I lose track of time in Melaque.
That is common for warm climates where the seasons are merely variations on a theme. But my chronological issues are far more specific. I usually have no idea which day of the week it is.
Monday flows into Tuesday and Tuesday into Wednesday and Thursday with little to distinguish it from the day that went before it or the day that will follow.
I stay up until 5 or 6 in the morning, and sleep until 10 or so. It is almost like being back in college.
And I know why. I have nowhere I need to be. No schedule to keep. No one urging me I need to hurry up or I will be late. My patio chair is always there with open arms whenever I decide to wander out with my bowl of cereal. And it doesn't ask me if "I am going out looking like that."
There are two exceptions. Fridays and Sundays. And on both days, I need to be specific places at specific times.
Friday morning Dora, the maid, shows up to restore some order to my bachelor life. Because there is sweeping and mopping to be done, I am shooed outside to play like a bothersome 8-year old.
But I do not stick around. Friday morning is also my breakfast with two of the Indian school volunteers. Where thoughts of good deeds mingle with commentaries on art and whispers of local lore.
Sunday is my second schedule day. Church morning, of course. 10 AM every Sunday. For the past four weeks, I have been facilitating our discussion on grace, and why that is not the noun people usually associate with Christians. It has been an interesting discussion.
After church, a group of us (often, all of us in the summer) go out for a late breakfast. We did that today.
For some reason, I have not been very hungry lately. About three weeks ago I had a bout of what polite company refers to as gastric distress. I chalked it up to something I had eaten in one of my dining adventures. But it has not gone away.
After eating about three bites of my hamburger, I asked the waiter to box it up for later. I simply had no appetite.
Usually, I would have headed back to the house for my Sunday nap.
Instead, I decided to drive up to the mirador to sit in the sun,enjoy the view, and read The Oregonian, the newspaper I delivered as a boy and can now receive every morning through the magic of my Kindle.
It was beautiful up there. This is the part of our beach that reminds me of the Oregon coast. I suspect it is the rocks. And the mountains that tumble into the sea.
Today should have been a busy beach day. Tourists from Guadalajara and the towns inland from Melaque usually flock to the beach by the busload on the weekend.
Not today. Maybe they were scared away by the rain. Or talk of vegetation on the beach.
But, as you can see, the sun was out and the owners have cleaned up the beach in front of their restaurants. The only exception is the beach in front of the hotel ruin that reminds us all of the tragedy of communal ownership.
That is common for warm climates where the seasons are merely variations on a theme. But my chronological issues are far more specific. I usually have no idea which day of the week it is.
Monday flows into Tuesday and Tuesday into Wednesday and Thursday with little to distinguish it from the day that went before it or the day that will follow.
I stay up until 5 or 6 in the morning, and sleep until 10 or so. It is almost like being back in college.
And I know why. I have nowhere I need to be. No schedule to keep. No one urging me I need to hurry up or I will be late. My patio chair is always there with open arms whenever I decide to wander out with my bowl of cereal. And it doesn't ask me if "I am going out looking like that."
There are two exceptions. Fridays and Sundays. And on both days, I need to be specific places at specific times.
Friday morning Dora, the maid, shows up to restore some order to my bachelor life. Because there is sweeping and mopping to be done, I am shooed outside to play like a bothersome 8-year old.
But I do not stick around. Friday morning is also my breakfast with two of the Indian school volunteers. Where thoughts of good deeds mingle with commentaries on art and whispers of local lore.
Sunday is my second schedule day. Church morning, of course. 10 AM every Sunday. For the past four weeks, I have been facilitating our discussion on grace, and why that is not the noun people usually associate with Christians. It has been an interesting discussion.
After church, a group of us (often, all of us in the summer) go out for a late breakfast. We did that today.
For some reason, I have not been very hungry lately. About three weeks ago I had a bout of what polite company refers to as gastric distress. I chalked it up to something I had eaten in one of my dining adventures. But it has not gone away.
After eating about three bites of my hamburger, I asked the waiter to box it up for later. I simply had no appetite.
Usually, I would have headed back to the house for my Sunday nap.
Instead, I decided to drive up to the mirador to sit in the sun,enjoy the view, and read The Oregonian, the newspaper I delivered as a boy and can now receive every morning through the magic of my Kindle.
It was beautiful up there. This is the part of our beach that reminds me of the Oregon coast. I suspect it is the rocks. And the mountains that tumble into the sea.
Today should have been a busy beach day. Tourists from Guadalajara and the towns inland from Melaque usually flock to the beach by the busload on the weekend.
Not today. Maybe they were scared away by the rain. Or talk of vegetation on the beach.
But, as you can see, the sun was out and the owners have cleaned up the beach in front of their restaurants. The only exception is the beach in front of the hotel ruin that reminds us all of the tragedy of communal ownership.
I didn't stay long to enjoy the view. Ever since this intestinal problem started, fatigue hits me in the afternoon. Hard.
So, off I went to find my nap. Not so much to nap as to fall into a coma. When I wake up, I am not very rested.
My doctor is out of town until October. I may stop by to see someone, though, about these bizarre symptoms. I suspect I may be a housing development for some type of parasite.
Now and then, I hear someone, who should know better, say that we live in paradise. We don't. Melaque has its fair share of negatives. As does the rest of Mexico. But it is a darn good place to live.
Especially, this table on my patio. That is quickly becoming my window on the world.
So, off I went to find my nap. Not so much to nap as to fall into a coma. When I wake up, I am not very rested.
My doctor is out of town until October. I may stop by to see someone, though, about these bizarre symptoms. I suspect I may be a housing development for some type of parasite.
Now and then, I hear someone, who should know better, say that we live in paradise. We don't. Melaque has its fair share of negatives. As does the rest of Mexico. But it is a darn good place to live.
Especially, this table on my patio. That is quickly becoming my window on the world.
