off and flying --

And a bit of taxiing.  The kind with fares, not runways.  Even though we did both yesterday.

Lupe, Alex, and I are in Mexico City -- after a full afternoon and evening of travel.

My friends Lou and Wynn were kind enough to drive the three of us, and Darrel, to the airport yesterday afternoon.  Darrel’s flight was leaving over an hour before ours, but it was convenient for all of to make the trek at one time.

That meant the three Mexico City travelers had extra time to enjoy the minimalist joys of the Manzanillo airport.  It turned out to be time well spent.  I learned a lot of interesting things about Lupe and her family.  Now I have some actual experiences to tack on to the names I greet each day.

It turns out that Lupe and Alex have flown only once before -- and that was ten years ago.  That gave me an opportunity to put my pilot lore to work.  An educated passenger is a happy passenger.

It also helped that we were flying Interjet -- one of Mexico’s newer airlines.  The equipment was new and shiny, and about as high tech as a modern airline cabin can be.  I have flown on several of Mexico’s low-cost airlines, and I have been impressed with each experience.  These new airlines make their senior American colleagues look rather long in the tooth.

Our bags almost beat us to the luggage carousel.  Within minutes of landing we were on our way to Lupe and Alex’s hotel.  The clinic had recommended it because of its proximity to the clinic.  Even so, it will be a 3-mile taxi or Metro ride each day from their hotel to the clinic.

Here is a shot of the lobby.

Mexican hotels almost always get this detail correct.  Put your best first impression at the front desk.  I will check the adequacy of their room today when we head off as a group to the clinic.

The desk clerk offered to call for a taxi to take me to my hotel.  He appeared to be someone’s cousin driving the family van.  I would usually be wary of driving off into the dark of Mexico City with a stranger, but I threw caution to the wind.  After all, the ride was arranged by the desk clerk -- who was another stranger to me.  So, there you go.  But my street smarts were not tingling.

Of course, as 99.44% of such tales will, this one turned out well.  I chose my hotel because of its proximity to the museums I intended to visit on this trip.  But I may not see much of them.  Instead, I am going to spend more of my free time with Lupe and Alex.  They have never been to Mexico City before.  And I would like them to enjoy themselves -- as well as dealing with the eye replacement.

My hotel room is nice enough – if a bit shopworn.  But it has something that I have yet to see in any other Mexican hotel.

Yup.  A bath tub.  Where I spent a good deal of last evening before drifting off to sleep.

As I write this, I have no internet access (what is it with high-end hotels and lousy internet?), but I hope you will see this before too much of your day has passed.

And today?  We have some serious eye business.

small change in a big purse

It's time for a change.

Politicians always say that.  At least, the ones who are "innies," instead of "outies."  Whether it's change you can believe in, I will leave that to you.

This morning, there will be three big changes at Casa Nanaimo.

The first is one that all of us Mexico will share.  Daylight saving time is now in effect.  As of, 2 AM. 

Our northern brethren switched their clocks a full four weeks ahead of us -- except the liberty-loving Arizonans who have the good sense not to play this game.  If you didn't Bataan Death March your Mexican clocks forward an hour, you may be an hour late for whatever you plan to do today -- as if anyone will notice or care.

This is the point where I do my semi-annual rant that trying to save daylight in Mexico is as pointless as saving tortilla.  It is stuff and nonsense.  But we are a complying people.  And I have a plane to catch.

Actually, two planes to catch.  And those are the other two changes that hang on the day's cusp.

Brother Darrel is on his way back to Oregon today.  His trip south has left me as I was before he arrived -- house-less.  But it was nice to have him here to initiate and share more events Cotton. 

The next trip should find him accompanied by his younger bride, Christy.  Without her input, no compound will be formed.  At least, not one filled with Cottons.

And then there is a bit of personal change for me.  Darrel flies north; I fly east.  To the capital city -- the Oz of Cuauhtémoc -- with my neighbor, Lupe, and her son, to replace her eye (the eye of the beholder).

My job is to act as a guide for them on the Metro (Mexico City's subway) on our way to and from the clinic.  Never mind that I have never set foot in the Metro.  But I have ridden subways in London, New York City, Paris, San Francisco, Rome, and Washington, DC.  It could not be that difficult.

So, change we will.  Hope we must.

I will keep you posted on our adventures in the Big Burrito.

Where we will sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings, and return home filled with tales of fortune and glory.  And, of course, a new eye for Lupe.

stoning the sand

"The authorities have taken just over 50 years to improve and maintain decent access to the community of Villa Obregon."

I thought what I call my niño español was playing havoc with reason -- as it was wont to do.  But there it was in clear Spanish on our local news website, canal 235: "Poco más de 50 años han tardado las autoridades para mejorar y mantener un acceso digno a la comunidad de Villa Obregón."

Every town has its areas of what is euphemistically referred to as "deferred maintenance."  In the area where I grew up, it was Johnson Creek.  Every winter, the creek would flood causing the same families to leave their houses and watch what little they were able to accumulate float down the creek to the Willamette into the Columbia and out to sea.

Eventually, the local municipalities got around to doing something about the flooding -- undoubtedly with a lot of prodding from insurance companies.  For all I know it may have taken 50 years for anything to be done.

We have a Johnson Creek here in Villa Obregón.  It's not called that.  But the seasonal damage that is inflicted on Calle Reforma is every bit as damaging as the creek of my youthful memory.

Calle Reforma is the only street that leads directly from Highway 200 into our little village.  Some of the street is paved with concrete and river rock.  But large segments are nothing more than stretches of sand.

Whenever it rains, those stretches of sand become tank traps.  And it does not take much.  Just a steady rain, and in one day, what was once a flat surface will be reduced, through the steady flow of buses, trucks, and cars, to something that would stop George Patton.  (I have written on that topic before in holes in the table.)

After fifty years, the local authorities have decided that the summer rains should not be allowed to dissuade tourists from driving to what we quaintly call our Playa del Sol.

For $1,261,000 (Mx), we are in the process of getting two major street repairs.

One project involves paving a one block stretch of sand masquerading as a street.  The process is fascinating.  Almost like creating a work of public art.

First, the underlying sand is leveled -- or what passes for level -- and is packed.  Then, two lanes of concrete are laid in each direction.

When the concrete sets, the space between each of the strips is filled with river rock mounted in a concrete mix.

The crew has been working on that block for a few weeks.  On Friday afternoon it was completed.  The street is still blocked -- to let the concrete cure.

The other project was a bit more complex. 

When Calle Reforma leaves the highway, it makes a steady descent and then rises a bit.  At the bottom of the dip is a stretch of sand that is nearly impossible to navigate in the summer.  I often drive several blocks out of my way to avoid it.

But that is when it is in its best condition.  If we get a heavy rain, the road will wash away to the level of the water and sewer lines.

The first step was to resolve past damage.  The crew first dug up the street to either replace or re-settle the water and sewer lines.

The digging part of the project is complete.  Once the paving crew completed the first project, they shifted over to paving this section.  As of Friday evening, the crew had made good progress.

If all goes well, the paving will completed Saturday of next week.  Just in time for one of the two most lucrative holidays for our Babylon by the Sea -- semana santa (Holy Week).  The SUVs and buses are going to start filling the town with Mexican tourists with pesos in hand to have a rollicking good time.

In the five years I have been living here, I have witnessed a huge improvement in our streets.  There are still plenty of candidates for more attention.  But the shocks in my Escape appreciate the work -- even if it did take over 50 years to complete.

Canal 235 reported one of my neighbors as saying: "Obras de este tipo, dan respuesta a las demandas de la gente."  ("Works of this type respond to the demands of the people.")

And I thought I knew how to turn an ironic phrase. 

yellow easter bonnets

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.

Obviously, ol' A.E. Housman never treked the Eastertide woodland ride in these parts.  Cherry boughs are as rare as business tax cuts in Mexico these days.  At least, where I live.

Residents of Mexico City are prone to go all lilac in their prose when they talk about their jacaranda trees.  And their purple-flowered trees are fine -- in their Anne of Green Gables way.

But, if you want show-stopping color, visit our village as it prepares to put on its best for Easter.  The primavera are blasting off fluorescent bursts of yellow against our spring blue skies.

I am using "spring" rather loosely in that sentence.  Usually, the winter months are the most pleasant time to visit our seashore tourist trap.  After a punishing summer of heat and humidity, we look forward to cooler and drier weather from Christmas on.

Not so, this year.  Here and there, the temperature would dip -- especially at night (and that is always a welcome relief).  Even though I have not seen the official numbers, our winter seemed to be unseasonably warm.  Almost miserly hot compared with the snows that disciplined much of the Great White North this winter.

That is why it seems a bit contradictory that our temperatures are starting to rise.  Almost as if someone tossed a bit more oil into the furnace. 

No, that analogy just won't do.  More like the towel-less fat guy in your club who would shuffle into the sauna with its well-balanced heat -- and then dump a gallon of water on the hot rocks.

Knowing all that, that the heat is upon us, it is a great season to pause and look at what the spring is bringing us.  And to remember the joys that will be celebrated as a result of the Messiah's resurrection.

All told beautifully through the Eastertide blooms of the primavera.

weathering the war

The plywood has been there for a couple of years.  At least, since we were boarding up the place for Jova the Hurricane in 2011.

But it had taken on what I thought was a weathered look.  Weathered enough for me to trek back into the house to fetch the camera.  Photographs love distress.  And wood as is good as anything to fill the craving.

While I was shooting away, it occurred to me that this was not merely the regular wear and tear that takes the ply out of plywood.  You know.  Stone and water -- and all that jazz.

Some unseen force was at work.  And I knew well its handiwork.

When I pulled the remnants of the two sheets apart, I found what I expected.  The tell-tale trail of termites.  The terrorists of the tropics.  Well, most anywhere, I suspect.

They are everywhere here.  That is why we live in houses of concrete and buy doors made of parotta.  Otherwise, we would be living in large piles of sawdust.

I love insects.  Especially, the industriousness of the social insects.  But that is about as much good as I can say when it comes to termites.  I suspect even the Ferengi would find them ugly. 

Like these guys.

They are soldier termites.  And here's something you may or may not know.  The soldiers are the self-sacrificing caste in the termite world.  They are the only defense against the colony's sworn enemies.  Ants.  Ants who love nothing better than feeding on termite veal and caviar.

Some termites can spray an Assad-style nerve toxin through a nozzle on their heads.  But their usual defense is to wedge their heads into the termite tunnel to prevent the passage of any ants.  When one falls, there are additional soldiers lined up behind to take that soldier's place.

And if the breach of the nest by ants is wider than a soldier's head?  The soldier will form on the outside of the breach to allow the workers to restore the damage.  Of course, they are doomed to die on the outside of the nest.  Rather like the Spartans at Thermopylae.

I suspect that is what those three termite Musketeers are looking for.  A reason to find an honorable death.

OK.  Now you know something you may not have known before.  But it does not much change my opinion of termites.  Like their cousins the leaf-cutter ants, they are welcome to live wherever they like.  Just not on these shores.

The ravaged plywood is a good reminder why I did not bring my art collection to Mexico.  I suspect it is far safer in the my nephew's household -- well-guarded by my soldierly 6-year old great-nephew.

through a glass sparkly

When Darrel comes to my part of Mexico, there is one place he must eat -- or he will refuse to get on the airplane to Oregon. 

Lora Loka's in La Manzanilla.

Even though it would have been interesting to see my brother pull a John Brennan at the airport, we decided to head over to one of the most beautiful bays in the world -- Tenacatita. 

If La Manzanilla did not have some of the issues it does, it would be a great place to live.  Even a great place to buy a house.  It was a La Manzanilla house that drew me to this area seven years ago.

But we were not in town to look at real estate.  After all, we are a cibarious tribe.  We were there to eat what Darrel believes is the best shrimp enchilada bake he has ever experienced.

And I cannot disagree with him.  The dish is about as simple as a dish can be.  It is just corn tortillas, salsa verde, cheese, and shrimp (for Darrel) or chicken (for me).  It has to be in that sauce.  Simultaneously piquant and smooth.

Whatever Lora does, though, keeps us coming back for more.  Part of the lure is Lora herself.  She always makes me feel as if I were returning home from a long absence.  Plenty of hugs and kissing.

As we sat there eating our food, I started thinking what it is that makes a restaurant a pleasant experience -- for me, at least.  It is not primarily the food.  With the exception of Lora's enchilada bake, Darrel and I have prepared far better dinners on this visit than we have enjoyed at some of my favorite local restaurants.

And that was the key for me.  Eating is a social event.  Even though my cooking is far more to my taste than the restaurants I frequent, food is not my primary concern in eating out.  Socializing is.

I enjoy meeting my fellow diners and sharing tales of the day.  And I keep going back to some restaurants because of the service.  I really like talking with the waiters.  Finding out what is happening amongst my fellow expatriates and neighbors.  Or how lives of the waiters are developing.

Essentially, I am a story harvester.  And, perhaps, a story planter, as well.  My writer's notebook is always filled with tidbits when I head home after dinner.

In order, then, I suppose I pick my favorite places to eat by:

1. Whether it is a good place to socialize
2. Whether the service is entertaining and attentive
3. The quality and variety of food
4. Maybe price -- if it is high enough to compete with my rent money

So, while I wait for my family to serve its parole in The States for the next two years, I will be found at some of my regular tables.  Scribbling notes.  And playing my best Beau Brummel amongst my fellow literati.

After all, I have to put that new basilic white tie outfit to some practical use.

steve spills a secret

Several weeks ago, I told you I had a big announcement to make.  And today is as good as any day to break the news.

On the 28th of December, I was in Manzanillo getting fitted for a new white tie ensemble for my two cruises later this year.  (I had long ago outgrown the outfit I had purchased in London in the 1970s.  Some lucky buyer at a Salvation Army thrift store is undoubtedly enjoying taking on the role as the Earl of Bothel.)

But I digress.

While talking with the tailor, I noticed one of the most beautiful women I have seen enter the store.  The type of woman whose presence sits down in the room before she even makes her entrance.

Latina.  Raven hair.  Eyes that could drain the well of a man's heart.  And they did.

I love meeting new people.  Especially, lovely new people.

I am accustomed to women being a bit leery of strangers.  Not her.  She was witty.  Well-educated.  And amazingly cosmopolitan for our commercial port of Manzanillo.

It turns out, she is not from Manzanillo.  She lives in Guadalajara.

I felt my heart sink.  It has been some time since a woman stoked my soul the way she did.  And I saw it all disappearing because of distance.

Then she told me she in the process of finalizing her divorce.  It would be final on 1 January, and she was going to be spending a good deal of time at her house in La Manzanilla.

While the iron was hot, I struck.  Would she like to have dinner?  Certainly.  When?  How about tonight?

And we did.

I have spent as much time with her as I could slip in between my travels, and each one has been a delight.  It is almost as if I had been in love with her since the 1980s.

It has been so good that we have decided (wait for it) to get married.

No date is set.  But here is the best part, she owns a golden retriever.  Jennifer had it right.  This is the year I get married.  Get a house.  And get a dog.

A great trifecta -- for one of my favorite dates on the calendar.