prime rib and red sails in the sunset

It is Christy's birthday. And we celebrated in true Cotton style.

All four of us marked birthdays during the past four months. Darrel's and mine were in December and January. Mom's birthday was in February, but she was back in Bend by then. And here it is March -- and it is Christy's turn.

We had talked about dining out at one of several local restaurants. It did not take us long to realize we could put together a better birthday dinner here than at any other eatery. And so we did.

Christy is a meat lover. Prime rib, in particular. And we now have a dependable provider. Mind you, it is choice, rather than prime. But it turned out to be one of the most tender pieces of prime rib any of us had ever eaten.

With prime rib, I usually prepare some classics. Of course, there is my cabernet au jus that almost always complements prime ribs here.

When we were in Manzanillo on Monday, I bought some baby asparagus, but it had already gone off. Instead, I opted for blistered green beans. But all of the green beans in town were woody. I could not even find a package of peas for my famous mint peas.

Instead, we decided a Greek salad would do nicely for the vegetable. Potatoes would be our starch -- cooked on the grill with onions.

And dessert? The meal would be heavy enough. So, we threw together an arugula watermelon goat cheese combination with an Israeli seed topping. It was far better than birthday cake.

We all had a hand in the meal. And it met our goal -- to beat anything we could buy locally for Christy's birthday.

As luck would have it, Mother Nature gave Christy the best gift of all.

We decided to bike down to the beach to watch the sunset. Most of the sunsets this week have been rather disappointing. Not tonight.

With the exception of a sunset in 2009, this was the most spectacular sunset I have seen here. Christy was enthralled.

So, happy birthday, Christy. I am glad the day was as memorable as it was.

all dots -- no dashes

I love games.

That may be why I became an attorney. The search for truth is always a bit of Chutes and Ladders with very little Sorry thrown in.

Several years ago, my upstairs neighbors taught me to play Mexican train -- just one of the multifarious versions of dominoes. And I learned something very important about myself.

Even though my legal career was all about winning, I do not play board games to win. I play them to enjoy the social intercourse.

My Mexican train trainers were quite patient with me. But they each approached the game differently.

The husband and I thought it was solely a social occasion. We would be riffing on a comparison between Locke and Wittgenstein when the wife would remind us we were not at at a university faculty party; we were playing a game.

I get little thrill out of winning Mexican train. But I do like playing it.

Darrel and Christy brought the game down with them in December. Mom thoroughly enjoyed playing it. But she plays to win. I play to chat.

Next week Darrel and Christy head back to the cold temperatures of Bend. So, we decided to take advantage of a very pleasant day at the beach to break out the tiles with the colored dots -- and to simply enjoy what passes for wit in the clan Cotton.

In a month, I will not remember who won which bout. But I will remember the fun we have had as a family.

Now, they just need to decide to spend more time here in Mexico. After all, what is this situation comedy going to be when it is reduced to a solo stand up routine?

i call him trigger

I have a new mount.

New to me, that is. A bicycle -- only slightly used.

While I was in New Zealand, I took two bicycle tours -- one in the countryside, the other in the wilds of urban Wellington. On one of the trips, I texted my sister-in-law that I was having such a good time, we should buy bicycles for the three of us.

The thought was not original with me. Darrel and Christy started looking at bicycles when they came down in December. Darrel's attention was fixed on big tire bikes -- so he could ride on the beach.

Christy informed me I was a little late with my suggestion: they had already bought bicycles in my absence. My former landlady, Christine, is a biking fan. She and our mutual friend Anne are a common sight in these parts on their bikes.

She had directed Darrel and Christy to a used appliance store on the main highway. Two brothers import bicycles bought at auction in The States. The quality is far better than most of the bicycles on offer at either Walmart or La Comer.

When I returned home last week, I knew where I needed to go. After riding Darrel's bicycle around the courtyard, I decided it was a good fit.

So, yesterday, Darrel and I headed over to the appliance store. The brothers were a little low on selection. But that was understandable. The capital investment is large.

After trying out a few, I opted for one with disc brakes on a snazzy gold and black frame. I almost felt as if I should be slipping on my newspaper bag to deliver the morning Oregonian.

This morning, Darrel and I gave my new equipment a test spin. We decided to take Nueva España out to the main highway. Just past my house, it turns into a rather rough dirt road. Just perfect for testing the capabilities of a mountain bike.

If the road had been just dirt and rock, it would have been a perfect trail ride. But, in the hopes of evening out some of the potholes, a road crew had spread mounds of sand on the road. Bicycles and sand are not a natural mix.

But, the obstacle gave me an opportunity to hone my riding skills. Something I did not need to do on the paved roads and streets of New Zealand. My turning ability in sand is still a bit rusty.

Here is my confession. I have been reluctant to buy a bicycle because a very skilled bicyclist from Oregon was killed on our highway just before I moved down. Eight years of driving here has not made me re-think my position that bicycling here is a risky business. That feeling was exacerbated with Jack Brock's death.

My trip to New Zealand reminded me I was verging on hypocrisy. I moved to Mexico for challenges -- to get up each morning and not know how I am going to get through the day. Bicycling on our local roads certainly falls in that category.

Between walking and bicycling, I should have enough exercising options to avoid boredom. And that is going to be a problem when Darrel and Christy head back to Bend next week.

Until then, the three of us will be bike marauders. Evildoers beware!

my hat is in the ring

Well, not mine. But, the sombreros of several charros* are.

Apparently, there is no greater honor a fellow charro can show to praise his comrade's outstanding performance than to throw his hat into the arena. The equivalent of a rodeo standing ovation.

Tonight was rodeo night in San Patricio. Not one of your Las Vegas extravaganzas, mind you. This is a working cowboy rodeo. With just a soupçon of electric cowboy thrown in for flavor.

Darrel, Christy, and I are rodeo people. Of course, we are. They are from Bend, and rodeo was one of the year's cultural events at the Coos County fair when Darrel and I were growing up.

But this was a rodeo of a far different variety than we were accustomed to. Here, local ranches round up some of their best hands (and, I suspect, a few ringers) for a practical display of ranching skills. 

It is not a competition. It is an exhibition. And, to euthanize the elephant in the room, the horses and bulls are not treated as if they lived in a Regina sitting room.

They are working animals being run through their paces. Some of those paces include being roped and thrown to the ground at a full run.

There were the usual human vs. animal contests. A Brahma-mix bull (or bullock, really) doing its best to toss its rider. A young bronco that did not not so much buck as do his impression of the pony express. A series of horses ridden down by mounted charros, giving a ground-based cowboy the opportunity to bring down a horse at full gallop with nothing but his lariat and dug-in stance. (His performance earned the hats in the ring.) That was all topped off by two troupes of young women performing intricate dressage.

And then there were the human exhibitionists -- mainly performing rope tricks. Of course, the pint-sized kids got the most applause. Even though they looked a lot like a hold over act from Monday night's midget show. (Yup. Midgets. They are quite popular here as objects of entertainment.)

But the performer who had the area in his hand was a Vicente Fernandez impersonator. Fernandez is a Mexican institution. And all institutions lend themselves to ridicule.

With a mixture of comedy, a few props, and a passable voice, he was a perfect half-time show. (I suspect he would say "headliner.") The audience chuckled and roared, and sang along with their Fernandez favorites.

You may get the impression it was a long show. It was. We left after about three and a half hours of entertainment. The show was still in full motion when we drove past more than an hour later.

I am not certain I will ever adjust to the Mexican notion that if 5 minutes of something is good, an hour will be 12 times as much fun. Sometimes, it is. Other times, it is just 5 minutes pummeled bloodily into a full hour.

That was true tonight. But, by soldiering through, I saw things I never would have seen had I headed home an hour into the performance.

My hat is in the ring to the charros.


* -- Mexican cowboys

every night is not a touchdown

Sunsets are one of the most alluring attractions of the beach. Well, beaches with a western view.

Some of my local frends and acquaintances take far more advantage of this luxury than I do. Even though sunsets occur every evening, I am usually doing something else -- and miss the opportunity to notch up another green flash sighting.

And, if the potential beauty were not enough, as my Canadians friends remind me: "It's absolutely free."

That "potential" was not a surplus adjective. Not every sunset is outstanding. The best require the confluence of several circumstances. Cloud placement. Cloud structure. Temperature. Humidity. A great sunset is as hard to concoct as a fair tax system -- but, fortunately, far more common.

After entertaining a series of guests over the past four months, Darrel, Christy, and I looked forward to spending a simple evening together. And what could be simpler -- and more rewarding -- than a leisurely walk to the beach to watch the sun end its day.

The sky was not promising. There was a ribbon of clouds that peeked just over the horizon. That meant there was no possibility of seeing the wily green flash. The shift in the light spectrum would be as shielded as Lily Langtry behind a Chinese screen.

And, because there were no clouds high in the sky, we would not be treated to the effect of cherry blossoms floating across the sky. There was even little hope of the small band of clouds on the horizon lighting up. And it didn't.

But, without a peacock to admire, we started paying attention to the people who had been drawn to the diminished sands of Barra de Navidad's beach. There were the usual skim boarders.

Last night, they were joined by a younger brother who could not have been much more than five. His idea of learning the fine art of skimming was to stand posed on his sand-stranded board, and wait for the surf come to him.

There were the usual northerners. Some expatriates. Others tourists. Trying to stuff in one more sunset before giving in to the goose instinct to fly north.

The most surprising group were fifteen to twenty young Mexicans. Guys and gals. They had staked out their space on the beach with two cases of beer. But, before the first bottles were cracked open, out came the inevitable ball. It took me a few moments to realize it was a football. Not a soccer ball. An American football. And most of them were quite proficient at tossing it.

There had to be a story there. But my journalistic instincts were deterred by the simple act of feeding off of their enthusiasm. There is something about young people at play that energizes the soul.

Last night was not a sunset night. At least, not a memorable sunset night. But it was a night to be remembered for its imparted joy.

I need to get to the beach more often. It may not cost anything, but it certainly pays high dividends.

facing the notes

Nezahualcoyotl can take five.

It is time to celebrate the centennial of the Mexican Constitution of 2012. And the 100 peso note does not require the image of the poet-philosopher warrior that has graced its face since 1996.

Since my return from The Antipodes, I have only needed the services of an ATM twice. I knew that the Bank of Mexico was issuing its 100 peso note to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the Mexican Constitution, but I had not yet seen one.

Last week, my six thousand peso bounty included only two 100 peso notes. Both featured the noble features of Nezahualcoyotl. But, I hit pay dirt this morning. The two 100 peso notes were the new variety. There they were in all of their stiff paper glory. Spiffy as a new Buick.

Commemorative notes are not new in Mexico. Those of us who were here in 2009 remember the two banknotes printed to celebrate the bicentennial of independence with a rather fierce Miguel Hidalgo on the front of the 200 peso note, and, to celebrate the centennial of the Revolution, the locomotive that was instrumental in transporting insurgent troop to their ultimate victory, on the front of the 100 peso note. Occasionally, one shows up in my wallet.

But, it is now time for a new celebration. The Revolution may have started in 1910, but it did not get its governing document until 1917. (There are some historians who claim the Revolution did not come to an end until 1930 when the government came to terms with the Cristeros. I tend to agree with them.)

The constitution reflected what was to be Mexico's greatest political and social watershed (the Revolution) until the introduction of political democracy in the 1990s. Various Mexican factions (primarily the Liberals and the Conservatives) had been fighting since Independence -- often in open warfare -- to define what the Mexican nation would be. The Revolution answered that question. The Constitution of 1917 memorialized it.

The convention that drafted the constitution was remarkably bourgeois (made up primarily of middle class members of the Mexican Liberal Party) considering some of the radical assertions in the document. President Carranza (that is him with the Father Christmas beard on the front of the new note) was not a radical. He was soon to be assassinated by another faction of the Revolution. But he approved the constitution knowing the parts of which he disapproved could be rewritten or ignored. (Some provisions of the constitution still have no legislation to support their implementation.)

The Revolution was initially fought on the premise that elections should be fair and that no president should be reelected. The latter was immediately added to the constitution to prevent another Porfirio Diaz becoming dictator for life. As for fair elections, that would wait for another 80 years.

But the constitution changed far more.

• The Liberals started the process of stripping the Catholic church of its property and political power in the 1850s. The 1917 Constitution made the split permanent.
• The constitution gave positive liberties (as opposed to the American concept of negative liberties protecting the people from the government) such as, the rights to education, health, and housing, and freedom from discrimination.
• Foreigners are prohibited from participating in the political process and from owning real property in the restricted zones -- a provision based on the perceived extent of foreign influence in the government of Porfirio Diaz.
• Citizens are guaranteed the right to own firearms within their homes.
• Some commentators note that the constitution contains the essence of socialism. "The property of all land and water within national territory is originally owned by the Nation." It is not a radical statement. It is quite conservative in its concept; a Spanish monarchist would say no less. The provision was cribbed from Spanish law.
• The rights of workers to an 8-hour day, the right to strike, the right to a day of rest, and the right to indemnification for improper termination are all part of the constitution -- though supporting legislation has not been enacted to enforce all of those rights.

There are, of course, many more provisions. But they each attempt to uniformly answer the question who is a Mexican and what is her relationship with her nation and government.

It is, of course, appropriate for Venustiano Carranza and Luis Manuel Rojas to share top billing on the front of the note. The former was the president of Mexico in 1917, and the latter was the president of the congress that approved the constitution.

And, on the reverse, are the members of the congress who drafted the constitution -- caught in their Roman salute swearing allegiance to what they had just approved. Considering some unpleasant incidents in the 1930s and 1940s, that salute is a bit creepy.

Like most such commemorations, we will soon forget about the special banknote and what it stood for. But Mexicans will continue to operate their political affairs under its provisions. It is Mexico's longest-lasting constitution.

But there is a presidential election next year. And several of the current provisions will be at issue. Who knows? Maybe we will have a Constitution of 2019.

And a completely new set of bank notes in 2119.

columbus, meet edison

Sometimes, a little knowledge can be an embarrassing thing.

Darrel and I started working our way through our handyman chore list this week (the joys of home ownership) -- with some help.

Antonio and Lupe (the pool guys) repaired the float in my pool's overflow tank on Monday. That remedied the well pump's refusal to shut off.

Darrel and I fashioned a new handle for the tank's cover using bicycle lock cable, two clamps, and a fashionably yellow piece of hose.

I already told you how I resolved the Netflix problem. Apparently, whenever we have a power surge, the voltage regulator does something that keeps Netflix from loading movies. (I know that does not sound logical, but there you are.) Unplugging everything from the regulator, then unplugging the regulator from the wall, and waiting for about 30 seconds re-sets whatever needs to be re-set.

We still have not bought a piece of glass to replace the cracked shelf. We have been too busy amusing ourselves with relenting games of Mexican train. But I can find glass at quite a few shops. It is just a matter of doing it.

That left us with one open item -- the power failure in the bodega and the pool bathroom. It turns out the problem was more wide-spread. The stair lights to the terrace and the sconces on the terrace wall would not light.

We also thought there was an additional power outage. Three of the copper star lights would not illumine. I took a gamble that the bulbs were burnt out. They were. So, another task was completed.

But there was still that pesky outage in the two rooms. After checking all of the circuit breakers, we bought a circuit tester to determine if any of the breakers had failed. They had not.

We then called in the big guns. On Tuesday night, I had met a woman who works at Rooster's. She told me her husband, Efrain, was a handyman and could help us. Through my friend Oswaldo, we arranged for Efrian to show up at the house.

He did. As we walked him through the house explaining the problem, we became more confused. There was absolutely no power getting to the light switches in the bodgea. The pool pump is in that room, and it worked fine. As did the bulb that lights up the pump area.

I got down on my knees to throw that switch. When I looked around the corner I saw what you have seen at the top of this post -- another circuit box. Darrel and I had looked through the house for something similar (including in every closet and cabinet), and had found nothing.

But, there it was. Almost in plain sight.

Of course, one of the switches (the one on the far left) had been thrown. Probably in the same power surge that had tripped the television's voltage regulator.

Efrain and I thought it was funny that we had missed such an obvious solution. Darrel paid him some hush money for his time, and we all went on our merry way.

What I got out of the  episode was some additional knowledge about my house -- and a great story. That I now share with you.

dodging an agatha christie opening

I almost joined Jack Brock last night (remembering jack brock).

By poisoning myself. Accidentally, mind you.

Because of the quality of the water that comes out of my bathroom tap, I keep a couple of bottles filled with filtered water at hand. For brushing my teeth and taking pills. That sort of thing.

My doctor has prescribed some sort of natural medicine drops that I am supposed to take before each meal. I have no idea what it is supposed to do. I think I once knew, but that part of my brain has taken a permanent vacation. I simply call it "monkey piss." Whatever it is, it stains the cup I use to mix the drops with water.

Last night, I pulled out my pills, the drops, the toothpaste, and my toothbrush. I was ready for the full off-to-bed performance.

When I picked up the cup, I was surprised to find it filled with water. That was odd. I usually only fill it part way, and I had no memory of filling it at all. But, please recall, memory is not my forte these days.

So, I poured half back into the water bottle, added my drops to the water in the cup, tossed my pills in my mouth, and gulped down what I should have considered as a mystery solution. I had drunk almost all of it when my taste kicked in.

It was bleach. Or, at least, some bleach and water. Dora must have left it there to soak out the stains in the glass.

The solution must have not been very strong. I did not suffer the usual chlorine burns in my mouth or throat. But the solution was strong enough to immediately dry out my mouth.

Fortunately, a member of the medical community was at hand. Christy did a quick internet search. The next thing I knew, I was drinking a quart of milk.

The fact that I am writing this story lets you know I am still alive. But I burped chlorine gas for most of the night. I had become my own personal weapon of mass destruction.
There are probably all kinds of lessons to learn here. But the knowledge will most likely be useless. How often does something like this happen to one person? I am just glad the cup was not left on the bathroom counter in one of the guest rooms.

To celebrate my escape from the fields of Ypres, we are off to the beach at Chantli Mare (movie mogul migration). We need to introduce Lisa to this local gem.

remembering jack brock

It has been exactly one year.

On this day a year ago, Anne called me to tell me my friend Jack Brock had died on one of our highways while he was riding his bicycle (jack is dead).

We tend to react oddly when we hear such news. Mine was the common reaction. I could not believe it. Jack? The guy was too full of life to be dead.

But he was. Within three weeks, his friends put together a memorial get-together, and we all told the stories that made us appreciate Jack. Warts and all (putting jack to rest).

Last Monday, a group got together to once again remember him. I was unable to attend because of my travels. And that was too bad. There is barely a week that goes by that I do not run across one of Jack's outstanding photographs or one of his sardonic emails. Yesterday I opened a file to discover a Doonesbury cartoon he had sent me -- lampooning women.

Mexican highways are dotted with crosses and small shrines -- placed there by family and friends to remember someone killed near that spot. Our roads seem to require regular sacrifices to Huitzilopochtli. And there is one for Jack on the side of the bypass road where he died.

When people come into our lives, they change us. A part of them becomes a layer of who we are. In that way, Jack lives on.

But it is always appropriate to pause for a moment when we think of those who have had, as Anne Lamott would say, a major change in address.

That is what I am doing this morning. Thanks for the memories, Jack.

he's called squawkamole*

Or, at least, that is what Christy calls him.

During the month I was away from the house, Mexpatriate gained an animal mascot. A yellow-winged cacique started showing up twice a day to squawk and dance on my solar water heater.

His arrivals are as regular as the performances at the Copcabana -- and every bit as showy. 7 in the morning and 7 at night. With an occasional 4 PM matinee thrown in for good measure.

He arrives alone and starts with a piercing call that sounds as if a grackle is being throttled. He then displays his wings in a mating posture and his top notch perks up. Then around and around he will dance to the sound of some unheard tune until he tires and bustles off to his day job.

There are as many theories as there are people at the house these days. Darrel thinks he sees his image in the chrome water tank and is courting himself.

That would be consistent with the now-politically-rejected strict Freudian diagnosis that homosexuality is an extreme form of narcissism -- falling in love with someone exactly like yourself. (A version of that theme, of course, was hilariously worked out in Being John Malcovich.)

Christy has opted for the warfare option. She theorizes Squawkamole sees his image in the tank and reacts violently by puffing himself up and threatening the intruder.

I think he is simply a born entertainer who likes to sing (which he does not do well) and dance (which he does do well). We have plenty of local entertainers who are no worse than this guy. And they all seem to be quite pleased with even their most discordant performances.

The truth is that none of us have enough knowledge to have an informed opinion. But, by golly, we are Americans and we are not going to let something as trivial as facts get in the way of us taking our conclusions to heart -- and to battle, if necessary.

Whatever the reason is for what the cacique is doing, it is nowhere near as important as his doing it. He has brought hours of amusement to our household.

As a rule, caciques are gregarious. If you spot one, others will be nearby. This guy seems to be as much a loner as MASH's Five O'Clock Charlie -- and just as punctual.

Yellow-winged caciques have a very narrow range. Along the Mexican Pacific lowlands from Sonora to Chiapas. Mexpatriate's headquarters is fortunate enough to be smack dab in the middle of the bird's territory. And, even though I have seen plenty of his colleagues over the past eight years, Squawkamole is the only cacique who has deigned to perform for us.

I should set out a tip jar for him.


* -- You have undoubtedly already figured out the name is a portmanteau of "squawk" and "guacamole." Christy gets extra points for its creation.

get out -- the mexican version

I miss Richard Lander.

He was the author of the late lamented Gangs of San Miguel de Allende -- a blog that sardonically skewed the social foibles of gringos (and primarily gringas) in one of Mexico's more popular cultural ghettos. Richard's wit was perfectly honed to cut through cant with a surgeon'e grace.

The last entry is now over two years old. Like the best of art, its limited scope inevitably led to its demise. You can only poke fun at the clothing choices of northern women so many times before it becomes cliché. And for someone like Richard, having his work reduced to cliché is simply to be old hat.

I thought of Richard while reading a review of what may be one of 2017's best films -- Get Out, Jordan Peele's directorial debut. The movie is one of the best horror suspense films I have seen.

The genre is my dirty little vice. I love horror films.

But I also know how predictable they have become. A good horror film is always based around a secret. The good ones reveal it layer by layer until, when it jumps off the screen, you are surprised -- even when you recognize that it was inevitable. Inevitable, but not predictable, is the formula for great horror.

This movie is entirely Peele's. Not only did he direct it, he also wrote and produced it. And he got all of the elements correct.

The story line is very simple. It opens with a young black man walking through a seemingly-peaceful white suburb. But he is nervous. For good cause. Within minutes, he is violently abducted.

The story then shifts to the relationship between Chris, a young talented photographer, and Rose, his girlfriend. She is taking him on the dreaded trip home to introduce him to her parents.

He is black. She is white. But, she informs him, her parents will have no problem with his race.

As it turns out, the rest of the film is all about race -- the tensions that exist when a black man is afloat in a sea of white liberalism. The weekend they arrive is the same weekend a group of the family's friends get together for a party.

As Chris is introduced, the tension level rises. Everyone is extremely polite, but polite in a way that seems overly unctuous. "If I could have, I would have voted for Obama a third time." "How long has this thang been going on?"

Chris dismisses it as people attempting to be polite, but, in the process, they all reduce him to being black. But there is something far more sinister than social awkwardness in the works.

Because the movie deals so openly with racial relations and is so tautly-written, it seems original. Of course, we have seen this setup before in Rosemary's Baby, The Stepford Wives, Scream, and countless other films. But the plot twists that Peele weaves are so imaginative, it feels that he has completely reinvented the conventions.

While watching the film, I thought of Richard Lander. A reviewer crafted a sentence that was veritably Landeresque: "As white partygoers comment on Chris's genetically-blessed gifts, the mind is racing as to exactly the greater purpose of this visit is for this young man, a minority in a sea of white people who seem to want to own him, which is itself a razor-sharp commentary on the way we often seek to possess cultural aspects other than our own."

"The way we often seek to possess cultural aspects other than our own." Anyone who has lived very long in Mexico has witnessed that behavior in northern visitors and expatriates. It takes many forms.

The women who don rebozos or the men who adopt a foppish wearing of a straw hat in the belief, similar to G-Man, they will be magically transformed into someone they are not. Or the lonely northerners who feel compelled to dance in religious processions when they do not share a gram of the religious sentiments on parade. (Of course, they may be far preferable to the people who insist on flying their own national flag in Mexico as if their Mexican homes are now part of their own national soil -- like an embassy. But that is for another essay.)

In Get Out, the partygoers are all Eastern wealthy, white liberals whose life focus at the party is to make Chris feel comfortable by patronizing him and using what they believe is black jargon to put him at ease. It does the opposite -- for Chris, and for the audience. And it makes the audience think: "How often have I done something similar?"

Get Out is one of those movies you need to see with a group of friends and acquaintances with mixed political views. And then spend some time talking about the real issues facing all people when race becomes a focus of life.

If the movie does nothing else, maybe it will get us talking to one another, rather than using a passel of code words to placate ourselves and others.

I bet Richard Lander would love it.

the joys of home ownership

"There are some problems at the house."

So said my sainted brother when he picked me up at the airport. His voice did not betray that anything major had happened -- such as Barco had come back to life. They were just -- "problems."

He then started his list:

• The well pump keeps running and will not shut off.
• A glass shelf in one of the guest bedrooms is broken.
• The rope that lifts the cover to the pool's underground reservoir has snapped.
• Netflix freezes.
• The electricity in two of the rooms is not working.

Most of them happened just before I returned.

Any homeowner will immediately recognize the list. There must be a rule in The Creator's Big Book of Consequences that when one thing fails in a house, it will be joined by company to avoid any sense of not belonging.

And that is true with this lot. None of them are difficult to resolve. And, with the exception of one, I know exactly how to put them in working order.

The well pump was running because the toilet float in the pool's underground reservoir had corroded and snapped off -- again. This has happened three times since I bought the house, and readers have made several suggestions.

Lupe, the pool man, a disciple of Occam's Razor, had a far simpler and more elegant solution. The floats seem to last for just under a year. Instead of going into crisis mode when it fails, I could set up a schedule to replace it every six months -- when I change the well filters.

I was not surprised about the glass shelf. The original piece broke while Dora was cleaning it. (The screws holding it in place had not been adequately tightened.)

A local glass shop cut a new piece for us in December. When Darrel and I installed it, we discovered it was a bit too thick. With a bit of finagling, we managed to get it in place. Obviously, our work was not up to Mexican standards.

I will try to find a shop today that can cut an appropriate size of tempered glass. That may mean a trip to Manzanillo.

When the builder created a handle for the concrete cover for the pool reservoir, she used rope. That was not a good choice in this climate. It rotted and snapped when Darrel tried to lift the cover.

Lupe suggested replacing it with non-rusting wire with a segment of hose to create a handhold. Another elegant solution. I will be off to the hardware store to purchase both.

The Netflix problem was easy. This time.

About a year ago, I could not get Netflix to load any movies. It would get to 99% and hang up.

An internet search told me I was not alone. It is a common problem. But there were all sorts of solutions -- most of them involving some rather complicated steps involving addresses and default settings changes.

Rather than do that, I relied on the old technical support solution. I unplugged everything from the voltage protector, unplugged the protector from the wall, and waited a minute. Problem fixed. Just as it was this morning.

The last problem is a bit trickier. The power to the storage room and the pool bathroom (both lights and wall switches) is out.

Darrel, who is a former contractor, tried the obvious solution by throwing all of the circuit breakers. That did not work. When the electrician installed the two circuit breaker boxes, he labelled none of the breakers. So, we do not have a starting place to narrow down our search.

When I go to the hardware store to buy the wire and hose, I will also buy a circuit tester. I suspect one of the breakers may have failed. And, if we are going to spend all of that time testing circuits, we may as well figure out which circuit does what, and then label the boxes accordingly.

So, that is how I will be spending part of my homecoming week. Of course, had I been here when all of these things happened, I would be spending the same time. It is simply one of the periodic sacrifices we make as homeowners.

But, it is a constant reminder of why I decided to retire to Mexico rather than to live in the soft opulence of Salem. I wanted to wake up every morning and not have the slightest idea how I was going to get through the day.

Welcome to Mexico.

the yucatan: what we did, what we learned

Last January I told you that my cousin Dan and his wife Patty were auditioning places in Mexico as potential retirement sites (moving to mexico -- best place in the world to retire). He thought of writing a blog to chronicle their experiences. Instead, he took the option of writing comprehensive emails to his family and friends to describe the experience of being an expatriate in Mexico.

I said I was going to publish one or two as a guest column on Mexpatriate. For various reasons, I did not get around to doing that -- until today.

Dan and Patty are now once again on the road. But his most recent essay tells us what they learned about living on the other coast of Mexico.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ 

Tomorrow we pack up and start our drive back to the States. That drive, from Chuburna Puerto to Lake Placid, Florida will cover approximately 3300 miles. Although this is almost identical mileage as the drive down, we are taking a very different route north within Mexico. We have added some interesting stops along the way and time willing, I will write about the drive. For starters we are heading east to Valladolid and will go south towards Belize before driving the southern Yucatan westward and towards the interior of this large country.

Until two days ago, we had been planning on going to Cozumel for a week before starting our return trip north. We had our eyes on a couple of houses we thought we should look at, as well as others a realtor would show us, and perhaps establish a home base on the island we like and know so well from the seven years of experience living there on a part-time basis. The ocean water there is outstanding and away from the cruise ship businesses the island is rather quiet and lives an old Mexico style.

I must say it was not an easy decision to withdraw our interest to buy there until we realized that it was only four months ago that we sold our Florida house of 16 years. Way too soon to drop anchor even if it would be “home” only part of the year. The rental market in Mexico is far too favorable to overlook along with the fact you can come and go at will. This Fall we plan on returning to Mexico but not certain where, as yet. The leading locations in order of current choice are Cozumel, Merida, and Mazatlan.

WHAT WE DID HERE IN THE LAST 3 MONTHS:

Visited the lovely city of Merida at least a dozen times, staying there over night twice and celebrating New Year’s there.

Visited the western Gulf coast towns of Sisal and Celestun enjoying their white sandy beaches and took a flamingo tour in Celestun where we also spent a night.

Toured a henequen plantation (Sotuta de Peon).

Swam in 16 cenotes.

Drove the entire north road of the Yucatan from Chuburna Puerto to El Cuyo.

Spent a night in the village of Las Coloradas famed for its beaches, salt manufacturing, and flamingos.

Visited beautiful Valladolid spending four nights there as we visited friends and took in some of the numerous attractions that city has to offer.

Visited the Mayan ruins of Dzibilchaltun, Ek Balem, and Izamna where we stayed a night.

Walked the long sandy beaches of Progreso and swam in the warm ocean there as well as several times behind our beach rental.

Saw the Mardis Gras parade in Progreso.

Drove nearly every road in the northern Yucatan where we stopped and enjoyed Mayan villages.

Swam in the four Ojos de Agua (eye of the water) east of Progreso.

Visited a dentist, doctors, a physical therapist, and purchased new eyewear.

Visited traditional clothing factories.

Drove 4,300 miles within the State of Yucatan .
 

WHAT WE LEARNED DURING OUR STAY: 

We will never again live directly on the beach: way too much sand and wind.

Everyone we met in the Yucatan was friendly and polite.

Our neighborhood had few full time locals: most full-timers were from Canada and a few from the States.

The very best food we found in Mexico was here in the Yucatan.

Merida is even more special than we realized.

Yucatan roads are mostly in good condition.

Outside of Merida, there are few cities of 10,000 or more inhabitants.

Folks from Canada and the States that choose to retire or semi retire here have a difficult time integrating with Mayans since their language, customs, and life style are so different. On the other hand, they do involve themselves with many programs aimed at assisting the young, the old, and the impoverished, as well as dog and cat adoptions and care.

There is a large population of wading birds here including frigates, pelicans, egrets, herons, sea gulls, etc., as well as a healthy population of hummingbirds as Patty’s 3 bird feeders found.

You can find a meal on nearly any corner.

You can’t find a basic auto replacement part anywhere in the state nor anyone who knows where to find it.

Many locals do not know how to say “no” and will only let you know they can’t do something after they have proven so.

No arguing, fighting, bad looks.

No road rage. They don’t even know what that is.

Don’t know what the stick on the left side of steering column is for.

Motos (motorcycles) do not have lights that come on automatically, so it is common to see a moto in in a shaded oncoming lane at sunset with no lights.

Not uncommon to see a family of four on a moto, day or night.

None of the three largest grocery stores in Progreso have everything you need.

Shopping is possible from your front door with the bread man, ice cream vendor, fish vendor, etc. passing by. It is convenient and fun.

Although we thought we would do everything interesting in the Yucatan we realize we have just started to unwrap a huge package. A few expats have commented that we don’t sit still. That is not true of course, we very much enjoy days of doing nothing planned, nothing expected.

On the other hand, we do enjoy travel just as much. A young Jimmy Buffet summed up the reasons some of us want to experience a life different from the norm in a tune called “The stories we could tell.”

That’s why you do it. Here’s to the stories … And here’s to the mystical Yucatan.

flying into yesterday

Today is the day that will not end.

I woke up at 3:30 AM in Sydney. Nancy and I then spent 9 hours on a flight to Hong Kong. (Roy is flying tomorrow.) Then it was almost 12 hours to Los Angeles and another three hours to Portland.

Add in the waiting time of about 11 hours, and you end up with a long day. And it is still not over. It is still Friday.

You may suspect I have lost my rudimentary arithmetic skills. And there is plenty of daily proof to substantiate that charge. But not today. I managed to eke 33 hours out of the day.

Of course, you are well ahead of me. Because I flew west over the international dateline, when it was 3:30 AM on Friday in Sydney, it was 9:30 AM Thursday in Portland. Somewhere in the Pacific, I flew into yesterday.

They say that traveling is broadening. But they also say falling in love is wonderful, and we all know the flaws in that logic. Whoever "they" are, they do not always get things right.

I do not subscribe to the Rotarian belief that "all people the world over are just the same" or "we all want the same things." We aren't. And we don't.

If that were true, I would have wasted a lot of money over the years traveling to meet people different from me in places that are quite obviously not the same as the place I left. Otherwise, I would not live in Mexico -- and I would not have traveled from Mexico to Hong Kong, Australia, and New Zealand.

If I had not left my house, I would never have eaten the exotic meals I had on my return flight from Hong Kong. For dinner: pork, lotus root, and octopus soup; braised beef shin and marinated jellyfish; braised pork ribs in abalone sauce, pak choy, and steamed jasmine rice -- and, of course, more caviar. Or for breakfast: minced pork and spinach congee, and pan-fried turnip cake with preserved meat.

I had never tried any of them before today, and they were quite good. None of that is served on taco row. And, if you turned up your nose at any of them without actually trying them, well, then, maybe people the world over really are not the same.

But common sense tells me people are different. And so are places.

For instance, I like Sydney, but I was not overly impressed with the place. Melbourne struck me as a far more liveavble city.

Nancy and Roy were convinced the rain took away from their initial impression of the city. That may have been true. When the sun briefly broke through, the harbors certainly could show their colors.

And, even in the rain at sunset, the Anzac bridge created its own eye of Sauron impression. And, yes, I know I am mixing my national similes.

The Australians have a rather annoying habit of abbreviating nouns by adding an "ee" sound at the end -- very similar to the same Mexican use of "ito" to juvenilize everything. In Australia, breakfast turns into "brekkie," sunglasses into "sunnies," and, of course, the ever popular barbecue into "barbie."

That verbal affectation bubbles up from a very genuine sense of humor. Most Australians seem to enjoy life in a way Americans have forgotten. Where else but Australia could you encounter a sign like this?

The sign was at the entrance to Sydney Wildlife -- one of those tourist-orented zoos tucked in with Madame Tussaud's and the aquarium. I have learned not to expect too much from these attractions. But I had come all the way to Australia, and I had yet to see any major fauna.

Well, I did. And some minor fauna, as well.

I live in an area of Mexico where butterflies are abundant all through the year. But they never cease to fascinate me. Especially, when they are presented in their own butterfly house habitat.

Even the frogs were a bit different. The green tree frog is greener than any other Kermit I have seen.

This frilled-neck lizard looked as if it ciould have been the third cousin to the dilophosaurus. At least, the ones depicted in Jurrasic Park -- if not in reality.

And no visit to a zoo would be complete without snakes. Australia has plenty of them, including this beauty, a diamond python. Unlike most dappled pythons, this one has bright yellow spots to replkicated sunshine diffused through jungle leaves. She is quite beautiful.

Kaitlyn, my neice, is a snake collector. I suspect she would consider this job to be practically perfect in every way. The snake the guide is holding is another diamond python, but not quite as pretty as the other.

But, we all know why tourists flock to exhibits like this. It is not for the lizards, spiders , and snakes. People want to see kangaroos.

And kangaroos there were. I personally found this yellow-footed rock wallaby interesting. Probably because it was small. But the markings gave it a rather distinguished look. Well, maybe other than that raccoon tail.

Even more than kangaroos, though, people come to Australian zoos to see one animal. The koala.

Wildlife Sydney makes quite a bit of its revenue from the Koalas. People pay a sizable sum to enter an enclosure and have their photographs taken with the koalas -- who are far more interested in snacking on the eucalyptus leaves than thjey are about interacting with humans.

But my favorite was not the koalas. Nor the kangaroos. Not even the pythons.

It was the saltwater crocodile. The one on display is the size of van. And, even though the signs try to debunk the man-eater myth ("more humans are killed by hoirses each year"), the crocodile's enclosure is specifically designed to show off his size and his power.

Guests are invited to enter a plexiglass bubble where the crocodile rests. For the lucky ones, and we were lucky, you can go eye-to-eye with a creature that could easily crush a human skull in a fraction of a second. It was an adrenalin rush to do it.

I will try to put together another summary or two of photographs I could not share earlier due to technological or editorial limitations.

But for the next two days, I am going to be enjoying myself in the wilds of Portland, Oregon before returning to Barra de Navidad.

I suspect Portland may even have a few tales to relate. Or I may just keep them to myself. 

riding the manly ferry

"Australians love the beach. It is our favorite recreation -- taking the family to the beach."

That was the announcer on our ferry ride to Manly Beach this morning. And that is exactly what Roy, Nancy, and I did today. We went to the beach. We are not Australian; nor were there many of them going to the beach.

For good reason. It was a blustery day. And had been for two weeks. The only question was how much rain was going to fall. A drizzle or a monsoon cloudburst. The answer was -- "both."

Yesterday we planned a beach trip to Bondi beach -- one of Sydney's fabled beaches. But we did not get off of the bus. There were a few brave souls on the beach, but the water was far too rough even for the surfers.

Our trip to Manly was just as nonproductive. Instead of tanning hard bodies, we were surrounded by what looked like a bunch of sulky Eskimos. Everyone was bundled and umbrellaed.

Even though the beach was closed, a handful of hearty surfers braved the water. They seemed to be enjoying the challenge.

I have always chuckled when I have heard the name "Manly Beach." The subtext was rife with possible tales. I suspected the name must be from some knighted early explorer. Sir Winthrop Charles Wedgewood Manly. Or something like that.

It turns out the name is far simpler than that -- as are many Australian names. Captain Arthur Phillip, the first governor of New South Wales (in the late 1780s), was impressed with the warriors of the aboriginal Kay-ye-my clan. He thought they looked "manly." And the name stuck for the area.

That is not the only thing that stuck. Due to a misunderstanding, one of the Kay-ye-my warriors thrust a spear into Phillip's shoulder. Being a progressive, he ordered no retaliation. He was smart enough to know that a struggling colony could not afford to start a war with a warrior nation. Not if the colony wanted to exist.

Phillips survived the spear attack and lived to die in Bath in 1814. His adjective for the local Kay-ye-my men lives on to this day.

Being drenched by rain on the beach is not new to me. Remember, I am originally from Oregon. And then there were those visits to Blackpool and the Devil's Causeway. So, this rain was not off-putting.

It was to Roy and Nancy. They wanted to show me a beach that would convince me Sydney would be a great place to live.

Manly is pleasant enough, and I can imagine how attractive it is when the sun actually cooperates. But it looks like most little beach towns that have to tear money from the pockets of tourists to survive. I live in one of them in Mexico.

The rain merely adds a rather sad patina to the shopping lane that leads from the ferry terminal to the inevitable beach where a walkway gave way to the grit of the beach that gave to the agitated waves dashing up on the closed beach. Even the gulls appeared to be depressed.

As I write this, I am looking out over Darling Harbor. The skies are the shade of gray that tickles designers. The rain has stopped.

But I am packing away the memories of this trip in my luggage. Nancy and I fly to Hong Kong and on to Los Angeles early tomorrow morning. Roy follows on Saturday.

It has taken me almost seven decades to get to Australia and New Zealand. I hope to return before another seven years pass. It has been worth every penny I spent.

 

plates of spaghetti

Visiting Sydney without spending a night at the opera would be as unforgivable as passing up Verdi at La Scala while in Milan.

Well, almost. Italy is one of opera's natural homes. Not so much Australia.

Several years ago, I was seated next to the younger daughter of an earl at a London dinner party. She leaned over, with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, and asked: "Mr. Cotton, do you know why God invented Australians?" When I confessed my ignorance on the topic, she replied: "So Americans would have someone to look down on."

The tale, of course, says little about Americans or Australians, and quite a bit about a certain class of Brits.

But that may be why Australia is far better known for Crocodile Dundee than Dame Nellie Melba (she of the peach Melba and Melba toast fame), David Hobson, or Harold Blair.

Even though we are in Sydney for only three days, luckily the summer opera season is in full swing. And it was enough to part company with $306 (AUD) to sit dead center in the dress circle and spend two and a half hours with Giacomo Puccini, Rodolfo, Mimi, and Musetta. Of course, in La Boheme.

It also gave me an opportunity to see the interior of the opera house. Even though guided tours are provided, the best way to see any opera house is as a member of the audience.

The interior of Sydney's opera house is consistent with its modern shell. It has plenty of wood and plastic -- just as any respectable example of modern architecture would have. Sleek and clean.

But I was at the opera house to hear opera. Not as an architecture critic.

I am going to assume you already know the story of La Boheme. The piece has been around for well over a hundred years and has seen several incarnations. Rent, for example.

Let's be clear. Like a lot of opera, La Boheme is pure melodrama. True love on first sight. Mistaken intentions in relationships. And a tragic death from one of those diseases that lets divas continue to look pretty while singing high E.

There was an ironic moment in the opera tonight. In the first act, Rodolfo burns a copy of his play to stay warm. The stove produced theatrical smoke. Whatever the production used to evoke smoke caused several of the audience members to do their Mimi consumption impressions for three straight acts. I broke out in a coughing fit right in the middle of O soave fanciulla -- a bad omen of what was to come.

But the music is beautiful. I think it was H.L. Mencken that called Puccini's music "silver spaghetti." Whoever it was, he grabbed a perfect simile. The music is lush, and captures the tail end of the Romantic period just enough to give the tear ducts a good work out.

This production was refreshing. Well, the production and the audience. Opera was originally the music of the people. When the audience members heard something they enjoyed, they whooped for the singer or the orchestra. That was before the wealthy attempted to claim opera as their private domain.

The Sydney Opera House attracts all kinds of people to its performances. A lot of tourists. And a lot of people who arrive in the clothes they would normally wear on a Wednesday night. I found it refreshing that the people were taking back their music.

But not completely. Somewhere along the line, opera audiences became conformists on when to applaud, instead of expressing individual appreciation. Some of that comes from being chided by very stodgy rule imposers who berate people for being ignorant because they clap after a well-executed movement in a concerto.

There were many moments tonight when a smattering of applause would have been appreciated by the performers. But no one wants to be found out as not belonging in the concert hall.

Sydney is beginning to grow on me. If I have an opportunity over the next eek, I will share some Australian animal photographs with you.

But, for tonight, it is a time to appreciate the fact that Puccini left a healthy helping of silver spaghetti on my plate. And I licked it clean.

sydney as london

I can hear the eyeballs rolling now.

Roy and Nancy have spent almost a month telling me I would fall in love with Sydney, just as they did on their first visit. It has not quite turned out that way. But I should explain.

We arrived in Sydney this morning -- following our 17-day cruise on the Radiance of the Seas. It would be more accurate to say we returned to Sydney because Sydney is where our stay in Australia began. Almost three weeks ago. But we then never ventured more than two blocks away from the airport before flying to Perth. That does not really count.

This morning, we sailed into Sydney in the dark -- with the Sydney Harbor Bridge and the opera house peeking through the gloom. It was gloom because the day was rainy and blustery. And it remained that way until evening.

That did not stop us. We dropped off our luggage in the apartment we will call home for three days and hopped on a hop-on hop-off bus. Because Sydney's traffic is so congested, it was more like a hop-on stay-parked bus.

Even that was not enough to interfere with us seeing some of Sydney's more interesting sights. We braved the rain to get off of the bus to take a closer look at the opera house.

I had my own agenda for the stop. I wanted to reconnoiter the complex because I will be coming back tomorrow night for a performance. But I will leave the details for tomorrow's piece.

Travelers often try to make more sense of new experiences by comparing them to things they know. "That Mona Lisa certainly looks like your Great Aunt Elsie, doesn't she?" That sort of thing.

I am not fond of experiencing life through the gauze of metaphor. But I do it myself. A lot.

Roy and Nancy loved Sydney on its own terms. It reminded me of London. A city I like, but it is certainly not a place I would extol for its beauty.

Sydney has some stunning architecture and engineering. The opera house and the harbor bridge are the most obvious examples. But Sydney wears its modernity with a heavy nod to the past. For every mammoth waterside construction site, there are reminders of Sydney's past. Just like London.

The rain, of course, helped the comparison. I have stacks of underexposed London photographs. Because of today's rain, I have similar underexposed Sydney photographs. For instance, of a British monarch adding his own bit of humor to the wet day.

Nancy was quick to defend Sydney's beauty. "But it looks marvelous in the sunlight." The problem with that argument is that a truly beautiful city looks splendid in both sun and rain. Venice, for instance.

I tried looking past the rain and the overcrowded streets to find some of the city's soul. And, I think I found an example. A well-dressed young woman swishing along with her matching umbrella.

I see the potential for a short story in that shot.

Let me point out, this is my first day here. I very well may fall in love with the place.

But being compared to London is no bad thing. After all, there is opera to be appreciated. Whether or not it rains.