I'm home.*
After a week at sea and a week at Disneyland, I have returned to Melaque with a grab bag of mixed emotions.
Jumping at warp speed from two weeks of extreme sensory stimulation to the relative serenity of my small fishing village by the sea has been a bit disquieting (or, more accurately, ultra-quieting -- to coin a word.)
But it is not the same Melaque that I left two weeks ago. The temperature on Sunday morning was a delightful 68. Better yet, the humidity has fallen into the 60s.
Snow bird season is in full swing. Even though expatriates make up a very small portion of the population in Melaque, their pocket books change the character of the town. He who pays the piper, gets lots of piping.
Two weeks ago, the village rolled up its nets around 8. No more. Sunday morning I could hear party music throbbing across the bay until 2 AM.
That was a little surprising. Most of the northern visitors I have encountered do not strike me as the Studio 54 crowd. But someone is paying for that music.
Whoever is paying, it is a good sign. Maybe the winter season will not be as catastrophic as the local Jeremiahs have predicted. (I use the metaphor warily. After all, Jeremiah proved to be an accurate prophet.)
So, I sit on the beach. Watching the ever-splendid sunsets. Writing the never-ending blog.
But enough navel-gazing. I suspect you would like to hear a bit about the last two weeks.
And relate tales I will. But not everything. After all, each life must have some mystery.
Even the examined life.
* -- I cannot write those words without conjuring up the opening of Billie -- when Michael Crawford still sang like a Yorkshire Mickey Mouse, rather than John Raitt-lite.
After a week at sea and a week at Disneyland, I have returned to Melaque with a grab bag of mixed emotions.
Jumping at warp speed from two weeks of extreme sensory stimulation to the relative serenity of my small fishing village by the sea has been a bit disquieting (or, more accurately, ultra-quieting -- to coin a word.)
But it is not the same Melaque that I left two weeks ago. The temperature on Sunday morning was a delightful 68. Better yet, the humidity has fallen into the 60s.
Snow bird season is in full swing. Even though expatriates make up a very small portion of the population in Melaque, their pocket books change the character of the town. He who pays the piper, gets lots of piping.
Two weeks ago, the village rolled up its nets around 8. No more. Sunday morning I could hear party music throbbing across the bay until 2 AM.
That was a little surprising. Most of the northern visitors I have encountered do not strike me as the Studio 54 crowd. But someone is paying for that music.
Whoever is paying, it is a good sign. Maybe the winter season will not be as catastrophic as the local Jeremiahs have predicted. (I use the metaphor warily. After all, Jeremiah proved to be an accurate prophet.)
So, I sit on the beach. Watching the ever-splendid sunsets. Writing the never-ending blog.
But enough navel-gazing. I suspect you would like to hear a bit about the last two weeks.
And relate tales I will. But not everything. After all, each life must have some mystery.
Even the examined life.
* -- I cannot write those words without conjuring up the opening of Billie -- when Michael Crawford still sang like a Yorkshire Mickey Mouse, rather than John Raitt-lite.
