showers of blessing

Sometimes I hate being correct.


And this is one of those times.


I feared that I would not have enough time to enjoy myself on my little trip to the highlands AND to simultaneously write about how much I am enjoying myself on my little trip to the highlands.


And I simply don't.  There is so much to see and my bandwidth is so narrow, I am going to have to wait until I return to Melaque to tell my tales of the road. 


However, Guanajuato is turning out to be a gold (and silver) mine of life and blog material.  And there are times where the two do not share DNA.


If most of my nascent posts were to show up in a newspaper, they would either be in the business or news sections.  (Or relegated to the comics.)


But, there are human interest pieces.  Before I forget about one of them, let me share it with you now.


On our second day in Guanajuato, our group had lunch at a restaurant (Real de la Esperar) perched high on a ridge above the city.  We could see it for close to 15 minutes before we reached it.  (Its photograph graces the top of this post.)


One of my fellow bus travelers is a frequent reader of this blog.  I met her and her husband last year in Melaque during my convalescent stage.


She thought the restaurant looked like a converted chapel.  I thought it was a restaurant tarted up to look like a chapel for the tourist trade.


It turns out we were both correct.  It was a 17th century chapel that was a ruin until an entrepreneur restored it with whimsy.  If there is a color on the color wheel, you will find it on the walls.  Along with Rubenesque cherubs -- who have a Warhol twist.

But I knew I was in for a treat when I saw the sign to the men's rest room. 


I have no idea how the women's rest room is announced,  but this little bit of heresy let me know I was heading toward the correct room.


Now, there may be some saint who likes to display a well-turned ankle.  I am never surprised to run across some campy spiritual mentor in Mexico.  But this piece had me laughing hard enough I was not certain I could do what I had set out to do.


When I opened the door to the rest room, I knew I had merely been served the appetizer with the signage.


The urinals were not immediately in sight.  But the moment I closed the artfully-designed door, I started laughing so hard I had to return to the table for my camera.


And here is the reason why.

There are two urinals (only one is visible in the photograph) -- both installed in a beautifully-tiled shower with a tulip shower head.


I can hear the proverbial mother's voice now.


"Tommy, I hope you are urinating in the shower."


"You bet I am, Mom."


If you are in town, stop by for a look.  The grub and view are worth a try as well.

high and dry

By the time you read this, I will be spending my second night in Guanajuato. 


I am not going to have enough time to write about this visit as it occurs.  This tour schedule is too full -- and the hotel internet a bit too unreliable.


But I can, and will, put together some brief initial thoughts while I am on the road.  When I get back to Melaque, I will flesh out my impressions.


Earlier this month I ruffled the feathers of an event organizer in the Chapala area.  I told her I probably would not be able to attend for a number of reasons -- one of them being that I was not certain if my truck could make it through the mountains.


I received a curt and librarian-exact response that Chapala is not in the mountains.  It is on flat land near the lake.


I sighed.  She appeared to be a bit offended that I might be mistaking her cultured community for some Ozark backwater.  When, of course, I was referring to the mountains I would have to climb to get where she lived.


I thought of that exchange as we were driving through the mountains on our way to Mexico's central plain.


Geography is not cultural destiny.  But it certainly is a factor in defining cultures.  We did not have to get too many miles from the coast before it became quite evident that I live in one Mexico.  And the highlands are another -- or several.


I have long known that Mexico's highlands look very similar to Spain's altiplano.  It may be one major reason why the Spanish congregated on the Mexican plain.  It made them feel at home.


As we were driving through the countryside (and I must confess I did far more sleeping than looking), it occurred to me that I have seen landscape like this before.  Not only in interior Spain.  But also southern Texas.


And that caused me to chuckle.  I served time in southern Texas, and I never once said to myself: "When I retire, I am going to move somewhere just like this."


While I walked through Guanajuato, I noticed patches of the surrounding hills that are not yet stacked with houses.  But the hills are as bare as any Brownsville cattle ranch.


It was not a challenge.  But I realized that Guanajuato and San Miguel de Allende are going to have to make up a lot in culture for what they lack in geographical offerings.  Bare hills are not a fair trade for pounding surf.


But I think both places may be up to the challenge.

dog days of winter

This month would have been Professor Jiggs's 15th birthday.


I am not much for these events, and I do not think of myself as being sentimental.  But, for some reason, Jiggs's memory has intruded on me several times.


Gloria mentioned him in a comment on Brenda's blog.


My friends, the Lockes, sent me a late Christmas card featuring their young golden retriever -- who is the spitting image of Jiggs at that age.


I saw a golden on the beach here in town that reminded me a lot of him.


I ran into a father and son pair of Irish setters that were his favorite friends.

This week, the pages of my blog with the highest number of viewings were two pages dealing with whether to bring Jiggs to Mexico with me.


And then, my friend Ron Nelson sent me a video clip from a 1981 Johnny Carson show.  The guest was Jimmy Stewart.  He had some poems to read, and ended with this. 


Let me warn you it is sentiment writ large.  But I feel it is a fitting tribute from all of us who have lost dogs who are still close to us.


And Jiggs is closer to mean that I realized.

leaving on a jet plane

Not really.  But I will be leaving on a bus.  Rather, I have left on a bus.


I am writing this in Melaque.


But, by the time you see it, I will be on my way to Guanajuato.  And San Miguel de Allende.  For about a week.


For two years, I have talked about ascending the mountains to the highlands.  Originally, I was going to scout for my next place to live.  But agendas change.


This trip now has mixed purposes.  I am still looking for a place to escape the heat of summer.  And I will do that. 


But that goal is secondary.  My primary mission is to be a simple tourist.  And the simplest of all tourists.  I am on a guided tour -- on a bus.


I have not joined one of these blue hair lady tours since 1975.  And that was a low-end bus tour in Spain and Morocco.  A tour where I met two of my best British friends.


I do not like touring on someone else's schedule.  But I learned on my trip to Colima that it is impossible to enjoy the scenery while trying to avoid being hit head on by an iron ore truck.


What I enjoy about these bus tours is having the opportunity to meet a new group of people over an extended period of time.  Not unlike the way that friendships are formed in the military.  Or prison.


I have no idea if I will be able to blog on the road.  My experiences of trying to keep up a regular posting schedule while I travel has not been good.  When I travel, I want to enjoy the experience.


But I assure you, I will share whatever I experience.


Museums.  Music.  Mummies.  It will all be there.  And then here.


Who knows?  I may even see one of you along the way.

rumble on aisle three

 

Last April, in warning! 7-11 at 2 o' clock, I wrote that three Mexican convenience stores had opened in Barra de Navidad, the town across the bay from Melaque.  With all of the attendant horrors that expatriates see in inevitable modernity.


I also noted that no stores of that ilk had yet opened in my village -- even though it has a far larger population.


That was then.  This is now.


When I returned to Melaque, I discovered not one, but two, new convenience stores within a block of each other.  An Oxxo on the jardin.  And a Kiosko just up the street.

They are effectively indistinguishable from one another -- same store colors with almost exactly the same offerings.  Beverages.  Salty things to snack on -- usually with lots of chili and lime.  Small jars of whatever.


I was a bit surprised that my expatriate friends had not told me tales of how terrible these stores are.  The usual indictment is they will endanger the local mom and pop grocery stores in the neighborhoods.


I think I know why I have not heard much chicken yard clucking.  Because the stores are down town, they do not compete directly with the stores we have in our neighborhoods.  The neighborhood places are small grocery stores (ironically called supers).  You can buy a small amount of almost anything you can get in a larger store.


And the potential market is different.  Oxxo and Kiosko stores are oriented toward young Mexicans who want to appear chic.  Nothing smells of middle class respectability like paying far too much for a Coke Light.


It has also turned out to be a place to see elderly pale-skinned tourists who seem to find the places an adequate substitute for their up north ritual of coffee at McDonald's in the morning.


In truth, I am pleased that the stores have found the accommodation that Mexican society eventually discovers.  (Sometimes after a century of shooting one another.)  Oxxo has its people.  And the supers have theirs.


There is no reason why life has to turn into a zero sum game.

guest hands on the steering wheel

Today I am turning over the helm to a guest blogger.  A lot of you know her from her comments as "Teresa in Lake Stevens."


I met her through two other bloggers -- Andee of Chacala and 1st Mate.  Teresa donated her time as a volunteer teacher at the school in Chacala.  1st Mate wrote about her in Another Side of Chacala.


When I was getting ready to make the move south, Teresa stopped by my house, along with Cynthia and Mike (who had recently returned from Mexico), to give Jiggs and me a proper send off.  As a lovely parting gift, Theresa gave me a very handy Spanish-English dictionary -- that I have put to good use, and should use more often.


I will let her take it from there.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Hi Folks,


I enjoy reading and commenting on your blogs. However, since I don't have one of my own, I don't have a way of sharing pictures with you.  Due to this, I asked Steve if I could be a guest blogger and being the gentleman that he is, he said yes.


The first two pictures are from hikes I went on last summer.  The rest are from the Southern Caribbean cruise my family and I went on over Christmas.  We had a wonderful time and thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful scenery on the islands, not to mention the great food and all the activities on the ship.


Thank you, Steve, for the opportunity to share these pictures!


Teresa in Lake Stevens

A short hike in Glacier National Park, Montana.

North Cascades National Park, Washington -- my favorite hiking area

Steve, and Matt at one of our stops during our safari in Samana, Dominican Republic

  

The Freeburn Family Four by the same waterfall in the picture after this

I felt like going for a swim.  These last two are also from our safari in Samana

Docked in Tortola -- stunning view

Beautiful countryside in Barbados

The biggest tree I've ever seen -- St. Kitts

Steve and Chris -- the highest point in St. Kitts

Christmas Eve.  I gave the guys these Rasta hats as gag gifts.  Love those expressions!

I hope you all enjoyed the pictures.

camp following

Before I moved to Mexico, I did not have many expectations concerning my living standard in my new home.  And those I did have turned out to be a bit skewed


I try to remember that when I invite friends to come visit me in Melaque.


My friends who have already visited Mexico have spent vacations primarily in Cabo San Lucas, Cancun or Ixtapa -- in world class hotels with pools, bar service, and cabana boys.


When I invite those same friends to Melaque, I have to manage more expectations than a White House spin doctor.


The problem is evident.  My house is adequate for my life style.  But it is certainly not a world class hotel.  There is no pool.  And if there ever were cabana boys, they have all taken off skimboarding.


The best advice I can give (and do give) potential visitors is to unpack their memories of boy and girl scouting.  Visiting me is a lot like camping.


We don't have sleeping bags.  But the beds are concrete slabs topped with mattresses that feel as if they might be stuffed with unshorn sheep.  Wooly, but lumpy.


Meals will be cooked on a stove that has the temperature control of a Coleman.  Not quite hot enough to attain a boil.  Nor low enough to keep eggs from getting crusty.

 

Water comes out of bottles.  If you want to drink it.  You can drink from the tap and then spend some interesting down time in the bathroom.  (I suspect this one is an urban myth.  But it is one of the most effective scare tales.  People really want to believe it is true.)


Washing up is just like Camp Meriwether.  The only difference is our hot water comes out of the tap, not out of a pot on the camp fire.  But it still requires treatment.  (See above.)  Wash in the sink.  Rinse in a plastic tub.  Air dry on a rack.  Come to think of it, that is my life as a child.  Pre-dishwasher.


And then there is the shower.  This is the one that causes the most concerns from my American friends -- for a reason that is unfathomable to me.


I am lucky to have a very good hot water on demand water heater.  I can get a good 4 or 5 minute shower with hot water to spare.


That is not the issue.  The issue is water pressure.


I have almost none.  The system is gravity fed -- just like camping when you would shower under one of those contraptions that looked like a bucket with holes in the bottom.  Functional.


For some reason, my American friends seem to believe that a shower has to have the same pressure as a sandblaster.  And that has been the deal breaker for some potential visitors.


In return for those opportunities to expand their living horizons, the guests who do come down get to relax in the sun, visit any number of almost-uninhabited beaches, see as many birds and butterflies as a person can without suffering Stendhal Syndrome -- or just sit and talk.

 

I have considered a new tack, though.  As a test, I could send this photograph to prospective guests claiming it is my house.  (It actually is a neighbor's house.) 


Of course, as a bonus, there is always the possibility they might spot either Mrs. Howell or The Skipper.  The remainder of the cast members are seldom seen.


Or, perhaps, this one.

 

I will not tell you which one, but I came very close to renting one of these houses before I came to rest in my current digs. 


I will let you guess which.


I suspect, I would not need to manage any guest expectations with those choices.