in the still of the night

"Like the moon growing dim, on the rim of the hill
In the chill, still, of the night."

Cole Porter had it almost right.

There is something alluring about the night. Especially, the late night.

My poetic license would undoubtedly be suspended if I were so brash to contend there is a chill in our September nights. But, there certainly has been relief.

That is certainly not the norm for September -- the month we tend not to discuss when trying to lure friends and family to the area. A couple of years ago, our September was almost vulcanized when the heat index reached 132 for three straight days. I thought the instruments at the weather station has succumbed to hyperthermia. I was ready to join them.

This September has been a bit different. We have had our hot and humid days. Those two adjectives are twined and twinned here as closely as "drunk" and "sailor."

During the summer, we pray for rain. Not because we are cash subsidy farmers, but because the rain drives down the humidity and temperature to make our nights a bit more conducive to sleeping. Of course, when the sun comes out the next morning, the heat index spikes.

Last night was one of the pleasant nights. Around 11, I was in the pool reading. The Economist, I think. I heard a faint rumble in the distance, as if a freight train was coming through town. There was only one problem with that theory. There are no railroad tracks near here.

An earthquake? Nope. It was moving too slowly. But it was certainly steadily heading toward my house.

Without a "how do you do," a torrent of water fell on me. No transition sprinkle. A full frontal aquatic assault.

I grabbed my electronic gear and dashed into the kitchen to watch the patio floor turn into a lake. And to enjoy the immediate drop in temperature.

The summer Barco lived with me, I had air conditioning installed in the bedroom. Even though he was born in Barra de Navidad, he was still a golden retriever, and found the summer months more than his thick coat could endure.

After he died, I used the air conditioning for my own pleasure. I try to not use it before mid-July. This year, it was early July. I will use it until mid-October. The only time I do not use it to help me sleep is when we have evening rains. Like last night.

When it was time to retire, I opened up the doors to my bedroom, turned my ceiling fan on low, and slipped into (or onto) bed. With the doors open and the air conditioner not running, I discovered there was a night world just outside my door that I had not experienced lately.

This is where Cole Porter had it wrong. The night is not still. It is an oratorio. Crickets. Frogs. The echo of distant jake brakes.

I am a creature of the night. If Bela Lugosi needs reviving, I am your man. Two A.M. will regularly find me prowling my bedroom.

That was true last night. Rather than waste a perfectly good night with sleep, I got out of bed and stepped outside onto the now-dry patio. Without a moon, the night was ebon. The darkness simply intensified the sounds. I could even hear the talons of the buzzards scraping against the metal of the communication tower, attempting to retain roosting purchase.

So, I sat in the dark and listened to the little night music being performed just for me. Or anyone else who would take the time to merely stop and listen. Admission was free.

These moments happen all over the world. Every day. Every hour.

Some of you know of Brother Lawrence. He was a French lay brother in a Carmelite monastery in the 1600s. His book, The Practice of the Presence of God, is a Christian classic. That means everyone knows the title, but few have read it. Like Don Quixote.

Brother Lawrence joined the monastery for one purpose -- a closer relationship with God. He ended up working in the kitchen, and despised the work. Then, he remembered he was at the monastery to have a closer relationship with God. If God is omnipresent, God was in that kitchen. In the garden where Lawrence strolled. In the library where Lawrence wrote.

His solution was an answer to the age-old conundrum posed by Paul in his first letter to the Thessalonians  to "pray continually." Though he most likely did not invent the practice, Brother Lawrence was an advocate of "breath prayers." To be constantly aware of the countless moments of grace God brings to our lives.

The idea is to address God with the inhale -- breathing God in. The petition or praise is on the exhale. Short and sweet. Often just a statement of appreciation and contentment. Moving your focus from yourself to others -- and to God.

And that is exactly what I did last night. Thanking for the crickets. The voice of the frogs. And finding peace at the center, as my Quaker friends so eloquently put it.

As Anne Lamott would say (and did): "This is plenty of miracle for me to rest in now." 

poor and content is rich, and rich enough

Anyone who has moved permanently to Mexico knows the feeling.

You are visiting the old country (as my friend Jennifer Rose puts it) when a friend or family member introduces you to a stranger. "Mary, have you met Steve Cotton? He lives in Mexico?"

Let me stop the film right here. I have been many things in my life, but I have yet to be reduced to nothing more than the place I live. As far I can recall, no one in Oregon ever introduced me by pointing out "he lives in Milwaukie."

I find it annoying. Not as if I was introduced with my political affiliation. Just a little chafed.

It is the response that astounds me. It is almost always something along these lines. "Oh, really? Albuquerque or Santa Fe? No, you look more like a Taos guy."

The first time it happened, I initially had no idea what was being discussed. My response now is rather stock. "No. Not New Mexico. I live in old Mexico. You know the country we stole the southwest from. But we did it fair and square."

Inevitably my S.I. Hayakawa is completely ignored because my new acquaintance is standing mouth agape because they have not heard anything I said past "old Mexico."

The responses are varied. But they always deal with either drugs, cartels, or violence -- or all three in a burbling trifecta that makes me wonder if they thought I said I lived in Idlib.

Well, I don't. I don't live in a third world country. I am not deprived of daily needs by cartel violence. I live quite nicely as a poor pensioner trying to make some sense of a complex world.

I usually tick off the list of statistics that Mexico is one of the world's economic powers. Member of the richer-nation OECD. 15th largest GDP in the world. 13th largest in area. 10th largest in population. A birth rate of 2.2 -- meaning the population is just sustaining itself. A strong middle class, thus the low birth rate.

None of that seems to impress most people. I am often accused of spouting "false numbers." I guess that is the second cousin of "fuzzy math" from the 2000 election. Even insults up north have been stripped of wit.

What does catch their attention is when I inform them I can order almost anything from Amazon and have it show up at my door -- delivered by a DHL man, who is now a regular visitor at my house. I suspect it is simply a lack of imagination that makes something familiar like Amazon turn the feared into something comfortable.

Amazon, of course, has long been a mainstay for me since I moved to Mexico. Originally, the good folks at Amazon would merely refresh the reading content in my Kindle for just a few dollars. That was my sole contact. There was a reason for that. I saw Amazon as a giant electronic book store.

But it has turned into far more than that, It is now the general store of a new generation. The Walmart of our internet age.

I cannot remember why I started ordering merchandise from Amazon. I probably needed something that I could not readily find in Mexico. The first couple of shipments were spotty. But once I discovered I could have DHL deliver to my post office, those wrinkles were ironed out.

Then, a couple of years ago, Amazon expanded its operations to Mexico. Delivery times were noticeably cut. And, even though my post office informed me it would now only accept deliveries sent by mail, DHL had an answer.

In the past, I would be given a window of a week or 10 days when my package would be delivered. Now, DHL sends me an email message specifying the day the van will pull up in front of my house. And since I know the deliveries come from Manzanillo, I generally know the time of day he will be there.

That system failed only once. I had volunteered to take friends to the airport (from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe) on a delivery day. Just as I was leaving, my DHL pal telephoned to tell me he was in front of the house. I told him I would be there in 20 minutes.

He had a better idea. He would leave my package at a paper store a few blocks from my house. That sounded good to me.

It turns out the store is a drop-off point for shipments and delivery, as well as a purveyor of copy paper, notebooks, and party supplies. When I came through the door, the young lady behind the counter pulled out my package and handed it to me just as I got to the counter. No signature required. Smooth.

At times I forget just how small my village is. I have mentioned before that it reminds me a lot of Powers, where I spent the first eight years of my life. The type of place where everyone knows (or knows of) everyone else -- and knows all of their business. At this point in my life, I find that to be a comfortable feeling. Even being an outsider. As I always will be. That is also a feature of small towns.

When we lived in Powers, the Sears and JC Penny catalogs were our connections with the outside world. Our bronze link to materialism. When packages arrived at the post office (because there was no home mail delivery), it was a day of excitement. Almost as fulfilling as opening the package from Kellogg's containing my magic decoder ring for only the price of 7 corn flakes coupons and a shiny dime (NO STAMPS).

Well, those days are back -- as evidenced by the photograph at the top of this essay. This week's haul was a mix.

• Three pairs of specialized exercise socks to cut down on my propensity for blisters and black toe. They do not always work.
• Two DVDs. The Last of Sheila -- a witty murder mystery written by Stephen Sondheim and Anthony Perkins. Advise and Consent -- based on Allen Drury's best novel. And, even though it is dated in its politics, its message about the duty of the Senate to properly carry out its advise and consent function as an independent body is constitutionally timeless. Where else could a bigoted southern senator still be treated with respect?
• Two books. Scott Turow is my favorite lawyer writer (known by some of us as F. Scott Turow for his literary abilities. Others would say for his literary protrusion.) Testimony is his latest. Somehow I missed it when it was released. The other book is Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. She is one of my favorite Christian writers. Her neurotic relationship with Jesus makes her essays very accessible. But this book is not a devotional. It is a guide to better writing. And it is chockfull of brilliant examples of the art.

I can think of a couple of bloggers who will chide me for this list. Socks are available in Mexico. Who still uses DVDs? Books should be electronic.

All of those are good points. But they are not mine.

If I could find socks designed to restrict the development of blisters, I would buy them here. I like the picture quality of DVDs, and, yes, it is noticeably better than streaming at my house. And there are some books I want to keep in my library for myself and guests. I will not even mention the two sets of black silk pajamas that arrived yesterday. (No. I am not putting on a play extolling the Viet Cong.)

I always hear the echo of "You live in Mexico?" when I hear such questions. We each choose how we live here. And Amazon makes my pleasant life here just that much more sybaritic.

Excuse me now. I am going to sit back and read a chapter of two of Turow before I go trudging around my neighborhood. There is health to be sought.

stirring the pot

Sometimes, life's little threads actually pull together to form a tapestry.

Other times, they just trip us up.

Today's story is a tapestry tale -- complete with Altmanesque threads.

Thread 1.

When I was a teenager, during the Punic Wars,* my neighborhood of suburban Portland was almost devoid of ethnic food. No pizza. No Italian restaurants. Not even a McDonald's. The state was so lacking in ethnic diversity that Robert Kennedy, when running for president, called Oregon "one giant suburb."

That changed when the parents of two of my classmates opened a Chinese restaurant. We thought we were so exotic when we ate there. Well, at least the rest of my family did.

I am willing to bet you recall the canned Chung King Chinese meals you could buy in a can in the 1950s and 1960s. Maybe you still can. A gelatinous blob of vegetables to be warmed in a pot and then poured over crunchy chow mein noodles and topped with soy sauce from plastic packets. If you could get past the visual, the taste was even worse.

The thought of Chinese food that looked and tasted better than that was the draw for  the restaurant. But it was soon shattered with the arrival of the first plate. It looked just like the canned Chung King dinner, but tasted marginally better.

On subsequent visits, I experimented. I finally settled on my favorite combination. A bowl of abalone soup and a plate of ginger beef. There was something about the beef dish that was different. The vegetables were crisp and had individual tastes. Somehow it managed to escape the gravitational pull of the limitations of Cantonese cuisine.

My perspective on Chinese food changed when a Szechuan restaurant opened near our house in what had been a Little Black Sambo's then a Sambo's then a Denny's. My girlfriend and I ate there often principally because we were fascinated that Chinese food could be spicy and creative. Cantonese was soon off the menu.

Thread 2

After the Air Force and law school period of my life were over, I started looking around for new ways to be creative. I had always enjoyed cooking. So, I started attending various cooking classes in the Portland area.

Some were one off presentations. Others were academically serious series (Indian cooking with Virgina Plainfield). The most interesting was my encounter with Linda Chan (not her real name).

Madame Chan, as she liked to be addressed (I suspected because it vaguely sounded like the then-much-admired Madame Chiang), was a restaurateur, cook book author, and master teacher of Chinese cuisine. Had cooking shows been more common at the time, she would have been a celebrity.

I knew her through cook books and what I had read in magazines. When I heard she was going to offer her "Essentials of Stir Fry" course in Portland, I signed up.

Thirteen weeks. Three evenings a week. Three hours each evening. That was more time than I spent in my college Russian class. But I thought it would be worth it. It was. Certainly for generating stories.

The class was small. Just nine of us. Two guys. Seven women. We met in a bright chrome classroom of one of Portland's new culinary schools. Each of us stood at a curved counter behind a cutting board and a set of knives that had been artfully set out for each of us. In front of us was a long preparation table with a mirror suspended over it to allow us to watch the master work.

But there was no one else in the room. No one checked us in, but we had received instructions to be at our places 15 minutes before the class began. We were all on time. And eager.Some overly-eager.

At 7, on the dot, the mournful sound of a Guzheng and the gentle thump of a Huagu wafted over the room's sound system. Within two bars, three young Chinese women entered, each wearing a different embroidered Diyi looking as if they were auditioning for the traveling company of a Chinese opera company.

I rolled my eyes. Four of the women students started clapping. But none of the young women looked like Linda Chan. We had all seen her photograph.

We didn't need to wait long. The music stopped. And in walked the star herself. Not dressed in traditional Chinese garb, but in a Chanel little black dress with a single strand of pearls and black Italian pumps. Classy, I thought.

I will remember her first words. "If you have come to learn traditional Chinese cooking, you can leave now. Cooking is not confined by time or country. If you pay attention, you will learn the art of the wok. You will use those techniques every day. You will be a better cook."

I was impressed. "Art of the wok." That was exactly why I was there.

Having finished her opening, she shot both hands high in the air and her assistants dropped their robes revealing traditional white kitchen jackets. They started setting out produce and meat on the preparation table and brought each of us a carrot.

Like any good teacher, she asked if we had any questions. A woman standing two places from me raised her hand. "Linda. I was curious --."

I did not hear the end of her sentence. With the first word, each of the assistants froze in place looking at the floor. It was like those movies where all of the action stops except for one actor. Our teacher had been looking at the other end of the table. Her head swiveled slowly. I swear I could feel heat lasering out of her eyes. If the questioner had disintegrated into a pile of ash, I would not have been surprised.

"You will address me as 'Madame Chan.'" And then I heard the rest of the question. "And, no. We will not be making chop suey. If that is why you came, you can get out of my class right now."

The incident set a certain tone for the next thirteen weeks. But we did not have to wait long for our second lesson. Picking up her cleaver, she showed us the basic technique for slicing a carrot into uniform pieces.

"Now, you try." As we began, she walked by each of us as if she were the last Manchu empress inspecting her troops, stopping in front of the other guy in the class.

"What are you doing?" He stopped. Perplexed.

"Start again." The moment he picked up his knife, she may as well have rapped his knuckles. "No! All wrong."

"Why is your finger on top of the blade? That is wrong. It is dangerous. Do not do it." I immediately slipped my finger to the hilt of the knife.

On her way back, his finger was once again on the top of the knife. "I warned you. That is dangerous to you. It is dangerous to other people around you. You are out of my class. Go now."

Gordon Ramsay had nothing on her. From that moment, we remaining seven called her Dragon Lady. It was not a compliment. One night, some wag (who fortunately was never identified) posted a note above the door. "Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

Oh, the eighth student. That was the "chop suey" lady. She committed some infraction involving a chicken. She was gone. Along with the finger guy.

We survivors learned a lot over the thirteen weeks. How to choose a wok (flat bottoms and teflon were deemed to be the work of Satan; I have both in my kitchen). How to season, clean, and store it. How to choose meats and vegetables suitable for stir fry (high quality only). How to slice each in varying styles depending on how the flavors are to play off each other. What oils to use.

She pointed out that learning how to to fry is very much like learning to become a concert pianist. All of the stir fry techniques are like learning scales and etudes. Without them, you cannot be an able artist. But it is the last step where most cooks undermine everything else -- putting everything together in the wok.

She shared my detestation of most stir fry results. I have eaten stir fry in many homes where the result is on a par with those Chung King dinners. She pointed out that the reason is simple. Most cooks have no idea how to layer tastes and recognize when vegetables and meats have been cooked to their individual perfection. Always in mere seconds, not minutes. If done correctly, each vegetable should retain its own taste. And it cannot do that if it is overcooked. It must retain its crunch.

So, we experimented. Cutting slices thicker and thinner. Switching the order in which each was separately added to the wok. And, over those thirteen weeks (and the subsequent thirty years), I am now a competent stir fry cook, who still changes the order in which garlic is added to the wok..

Thanks to the Dragon Lady.

Thread three.

A few years my college-era friend Leo visited me here in Barra de Navidad. He convinced me that it would be wise for me to pay attention to my diet and my exercise. Not for my health (which was not a primary concern for me), but because I would never be younger than I was that day.

I completely altered my diet. Snack foods were exiled from the house. I ate more vegetables and fewer simple carbohydrates. And I walked. Multiple miles every day.

The result was a steady weight loss. I felt better. I ate better. Life was good.

That lasted almost two years. It ended when my family came to stay with me, and I reverted to my old diet. The reason was simple, my family purchased food I had stopped eating. But, because my character has a certain flaw, I returned to old habits because the food was there. And then I started showing off by cooking a lot of meals I like  for my family. The food I had sopped eating.

But I retained some healthy food habits. Like stir fry. If you look at any healthy eating book, it will recommended a meal of 50% cooked or raw vegetables, 25% protein, and 25% healthy starch. That sounds exactly like basics of stir fry.

Thread four.

Sometimes, our best intentions are given a boost when crisis rolls over our mantra. That happened to me in early July.

The month of June was odd for me. For the entire month, I suffered recurring bouts of diarrhea that baffled each of the doctors I consulted. They tried various medications. Some relieved symptoms, but the bouts continued.

It turns out I would have been wiser to talk to my brother earlier. He knew exactly what was happening. I am fine now.

As part of the testing, I asked my doctor to test for certain indicators that have risen whenever I am ill. They are never related to the cause, but they are like the proverbial canary in the mind.

That is when I discovered that my DNA had caught up with me. I had been expecting the diagnosis for decades. But there it was in black and white.

Fortunately, I could deal with its consequences by simply reinstituting my Leo Plan -- more exercise, better food. And that is what I have been doing.

My daily goal is to walk 15 miles a day while fighting the tendency of my feet to blister. On that front, I am coping.

On the food front, I am thriving.  My blogger pal, Felipe wrote yesterday about the Monotony of Mexican Meals. I concur with his opinion. If I had to eat in Mexican restaurants, I would weigh much more than I do save for the fact that my boredom with the cuisine would keep me thin.

Fortunately, the skills I leaned from Linda Chan will keep me healthy while tempting my palate. Mexican food may be monotonous, but Mexican produce, chicken, and pork are all first rate. With the exception of the beef and tomatoes. Or, as Felipe puts it: "What passes for tomatoes here should be court-martialed and executed."

One of the later lessons Madame Chan taught us was that stir fry is not merely for Chinese dishes. Any type of food can be cooked in a wok. After all, it is just a cooking technique to preserve the freshness and flavor of the meal.

In her class, we cooked paella; vodka pasta chicken; pasta primavera; wilted spinach salad; pork cutlets Normandy; the classic Italian pork with basil, pine nuts, and balsamic; ratatouille pork; moussaka; Lebanese lamb; mustard cream veal; beef stroganoff;apricot turkey; chicken marsala; chicken piccata; chili with duck sausage; orange duck; chicken Morocco; and several soups.

The point is that stir fry is not just chop suey. Excuse me. It is never chop suey. (She might read this.)

It is has been a long road from that Cantonese restaurant on McLaughlin Boulevard to me standing over a wok in Barra de Navidad. But it has turned out to be a fortuitous one.

My condition will not go away. But, with the help of some techniques I learned from the Dragon Lady, I am a rather good cook.

I am going to enjoy the rest of the ride.


* -- My nod to Edward Albee, a favorite of my youth, from one of my favorite plays and movies.

where there never was a hill

Some stories never die. But physical landmarks do.

On 1 July 2017, I reported about a construction project in between Melaque and Barra de Navidad (eating el cerrito). Or, more accurately, a deconstruction project.

When the major north-south coastal highway was built in the 1970s, the portion through our little villages encountered an obstruction. An ancient hill of rock sits on the shore of the largest body of fresh water on the west coast of Mexico. The choice was to go around the hill or through it.

Fortunately for the engineers, there was an easy solution. A portion of the hill was a small finger. It was through the finger that the engineers built. Leaving the large hill to the north and a smaller portion to the south. El cerrito.

For years el cerrito rested unmolested. A small structure (now derelict) was built on top looking a bit like those pillboxes in Hawaii designed to halt the expected Japanese invasion. In its highest glory, it was designated a tsunami evacuation point for grade schoolers.

In the ten years I have lived here, it has been placed on the market several times. And rumors spread that it was to be developed as a small, but exclusive, resort or as a view home for the usual list of celebrities.

So, when construction equipment moved onto the hill, the rumor mill shifted into full gear. And, of course, I stoked the furnace myself.

It turns out the reality was far more mundane than anything the gossips could conjure up -- as is true with life. The equipment was there to turn the hill into a flat spot beside the road. It was nothing more than a gravel pit. Or rock quarry.

For the past year, dump trucks have been carting off the hill's body parts to parts unknown. The word is that the corpse is being dumped in the Marabasco River as part of a dike project. So much for Carlos Slim or Salma Hayek moving into the neighborhood.

People who have been away from the area for the past winter will not recognize that part of the road. It has been deleted just as effectively as the dictator Stalin eliminated Nikolai Yezhov, his top cop, from photographs -- not to mention life.

Last week I had breakfast with a group of expatriates. We are all of a certain age. And that age is a number you will not find on a roulette table. 

There were seven of us older guys. The man across the table from me asked if I had heard that a Bodega Aurrerá (a medium-sized discount store owned by Walmart) was going to be built there. I chuckled and asked if he had read that on our local message board. A wag friend had started the rumor. I asked if he had heard the one I started -- that a Costco was going to be built there?

The man sitting beside me, who I thought had been listening to our exchange (at least, he had been nodding and watching us while we talked) asked: "Have you heard a Bodega Aurrerá is going in there?" I chuckled at his joke.

But, I could tell by the confused look on his face that he was serious. For whatever reason, he had completely missed the details of our conversation.

Similar let's-start-over moments happened that morning. And I have noticed how frequently large parts of conversation seem to go missing these days.

There is no doubt age plays a part. The majority of the men at that breakfast table wear hearing aids -- for good reason.

The last time I was in The States, I went to two movies. Both times I sat near older couples. The husband would recurringly ask his wife: "What did she say?" or "Isn't that the same woman that died? Why is she alive?" or "Who is that?"

And it is not simply age. I have a friend who is still in his 20s who will interrupt my stories asking about something I just told him.

"Yesterday I was at Papa Gallo's in Melaque and I saw the strangest thing on the beach."

"Where were you?"

"Papa Gallo's."

"Where is that?"

"Melaque."

"What was on the beach."

"Never mind. I can't remember now."

There is no doubt, I may be partly to blame. I regularly dine with two different couples. Recently, I have noticed that the husbands tend to get glassy-eyed about two sentences into one of my fascinating anecdotes just seconds before their eyes start darting around like trapped animals.

Whether it is the age of my dining companions or my inherent boring nature, I do not know. But I fear my career as a raconteur may be drawing to a close.

Maybe the hill had the correct idea. After all, I have eked two full stories out of its dismemberment. Maybe I should follow its example as a body part shop.

The only problem with that career is that it would disprove my hook. Some stories actually do die.

grace notes

Life often offers us moments of joy. Free for the taking.

And if we are not humble enough to wait for them, we never know they were there.

Yesterday while I was picking up the detritus from the vines that add a bit of life to the patio, I glanced up and saw a giant swallowtail butterfly land on the screen door to my library. Butterflies are flighty creatures.

I wanted to dash into the bedroom and retrieve my good camera. But that would have meant sacrificing the moment for the possibility of photographing an empty screen door while the butterfly headed off to do a bit of pollinating.

So, I simply stood there. Admiring a rather tattered version of North America's largest butterfly. Anyone who has ever held a butterfly in his hand marvels at how fragile they are. It is no wonder part of its eponymous tail is missing. Probably munched by an over-eager gecko prowling in the night.

It was then that I noticed the painting of Professor Jiggs in the background. Jiggs was a big part of my life for 13 years. When he died during my first year in Villa Obregon, my artist friend Cor presented me with the portrait as a way to remember him.

Like everything we have experienced in life, old memories tend to get pushed to the rear of the closet. It was almost as if the butterfly had brought me a message. "Yes, I am beautiful, and thank you for noticing. But life is more than moments. It is also memories and dreams. And they all make you who you are."

Of course, the butterfly said no such thing. All of that was conjured up by the rather exotic counterpoint of my visitor and my old companion. And I was glad I looked up from my chores to enjoy the gift that nature gave me.

When Jiggs died in bed next to me, I was listening to Beth Nielsen Chapman's "Sand and Water." I didn't realize at the time how much that song has stuck with me until my encounter with the butterfly yesterday.

But it has. I cannot share any more of Jiggs's life with you. But I can share a song. And isn't that what friends are for? To sit upon the ground and tell tales of dead kings -- and to share a song.

money makes the words go round

I was patient. But it finally happened. Last night.

When I withdrew my weekly allowance from that marvelous invention, the ATM, I received a handful of Mexico's new 500 peso notes -- almost two weeks after they were first issued. But, our village tends to be something of a backwater when it comes to trends.

Because there have been plenty of news stories about the new notes, I was not surprised at their appearance. It is now blue with a portrait of Benito Juarez (often thought of as the Lincoln of Mexico because he ended slavery and survived a civil war) on the front.

The reverse is the more interesting to me -- for two reasons. It features a gray whale. I like money that celebrates animals. And, more importantly, it is an animal solely associated with Pacific Mexico. This side of the country is not often officially celebrated.

The current 500 peso note, containing the toad-like image of Diego Rivera on the front and Frida Kahlo on the back, has been around since 2010. I will not miss it. It is brown, just like the predecessor note featuring the hero of the Battle of Puebla, General Ignacio Zaragoza, that was first put in circulation in 1994.

You may notice something interesting about those dates. The first 500 peso note was around for 16 years. The Rivera-Kahlo note lasted only 8.

It turns out there is a reason for dumping Rivera in the dustbin of history. According to the Governor of the Bank of Mexico, there are two reasons for the change. The first surprised me. The 500 peso note is the most widely distributed of the Mexican notes. I would have thought it was the 20.

But the second reason makes more sense. It is also the most counterfeited note. That is why several new security measures have been added to the new 500s. Just looking at its face, it appears that it will be more difficult for counterfeiters. But they will find a way.

Some people have already begun kvetching about the fact that Juarez appears on both the 20 peso and 500 peso notes. The concern is not that he is hogging numismatic territory (after all, that German woman shows up on all British notes). Some people are worried that the blue Juarez 20 will be confused with the blue Juarez 500. The portraits are quite similar.

The Bank of Mexico points out the obvious. The two bills are different sizes. The 20 is plastic; the 500 is cotton paper. Each feels quite different.

Having said that, one reason the Susan B. Anthony dollar coin was pulled from circulation was because some Americans confused it with a quarter dollar coin.

There are makeovers in the works for other notes, as well. Next year a new 200 peso bill will be issued. It will featuring portraits of two heroes of the War for Independence from Spain -- Miguel Costilla y Hidalgo (who graced the Bicentennial 200 peso note) and José María Morelos (who is featured on the current 50 peso note).  El Pinacate Desert Biosphere Reserve will be on the reverse.

In 2020, a new 1000 peso note will be issued. Not that it matters to our villages. 1000 pesos are as rare here as reform politicians who actually try to stamp out corruption.

But, as unlikely as it is, should you receive a genuine note, it will honor three heroes of the Mexican Revolution, -- Francisco I. Madero, Carmen Serdán and Hermila Galindo on one side. Campeche’s Calakmul Biosphere Reserve will be on the reverse.

I come from a country where all currency is one color and the bills are the same size. It makes the wallet tidy. But I far prefer Mexico's system combining color and size to differentiate notes.

Of course, it does not matter what color and size they are, all money has a way of turning itself into goods and services.

But that is why it exists in the first place.

Those 500s were worth the wait. They are now gone.

it's harder to get into than fort knox

That is what we would say when we were kids.

Back when Fort Knox actually contained the wherewithal of America's gold standard and it made sense that Auric Goldfinger intended to penetrate it. Now, it contains a giant stack of Red Chinese IOUs.

That bit of nostalgia was occasioned by a box of bandaids I purchased at La Comer -- a major food chain in these parts -- to deal with some blisters on my feet.

I was running a bit late this morning in getting out the door for my morning walk. While hurriedly putting on my socks, I realized I had forgotten the bandaids. So, I rushed into the bathroom, grabbed the box, and sat on my bed -- thinking I was soon to be on the road.

I had not remembered one of the little frustrations of some Mexican purchases. The box was wrapped tighter than an Egyptian mummy with fiber packing tape. And, as I do every time, I struggled with the tape trying to pull it or the cardboard box apart. To no avail. With plenty of background mutters.

Eventually, I did what I should have first done, I retrieved a knife and cut through the tape. With bandaids applied, I started walking.

This was not my first encounter with taped merchandise here. Batteries are similarly trussed. A business owner told me he tapes his merchandise to cut down on theft. That if it is not taped, customers will open the package and put the contents in their pocket.

I understand the concept, but it seems it would be easier to stuff the whole box of bandaids or the full battery packet in a pocket rather than fiddling with opening it.

But he told me there was a second reason. Customers like to open packages to look at the contents. They then put the opened package back on the shelf, and other customers will not buy it because they are concerned something may be missing.

That makes more sense to me. I have purchased a tube of Pringles that was opened and about a third of the contents were missing. On another occasion, when I returned home with a pint of ice cream, I discovered the imprint of three fingers that had scooped out a nice portion of my vanilla treat.

And I have seen this happen more than once. A young mother will open a package of cookies, give one to her child and take one for herself. Either the child or she will make a face, and the opened package goes back on the shelf.

I now double check packaging to see if the universal excuse of I-was-tasting-only-one-grape might have been previously applied to my potential purchase.

Then there is the backpack and shopping bag issue. A lot of stores have security guards who will courteously divest you of both before allowing you to enter the store. About two years ago, my friend Doug and I went to Manzanillo with Abdul, the young son of my contractor. Each of us was wearing a small backpack.

When we entered the store, the security guard said nothing to Doug or to me. But he stopped Abdul and told him to leave his backpack.

For some reason, the Atticus Finch in me came raging to the surface. In mediocre Spanish mixed with rage, I demanded to know why the two old gringos were allowed to enter with their backpacks, but the young Mexican was not. I went so far as to accuse him of having no Mexican pride.

He eventually waved all three of us through. I felt almost Canadian in my moral stab at social injustice. But just for a moment. Abdul, who can speak passable English, said: "Güey! That was cool. He isn't liking me. Two weeks in the past. He caught me stealing here."

I was restored to my curmudgeon self.

Shoplifting is a major problem here. As it is in Canada and the United States. Up north, businesses are less likely to control it upon entry. The cost of theft is inevitably borne by the customer -- even if the business has insurance. Mexico is just a bit more up front with its attempt at enforcement.

That is not to say that some northern businesses do not do what Mexico does with some of its merchandise. Anyone who has ever bought a small item (say, razor blades) at Costco knows the additional plastic packaging that comes with the purchase. All designed to cut down on theft.

And the plastic is ten times more difficult to open than the tape. I read on the internet that there are 3 million amputation of fingers each year in The States caused by sharp shards of plastic packaging. And that must be true. It is on the internet. It was right next to the story that 7 million Americans died in Mexico in 2016. Who knew?

If it comes to requiring a pair of scissor to open my bandaid box in Mexico or needing a trip to the emergency room to reattach my ring finger in America, I am going to stay right here.

And people with backpacks can pick their own battle.