welcome to downton beach

I do not get Downton Abbey -- the British costume soap opera that so many of my friends enjoy.

I just sat through the fifth season episodes, hoping I would at least feel a glimmer of the joie de vivre my otherwise-leftist friends feel in vicariously living the life of an earl.  Maybe it is nostalgia for what appears to be a less-complicated, or, at least, more elegant, time.

Me?  I simply wait patiently for Maggie Smith's next witty bon mot.

The program has reminded me, though, of the tradition of home visits.  And I had one of my own yesterday.

Babs of San Miguel de Allende is in town enjoying the restorative powers of the Mexican beach.  Her blog entries on these annual visits seem to find an entirely different part of her personality.  Her on-line personality is always positive.  But she seems to bloom here amongst the sand and the sea.

We had breakfast at one of the few places in Barra de Navidad that affords a full view of our bay.  The conversation, as always, was far better than the meal.  And, no, I will not share what we had to say.  But I will tell you that the Dowager Countess of Grantham would not have felt out of place.

I wanted Babs to see the house with no name.  She had shown an interest in giving me some decorating idea.  And I suspect her jeweler's eye for style will soon be reflected in the decorating scheme I choose.

However, that plan is probably a year off -- altered by Barco.  Puppies and new furniture are not a good mix.  He has managed to rip the fabric backing off of a chair and couch in the library.  And teeth marks have shown up on the wood lining my bed.

The house is not Downton Abbey, but it is my home.  And I would like it to have a timeless style that reflects its Mexican contemporary heritage,

By the way, after seeing my front door, Babs has joined me in the belief that a "peephole" would ruin its lines.  But I do have some other ideas in a more technological vein.

So, there you have it.  A visit from one of the verbal and visual stylists from the Mexican highlands has set me on my long-range plan to build my own living space.

Oh, that photograph?  No, it is not taken at my house.  I do not live that close to the beach.  Nor is Babs in it.

It is New Year's Eve at Papa Gallo's in San Patricio.  Several of you wanted to see my white tie outfit.  Well, there it is.  (Please note the waistcoat is not cut just a little too long.  I simply did not adjust it properly when I got up from my chair.)

One of the perils of traveling without a valet in this era.