thrilling me softly

I am not a sentimental guy. Or, so I say.

But my periodic ramblings on things nostalgic belie that claim.

It happened again last night.

Our weather pattern here on the Mexican Pacific coast has been a bit akilter. November is a tad warmer than usual. By mid-October, I usually turn off the air conditioner in my bedroom at night, throw open the door to the patio, and live beneath the breeze of my ceiling fan until mid-December when even the fan rests until late in the spring.

Not this year. I have tried turning off the air conditioner three different nights during the past two weeks, but only for about ten minutes. Then, it goes back on.

Last night may have been a turning point. We had had drops of rain during the afternoon yesterday. Just enough to barely dampen the sidewalks enough to raise the memory-inducing petrichor. It is better than the smell of oranges at Christmas. But it was just a rain tease.

By November, our rains are usually at an end. But we were treated to one in the evening. Not a tropical sewer-washer. Just a soft pattering that would have felt at home with a brogue.

And that is where the nostalgia part of this tale kicked in. I do not know if it was the mist or the imagined accent or just one of those moments where memories intrude on the present. But, for a moment, I felt as if I was back in my seventeenth century cottage in the foothills of the Cotswolds, where I learned the rejuvenating nature of tea.

So, I brewed up a pot of ginger green and sipped it while eating a cookie or two while watching the rain fall on the surface of the patio pool. Sitting quietly. Just listening.

Until I had had enough of that. I ran down the list of my DVDs and decided I would sponsor an eccentric double feature film festival just for me. The Darkest Hour (Gary Oldman's take on Churchill during Britain's -- well, darkest hour) and Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (with the badly-drawn Jessica Rabbit).

The Churchill choice was obvious. Rain. Tea. Memories of the sceptered isle. But, Roger Rabbit? I told you my choices are eccentric.

It turned out to be a pleasant evening. And it is the answer to those people who ask me: "If you do not drink alcohol and have not been on the beach in years, what can you possibly do in Mexico?"

A lot. All I need is a little rain, and to then stir it gently into an essay.