thirst on the sands

My beach post yesterday took me back to my first year living in Melaque.

I lived exactly as I thought a retiree in Mexico should live.  Right on the beach.

Each morning I would sit on the veranda watching whatever performance the sea conjured up for me.  It seemed beautiful.

But, as there always is with beauty, there was a cost.  I lived with a constant film of brine on everything.  The floors.  The dining room table.  The bed.  Me.  It had all the aesthetic joy of living in a constant drizzle of olive  oil.

The result, as I had predicted, was quick death to my electronic equipment.  The office door was a funnel for corrosion.

But -- there was the beauty.

I walked by the house on Friday afternoon.  That is it at the top of the post.  If you look at my entries for 2009, you will see what my life looked like back then.

I looked up and down the beach at what was my cultural stage that first year.  And it struck me.  The house.  The beach.  The view.  It was a desert.  Very little could grow because of the brine.  And there was nothing but miles and miles of sand.

It reminded me of Dubai -- without any of the redeeming qualities of Freudian architecture.  When I visited Dubai in May, I was amazed to discover that the place was humid.  Running from 80% to 90% during the year.

Of course, it made sense.  It is a trade city situated on the shores of the Persian Gulf.  I never thought about deserts having high humidity.

But that is exactly what Melaque feels -- and looks -- like.  Especially during the summer when it is not raining.

For the past three years, I have traded the desert beach for what seems like a jungle.  Verdant.  Cool.  Shady.  A perfect nook for an aspiring writer.  Just four blocks from the beach.

And I still have a water view.  It may not be as noisy and unruly as the Pacific.  But it is a perfect match with my little jungle.

And with me.