same thing happened when we visited Cozumel. On one of their last extended visits to the island, Dan and Patty stayed at Rancho Chichihualco, a 77-acre bed and breakfast owned and operated by José Qunitana Ahedo and Adriana Barrena. Her grandfather, while he was the commander of the nearby Air Force Base, had acquired the property. She and José have developed it into a bungalow-oriented bed and breakfast.<br /><br />Even though we were not guests, they invited us over for an afternoon-long barbeque that drifted into the evening. There is something magic about cooking that much meat for a group of people. Almost Mexican alchemy that turns a pleasant few hours into hours that pass unnoticed amongst the company of people with backgrounds I do not encounter where I live.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_91x_UKimJ9w4bxOfCpmz_h2MKh8pJ_Zn702FRL7LaEf898ovlYkoqxFtv85AllAFTqb61K6y5qeQ7b0YdwXvwsW69_iuhiSxQk1kRUZMz0uuLbQJdKJVXdM7jcGIpxm5ygOp-JtnqnShIXviKsyzD45rtdLh9EuelN6dKlfs-0Sldu_XFMdNmjd7/s3464/Jose.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1755" data-original-width="3464" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_91x_UKimJ9w4bxOfCpmz_h2MKh8pJ_Zn702FRL7LaEf898ovlYkoqxFtv85AllAFTqb61K6y5qeQ7b0YdwXvwsW69_iuhiSxQk1kRUZMz0uuLbQJdKJVXdM7jcGIpxm5ygOp-JtnqnShIXviKsyzD45rtdLh9EuelN6dKlfs-0Sldu_XFMdNmjd7/w400-h203/Jose.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />Tales were told in a mixture of Spanish and English. Large portions of meat were washed down with ambiguously-described beverages. And people, who did not know one another well a few hours before, were now unwilling to break the circle of fellowship.<br /><br />I will write about the sights we saw and the journeys we took because they are an integral part of the trip. But it was the relationships that we recreated and extended that will have the longest-lasting effect on me.<br /><br />To share my life with my cousins, with Carlos and Teresa, and José and Adriana, with the young people from France, Chile, and Switzerland who I suspect I will never see again, was an experience I dd not anticipate, but one that I thoroughly appreciated.<br /><br />And what could be better than that?<br /><br />Maybe we will find out in the next installments.<br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><p></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2289482511228853984.post-73545167895668235602022-03-20T17:03:00.004-06:002022-03-20T19:41:10.862-06:00feliz cumpleaños, benito<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkq3vtslnWnZsrloZv01kcGYrCmemm3CVM6gFZCqxfiKt7r71tb5p1I29BV3oREITBeJduDm2Q2hOL-qIDThtBasKgEq364rPowXKa9LKs43NjdSyzZlcHO5_tKD_WxIoA7Iv1AyQyIdnfMhrj2KjkQqDRjZre-FC8GqegriR_25nMGX1VukgWkO-/s1600/Benito-Mussolini.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1235" data-original-width="1600" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkq3vtslnWnZsrloZv01kcGYrCmemm3CVM6gFZCqxfiKt7r71tb5p1I29BV3oREITBeJduDm2Q2hOL-qIDThtBasKgEq364rPowXKa9LKs43NjdSyzZlcHO5_tKD_WxIoA7Iv1AyQyIdnfMhrj2KjkQqDRjZre-FC8GqegriR_25nMGX1VukgWkO-/w400-h309/Benito-Mussolini.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />No. Not that one. <br /><br />The birthday we celebrate this three-day weekend is not that of the late and not-lamented Il Duce, but that of President Benito Juárez.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh96pkDwh9fLEAamf5f1WEfJ6j-J4sT33N2V0JNa6Qk9K-zcttCfn4dOTfauT4NxunEGr7ejRiB_wIxkVvf62N3k3OAcreGYnl3G5-WB3TWXg9Wnb-vTn02BppOMTenPA-cGTI4uekTrP8CA0akzqvZKiNGnX6dJTLmcTf_NbQWwRHQRx8IJRWBCFCk/s660/benito-juarez-frases-vida-obra-biografia.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="660" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh96pkDwh9fLEAamf5f1WEfJ6j-J4sT33N2V0JNa6Qk9K-zcttCfn4dOTfauT4NxunEGr7ejRiB_wIxkVvf62N3k3OAcreGYnl3G5-WB3TWXg9Wnb-vTn02BppOMTenPA-cGTI4uekTrP8CA0akzqvZKiNGnX6dJTLmcTf_NbQWwRHQRx8IJRWBCFCk/w400-h224/benito-juarez-frases-vida-obra-biografia.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />The beaches and restaurants are filled with Mexican tourists. The orange juice guy on the highway has abandoned his customary post. And Dora messaged me that she would not be in today because she and her family are on their way to Manzanillo to celebrate the man known by some as "The Lincoln of Mexico."<br /><br />The Mussolini-Juárez connection is not one of my inventions. Benito Mussolini's father was an avid socialist, just as his son would be, and admired Benito </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez's commitment to humanism. So much so that he named his elder son Benito. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez most likely would be horrified at both comparisons.</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />There was much to respect about </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez. He was the only full-blooded Indian (Zapotec, in his case) to serve as president of Mexico. Ironically, he would have disliked the label. As a leading liberal, he railed against what we now refer to as "identity politics." He found his blood line to be irrelevant. Like Martin Luther King, Jr., he believed people should </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">So, how did a young Zapotec overcome the class restrictions of early nineteenth century Mexico to climb to the top of the greasy pole? As is true with so many of these Horatio Alger tales, it was through the beneficence of one man.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Antonio Salanueva, a Secular Franciscan recognized that the young </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez was intelligent and motivated, and assisted him in entering school to become a priest. That career did not happen because </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez felt he had not been called to the priesthood. Instead, he became a lawyer. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Even though Mexico gained its independence from Spain in 1821, the country was divided over an existential question. How Mexicans would identify themselves.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">There was a major political split between conservatives (who looked to Spain and Europe for political inspiration and favored a strong central government) and liberals (who looked north to the United States and to a mythical Aztec past for social and political ideals; they also favored de-centralized power). Each group argued their position was the true Mexican identity.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">These battles were not merely intellectual. They were also physical fights for political control finally breaking out in the</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> War of Reforma (1857-1861).</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Prior to the war, Juárez </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">married well, and became active in the liberal cause in his home state of Oaxaca where he joined forces with other liberals in challenging the power of the Catholic Church -- the very institution that had provided him with the opportunity to advance in Mexican society. <br /><br />And rise he did. To become the governor of Oaxaca, where he came into conflict with one of Mexico's true scoundrels -- President (and dictator) Antonio Santa Anna -- the man who lost the northern half of Mexico to the United States. In fear of his life, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez went into exile in New Orleans in 1853, where he fleshed out several liberal principles that he would support when he returned to Mexico: that all Mexicans should be equal before the law and that the powers of the Catholic Church and the Mexican Army should be restricted. His</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> activism eventually led to his election as Chief Justice of a newly-constituted Mexican Supreme Court.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">When liberal President Comonfort was forced to resign in 1858, the constitution designated the chief justice as interim president. The "interim" label did not last long. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">would be elected to the office three times in his own right.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">His terms as president were responsible for much of what we know as Mexico today. The church was stripped of its income-producing lands and some of its church buildings. The land was then distributed to the Indians from whom the church had taken the land.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Unfortunately, the reform did not last long. The new landholders eventually sold, or were forced to sell, their land to large landholders. When the next great land reform happened after the Revolution, the law entailed the Ejido holdings to prevent a similar failure.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez also survived the years when a French emperor (Napoleon Bonaparte's nephew) put an Austrian archduke on the Mexican throne as Maximilio I -- forcing </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> to flee for his life</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">. Once again, he was in exile. This time in the portion of northern Mexico the French had not conquered.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Events in Europe and active opposition from the United States forced the French emperor to withdraw his troops from Mexico, leaving Maximilio to defend his throne with the support of Mexican conservatives. Juarez’s liberal Mexicans prevailed, Maximilio was executed, and </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">resumed his position as president and continued the liberal reform movement.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Like far too many politicians who have faced tumultuous careers, </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">probably stayed in office too long. He eventually turned on one of the defining elements of the liberals (decentralization of political power) and created a highly-centralized government in Mexico City. <br /><br />Eventually, a young liberal general by the name of Porfirio Diaz revolted against him when </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">declared he would once again seek reelection. </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">put down the revolt, but he died soon after. The next 40 years of power would belong to that young liberal general (Porfirio Diaz) who also outstayed his worth becoming a notorious dictator. <br /><br />For </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez</span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> , i</span><span style="font-family: verdana;">t was a rather tragic ending to a career that held so much promise.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;">But it is not for the dreams that were not realized that we celebrate Benito </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">Juárez's </span><span style="font-family: verdana;">birthday. It is because he set Mexico on the modern path that we recognize today.<br /><br />And certainly that is good enough to pause in our work week, to take off a Monday to thank and remember him.<br /><br /></span></p>Steve Cottonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00468378507171761868noreply@blogger.com0