I am back in Melaque.
After 12 hours of sleep, it was good to be walking the streets of my little village again. Where birdsong -- and the occasional gas truck -- acts as my alarm clock.
I followed the weather here on the internet while I was gone. The worst part of summer seemed to linger through all of November. Giving some of the earlier visitors from The Great Frozen North a taste of what we face in the hottest season.
But last night night was cool enough for a sheet over me in bed. And this morning was made for walking.
The day had me in a great mood.
Then I happened across a couple of scowling men. From their pallor, I assumed they were recently-arrived northern tourists. My Chamber of Commerce gene kicked in. I would lead them to a happier place.
I followed their gaze. Two streets leading to the beach had been excavated. Probably awaiting new pavers.
"Interesting," said I. "How long has this project been going on?"
The Scowler-in-Chief looked at me as if I had just broken up their Rotary meeting.
"Too long. What is wrong with these people? Why do they wait until people are here to start tearing things up?"
I ignored the venom in his "these people" comment.
"Actually, people are here all year long. Tourists come every season."
The S-in-C gave me the same irritated look, as he clipped out: "People with dollars. The people who keep this place running." Completely oblivious to the three young Mexican workers standing nearby who were simply shaking their heads.
I have written on this attitude before (for whom the taco bell tolls and breaking spring). The belief that Mexico is a Disneyland that operates several months in the winter solely for the benefit of people north of the Rio Bravo. Where only the best services can be expected at criminally-low prices.
My mood was too good to spread the pearls of cheer in that particular wallow. So, I wandered off to buy some pesos -- for time on my mobile telephone and to pre-pay internet time for my next journey north.
It is good to be back in a world where the potential for stress is legion -- and where so little energy needs to be spent to keep it at bay.
Mexico may not be home. But it is certainly a place where I feel free to enjoy life in the manner it is served to me.
Even when my neighbors seem to do their best to trap the unwary tourist. The hole is man-sized. Where the sidewalk ends. The broken chair is a warning that a distracted pedestrian could have similar legs.
I feel like one of the long line of Union generals who failed to carry out President Lincoln's military plans.
A month ago I came north to get my house ready to put on the market. If you have been following my posts, you know I have been busy.
But not busy enough. The house is still not on the market.
I would still be sorting my worldly goods in Salem, but I have a couple of projects that need tending in Melaque. So, here I sit in the Portland airport waiting for my flight to Manzanillo.
For some reason, I was whisked through security this morning. Avoiding a huge line that snaked down the concourse -- and then bypassing the prying eyes of the "show us your Larks" machine.
Whatever the reason, from the time my shuttle pulled up to the front of the airport to the time I checked my bags and made my quick run through security, only fifteen minutes had elapsed. That may be a record for me.
Not that it will do me much good. My flight to Los Angeles does not board for another two hours. Just enough time to enjoy a heavy German breakfast at Gustav's.
The weather here is a pleasant shirt sleeve 43 -- on its way to 87 in Melaque. I confess I will miss these refreshing mornings in Oregon.
But I will not miss them for long. I will be back here on 26 December. To take up my unfinished task.
In 1960 my mother took a speech course.
Oregon was a perfect practical laboratory for a young mother interested in improving her public speaking technique. The Democrat primary election was drawing all of the major contenders to our small state -- one of the few states where cigar-chomping bosses did not control the system.
Lyndon Johnson had cornered a large number of delegates selected by party bosses. John Kennedy could stop him only by winning in the few states that chose delegates through primary elections.*
That was why Kennedy was in Oregon in April. Speaking at Milwaukie High School.
My mother's speech class attended. As a practicum. After all, what better way to learn public speaking than from political masters of manipulation?
She was not impressed. Kennedy was personable. But his policies ran up against her Republican filters. Filters that had been in place since Lincoln.
After the speech, Kennedy did what he did well. Connected directly with the crowd. Mom tore paper out of her notebook, and asked Kennedy for two autographs. One for me. One for my brother.
For years mine sat on a bookcase in my boyhood bedroom. Then on a display case at my first house.
When I moved to Salem in 1993, I lost track of it. Just like my Mel Blanc autograph. And it turned up in the same way this month. Stuffed in the bottom of a box.
For now, I have put it aside. It has almost no monetary value. The countryside is littered with similar autographs.
But it is a gift from my mother. And that is what makes it valuable.
* -- Kennedy's campaigning made a difference. He took 51% of the vote in Oregon's winner-take-all primary. Besting favorite son Wayne Morse at 32%. Kennedy's most credible rival in the primaries, Hubert Humphrey, garnered only 6% of the vote.
Travel is not what it once was.
No headlines there. But now and then something comes along to remind us of what once was.
Today I ran across two menus and accompanying wine lists from one of my flights from England. In November 1993 according to the menus. I suspect it was the return trip after taking a Concorde flight from Portland to London.
Both appear to be dinner menus. And that is certainly possible. The flight would have come in two segments -- with a break in Newark.
The courses are enough to inform you the food is from another era. Before passengers became health-obsessed, and airline executives heard only the voices of their accountants.
Nuts. Appetizers. Salad. Entree. Fruit and Cheese. Dessert. International Coffee.
The type of meal that would be served at LA Tante Claire. Formerly one of my favorite London eateries. RIP.
Do you doubt that airplane food could ever be good? Just listen to the choice of entrees.
Choice center cut of salmon steak grilled to perfection and enhanced by lobster dill butter.
Grilled Lamb. Tender lamb chops topped with maître d'hôtel butter.
Chicken Forestière. Baked breast of free-range chicken served with a medley of forest mushrooms.
Steamed Maine lobster served chilled on a bed of romaine lettuce.
And that is just the first menu. The other menu offers monkfish, veal, duck, and chicken.
These days, I frequently fly internationally between The States and Mexico. I have never been offered anything similar to these meals. At best, I get a salad with some very suspect slices of meat topping it. Or a sandwich.
I am not certain when airline meals went from memorable dining to forgettable snacks. However, at some point, I started packing my own meals. With china, linen, crystal, silverware, and four course meals.
It was my way of entertaining myself on long trips. On my regular routes, the flight attendants who knew me would bring me special treats from the galley.
Of course, that all ended with the increased security following the Islamic terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, DC.
The first to go was the silverware. Even though the airline provided me with knives and forks just as lethal. Then, in what could only be described as insanity, the china and crystal could not make it through security. On the bogus claim they could be used as weapons.
What was I going to do? Threaten to smash the Wedgwood or crack the Waterford? Causing horror amongst my fellow passengers?
My current travel kit consists of two linen napkins, an unbreakable Corelware plate, Carr's water crackers, 3 year old Tillamook extra sharp cheddar cheese, Boar's Head pepperoni, and a sliced honeycrisp apple.
It may not be as classy as my ginger-lime-kumquat chicken over wild rice, but it better reflects our age of lowered expectations.
At least, it frees me from eating another of those questionable sandwiches on my flight to Manzanillo.
I have been pondering a new adventure.
My train trip last week to Olympia reminded me how much I enjoy train travel. There is something about the leisurely pace of not only getting from one place to another, but also watching life unfold outside my window.
My favorite time of day is the early morning. Especially in rural areas. As the heartland of all that is good about America awakens for a day of honest labor.
OK. I know I know that version is more Hallmark than reality. But there is a grain of truth in the vision. And I like to find it as often as I can.
So, here are my thoughts. Subject to a lot of revision.
My house preparation is far from done. Even after extending my stay to 9 December, I will need to return for the month of January. If all goes well, I will return to Mexico for trips to Oaxaca and Chiapas in February.
When Melaque starts heating up, I am considering heading north again to spend two months on Amtrak. With stops in cities where I have friends I have not seen recently.
On my next trip, I may even take a test run between Los Angeles and Salem to see how I like spending the night in one of Amtrak's sleeper rooms.
The down side is price. That two-day trip costs $200 more than a first class ticket on Alaska Airlines between Portland and Manzanillo.
We shall see. May is still months away. Knowing my recent mind moods, I may be off on another trip to Asia before the train thoughts solidify.
But this map is certainly filled with temptations.
I met him when I went to work at SAIF in 1989.
We will call him Paul. Not his real name. You will soon see why.
He was one of those young guys everybody liked in college. Men wanted to be his best friend. Women wanted him to be their husband. Our own Russell Crowe.
And he was an audacious attorney. Well-spoken. Quick-witted. Smart. His clients loved him as their champion. His opponents feared his tread.
But life was not kind to him. His wife left, and then divorced, him. He left our law firm for another. That did not last long. He tried solo practice. That went even worse.
Through it all, I was his friend. But he eventually pushed me away, as well. In the end, he lost his license to practice law. And drifted.
His name is Paul. He is an alcoholic.
I thought about him all the way through Flight -- Denzel Washington's current film.
The story is similar. Heroic professional acting bravely to save lives.
In Denzel's case, a commercial pilot who calmly lands an airliner under next to impossible circumstances -- saving most of the lives on board. And does it while under the influence of both booze and cocaine.
This is a tale of an addict. A guy whose skills as a pilot are so great that he can mask the fact that his life is out of control. As much as that airplane diving uncontrollably to the ground.
And anyone who knows an addict knows the rest of this story. There are moments of recovery where the booze is tossed out of the house. To be followed by tough circumstances where the addict seeks solace in the numbing force of alcohol.
Even though the story is familiar, this one is well told. A bit boring at points where Denzel sinks into the depths of his addiction. And the film seems to lose its own rhythm.
And the ending is just a bit too American. Too convenient.
But the climax pits the addict against his addiction in a real and well sat up moral choice. One I did not see coming, but also had the feel of inevitability about it.
Flight -- a triple pun title about the airliner crash, the addict's descent into desperation, and his attempt to flee from the choices he must make -- is a film that reminds me of the Pauls in our own lives.
And how their flight is their own. We can merely be there to help them through some of the crashes.
I am back in Salem. Once again at the task of clearing out the house.
After almost a full month, I have only one room notched on my pistol grip. But it was the big room. My office that had morphed into a sarcophagus of paper and nostaligia.
Monday I started on what should be an easy task. Boxing up the legal files from my decade of private practice. Once boxed, the files will become food for a shredder truck.
Those cabinets are filled with some of the best stories of my life. Some I had completely forgotten until I looked through the files.
Murders. Divorces. Personal injuries. Legal and medical malpractice cases. And thousands of every-day legal problems my clients faced during my 10 years as a legal general practioner.
None of them avalable for public tales -- because everything in those files belongs to the people who came to me with ther issues. Secrets and confidences that will soon belong to an industrial cross-cut shredder.
I was surprised to look down the list of names I represented throughtout the 1980s. I hate to admit it. But I could not remember most of the names. And the faces are mainly just blurs. People who shared some of the most intense moments of their lives are simply erased from my hard drive.
The files did remind me, though, that the work I did was worthwhile. While it was happening, I was the champion of my clients. Using my knowledge to help them work through the American legal system. Often representing clients who "respectable" people would never encounter.
But that part of my life is done. The files are nothing more than snapshots that serve no further purpose.
And, like all of us, no matter how dramatic our moments may be, they will soon shuffle off into oblivion.
