fosse, fosse, fosse!

I thought I was in a Bob Fosse production.

You know the feeling. Hyponagogia.  That stage between wakefulness and being asleep where anything seems rational. You can fly. The national debt can be resolved. Beaujolais actually lives up to its hype.

Yesterday afternoon, it was Bob Fosse. That is, I thought I must be in a Bob Fosse production when I blinked open my eyes from a well-deserved (and much-needed) siesta.

Chicago. Or maybe Cabaret. One of those stages where shadows play out on a back-lit scrim.

But it was just the shadows of the tropical plants outside my bedroom door. Ann Reinking was nowhere to be found.

Our weather in my part of Mexico has taken a turn. Every year around March or April, we have a few weeks where the evenings are temperate. Offering the hope that nights will actually offer up pleasant sleeping weather.

But, it is all a tease. By May, summer starts to set in. When temperatures and humidity start a race to the top.

Last night was a good example. At midnight, the temperature was a reasonable 80 degrees. But, combined with the humidity, the heat index was 91. And it felt like it.

For the next few weeks, the ceiling fan in my bedroom will provide sufficient relief to allow me to sleep. But, at some point (I suspect around early July), I will surrender to the use of the air conditioner.

That is not my basic martyrdom speaking. I just do not like becoming a self-imposed exile in my bedroom. Once I turn on the air conditioner, I will spend most of my time in my room.

And I want to avoid that. Because I will miss experiences like this morning.

I am sitting at a table beside my pool on a clear morning listening to the various birdsong, including the comically mechanical call of a pair of Chacalacas who have been flitting about the neighborhood for the past month. If I retreated to my sanctuary, I would miss all of that.

A Mexican friend messaged me last night that he would like to borrow money to buy a fan. "Borrow," of course, means he would like me to give him the money. He complained he could not sleep because of the heat.

I fully understand. Unlike my house, that was designed to use natural ventilation to its best effect, his little concrete room has windows designed more for security than comfort. I have been there in the afternoon and found it impossible to stay in the room for more than a minute or two.

This is not a complaint about the weather here. It would be churlish for me to even hint at that. I did not move here for the weather. If I wanted my ideal weather, I would have moved to the Isle of Lewis.

It is just one of the factors I deal with daily. I suspect there are many people around the world who would gladly trade places with me. Syrians, for example.

But, without the sun here, I would never wake up on Broadway. Even if it is just for one magic moment.