When I left for Manzanillo this morning, I thought I would be telling you a tale this afternoon about how all the parts to my Escape have been restored.
Instead, I will tell you another tale. And not an exclusively Mexican tale.
Even though the battery bracket was supposed to appear mirable dictu at the Ford dealership today, it did not turn out that way. I was there; it was not.
Of course, I received the usual apologies for my inconvenience (I had none because I had to be in Manzanillo today in any event) and an assurance that it would be there in the morning.
I will wait until Friday and make a day of it in Manzanillo. There are a couple of films I would like to see at the fabled Cinepolis and its eight screens. And Friday is a traditional movie day. Not that I am a traditional guy.
In an attempt to make my venture today a little more fulfilling, I drove around the peninsula where Manzanillo’s expensive hotels flock together. Not only was the view spectacular, I saw two signs that set off my irony alarm. The alarm that reflexively makes me grab my camera.
I grabbed -- but no camera. Not in my back pack. Not on the truck seat. Not on the floor.
My first instinct was that I had left the truck unlocked and the camera had joined the long parade of possessions that have now been redistributed Robin Hood style. But that made no sense. Nothing else was missing.
Then it hit me. I probably left it on the back seat of Lou and Wynn’s truck when we went to Sunday dinner. And so I did.
That means no ironic photographs. No great sunny bay vistas. Nothing -- except the same sign that annoys me when I see it in public buildings.
Tomorrow I will retrieve the camera. And maybe we can then have some discussions about the realities of living on the beach.
