more signs of the times

We are no Indonesia, but our area of Mexico is subject to both earthquakes and the occasional light tsunami.

Like every earthquake zone, people here are prone to slipping into smug pronouncements about the inevitably of The Big One. I usually use that term for my inevitable stroke. But I think they mean the legendary earthquake that the myth-makers claim will turn Vancouver and points south into the new Atlantis.

And we are ready for it -- and its offspring The Big Tide.

Well, we are ready in a very Mexican kind of way. Someone somewhere devised a master plan to warn of tsunamis heading our way. There are solar-powered towers throughout the coastal towns of Jalisco designed to send out the alarm the tides they are a changin'.

We even have signs telling us where to evacuate.

The warning system was installed about ten years ago -- just about the time I arrived. Back then, there were frequent tests. The first test spooked a group of tourists who started piling their belongings into their cars.

The tests have become less frequent. A Mexican friend told me he heard the towers no longer worked. A couple of months ago, it turned out that was not true -- or else someone fixed them, because we were feted to another test. This time far too muted to have done anyone any good.

I would like to say the photograph at the top of this essay was shot while people, misinterpreting the test, were fleeing to higher ground. It isn't. The group is actually following the graven image of San Felipe de Jesús on his annual outing through the barrio.

Speaking of signs. I think you all know I like collecting humorous signs. Now that the world has fallen prey to internationalism, the treasure trove of clever words are disappearing. But international symbols can be humorous in their own way.

This sign was posted in both the men's and the women's restroom (though I suspect the symbol on the left was designed to be gender-specific).

That was funny enough. But I am even more fascinated in why I am not supposed to through a barn swallow into the toilet. Because it will simply fly out? Or is it supposed to be a Klingon Bird of Prey?

I experienced a similar moment of identity crisis when we stopped at Tlaquepaque.  I turned around and was startled to see the most recent international road company of Les Miserables bearing down on me.

Of course, it was only Miguel Hidalgo and his Independence-roused rabble hunting for any stray Spaniards that might require a bit of ethnic hacking.

The problem with the photograph is that it simply amplifies the fact that the figures are bronzed in place -- despite what my sometimes-too-active imagination thought.

But this photograph came out just as I thought it would.

Zamora is one of those cities that was wealthy during the late 1890s and received the beneficence of the Porfirio Diaz regime in the form of cast iron. A gazebo that could have graced any Paris park -- and lots of benches.

The city has enough of them to populate a moderate-sized auditorium. And, for some reason, the towns powers have decided the benches should be painted a shade of red that is usually encountered only by English gentlemen who visit certain Parisian houses.

The benches look like a rank of British Grenadiers lined up for inspection.

But, I better stop here. I fly off to Australia tomorrow. I need to get over to the laundry so I can think about what I need to pack. And I have to run down the gas truck that did not show up yesterday to fill my propane tank, as well as watching for the DHL delivery van that is bringing a part to finish off my not-yet-completed solar system.

I hope to be back with you briefly in the morning tomorrow before I fly.  If not, I will catch up with you somewhere in North America. Or Asia. Or Australia.