picture pluperfect

My pastor's wife lent me a book the other day.  Donald Miller's  A Million Miles in a Thousand Years.


I would be hard-pressed to choose whether I prefer him or Anne Lamott as my favorite faith essayist.  Probably both.


In this book, he recounts some life lessons he learned while turning his memoir (Blue Like Jazz) into a movie.  Paragraphs like this are what I like about his writing:

 

The thing about trying to remember your life is it makes you wonder what any of it means.  You get the feeling life means something, but you're not sure what.  Life has a peculiar feel when you look back on it that it doesn't have when you're actually living it.   

Last month, in dog days of winter, I mentioned I have recently had a series of events cause me to think about the late Professor Jiggs. 


Those thoughts have been underlined this week with news from Wyntopia that his dog is entering her final stages, and news from a friend in Morelia that she had to put down her dog.


Life is complex.  Sunday morning my friend Cor pulled me aside at church and told me he had a gift for me.


And this is what he pulled out of the bag he was carrying.

It is a painting of the photograph that accompanied my post about Jiggs.


Cor has painted several murals around town and is well-known in the local art community for his paintings.  But he is better known, to me, for being one of the kindest souls I have ever met.


His wife, Marie, died this past year (marie greive).  She was incredibly fond of Jiggs.


For me, the painting is a perfect expression of my love for Jiggs.  But I also think of it as Marie's love for Jiggs, Cor's love for Marie, and Cor's Christian love for me.


As I looked at the painting, I realized Gloria, a periodic commenter, had suggested that Jiggs's photograph was worthy of a painting.  It turns out she was correct.


In one of the lessons he drew from his own life, Donald Miller concluded: "You get a feeling when you look back on life that that's all God really wants from us, to live inside a body he made and enjoy the story and bond with him through the experience."


If that is true, I can feel that bonding through this painting.


Thank you, Cor.  It is more than kind.  It is love-ly.

plants of a feather

Los Jardines Botánicos de Puerto Vallarta  (The Puerto Vallarta Botanical Gardens).


I cannot remember when I first saw the sign at the top of one of the hills leading south from Puerto Vallarta.  But I know I have driven past it at least a dozen times promising myself: "Next time I will stop."


Well, "next time" finally got here.  On my drive north, I decided this is it.


Two things tipped me over the edge.  The first was Debi.  She told me one of the reasons she and Tom come to Puerto Vallarta is to visit the gardens.  That made me curious enough to stop.


But there was also a second promoter of the gardens.  My bird pal: Howard Platt.


When my "hobby of the month" obsession settled on photographing birds, Howard told me I could save a lot of money by looking at his on-line photographs. 


He was correct.  He has some great shots -- including birds photographed at the Botanical Gardens.

 

When the Escape and I crested the hill on Wednesday, I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed my camera and binoculars, and I was off -- to do my best John James Audubon impression.  Without the flintlock.


I must offer one confession, though.  I am not an avid gardener.


I can appreciate the beauty of of a well-planned and better-maintained landscape.  But I do not go all weak-jointed over a well-turned stem as did some of my fellow visitors.  There must be a pornography level in every hobby.


But I do like birds.  And this is the time of year to find birds in Mexico.  The migrators are still here.


I did make a large timing error, though.  I arrived at the park around noon.  That is too late in the day for most birds.



But not all of them.  I saw several species I had not seen before -- and some I could not identify.  There were two warblers in the bush that I could have identified only in the hand.  They were simply too hyperactive and obscured to draw an identification bead on them.


The best viewing were two feeders near the garden restaurant,  That approach is a bit like attracting dolphins by smearing a three year old with mackerel oil.


However, without the chumming, I would not have had any of these photographs to share with you.  (I would have had more if I had turned off the auto focus on my camera.)


This is a yellow-winged cacique.  They are everywhere in the garden.  When you cannot see them, you can hear them.  They were the sole species at this feeder.

But they had competition from this tough little guy.  A yellow-cheeked woodpecker.  His mate was just below him on the same limb, but in the dark.

And he would put up with no competition when it came to food.  Even though the caciques were quite a bit larger, he would drive them away.  Until they used their numbers to overwhelm the feeder.  This shot was taken just as the tide of battle was changing.  The thrush and his mate could only look on.

If I ever figure out how to get better photographs with the camera I have, I just might invest in some better equipment.  That will make these nature stops a little more pleasant for all of us.

any puerto in a storm

Well, there was no storm on Thursday.  But there may as well have been.


The cold front that had turned Chicago writers to thoughts of Jack London moved on gentler paws over Puerto Vallarta.


There was an obvious shift.  The Madres, that give Puerto Vallarta its distinctive beauty, were cloud-capped -- like Dutch maidens. 


No bright blue skies on this day.  Gray was the new blue. 


Hardly what one expects of Puerto Vallarta in February. 


At least there was no rain.  For a moment, I thought I felt a couple of drops.  But it was just an overly-exuberant house cleaner on the balcony above.


There will be plenty of time for rain this summer -- when the Mexican sky can turn on the water works faster than a wronged teenage girl.


I had only two items on my agenda before heading back to Melaque.  A quick trip to Costco, and lunch with friends.


I have never been a world-class shopper.  Going to the store is a utilitarian exercise for me.  With one exception.  Costco.


Now and then in Oregon (usually on a Saturday afternoon), an urge would hit me -- I needed to make a Costco run.  It may be the same urge that smokers get to have a cigarette.  There is no logic.  It just is.


That urge has visited me from time to time in Melaque.  But it passes fast.  The nearest Costco is a four-hour drive away.  And there is nothing at Costco worth a four-hour drive.


When I started looking at Mexico as a place for retirement (in the halcyon days when my brother's family and our mother were talking about making this a family project), Puerto Vallarta topped my list.  For me, it was a place of endless activity.  Ziplining.  Mountain biking.  Snorkeling.


It never occurred to me (at the start) that all of those activities happen outside of Puerto Vallarta.


Inside the city, it is all expense, traffic, and no substance.  Any town whose history places the romance between Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton high on its historical list is plumbing the shallow end of the cultural pool.


One reason I wanted to get back to Puerto Vallarta was to see what Costco had to offer on this side of the border.  I had a list of "Things I Miss," and I hoped Costco could stop my material jonesing.


One nice thing about Mexico is its ability to teach me I do not need most of the things I want.  And if I do not listen to the lesson, Mexico will be certain I pay a premium for my lust.


In The States (with one notable wide-screen exception), I do not recall ever spending more than $200(US) during any single shopping trip to Costco.

I outdid myself in Puerto Vallarta.  $3,350.40(MX).  That is about $278(US).  Not a terrible amount.  But I surprised myself.  And that was after I put a few items back on the shelf.


Some things were cheaper than at a Mexican retail store.  Others were simply more convenient.


Two items made up the bulk of the purchase.  A replacement for my failing backup external drive ($130(US)).  More expensive than in The States, but less expensive than Office Depot. 


And a replacement snorkeling set to replace the set I lost when my truck was broken into.  $49 (US).  About what I would pay in The States for the same set.


Most of the other items were household supplies.  Most available in other stores, but cheaper at Costco in bulk.


But there were two extravagances I could not pass up.


The first was lemons.  We do not have lemons in the local stores.  And there is no good substitute for making salad dressings and soups.  A three kilogram bag for almost $12(US) -- but worth every drop.  I just need to figure out how I am going to ration them.


The second verges on the decadent.  I have several dishes that call for Parmesan.  Real Parmesan.  What is called Parmesan in Mexico is -- well, bad.  It makes the dandruff in the green Kraft cans seem good.


But there it was.  Wedges of Parmigiano Reggiano stamped with its official birth mark.  I didn't even bother looking at the price.  I had to have it.  David could not have looked on Bathsheba with more lust in his heart.


And this particular vice came with a respectable price tag.  For 700 grams -- $25(US).


I suspect this will be my only trip to Costco -- at least for a bit. 


But I would gladly make another trip to spend time with Thursday's lunch guests -- Tom and Debi of Merida.


I knew from her blog that they were going to be in town, and I was determined to see them again.  I had a great time meeting them at this year's bloggers' conference in November.

They had discovered one of the few non-touristy sea food restaurants in town -- with great food.  We decided to meet there.


There is something about the blog community.  I always have trouble getting my long-time friends to understand it.  That it is possible to develop a good acquaintanceship with fellow bloggers -- even without ever meeting in person.


That was true with the three of us.  We started our conversations as if we had just seen one another the previous week.


We do know a lot about our respective lives in Mexico from our posts.  I asked about their building projects and bat problems.  They asked me about my quest for summer cool.


We sat and talked for almost three hours.  Enjoying an amazing meal of shrimp-stuffed calamari.  (Take a look at Debi's blog for details.)


I have no theory on why these acquaintances develop.  But I suspect people who are willing to leave their home countries for a new life, and who are willing to publish that life on the internet, are the type of people who are willing to take the risk of relying on the openness of strangers.


What I need in life are more acquaintances like Tom and Debi.  And far less reliance on the myth that I can buy happiness on the shelves of Costco -- wholesale.

twelve o' clock high on the road to vallarta

The semi-shiftless Escape and I headed off to Puerto Vallarta early Wednesday morning.


To complete the trip that was cut short last March when I broke my right ankle.


A bookend trip if ever there was one.


But every trip to Puerto Vallarta is a bookend trip.  I start in the hills of La Manzanilla and end up in the hills of Mismaloya -- the Escape's transmission clattering in protest.  Along the way, cattle ranches and the occasional truck crops are tucked into the narrow coastal plain.


Whoever puts on these rural productions never fails to amuse me.  The highway is the sole north-south route on the Pacific coast.  An urban ribbon stretched through Mexican Green Acres.  And, though I have not yet seen Arnold the Pig, the highway always has an interesting mix of slickers and rubes.


You have probably read enough about driving in Mexico to know it is not like a spin through your neighborhood.  Unless, of course, your neighborhood is in Mexico.


I learned early on that defensive driving is not only a bad idea -- it simply increases the odds of having your name added to one of the shrines that add spots of color to our local highways.


Driving here requires the reflexes, mental discipline, and aggression of a fighter pilot.  Potential bogeys lie around every corner.  Literally.


Take a look at the photograph at the top of this blog.  Harmless?  Take another look.


The pickup bed is filled with balls of plastic wrap the size of bean bag chairs.


I should say it is filled with two fewer balls than when the pickup pulled out right in front of me while I was going 70 and it was going -- next to zero.


Earlier in the week I had a discussion with a friend.  He told me he thought the curriculum in most American high schools was too academic -- most of the subjects simply had no practical life application.


Apparently the pickup driver thought the same thing.  Ignoring whatever the laws of physics and aerodynamics might have to say about the topic, he stacked the light plastic balls beyond the top of his cab.


The first one launched my way nearly hit my right front bumper and then crazily careened to the left.  The driver did not notice.  At least that is what I assume -- because he sped up.


Sending the second volley my way -- partially unwinding in the process.  It came to rest in the middle of the southbound lane.  A nice little surprise for the next driver coming around a blind corner.


So, what's the big deal you ask?


I have had to unwind enough unintended lines from sail boat propellers to know what can happen when strings of anything come in contact with a spinning object.  Like an axle or a drive shaft.


But I made it safely to Puerto Vallarta -- with another tale under my belt.


For a bit of shopping and a pleasant visit at the Botanical Gardens (more on that later). 


Plus lunch with fellow bloggers.  And I bet you can guess who.

shangri-la goes missing

"So.  What's up with Steve?


"He tells us he is going to tour two towns and all we hear about is Guanajuato, Guanajuato, Guanajuato.


"What happened to San Miguel de Allende?"


OK.  No one has asked.  But I keep thinking someone is going to ask if I ever made it to The Promised Land.  And, if I did, what I thought of it.


Yup.  I made it to San Miguel de Allende.


And I have no opinion about the place.


That requires a better explanation.  My entire exposure to San Miguel de Allende was a single afternoon and a night in a hotel room.


It would be like writing a review after visiting a restaurant to merely use the rest room.  And we have had enough of that on this trip.

My little walking tour did nothing more than introduce me to the exterior of several churches, the local market, and a couple of homes with historical significance. 


And, of course, a brief visit to the infamous jardin that serves as the main set for Richard Lander's late (and lamented) Gangs of San Miguel de Allende.  It must have been central casting day when I was there.  (But I will leave that shtick to Richard.)


I can draw no conclusions from that.  I felt no magic.  Nor did I feel the desire to run away.  I simply felt nothing.


On the other hand, I did not have the opportunity to see the San Miguel de Allende of Babs and Billie.


I still need to do that.  Because I obviously missed getting even a taste of why San Miguel de Allende is supposed to be The Place For Steve.


As Calypso would say: STAY TUNED.

There simply has to be some there there.

little gto

"Little GTO/You're really looking fine."

At least that is what Jan and Dean told us in the 60s.

And I am here to tell you that my little GTO (Guanajuato) is looking just as fine.


Before someone else does it for me, let me make what I suspect is an obvious point.  It is impossible to evaluate a place in two days.  However, my experience is that first impressions are surprisingly accurate.


With that in mind, there is no reason why I would not be happy escaping the Melaque heat with an extended visit to Guanajuato this summer.  After all, I have already completed the historical background piece.


And how do I know Guanajuato will supply the one thing I will need somewhere around early August -- cooler weather?  After all, I have only seen the weather in January. 


Easy.  From friendly advice and extrapolation.


If it is now jacket weather in Guanajuato when it is shirt-sleeve weather in Melaque, I can assume the temperature difference will remain relative.


My friends, who once lived in Melaque and now live in Guanajuato, have added their endorsement to my summer move -- August weather is marvelous in the mountains.


But I am not just trying to find a spot with cooler summer weather.  I want a place to give my brain and soul some satisfaction.


Culture is everywhere in Guanajuato.  Most of it driven by the town's history.


There are enough churches, buildings, and museums to keep me occupied for years -- let alone a few weeks.  Not to mention the series of festivals that I will probably miss this year.


But, more than that, I like Guanajuato's soul.  Large enough to be be vibrant.  Small enough to retain the feel of a town.


And, as a wealthy town, there are new details of life to be discovered on every walk.  Whimsical knockers.  A new alley.  An unexpected glimpse of dome.


The only concern I encountered is something other people have noted about Guanajuato -- the locals are a bit distant.  Acquaintances do not come easily.


But that is not a big factor to pick a summer escape.  After all, I am looking for a place to cool off, not to build a life partner relationship.


And my little GTO will be just fine for that.


Unless something better comes along.  Like Mustang Sally?

the tax man cometh

Death and taxes.


The old cliché tells us both are inevitable.  And, sometimes, they stroll the highway hand in hand.


I have an acquaintance who grew up in Guanajuato.  One of the rites of passage for school boys was a visit to the Museo de las Momias (the Mummy Museum).


When he visited in the 1960s, the mummies were displayed in what he calls a "crypt" -- actually a long tunnel.  But flashlights were required.  The mummies were propped up and wired against the wall within reach.


And some visitors did just that.  One of his classmates broke off a piece as a souvenir.


All of that has changed.  The up close and personal approach has now been replaced with museum-quality lucite cases with subdued lighting.  And informative labels in Spanish and English.

The display starts with a phalanx of mummies arranged like a terra cotta army.  Most looking as if they could be Edvard Munch models.


The first solo display is a French doctor -- Remigio Leroy.  He was also the first mummy to be discovered.


But why was he the first?  That brings us back to taxes and death.  And why so many mummies have been discovered in Guanajuato.

 

Unlike the Egyptians, the people of Guanajuato did not set out to mummify their dead.


In the 1850s, as part of President Juárez's reforms, all church property was seized by the central government -- including cemeteries.


Being true to its nature, the government decided that even the dead needed to pay taxes.  The family of the deceased was required to pay a burial tax every five years.  If the tax was not paid, the body was exhumed and burned.

The first official grave robbers began their work in 1870.  Because Doctor Leroy had no family to pay his tax, he was among the first to be evicted.  No one expected to find the mummies.  But about 2% of the bodies disinterred were mummified.

No one knew why.  They still don't.  But there were some factors in common.  They were all:

• Residents of Guanajuato for a minimum of six months
• Buried above ground in crypts, rather than in the earth
• Buried in wooden coffins

There are plenty of theories.  But nothing has yet been proven scientifically.


Whatever the reason, the result is startling.  The bodies are recognizable as people.  But recognizable in the same sense as if a German Expressionist had crafted statues out of leather.


The most poignant are the babies.  Not only because of the tragedy we ascribe to the death of any infant, but because of the Mexican custom of dressing babies as angels to convince God that our human nature requires a little disguise.


The museum also has a small collection of photographs showing mothers holding their costumed babies just prior to burial.  As if the child is merely asleep.


The most ghoulish mummy, though, is a woman who had been buried during an epidemic.  To avoid contagion, many bodies were buried almost immediately.  Unfortunately, she was not dead.

When I told my pastor's wife I was going to the Mummy Museum, she said she was interested in hearing my impression of the display -- whether it is appropriate.


I am not certain I have an answer to that question.  Theologically, I know the body is not who the person was.  It is an empty package.


But I also have a visceral bias (undoubtedly based on my culture) that corpses should be treated with respect.  I am not certain I would accept the "empty potato chip bag" metaphor if it was my father being displayed.


(On the other hand, I am the son who takes his father's cremation ashes to church each Father's Day.  I suspect there is little difference.)


And Mexico certainly approaches death with a different attitude.  Its Day and Night of the Dead are but two examples.  The fact that the Mexican government has no qualms about putting the bodies of the martyred insurgents on display in Mexico City is another.


When Ray Bradbury saw the mummies displayed in their pre-museum setting, they had a profound effect on him.  "I had nightmares about dying and having to remain in the halls of the dead with those propped and wired bodies."  And he wrote a story as a result of the experience.


For me, it was an interesting, but not profound, experience.  One I will remember.  One I will probably not repeat.


And I, too, got a story out of it.