on florida's shore

The morning sunlight hitting the skyline of Miami has always been one of my favorite sights.

That was going to be my opening line for today's essay, but it is patently untrue. I have never seen the morning sunlight on the Miami skyline. I have seen the skyline several times when boarding afternoon cruises. But never in the morning.

But it is quite a sight, isn't it? I guess most cities that nestle against vast bodies of water can make the same claim. Manhattan in the morning is a prime example.

What that sight meant for me, though, is that another cruise was over. Even though I have nearly a week of travel in front of me before I return home to Mexico.

Today I am in Orlando. It was simply a stop over for the night before I head on to Reno. I will spend a few days at my legal residence in Nevada, and then head to Boise to Portland to Los Angeles for my return trip.

I needed to take care of some banking this morning. I tied it in with my morning walk. And I am glad I did. Otherwise, I would not have seen this sign that reminded me of the last cruise tale I will tell you. At least, for this cruise.

Each morning I would walk my paces on deck 8 -- the promenade deck. In theory, between the hours of 7 AM and 4 PM, the deck is designated as a quiet zone. To give readers the space they would not have in other public areas.

But it was hardly a quiet zone. In each group of couches, there was at least one guy who mistook the readers as a potential audience at Hyde Park speakers corner. Usually, an American.

One guy in particular was a serial violator. But there were always plenty of international listeners in his amen corner. Most of the time, it was the standard left litany. Wealth is too concentrated. Trump is an idiot. Israel is a menace to world peace.

One day, though, he headed in an entirely different direction. He was listing cities that his European audience should visit. On each of my laps, he frommered his way through a new city.

I was almost done when he made it to Miami. "Miami. If you want to see Americans, there are none in Miami. Just Cubans and Jews."

I nearly stopped in mid-stride until I noticed the Europeans were nodding in agreement. That did not surprise me. Almost all of my leftist friends in Europe have a strong streak of anti-semitism. But, then, so do a lot of my conservative European friends. And sentiment for refugees has certainly declined on the continent.

Choosing when to mount one's moral dudgeon stallion is a necessary art on cruises. That is probably true with life in general. The fact that the Cubans and Jews that were being reviled were American citizens would not have mattered to that particular blowhard.

But facts do not seem to matter much in politics these days. And that is true for a lot of the world beyond the borders of The States. Just try having a rational discussion about Mexico's current president. It ain't going to happen.

Thus, I take comfort in looking at pretty skylines. Miami yesterday. Orlando today. Reno tomorrow.

And then my little village by the sea reflecting the sunset across the bay. Where I will be home. For at least a month or two. 

finding my space

Here we are, at almost the end of the cruise, and I have not told you anything about my spacious cabin.

The wag in me says that is because there is nothing to tell. Or very little to tell. But Señor Wag is wrong. There may not be much space in my cabin, but there is a lot to say about it. Or, at least, the concept.

Norwegian Cruse Line knows how to read the free market. There are a lot of cruisers who travel solo. For many reasons.

Some are married to spouses who can no longer travel or have no desire to do so. Some are widowed. Some are young with under-developed social skills. Some are just lone wolves.

The typical cruise ship cabin is built and priced for at least two people. That means when I head off to the high seas, I pay a fare that assumes someone else will be in my cabin. Perhaps, Señor Wag. I have passed up several cruise "deals" for that reason.
Norwegian has a better idea. On its new ships, it has set aside two decks of inside cabins for solo travelers. They are called studio cabins. For good reason.

They are designed around the same concept as those sleeping cubicles that are popping up in international airports. Enough space for a bed, a shower, a toilet, and minimal storage space.

But Norwegian has taken the concept a step further. A singles lounge connects the two decks where only the studio guests can congregate behind a securely-locked door. A gated community for the socially awkward.

I spoke with an American widow on her first trip out of The States. She bought a studio cabin for the sense of security. I did not bother pointing out that the single foxes are locked behind the same door with the single hens.

The concept sounds as if it was designed for single twentysomethings. It probably is. But the solo travelers in their 70s and 80s found it just as inviting. Maybe because the concierge organized dining and entertainment events for those who felt more comfortable in a herd instead of striking out on their own.

And the great thing about the lounge is that when you encounter the retired American military man who insists all of America's problems could be resolved by setting up a Danish welfare state, nationalizing all of America's businesses, and putting all the lazy slackers to work in government jobs, you can return to your cabin and write an essay about him. After all, people I encounter are simply potential writing exercises.

As clever as the Studio Lounge concept is, I prefer a bit more space when I travel. But, if Norwegian ever expands its studio concept to balcony cabins, I will be up front in that line with the grannies and widows.

getting my ducks in a row

I cannot get my hands around Bermuda. And I do not know why.

Three of my traveling companions were absolutely besotted by the place. They are planning a return trip as we sail away to Miami.

But not me. And it is not that I found anything unlikable about the place. It was pleasant enough. What it reminds me of is my first visit to San Miguel de Allende. It took me several visits to find the pulse of San Miguel.

Most port calls on cruise ships are a couple of fumblings in a back alley before the cruise ship sails off to another brief encounter. But that was not our schedule in Bermuda. We were there for two full days.

This map may give you some idea of the lay of the islands in Bermuda.

Most people think of Bermuda as a single island. It isn't. It is a series of volcanic outcroppings surrounding a huge caldera. Because the various sized major islands are so close together, they are joined by causeways -- giving the impression of a fishhook-shaped island.

And because the entire structure has been submerged and pushed up again, the islands are covered with limestone over volcanic rock. A geologically interesting combination that we will discuss a little further.

We were docked at the former Royal Naval Dockyard -- on the tip of he fishhook at the western end of the islands. At one point, especially after the unpleasantness with the American colonies, Bermuda became the site of British naval power in the western Atlantic.

The dockyard was the center of that power. The battlements and several buildings have been refurbished to give visitors an idea how complex it was to run an enterprise like the British Empire.

A twin-towered building has been turned into a tourist shopping area. It is a stunning building housing local traders of rather shoddy goods. It is almost an inevitable result when government dumps money into improving a tourist attraction without any real thought of what visitors might be interested in buying.

Our first day, we visited Hamilton, Bermuda's capital. Hamilton is the economic center of the island. Bermuda makes its money off of selling insurance and reinsurance -- and being a tax haven for individuals and corporations. There is no corporate tax. But the banks make a good deal of income from protecting those sheltered funds.

That appreciation for wealth is apparent in the houses around Hamilton where the average purchase price for a house runs about $1.6 million. And the houses reflect, in a very tasteful manner, their cost. Most are nestled along the shore accessorized by sail and power boats.

The second day (today), we went to the other end of the island chain -- to St. George's. After a quick look through a somewhat charming village, we hired a taxi to take us to Crystal Cave.

I have visited a lot of caves in my touring days. But the Bermuda caves have their own special beauty.

Like many caves, those on the islands are limestone-based. As I mentioned earlier, the limestone formed while the islands were submerged. After they emerged, rain water started seeping through the limestone carrying calcium carbonate. When water drips in a cavern, the calcium carbonate is deposited on the roof or floor of the cave. Over time, the buildup will result in a stalagmites and stalactites.

The process takes thousands of years to produce the rock sculptures that amaze viewers. The Crystal Cave has an additional attraction. They are filled with sea water so clear that is is often difficult to see where the water begins and ends.

Our driver then drove us into Hamilton to a restaurant he recommended. By sheer chance, it was next door to a restaurant where I have wanted Io eat for some time -- the Barracuda Grill. We were too tired to take the ferry into Hamilton last night to eat dinner there. But here we were, and even though it was lunchtime, we decided to eat there.

It was one of the best dining experiences the four of us have ever had. The restaurant is well-known for its fish chowder that was featured in Bon Appetit. I have never tasted a chowder so refined in its layerings.

But my main course outdid the chowder. I am not fond of most fish, but I have always liked swordfish. The grill was featuring it for lunch as a special accompanied with kale and wild mushrooms along with a risotto. The combination was perfect.

And, though I am not a dessert guy, the strawberry and goat cheese with filo was just the right combination of sweet and savory to top off the meal. (Unfortunately, I had consumed my first two courses before I thought to shoot them.)

It was not an inexpensive meal. For the four of us, the lunch tab was $320. But we all agreed, the meal was worth every penny.

If I return, one of the draws will be the Barracuda Grill. Next time, I will go for dinner.

So, there are my thoughts. As you can see, I enjoyed each of our outings. But I am still trying to work out how I feel about Bermuda in total.

And that is probably a good enough reason to return for another stab at trying to understand what Bermuda is.

it's only water over the edge

"Why is there no water in the swimming pool?"

She was a passenger. Blonde. Middle aged. Trim enough to be a hobbyist swimmer. But the look on her face was one of disabused privilege. Someone had inconvenienced her.

If she had bothered to visit the pool deck the day before, she would have discovered who had tar-babied her day. The sea.

When we left Copenhagen, our captain informed us we might face some rough weather around The Azores. He was correct. Even though he managed to steer a course away from the worst part of the low pressure areas, we still experienced some moderate swells.

And when the ship is tipping back and forth like a teeter tooter, the water in the swimming pools does not stay in the pools. Just like turbulence in the ocean,. the energy builds up into waves and splashes over the edge. Sometimes quite dramatically. The kids on board flocked to the edge of the pools to be doused by the cascades, despite the screams of hysterical grandmothers.

We are well past that portion of the trip. For the past two days, we have been sailing through mainly calm waters in the Sargasso Sea. At times, it feels as if we are docked in Hamilton, Bermuda -- which we will be tomorrow.

So, for now, I am enjoying catching up on my reading, while I sit on deck watching the same ocean pass as did admirals of the Spanish fleet and the British privateers who preyed on Spanish silver.

The only pirates to be found on this cruise are the concessionaires who run the gaming tables. And that is not one of my vices.

Tonight is another dinner and show night. The dinner will be at Cagney's. The Honolulu Star-Advertiser commented, when one of the Norwegian Cruise Line ships docked in the Hawaiian capital, that "Cagney's was the best steak house in town." The compliment is still well-deserved.

And that isabout four reasons why I like to cruise.

the can in the can

Nothing seems to stir up expatriates in Mexico as much as where to dispose of used toilet tissue. (The far more important question of which direction to put the roll on the holder will wait for another day.)

Most of the restaurants in our area have signs posted in their rest rooms informing users to not place used toilet paper in the bowl. A handy wastebasket is supplied for the dirty deed.

I do not know if that is the genesis of the myth that a shred of toilet paper will blog the area's primitive sewers -- causing a flood of biblical portions and necessitating the expert ministrations of a plumber.

But the myth  is prevalent in our little community. I have several expatriate and tourist friends who are disgusted by the soiled tissue in the dust bin solution, but they dutifully instruct their guests that compliance is mandatory as any other form of penance.

I have taken a different swipe at the problem. I do not want to be responsible for topping off our land fill with dirty toilet paper. Not when I can contribute to filling the laguna with it.

Hank, a frequent commenter here, has built and lived in several houses in the Barra de Navidad area for the past three decades. Neither he nor his family have ever felt the need to resort to the wastebasket method. Nor do I.

I do suggest to my guests that they limit the amount of toilet paper they attempt to flush down at one time. Three sheets is the suggestion. But that is simply to lessen the danger of a toilet malfunction, not a sewer clog. I did the same in Salem where plumbers were far less affordable.

And that is why I was a little surprised to see a waste basket in an Azorean toilet. It is simply not an accessory I would expect to see in western Europe. Not even on an island in the Atlantic.

Come to think of it, there is a wastebasket in the bathroom of my tiny cabin, I toss my used Kleenex there. What other guests do, I leave to them. Only housekeeping knows the truth.

But enough toilet humor -- for now. It is time to listen to a classic pianist, followed by dinner, a romp through the comedy club, and topped off by a movie: La La Land.

Toilet paper will not be a topic of further discussion tonight.

ship of tongues

Transatlantic cruses are like riding the Circle Line on the London Underground. You never know what language the people standing next to you are going to speak.

Because the ship departed from Denmark, the guttural tones of Scandinavian and Germanic languages abound. Along with almost every permutation of English. Romance languages, sprinkled here and there, act as the herbs and spices for this linguistic olio.

Each morning I take my 6-mile walk on the promenade deck. Most of my walking habits have been formed in Mexico. When I go into Daniel Suarez mode and overtake slower walkers, I request permission to pass ("con permiso").

On the ship. my request is met with Nordic stares. My subsequent "gracias" does nothing to bridge the gap.

Except one time. I whisked past a smartly-dressed strolling couple with my traditional "con permiso". Instead of an American stare, my request initiated a torrent of Hispanic cordiality.

I slowed down only long enough to establish that we all lived in the same country. I then sped down the deck with my Colombian "con mucho gusto."

Here are are three tongue tales. All at sea. And just for you.

Story number one. I was standing in line at the Guest Services desk to recover my lost reporter's notebook -- the same notebook on which I am now recording this tale. I started flirting with a girl in line. It did not bother me that she was at most two years old and was in a stroller guarded by her father.

I took a gamble from the dad's features that Spanish might be his primary language. I was wrong. He was from Brazil, and my Portuguese is almost non-existent. But he knew enough Spanish that we were able to patch together a decent conversation about the basic things two guys discuss when they chat. Starting with his daughter.

This is not the first time that Spanish has come to my rescue when I encountered a language where I was clueless. I had a similar experience with Portuguese earlier this year on my Australia trip (on the road with duolingo).

My second story involves Spanish. I stopped by one of the many trivia games on the ship knowing full well I was unequipped for the task. The category was television theme songs. I had as much chance of winning as Congress has of enacting tax reform.

And I was correct. Out of twenty questions, I got one correct. Cheers. And I knew that only because my friends Ken and Patti Latsch regularly watched it when I would stay with them during my Air Force reserve assignments.

The game host is also the DJ at the ship's disco, and he is well-suited to the task. Cool. Good-looking. Humorous.

I could tell he was from Latin America. Something about his accent in English. It turns out, it is not just Latin America, but Mexico. Originally a Chilango, he has made his living making certain visitors to Mexico's tourist pots enjoy everything Mexico has to offer.

Prior to joining the ship, his last venue was Cancun. When he leaves the ship, he is thinking of scouring Mexico's west coast for a job where he can bring joy to visitors.

I wanted to speak in Spanish. He wanted to speak in English. So, that is what we did -- with him correcting my Spanish along the way.

His name is Jorge. Who knows? He may even make a guest appearance in a future episode of Mexpatriate. But, he already has, hasn't he?

Story number three does not involve Spanish. Perhaps, it should have.

Most of us in our group have been eating lunches at the buffet. The food is just as good, and the service is certainly faster when you fetch your own vittles.

But, one member is very fond of the dining room. So, all five of us shuffled into one of the ship's many dining rooms at noon.

I did not find anything interesting on the menu. I am not very fond of hamburgers, but there was a hamburger listed with a beef patty topped by pulled pork.

Being a resourceful guy, I asked the waiter if the kitchen could hold the patty and serve the sandwich with just the pulled pork. He said he thought it was possible. I could not imagine what difficulty would arise. After all, it was the same sandwich. Just without the beef patty.

It turns out that even though the Filipino waiter spoke English, my request must have got lost in the translation. What arrived is pictured at the top of this essay. The sandwich -- without any meat whatsoever. No beef. No pork.

My friend Gary runs two restaurants in San Patricio. He tells his waiters they are the last line of defense before food gets to the table. If it does not look right, it should not be put in front of a customer.

In all fairness, my waiter on the ship has undoubtedly faced a number of very odd requests -- according to his palate and eyes. So, he may not have given any thought that the sandwich he served would have made even a vegetarian wince.

There was a time when most Filipinos could speak Spanish -- a remnant of the days when Spain was the colonial master of The Philippines. But, Filipinos tell me that day has passed. The most common second language is English. And that is one reason there are so many Filipinos on cruise ships.

It turns out my waiter speaks no Spanish. Not even my Duolingo-limited version of the language could have helped out with the meal.

But the common thread in all of these stories is that there is always the possibility of communication dividends by learning a second language. Out of necessity, most Europeans know two or more languages in addition to their native tongue.

For me, I will have to be satisfied with learning Spanish bit by bit. All of the other languages I have either dabbled in or once knew (German, Russian, Greek, Italian) have all, in the words of Billy Collins, retired "to the southern hemisphere of the brain,/ to a little fishing village where there is no phone."

Unless, of course. I need to one day discuss Hegel with Vladimir Putin while visiting Mykonos with Sophia Loren.

casting the first stone

The question usually comes the second or third day.

When northern guests visit me in Mexico, it takes just about that long for someone to notice the groups of shovel-carrying men filling potholes on the highway. "Why don't they buy some equipment and cut back on their labor costs?"

The question, of course, is posed as an economic one, and I respond accordingly. With an economic answer.

The low cost of labor in Mexico and the high cost of machinery would preclude an employer from recapturing the capital outlay during the depreciable life of the machinery. Even my economic nemesis Paul Samuelson would not disagree with that analysis.

The social answer is a bit more complex. And it is best answered with another question: "Then, what would the unemployed laborers do?" (A question we defenders of liberal globalization too often fail to pose.)

Most of western Europe and the northern portion of North America no longer face the labor cost-capital outlay question. Productivity increases are built into the economic system by the acquisition of more efficient technology. And that is why increases in the minimum wage usually end up with minority young people entering the ranks of the unemployed.

Mexico does not yet have the luxury of increasing productivity with capital outlays. Nor do The Azores.

Ponta Delgada is famous for the black and white mosaics that decorate its squares, sidewalks, and streets. The patterns are created by alternating the cobblestone-sized pieces of the two colors. Even with a limited palette, the possibilities are almost limitless.

But, everything ages. Even stone. Before it is turned to sand and water, the stones can be broken, dislodged, or swept away by its natural enemy: flooding.

That is where human labor comes into play. As far as I know, no one has yet built a machine that can carefully place each stone in a manner to capture the artistic outcome of these guys who repair the Ponta Delgada mosaics.

At least, I hope there is no such machine. I stood for a bit watching them restore a stretch of mosaic sidewalk. I have always admired seeing anything done well by an expert. And that is what these fellows were. Experts. Craftsmen. Artists.

It was almost as satisfying as watching the effortless arc of a Mexican machete clearing away brush along the road. Robespierre could only envy the skill.

One day Mexico will replace its road crews with machinery. After all, the world's 15th largest economy is going to mature soon.

And when it does, even those of us who look forward to seeing Mexico enter a new economic era will feel a bit wistful at the passing of an era.

I have no idea when Mexico moves on if the stone mosaic workers of Ponta Delgada will still be plying their artistry by hand. I hope they will.

After all, all change is good. But it is not always good that things change.
     

azores is portugese for yum!

The last time I visited The Azores was in 2012.

So says my blog (squares in the atlantic). Roy and I were trying to figure out when we were last here. Neither of us did very well at guessing. All I could recall is that I had written a piece on graffiti.

And there we have another reason for this blog's existence. It acts as a journal. The downside is that once I write an essay, the memory itself fades away.

Maybe not this trip.

We sailed out of Copenhagen on Sunday. It is now Friday and I have written nothing in those five days because I have been thoroughly enjoying traveling with my four compatriots.

The common thread in our travel group is Reno. We either have residences there or work connections. I travel often with Roy and Nancy. Karen and Sophie (who have worked with Nancy) are new to me as travel companions.

All of the days when I have not written have been sea days. I have chosen to relax. As a result, I have fallen way behind in reading my newspapers and magazines. But the world is going on just fine without me sticking my nose into its business.

Today was our first of two landfalls. As you have already guessed, we were in The Azores today. A set of islands in the midst of the Atlantic that are part of Portugal. Ponta Delgada to be exact. The administrative capital of the island group.

Like most provincial capitals, Ponta Delgada has retained a aura of another time.

The classic architectural style is white walls framed with black basalt rock. The Azoreans come by the basalt easily. Their islands are the tips of volcanoes that have peaked their way out of the sea.

The port call was brief. Just a few hours. But, it was time enough for Nancy, Roy, and me to re-acquaint ourselves with Ponta Delgada's waterfront.

Maybe this was true on our last visit, but none of us remembered the prices in The Azores being so reasonable. Groceries. Drinks and food in restaurants. Cheese at the port. All were extremely reasonable.

After Copenhagen's prices (a direct result of its high taxation to finance its government services), anything might have seemed reasonable. But the prices in Ponta Delgada were low in absolute terms.

I shot this photograph because of the building on the right. It had a far different mural when we were here five years ago. Coincidentally, later that afternoon, we ended up having lunch in the restaurant on the far left.

It was one of those random choices that has created a memory that will last as long as it takes for me to finish this essay. Possibly one of the best meals I have had in a long time. Even though I went there in search of sardine pate and found none.

That is a bit ironic because the last meal I remember enjoying that much was a scabbard fish plate in Madeira (a shot of madeira)-- Portugal's other island autonomous region. And that was with Nancy and Roy, as well.

Today the dish was arroz con mariscos. And it is the same in Spanish and Portugese. Rice with seafood.

But the name did not do it justice. The seafood was prawns, clams, and mussels. All in their original houses.

The only surprise is that it was not a dry dish. It included a broth that made it akin to bouillabaisse or ciopino. But far better.

The photograph is not my meal. I ate mine so fast that the camera cap did not even come off. Instead, I relied on the kindness of our ship officers who had the table next to us.

It was the only meal on this trip where all five of us agreed that we had made a good choice. Having said that, mine was unquestionably the best.

One rule of Mexpatriate is that I get to be the narrator; I do not appear in person. Today, there will be an exception -- I am taking center stage.

It will be nice to look back on what will be one of my best moments in life. This will remind me.

 

dropping che

"Not only does democracy offer the best hope of progress for the masses, it also protects the left against its own mistakes. It is long past time to bury Che and find a better icon."

So says The Economist in this week's issue, supporting the idea that Che Guevara is exactly the wrong role model for the left to follow. Such are the things that keep me amused on cruises.

Communism is a zombie ideology. Not only is it the very essence of evil, it just refuses to admit that its permanent address is the Dustbin of History.

Take those Che t-shirts. I always assume the wearers have left their Hitler hoodies in the laundry.

The Danes have found a very creative solution for some of Communism's fallen symbols. And Halloween is the richer for it.

While shopping in one of Copenhagen's better supermarkets for a good blue cheese to take along on the cruise, I chanced upon a bit of Halloween paraphernalia. On top of the pile was this re-purposed sickle -- complete with bourgeois blood. For all I know, its fraternal hammer was in another bin. The Danes are that type of utilitarian folk,

Now, if we could put all of those Che t-shirts in the same warehouse with the statues of Robert E. Lee, we would all be a bit better off.

Readers of the world, unite. You have nothing to lose but your change. 

mad about ophelia

Today is the day we set sail for America.

At least, it is the day we are supposed to set sail for America. But, just like Hamlet, Ophelia may complicate our lives.

If you have not been following Ophelia (the storm, not the drowned lover). it is a category 3 hurricane that is now to the west of the Azores (our first landfall) and heading directly for Ireland and Scotland. If she follows her current path, she should be there by Tuesday. Probably, downgraded to a tropical storm. There is not a lot of hot water off of either coast.

This is the ship captain's issue. How can he cross over the top of Jutland and head south while avoiding the storm. The English Channel is a terrible place to be caught in high winds. Maneuverability is extremely limited. Just ask the Admiral Duke of Medina Sidonia how it worked out for him.

But that is just punter blather. Norwegian Cruise Lines is not going to put one of its newer ships in the path of a storm. There has even been some loose talk about visiting ports in the Baltic Sea to give the storm time to pass. But that is just talk.

Either way, we are about to leave our apartments to board the Getaway (Yup! Commercial ships are now being named as if they were the same as your Uncle Ralph's 35 foot pleasure boat).

Taking into account the vagaries of shipboard internet this may be:
1) My last essay until we get to Florida.
2) My last essay until we get on board the ship.
Or 3) My last essay (because I have made God laugh about my plans).

Whether I write or not, I am planning on a great time at sea -- no matter where we end up stopping for ports. Hurricanes pulled St. Thomas and St. Martin off of our list. Ophelia may do the same for the Azores and Bermuda.

Fear not. There will be tales to share. Some time.

rainy days and saturdays

Rain alters the way we see life.

I wrote about that phenomenon earlier this year in Sydney (sydney as london). The city my friends Roy and Nancy wanted me to love never showed up. Sydney hid behind a wet London impersonation.

I am glad I saw Copenhagen yesterday in full sunlight. Danes have told me the day was an exception for this time of year. Usually, the sky is overcast with bits of drizzle now and then.

Today was the norm -- with overcast skies and drizzle. So, the three women in our group decided it would be a great day to go shopping.

Copenhagen has a street dedicated to shoppers who want to buy high-end items. Louis Vuitton. Hermes. And a lot of middle brow stores. Victoria's Secret. Foot Locker. The type of retailers you can find in any decent strip mall.

And the shop fronts could be almost anywhere. Until you turn around and look at the view. That steeple is quintessentially Danish Lutheran.

Our shopping tour gave me an opportunity to share an interesting fact about Copenhagen. It is a city filled with bicycles, and bicycles reign in the pecking order with their special lanes and high-speed commuting. Pedestrians are far more likely to be hit by a bicycle than by a car.

The bicycle parking lot is in the midst of several food tents. While the rest of our group enjoyed Danish hot dogs, I visited a salami and cheese stand staffed by Dutch merchants.

And I came away sated. With three pepper salami sausages and a wedge of cheese stuffed with very spicy chili. I managed to eat most of it before I got back to my apartment.

Yesterday, I told you Copenhagen has had the opportunity to rebuild itself after two major fires. But they were not the only fires that damaged Copenhagen's historic buildings.

Christiansborg Palace has been the home to the Danish parliament since 1849. Before that, it was the residence of the Danish monarch.

The current monarch, Queen Margrethe II, still uses the palace's chapel, whose architecture is pure Danish Lutheranism. Like the palace, the chapel has been rebuilt several times due to changes in fashion or as a result of fires.

The latest chapel fire in 1992 caused the dome and ceiling to collapse. The art of building this type of architecture has almost been lost. But, by referring to old records, the restoration was completed using original materials. And here is the result.

But there are two figures that we have not yet visited that define Denmark for outsiders. The first is Hans Christian Andersen, the author of such stories as "The Emperor's New Clothes," "The Little Mermaid," and "The Ugly Duckling." All of them built around rather conservative moral lessons.

He is honored with a statue in front of the City Hall. So many people have sat on his lap or rubbed his knee that his trousers are looking a bit brassy.

The second Copenhagen institution is Tivoli Gardens, the second oldest amusement park in the world. The oldest is Dyrehavsbakken, started in 1583 -- also in Denmark. By that standard Tivoli is a youngster, having opened in 1843. Apparently, Walt Disney visited the park in the early 1950s to get ideas for his own parks.

There are two rules of life. The first is that change is always good. The second is that new is not always an improvement. That is certainly true of amusement parks.

Compared with Disney parks, Tivoli is quaint and charming. It is not snazzy and spiffy. It is just fun. And its recipe for amusing people is what has kept it running since James Polk was president of the United States.

Tivoli was dressed in its Halloween finery during our visit tonight.

Many amusement parks decked out their sites with electric arches when light bulbs were introduced. It is a tradition that still thrives at Tivoli.

And then there are rides. A couple are modern. But most retain the park's traditional amusements that seem just a bit quaint. But still endearing. If not thrilling.

I managed to avoid any emotional response until I saw the bumper cars. My brother and I spent hours on the bumper cars at Jantzen Beach and Oaks Park. The smell of the electricity arcing off of the metal ceiling brought back pleasant memories. Most of them built around revenge.

There are also ranks of restaurants in the park -- an idea Walt Disney slipped into his establishments. I am convinced that all foods cost the same in Disneyland. Do you want a large Diet Coke? That will be $40. A five-course Cajun meal?  $40. I did not look at the Tivoli menus to see if that is where Disney developed his food hegemony.

For a day that began (and ended) in the drizzle, Tivoli managed to put a nice spin on the day. And, isn't that what an amusement park is supposed to do?

how do you say tip in turkish?

Some people say returning to Venice is like falling into the arms of an old mistress.

If that is true, returning to Copenhagen is like visiting your banker. In her office.

I am quite fond of the city. But it is not a place to arouse unseemly sentimentality. Like the Danes, it is orderly with classic lines -- and cool (both in the stylish sense and temperature). The type of city you could take home to meet your mother.

Not many of us would consider Denmark to be a major power. Sitting on top of Germany, it looks like a pencil eraser. But, Copenhagen was once the capital of a great empire that included the Kingdoms of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden along with the territories of Iceland, Greenland, and a scattering of islands.

"Island" is an important concept for Denmark. It still rules the largest island in the world (Greenland). But a large portion of the kingdom consists of islands. The largest of the group, Zealand, hosts Copenhagen. Unlike most European capitals that are near the center of their country, Copenhagen is almost on the border with Sweden.

The island identity is re-enforced by its harbors on the Baltic Sea and the canals that cut through the city. Denmark has thrived on trade for centuries. The canals are the remains of a past where Danes grew rich on moving merchandise. And, of course, there was a bit of wealth derived from those Viking raids on the rest of Europe.

The Viking past seems ancient history when looking on the city today. Its restrained look is rather new. Very little remains of its medieval past. Most of that burned down in the great fires of 1728 and 1795. But, like most natural disasters, destroyed buildings made way for contemporary architects to show off their skills. And they did.

Copenhagen has some of the best examples of neoclassical and neogothic architecture in the world. And its modern architecture is just as stunning.

Like the opera house.

Or the national library's black diamond.

But not everything In Copenhagen is that staid. I suspect there must have been an outbreak of children being locked up and left in abandoned guard houses. What other reason would there be for this sign?

Or for this one on the gangplank to a Russian sailing vessel. What if something fit into both categories?

(I will hear from my mother about that one.)

But, my favorite Copenhagen story happened last night at the airport. After collecting my luggage, I hired a taxi to take me to the hotel.

The driver loaded my luggage without a word. I showed him the address of the hotel. And we were off. Both of us silent. Until his telephone rang.

It was his daughter. She asked him to bring something home. But none of it was in English -- or Danish. But I recognized enough words to understand what was being said. I just could not place the language.

Then, he spoke his first word to me. Kish? It was clearly a question, but I wasn't sure what he wanted to know. He repeated it with a slightly different accent. Kesh? While holding up his hand rubbing his fingers together in that readily-understood international sign.

"Ah," I said. "Dinero." Yup. I started speaking Spanish to a cab driver in Denmark.

As absurd as it sounds, it worked. He knew more Spanish than English. So, we stumbled through a conversation. The type of conversation that could only have taken place in a Berlitz world.

He was from Turkey. His daughter had asked him to pick up bread. He was from the fourth largest city in Turkey -- Bursa. Once the capital of the Ottoman Empire. He preferred cash to credit cards.

I make it sound as if we had the type of conversation two Spaniards would have over coffee in a sidewalk cafe in Madrid. It wasn't that elegant.

And here is my proof. Somehow, he thought I was from Spain and wished me a happy return trip.

When I told the story to my friend Nancy, she said: "Your Spanish must be getting rather good."

I responded: "As long as I am talking to a Turkish cab driver."

And that is how I hope this trip continues. Just as Henslowe informed us in Shakespeare in Love: "Strangely enough, it all turns out well. . . . It's a mystery."

flying with hef

People who fly for the quality of airline food are the same people who read Playboy for the articles.

That pearl of wisdom came to me while flying high above the Atlantic. I was reading Hugh Hefner’s obituary in The Economist. The cabin steward delivered my full English breakfast just as I was reading: “Hef in his dotage would retie his silk dressing gown, shuffle into his velvet slippers and get one of his nubile assistants to adjust his hearing aid, since too much Viagra – ‘the fountain of youth’ – had made him deaf.”

Now, that is a sentence with punch.

I could not say the same thing for my breakfast. Or my chateaubriand last night. Even though I flew first class from Mexico City to London, in-flight meals are subject to the “Playboy for the articles” rule. If you want good food, you do not book a seat on British Airways. You book a table at Noma in Copenhagen.

The only true luxury of flying international first class is the seat. The Mexico City-London leg of my trip was just over nine hours in the air. Too long to stay awake the whole trip -- especially, on a night flight.

I have trouble sleeping on aircraft. For a pilot, that is a virtue. For a passenger, it is an annoyance.

I cannot sleep sitting up. And, if I am to avoid wandering the aisles in the night like an air-borne Lost Dutchman, I need a seat that flattens into a bed. That means a first class seat -- along with a duvet and black pajamas that look as if they are from Viet Cong war surplus.

That is the theory. And, it usually works just as it should. But, not last night.

Because a few older passengers complained the first class cabin was “freezing,” the purser stoked the heat to what my father called “cremate.”

They slept. I didn’t. I sweated. Until I started wandering the aisles like -- you guessed it -- an air-borne Lost Dutchman.

After a quick layover in London, I was on my flight to Copenhagen. And that is where I am now.

It is evening, and I have met up with my friends Nancy and Roy. I am ready for bed. But not before I share just one more thought.

One of these days the crankiness that comes with old age will most likely catch up with me. Maybe it has already. Until then, I am going to keep the airlines in shekels and the flight attendants in stitches.

As for Hef and his Viagra-induced deafness, everything has a cost.

Even travel.

waiting for to go*

I am a terrible waiter.

I don't mean the profession. But I would be terrible at waiting on tables, as well.

What I am terrible at waiting for is things to happen. Anything. And the worst place on earth for impatience is airport terminals.

Most of my flights the last few years require changers of airplanes. My flight today is a perfect example. I flew from Manzanillo yesterday though my main flight is today. Aero Mexico has a tendency to cancel flights out of Manzanillo with very little notice.

My solution was elegant. Or, so I thought. I decided to stay at the Hilton in the Mexico city airport terminal where my flight will originate. I could get a good night's sleep and then have a leisurely day seeing Mexico City before returning to my room to freshen up for the flight.

That sound you hear is God chuckling.

It sounded great in theory. But, I left several things undone for this trip. The hotel room has given me the time to do them. And to sneak in my 5-mile walk this morning without ever once leaving the terminal. Mexico City's terminal 1 gets my second place award for best exercise track -- right after Bogota's.

So, I have not wandered out to see some of my favorite places in this glorious city. And that is a shame. It is a perfect day for strolling. Cloudy. 60 degrees. It could not be better for a walker.

Even though my day has not worked out as I had planned, I highly recommend the airport hotel option when flying. Today, when I get on my long flight, I will be napped out and scrubbed up. And ready to nestle into my little capsule in whichever 747 will be my home for a few hours while hurtling through the atmosphere just below the speed of sound.

I will be my own personal physics experiment.


* -- My apologies to Samuel Beckett.

excess of seasons

New Yorkers, at least the ones who mattered, or thought they mattered, knew The Season had begun with the staging of Faust at the opera house.

Or so Edith Wharton told us.

If she had taken her refined ways to Melaque, she would have been hard pressed to find a single Mephistopholes or Marguerite. Well, at least, a Marguerite. We may not stage operas, but our Season certainly has started in our little villages. The Northern Tourist Season, that is.

I mentioned in the eye of the storm that Canadian Thanksgiving usually kicks off our social scene.

It is no accident that Canadian Thanksgiving would be the harbinger of things northern. Most northerners here are Canadian. And the first Monday in October is a good indicator when they start arriving.

I have heard estimates that 90 to 80 percent of northern visitors are Canadians. The number seems far too high. But, there is no arguing that the Canadian contingent outnumbers the American.

There were two dueling Canadian Thanksgivings last night. Almost, as if the Roosevelts had taken on the Vanderbilts. One in Barra de Navidad at Señor Froy's. The other at Papa Gallo's on the beach in San Patricio. I was at Papa Gallo's.
I am always impressed with these dinners. Probably because I have created and cooked enough of them to know that results are not always commensurate with effort.

But everything at Papa Gallo's was just right last night. The decorations were understated, and complemented the restaurant's natural setting.

And the food? Pleasant and plenty. What better compliment could a Thanksgiving dinner expect?

Those of you who know me are aware my personality regularly shifts between "pained introvert" and "Hey! Kids! Let's revive French farce." Last night, The Entertainer showed up.

That made the evening quite enjoyable. For me. I cannot build windows into men's funny bones. The rest will have to speak for themselves.

There is something a bit imperialistic, as my friend Doug would say, about these events. Celebrating home holidays on foreign soil. Like celebrating the Queen's Birthday at the British embassy in New Delhi.

But, I suspect, it is just as innocent as trying to take the boy out of his country, only to discover you cannot take the desire to remake the world out of the boy. Even though Rudyard Kipling and Mother Teresa would most likely have felt equally comfortable at our dinner. Which, I guess, is just another way of saying not.

Because I often forget which play I am in and which role I should be playing in life (the very premise that made The Actor's Nightmare such a hit), I started donning my white tie costume yesterday as if I were heading to the opera house.

Good sense prevailed while I was adjusting my waistcoat. Well, good sense and a steady stream of sweat. I switched to far cooler -- in every sense of the word -- apparel.

My white tie is not even accompanying me on my cruise. It will have to wait for Christmas or New Year's Eve dinner to get itself out of the closet.

And that will be the start of a completely different season.

not knowing which way is home

Thomas Wolfe and I must be stuck in one of those eternal grapples that pass themselves off as intellectual chitchat.

You know the model. Like Robert Brown's dual role in that Star Trek episode, "The Alternative Factor," where Lazarus and Anti-Lazarus are forever stuck between universes battling one another about -- well, that was never quite clear. But it gave us budding philosophers a classics illustrated introduction to Manichaeism -- with a bit of yin slathered on our yang.

For Wolfe and me, it is the conundrum of home. And I am facing it again.

A couple of years ago, I decided I wanted to apply for Mexican citizenship. One of the requirements is that the applicant can travel outside of Mexico only a limited number of days during the two years preceding applying for citizenship. I would be in the middle of that internal exile period right now.

But, I have decided I am not yet ready to be a Mexican citizenship. For many reasons. One of them is that I want to travel as much as I can while I still am capable -- and before someone shoots me. (But I guess the modifier is a redundancy, isn't it?)

And travel I have. My clock started ticking in March 2016. Since then, I have been to Colombia, Hong Kong, Australia, New Zealand, Oregon, Nevada, California, Washington, and several other places I cannot immediately recall. And tomorrow I am heading off to London, Denmark, the Azores, Bermuda, and Florida.

Even though I will be boarding an airplane to Mexico City in less than 24 hours, I am reluctant to start packing. The reason is easy. The central garden of my house is so inviting, there is no place I would rather be right now, than sitting here enjoying the day and writing to you good folks out there in the darkness of the eternal ether.

The landscaping around my pool would please a minimalist. There is just enough to give the impression of greenery.

Two of the planters are filed with heliconia -- often confused with bird of paradise. They do not bloom all year, but, when, they do, their exhibitionism would shame both Nancy Pelosi and Donald Trump. The stems are clown-bright, and they last for weeks.

Unfortunately, the lot will bloom for only those few weeks. And then they will be gone until next rainy season. Here, that will be next summer.

Sitting here in the shade on a warm summer (despite what the calendar says) day with a cooling breezes backed up by the heliconia showgirls, I am seriously tempted to tell Queen Marghrete she can do without me, and sit right here for the next month.

I may not have moved to Mexico for the weather, but I do live here for moments like this.

Stephen Sondheim says it best:

Let the moment goDon't forget it for a moment, thoughJust remembering you've had an "and"When you're back to "or"Makes the "or" mean moreThan it did before

for whom the numbers toll

It was late and everyone had left the restaurant except for a young man who sat alone in the corner.

He could have been Puzo-written. Olive-skinned. Expensively groomed black hair. And the ubiquitous designer sunglasses.

In another place, he would have been a Gambino soldier. But not here. He was up to something quite different. He was there to deal.

Instead of coming to his table to take his order, the waitress sat down. She handed him several peso notes. He passed something to her.

Then it was the day manager's turn. He re-enacted the same tango. Sit. Money. Something passed.

Several explanations danced in my head -- not all of them licit. But the people involved did not fit those narratives.

What truly bothered me was it all seemed familiar. That I had somehow seen this before. What is worse, I was positive someone had explained the transaction. But, all telephone calls to my memory bank went unanswered.

So, I did what I do when I get lost in Mexican culture. I talked with my friend Julio.

I went to the right person. He is a regular participant in this pass-the-money game. It is called la contrata and is a financial mainstay of our little villages.

Here is how it works. The young man I saw in the restaurant acts as the banker. The banker and 10 other "savers" are assigned a number from 1 to 11. 

Each saver then deposits a certain amount of pesos each week. Usually, $500 (Mx). Each week a number comes up in sequence. The holder of that money then gets back the money he has deposited with the banker -- less the money the banker receives on his week. He contributes nothing other than being the guarantor if a participant does not fully contribute. (I suspect there may be some Gambino moments when that happens.)

The result? In 11 weeks the savers will have deposited $5,500 (Mx), and will receive $5,000 (Mx) when their name comes up.

During his recitation, I realized Julio's predecessor at the restaurant had described the same process. But he described it as a lottery. And that confused me because he said that everyone wins the lottery -- just like a politician describing health care.

But I do not think that was why I forgot the explanation. It simply did not make sense to me why someone would think it was a good deal to pay someone to hold their savings.

Of course, many international banks are now doing that with commercial accounts (and some are considering extending it to individual accounts). Economists call it negative interest. I call it a bad deal.

When I asked other contrata savers why they thought it was a good idea to pay someone to hold their savings, why they did not just put their weekly payment in a shoebox at home and keep all of their hard-earned wages, they answered unanimously. "If I do not save that way, I will spend all of it when I get it."

I understand that impulse. When I was their age, there was no tomorrow. There was only now. It took two changes for me to join the  Josiah Bounderby set. The first was the wisdom of age. Nothing focuses one's attention on the future like the clatter of death's carriage.

The second was money. As the years went by, I started earning more than even my voracious consumerism could gobble. I also worked at a company that encouraged its employees to join tax-deferred savings programs.

If either of those two changes had not occurred, I am not certain I could now play the role of Second Dutch Uncle in my little morality play where I cluck my tongue at contrata participants.

In a society where banks are not trusted (often for faulty reasons), free individuals will devise market systems that meet their perceived needs.

Last week I was talking with an expatriate friend. One of his chief concerns is people who come to Mexico and bring with them what he calls "cultural imperialism" -- the belief that Mexico would be a far better place if everything was done just as it is at home.

I chuckled when I thought about my reaction to la contrata. I fell right into the same trap.

Maybe I should do penance by taking a number this week.

putting the boo in boutique

"I am looking forward to coming to Melaque at the end of the month for the Day of the Dead celebration. I have never seen it there. Only in Pátzcuaro."

Her name is Brenda. A frequent visitor to the highlands of Mexico, who started reading my pieces when I was scouting for a house in Pátzcuaro. In anticipation of her first visit to Melaque, she sent me an email to ask which cemetery in town would have the most decorations.

I have actually answered that -- or, at least, a similar -- question. Last year, about just this time (night of the dead -- the prequel), I was heading to Pátzcuaro this time last year when I summed up Melaque's take on night of the dead.

Our villages do not celebrate day and night of the dead with the same ritual solemnity practiced in certain parts of Mexico's highlands.

That does not mean we do not celebrate it here. When it is honored, it is usually in a far more subtle style. Whether at home or during brief visits to the cemetery.

I had given the impression in an earlier essay that Night of the Dead had not taken root amongst our peripatetic villagers when the government decided in the 1960s Night of the Dead would be imposed on places where it had never been celebrated. For Pátzcuaro, nothing much changed. But it was a stranger to northern Mexico. And, to a degree, in the little villages around our bay.

Hank, an occasional commenter, and Dora, the woman who helps me keep my house tidy, noted my earlier hyperbole. But the argument is still this same. If you want to see Night of the Dead at its peak, head to the highlands.

Here, the cemetery in the municipal seat comes as close to being an open celebration. Otherwise, we have the extreme of private ceremonies at home and somewhat overblown public exhibitions staged by high school students and local businesses.

This year, I will miss even that on my trip to Denmark.

From the merchandise at La Comer in Manzanillo on Wednesday, it looks as if Night of the Dead may be pushed aside a bit more by another American culture invasion -- Halloween.

The photograph shows only one rack of costumes. There were three rows of duds for fairies, princesses, vampires, and a rather-chilling Black Monk. Along with plastic jack-o-lanterns to collect all of the trick or treat goodies the neighborhood may offer. That would not be my neighborhood.

At least, they were not these day-glo jack-o-lanterns I have seen displayed along the road around Morelia during October. But it is the first truck load I have noticed here. Mind you, I usually am not looking for such paraphernalia while I am driving.

If you are interested in Night of the Dead at its best, take Dan Patman's tour to Michoacan. And, if you are looking for evidence of the ceremony here, stop by the jardin in San Patricio.

The students always do a creditable (if eccentric) job of celebrating lives past.