it's morning again in mexico

This is my favorite season in Mexico.

That may not be saying much.

If you search past essays of Mexpatriate, you will discover I have applied that description to almost every season, month, and week of the year. It is the equivalent of earning a gold star in kindergarten -- or, worse for an actor, a golden globe.

Each season here has its particular characteristics. Summer with its Wagnerian thunderstorms. Semana santa with its life-affirming Mexican tourists. Fall when the barcinos turn the surrounding hills into a passable impersonation of Davos.

But I have a particular fondness for these December mornings as the calendar slouches toward winter, if not Bethlehem. And it is one simple blessing that makes these December (and often January) mornings something special for me.

I am not very fond of heat. I have become far more tolerant of it after living here full-time for a dozen years. But I cannot yet say I enjoy it. Whenever I travel to less-tropical climes, I drink in as much cool weather as I can.

If I had to choose a place to live based solely on weather, I would want a place where the weather was consistently 55 degrees with overcast skies and drizzle. That may be why I thoroughly enjoyed living in Oxford. The weather was a true Mary Poppins -- practically perfect in every way.

I have never seen one of my perfect days here. But that is fine because I did not move here for the weather.

For about the past week, I have been sleeping with my bedroom door open to the patio. The temperatures have been comfortable enough that I do not need a fan sleeping on top of my bedspread.

This morning the temperature was 67 when I walked across the patio to the kitchen to brew up a pot of tea. I am now drinking it while I chat with you and listen to the village come to life. Birdsong. Buses gnashing gears. Cocks challenging cocks for territorial supremacy. What I call our morningsound.

I would enjoy those sounds even if the temperature was not as pleasant as it is. In the summer, I often wake up to days that start out in the low 80s, and the mornings are just as enjoyable with their combined heat and humidity.

In one week, I will be boarding a flight to Oregon to finish up some necessary family business that was left undone during my November visit. If I had the choice, I would not make the trip.

I was about to write that I will miss these cool mornings while I am gone. But I suspect Prineville will not surprise me with summer weather. Right now, it is 34 degrees there, heading to a high of 45. Nice shirt-sleeve weather. For me, at least. And there is no snow predicted. I am not fond of the stuff.

For now, though, I am spending the morning on the patio writing and reading.

My tea has gone cold. I need to head back into the kitchen to brew another pot.

It was nice chatting. I hope you are enjoying a similar pleasant morning -- no matter where you are.


Note -- Photograph courtesy of Chuy through Susan Fanshaw.
 

sleeping with heat

Things happen rapidly here in Mexico.

I know that flies in the face of stereotypes some northerners have imposed on Mexico. The peon in white pajamas, sandals, and a serape sleeping propped up in the shade of a cactus while his burro waits patiently nearby is so ubiquitous that Mexicans have turned it into a sardonic joke by selling tourists salt and pepper shakers of the bucolic scene.

There is only one problem. There is not a shred of truth in it. It is true that my neighbors (especially in the summer heat) do eat a big meal at 2 and then take a rest. But that is only because they are readying themselves for the rest of the work day that can last until 9 or 10.

There is no better example of that industriousness than construction sites. Almost everything is done by hand. Including lugging pails of concrete along a work gang that must finish pouring a roof in only one afternoon.

Earlier this summer, I told you about the construction of a new OXXO store in my neighborhood (does that translate to hugs and kisses?; hugs and kisses; not ready for prime time). I was amazed how quickly it grew out of the ground.

But, one thing baffled me. Why was it built so deep into the residential neighborhood? It turns out, my Mexican neighbors have been shopping there a lot. A large number with credit cards. But, most OXXOs thrive on tourist trade. And there has been just a trickle of that.

I should not have been surprised. When I bought the house, it was on the eastern edge of Barra de Navidad. Since then, the neighborhood has grown. New houses. A restaurant. A bakery. An indoor football field built outside. A beach wear shop that morphed into a gift shop then an abarrote and is now a carnitas stand. The only construction that seems stalled is a storage-retail enterprise that re-starts construction only when the Canadian owner is in town.

Ours is a dynamic Mexican neighborhood. The type of place my anti-tradition friend Maria in Mexico City believes represents the true spirit of Mexico.

And I think I now know why that OXXO is where it is. I was correct that it was built as a tourist magnet. I just did not know from where the source of tourists would come. I do now.

When I returned from San Miguel de Allende, I noticed men laying out lines of lime on the empty lots across the street from the hardware store on Nueva España, the main street a block south of my house. My brother was a contractor. So, I knew what was about to happen. A new building was on its way. I just did not know what kind.

On Monday, a backhoe was digging footings. Large footings. I asked him if it was a house or a business. He told me: "It is a hotel."

That seemed odd. I walked across the street to talk with Sergio, the hardware man. He seems to know most everything about construction in the neighborhood. He said the same thing. A hotel.

Now, "hotel" can mean all kinds of establishments. I am quite certain that it is not a Four Seasons all-inclusive resort. This is Barra de Navidad and the footprint is too small.

But, there are lots of other possibilities. A boutique hotel to rival those in New York's Soho? A set of bungalows for families? Maybe a hot-sheet love motel similar to the one that squats over Felipe's wall in the highlands?

I have no idea. Even though I am intrigued with the idea of one of Mexico's love nests settling down in my neighborhood. It would certainly spice up the character of the street.

Instead, we will probably get the Mexican equivalent of a Motel 6. And that will also be fine. We have a carnitas stand, a bakery, a restaurant, an Oxxo, and in indoor football field built outdoors to keep our new visitors amused.

Who could ask for anything more than that for a visit to the beach?

And if you think that is enough, here is Madonna with one of Stephen Sondheim's derivative ditties to convince you otherwise.

trimming my sails

When our local Oxxo opened up two blocks from my house last year, I wondered who the target market would be (does that translate to hugs and kisses?).

Barra de Navidad is not a big village. Three to four thousand -- depending on your source. That number, of course, is augmented throughout the year with tourists from Mexico, the other two-thirds of North America, and the odd European and South American.

But this would be the fourth convenience store in Barra. The other three (two Oxxos and a Kiosko) are in the core of the tourist haven of centro. But the latest Oxxo was well out of the amble-room of most tourists.

As it turns out, even though the new Oxxo is frequented by tourists of all variety, its bread-and-butter business is from my Mexican neighbors. They primarily use Oxxo's financial services (transferring money, paying utility bills, recharging telephones). But, they also treat it as if it were a tienda de abarrotes, buying beer, soda, snacks, toilet paper, or cleaning supplies. Or just seeking refuge from the summer heat in the air-conditioning.

I quickly discovered, though, that my analysis proceeded from a false assumption. I do not think of this part of Barra as being part of the tourist milieu. I should have known better by the number of eateries that have popped up recently within four blocks of my house. The tourist habitat is expanding.

And, as I told you last September (sleeping with heat), we are getting a hotel in the neighborhood as part of that same process. Or, at least, that is what I was told when the footings were being dug. Looking at its size, bearing the grand title "hotel" may be a bit more-sombrero-than-cabras than it can bear. Bungalow may be more accurate.

Whatever it is to be called, it is almost ready to receive guests. When construction started thirteen months ago, I thought it might be ready for the northern season last winter. It wasn't.

But it looks as if it will be ready this month. When I saw paint being slapped on its façade late last week, I suspected the Veuve Clicquot must be on ice. 

The foreman verified my suspicions -- about the readiness, not the champagne. The building should be ready before the feast of Guadalupe arrives.

An acquaintance asked me last year how I felt about all of this development in the neighborhood. I really had not thought about it. She said she would be a little upset if she had bought a house thinking it would have a certain atmosphere, and then some developer had ruined it all.

So, I gave it a little thought. I did not feel the least bit upset by the changes. And then I realized I had not bought the house with any real expectation in mind. I did not buy it as an investment. I did not buy it as a bit of unchanging paradise. I bought it because I liked its lines -- and my neighbors are Mexican. Neither of those things has changed with the arrival of a boutique hotel, family-run pozole and taco stands, and a boutique hotel.

I cannot remember who said: "The art of life lies in a constant readjustment to our surroundings." It sounds as if it came out of a cookie at Chang's. And it may have.

But even the most inane thought can hide a bit of wisdom. And that one does.

If a captain of a sailboat rails against the wind like some modern King Lear, his journey will be over. That is why the gentle art of tacking was developed -- to let us survive on the seas, and to learn how to deal with changed circumstances in our lives.

I moved to Mexico to experience daily challenges. So, bring them on. I am trimming my sails.     

a travel log in search of an editor

[Note: I decided to publish my travel journal even though it contains information a bit more personal than I would usually discuss in a public forum. But I have decided I will simply be as open as I can in discussing this journey. So, here it is: the journal of my first trip to Mexico to look at houses -- along with a few pictures.]

29 November 2007

Left Portland on a very uneventful flight to Los Angeles. Very full flight, but it went quickly and uneventfully. The flight to Manzanillo was only about half full and quite rough at spots. Manzanillo has a very small airport. In a matter of minutes, we were through Customs. I then had my first gringo-Mexican moment. A Canadian family was trying to book a taxi, but they were surprised at the cost -- by the way, the father was one of the most arrogant Canadians I have ever seen. But he was outdone by another Canadian who immediately started “negotiating” loudly – and aggressively -- in passable Spanish with the fellow on the taxi desk. The two groups combined forces and took two taxis -- paying exactly what the taxi guy had originally proposed. And the Canadians thought they had won. (Personal note. I love Canadians. I regularly sail in Canadian waters, and I have always found them to be the most polite and gracious people in the world. I count these two experiences as being mere anomalies.) Lesson one: Listen before you start arguing. Defensiveness is not a good way to learn a new culture.

I then arranged for a taxi to La Manzanilla. The driver spoke no English. But we communicated in our own broken languages – with bad pantomime.

The taxi ride was about an hour through the type of country I had learned to expect from reviewing the internet -- coconut palms and bananas everywhere.

My first impression of La Manzanilla was that it was a little more tawdry than I had expected -- and that was silly because it looks just like the pictures I had seen on line.

My apartment at Brisas del Mar was perfect for my needs. It had a full kitchen – and I used only the microwave and the refrigerator.

The weather. That was the first thing I noticed when leaving the airport in Manzanillo. It is hot and humid. I did not see a thermometer, but the forecast was for 85 -- and it felt at least that hot. I noticed on the drive to La Manzanilla that the temperature in the surrounding hills was noticeably cooler. I changed into shorts and a fresh shirt and walked through the village in the evening cool. The beach is everything that it is advertised to be. I started at the south end and walked through a group of fishing boats tied up on the beach. This is not a place that would please OSHA. Collapsed sidewalks (from the flooding in September, I suspect) and lines across the beach call for constant vigilance. We used to call that “paying attention.” I then walked through a portion of the village out the main highway to see if I could see the houses I saw on line. (I did not see them.)

I should have stopped to buy some food at one of the local stores, but I allowed the language issue to arise. Lesson number two: Living here is supposed to be an adventure. And you cannot have an adventure unless you are brave enough to try. I eventually did, but I still need to get back to studying my Spanish before I make my next trip.

I was so tired that I went to bed at 9:30 (7:30 home time) without supper. I would like to say that I slept well. I did not. But I do not sleep well in new beds. I suppose that plus I had a headache and Mexico can be real noisy. I could hear yelling through the evening and the church bells are right next to my balcony. But I did get some rest.

30 November

A great morning. I got up and took a few pictures from my balcony. Beautiful. La Manzanilla will never be noted for its architecture, but it does have great charm. Right now I am looking at two small domes that could be from Mykonos.

The insects have not been bad. When I went for a walk last night, I noticed that a hole in my deck shoes had allowed something to bite me on the side of my left foot. I saw lizards on the roof of the balcony, a few moths, and some small ants eating a dead moth, but that has been about it. I am surprised -- being this close to a mangrove lagoon.

I am sitting about 4 blocks away from the beach, but I can hear the whisper (literally) of the surf. The waves are so small that they barely break on the shore.

I am heading out for breakfast and to meet the real estate salesman.

But, lest I forget. Noise. I was greeted by a sound this morning that I knew about but had yet to experience: a chorus of roosters. There was one champion who could be heard through the entire valley. At 8:30, they were still crowing. And I quickly came to love the sounds of the roosters, the gas and water trucks with their loud speakers, and the general commotion of a village that was truly alive.

I was also hit with a bout of scenery stare this morning. I had pulled out a magazine to read. I sat down and looked out at the ocean. I soon realized I had just spent an hour staring with the magazine on my chest. I think I could do that full time.

I met the realtor after having breakfast at a family Mexican restaurant (huevos rancheros, fresh milk -- probably not pasteurized, and fresh tortillas -- all delicious and for 40 pesos). He came down from Malibu about 7 years ago. He has that hip surfer look.

We looked at the ocean view house I liked on line. It was disappointing. Great views, but the interior is cramped. But it was better than the other house I wanted to see. The second house was completely overgrown by the jungle with no true view. That can be fixed. But the house is little more than a shack. Too small even for a downsized retirement. It has some major maintenance issues (with slippage) as does the first house. I then looked at another house -- no true ocean view -- except on the roof. It would take a great deal of work to renovate -- and it is new. I may be better off looking at a piece of property and building.

My biggest concern is still the ejido land issue. I feel very uneasy about buying property in the name of other people -- especially if it does increase in value.

This afternoon does not feel as warm as yesterday. I walked north to the lagoon entrance to see the crocodiles. And they are right there. One was basking next to a restaurant.

And I slept. The siesta has to be one of the Mediterranean’s greatest contributions to western civilization. Hot afternoons are not designed for doing business.

The realtor invited me to his office after hours for an informal gathering. I also met a the fellow who bought the house that first caught my eye on the internet and introduced me to La Manzanilla. He is originally from London, but has lived all over the world -- most recently in Virginia City. I also met the wife of a minister who runs an English-speaking church in Melaque, and a couple from Canada who are in the Spanish immersion course here. They will be renting in La Manzanilla in the near future -- with the realtor’s assistance. La Manzanilla appears to have no dearth of interesting people.

I bought a can of refritos for dinner and ate it with some potato chips and Coke light -- hardly the high life. I am going to the roof to look at the stars and then head to bed. And the stars were perfect. No moon. Nothing but the Milky Way -- and Mars. (Now, I sound like a candy commercial.)Tomorrow, I look at another house.

1 December

What a glorious day. I had trouble sleeping last night, but somewhere around 4 I fell asleep and slept until 9:30. After all, it is a vacation. Even the skim milk tastes very good down here -- fresh.

The house I saw today was not quite what I had expected. The lawn has gone bad -- and I do not expect to see landscaped lawns at the beach -- especially with the informal look of the neighbors’ yards. The house has some very nice features, but it simply did not hit the spot with me. There is a beautiful roof view, but a cell tower is in everyone’s way on the north side of the village.

The realtor told me that a multicultural center in a condo complex is going on the market for $150,000, but it would require massive work. [It turns out that the place has listed for $195,000 – far too much.] I walked through it imagining a number of creative options, but it would be an expensive proposition.
The realtor then took me to another house. I have seen it online, but it did not look very interesting. It has no ocean view and the yard is not landscaped. However, it has a great valley view and the house is certainly functional. It is at the end of a road next to a very expensive hotel complex -- so there will be tranquility. (I just noticed that I can see the dome of the house from my balcony.) I would not have believed it, but it has possibilities for a very great garden. The danger is water runoff from the jungle during the rainy season. And the deep ruts in the road in front of the house are the best evidence of how forceful the runoff can be.

I had a great comida at Jolanda’s -- Indonesian pork over rice with pickled beets.

The weather has been perfect today. I have been able to see everything on the bay all day long. Even though hot and humid, there is a pleasant breeze -- and time for a nap.

But no nap. Instead, I read a bit and joined the realtor and the two Canadians (a delightful couple -- just as I expect Canadians to be) at the office for the sunset celebration. The Canadians left for Puerto Vallarta and another Canadian stopped by. Her luggage had been delayed in Los Angeles and she needed a key to her house. We had dinner at Coco Loco -- a new Italian restaurant -- where I was very original in ordering a pepperoni pizza. But it was good for two more breakfasts. I wandered around La Manzanilla trying to take night pictures. I have no people studies as of yet. Those always feel so intrusive. To bed.

2 December

Another night of no early sleep, but I did sleep in. The day was not as clear, but I ate my pizza and struck out to the campo to look at the house I had come to like. I did get some interesting neighborhood shots. The walk back to the village is an easy one if I decide to buy the house. I need to weigh the pros and cons.

I had lunch at Lora Loka where I met the father of our waiter at Coco Loco. It turns out that they are both archaeologists. The son is a Sumerian expert; the father is an Egyptologist. I gave the father my current National Geographic with a short article on mummies. He cooked up a nice paella with a piece of peach pie with chocolate sauce. He leaves for New York tomorrow to renew his visa. What a great opportunity to share a hobby interest. La Manzanilla looks better all the time.

I strolled around the square this evening, but I am still struggling with the heat. Even walking slowly, I started sweating as if I had been at the gym for an hour. As I sit here writing this, I am still dripping. The archaeologist said that he leaves every summer due to the heat. I just noticed that the usual breeze is not as pronounced tonight. (I should have tried the ocean today. I need to do that before I leave.)

3 December

I thought today was a bit more humid than normal. Looking at the haze on the ocean, I must be correct. But who is to know here? I doubt too many people track such things. The weather is as the weather is; it was like yesterday, but more like it is today.

I walked out to the house today (it is now The House) and talked to the next door neighbor. He is retired from Canada living here full time. I had a very good conversation about the internet, paving the street, buying houses, and how La Manzanilla is growing. It turns out that there are a number of Canadians who are building in that portion of the neighborhood. As a result, there is a mix of national and social factors at play. I have no doubt that I could fit in. (I have not mentioned one concern. When the arroyo seco floods during the rainy season, that portion of town is cut off from the rest. I am not certain how people get around the river.)

And the heat. I had trouble sleeping last night. Too much caffeine? Too much noise? I am not certain, but I got by fine today without a nap.

While at the house, I took a quick trip through a trail in the jungle. I think the land belongs to El Tamarindo -- an exclusive resort -- but I did not find a fence. Nor did I spot any jungle animals other than some rather healthy spiders with webs that seem to be made of teflon.

The animals I did discover were two dogs I befriended on my first trip. They belong to the neighbors. Professor Jiggs (my dog) would not be happy. This is not a spot for him.

I saw another house today in town. Very nice view, but expensive. The best thing about the house is the view, but it could be lost to more building.

I ate lunch at Jolanda’s -- the Dutch-owned restaurant that specializes in Asian food. So, off to bed. Tomorrow the bus to Barra.

4 December

I did not sleep soundly, but I was up at 7:30 to catch the 8:30 bus to Barra de Navidad to look at houses there. I went to the zócalo where two local workmen helped me find the correct bus.

The ride to Barra was not bad. I had an open window that provided a nice breeze, and I got to see things I missed on the taxi ride in.

I stopped by the realty office in Barra . Our email exchange gave both the realtor and me an idea of what to expect. She reviewed some listings with me and we went to see them in her car.

I had seen the first two on line. The first has never impressed me. The pool is in the front yard -- right next to the parking place. The living room and kitchen are now enclosed in glass. When I first saw them, they were open. The kitchen is very primitive without appliances – with space only for a small stove. Two bedrooms (including the master) are on the first floor with two bathrooms and a laundry room -- with bat issues. The third bedroom is upstairs with a nice tile terrace. There are three beds in that room with a bathroom. That bedroom should be the master bedroom. A little work could dress up the house nicely, but it is already priced over $200 K.

The second house was Casa Riley -- right across from the house that sold that was my original interest. It is an older home at a good price, but it shows its age. It has a hot tub, though, a good selling point for me. It also has a full apartment on the roof. The kitchen is small -- and essentially part of the living room. I have noticed that is a theme in many Mexican homes.

The third home is not one of the realtor’s listings. It is “for sale by owner” built by a Canadian and his wife. They build and turn -- and this house is almost complete. It is fascinating, but eccentric. It was designed by a well-known Barra architect -- Alejandro. Everything curves in the house. It has a nice kitchen. Once again, the dining, living, and kitchen areas meld together. There is a very nice laundry area with a “forest” accent. The back yard could be an excellent garden. The builders have a good sense for what grows well. (I would find a place for a hot tub somewhere.) The really unusual feature in the back yard is what fills the rest of the yard -- the master suite -- a very nice bedroom and bath setup with a partially-outdoor shower. I cannot remember now if there are 1 or 2 bedrooms on the second level. I do know there is a great study on the north side of the house. On the south, there is a small palapa that looks out onto the street -- with a limited ocean view. On the north is a narrow terrace that overlooks the garden. The terrace has a metal spiral stair case leading to the roof. The roof is just a flat roof. But is has slight ocean views -- for now. There are two empty lots to the west -- one is for sale by the same builder -- and he is willing to deal.

I like this house a lot. It is a bit too dark inside. There may be several reasons for that -- one being the furniture setup.

I really like the builders. Both are very active in the realtor’s nondenominational church. (I met the pastor’s wife in La Manzanilla several evenings back.) She has a dream of teaching Bible studies in Spanish. She lost part of her right arm in a terrible accident on a trip down from Canada. Their truck flipped. But she is an incredibly active person -- as evidenced by the garden and her dreams.

I am tempted to purchase the house and the lot. I could afford an additional house payment until I retire. At that point, I would need to sell my home in Salem or make other arrangements. Of course, that works only so long as I am working. The only advantage in moving early is that if I want to live in either Barra or La Manzanilla, I should consider moving quickly. I have watched prices increase. So far, the housing problem in the states does not appear to be having an effect here.

I had lunch with the realtor at Casa Senorina, a new establishment I have seen on line. The lunch was good and the realtor had some interesting insights about life in Barra. I was correct in believing that she will be a major source in navigating through life in Barra.

I walked around Barra. It was as I expected. There are more paved streets than in La Manzanilla, but the shops are similar. Nothing big, but adequate.

I missed the last bus to La Manzanilla and had to hire a cab that turned out to be more expensive than my dinner tonight at Coco Loco: shrimp sautéed in white wine sauce. It was superb. Lesson number three: Buses are on time. Taxis are too expensive when buses are available.

I need to choose between La Manzanilla and Barra. I just realized tonight that La Manzanilla reminds me of Powers and Barra of Seaside. Making that choice will help. Every time I mention Pátzcuaro, everyone here -- not surprisingly -- complains that it is cold. A restaurant host added a new observation that I think I have heard before: there seems to be some sort of odd depression in Pátzcuaro. Perhaps, they are more reserved than coast people. He found it weird. I guess there is only one way to find out -- go there.

This has been the best day so far. I am beginning to feel the project pulling together. If I buy the house along with the lot, the lot would be a great place for my brother to build -- or it would be a nice spot for more garden.

5 December

I was almost uncertain of the date. This has been my first day of full relaxation -- and I did almost nothing. Last night seemed a bit cooler. I slept well.

I walked up the beach as far as I could go. The beach is justifiably famous for its beauty. It was easy to walk about. And there were all types of shore birds. There are some very expensive houses along the beach (something about the foolish man and sand) with several lots for sale. Right across the street is the lagoon -- where I found plenty of no-see-ums and mosquitoes. (The mosquitoes found me on the deck last night. I have at least three good bites.) And then I had a very odd experience. I just missed getting beaned by a coconut. As I jumped out of the way, I felt something hit my neck. I walked on, but decided to take off my shirt to see if I had picked up something. I had: a leaf hopper disguised to look like a thorn. I took a couple pictures and moved on. I saw a hawk-like bird catch a rodent and what I think was a pair of evening grosbeaks.

The beach road ends up at the washed out bridge over the beach end of the lagoon. I had the fun experience of walking within feet of a large sleeping crocodile. I then saw my first pileated woodpecker. As I was watching it, a crocodile near the shore must have caught my scent and started stalking. I kept my eye on him because we were separating by a fence that appeared to have the consistency of chicken wire.

I took the afternoon off -- reading, checking in with the office, napping.

Tonight I ate at a great restaurant -- Martin’s. The special was dorado in a mustard sauce. I decided to brave it – because fish is not my favorite food. Extremely good.

Tomorrow I will need to talk to the realtor about one last look at the house on the edge of the jungle. I may also ask to look at the ocean view house.

6 December

A lazy day. I slept in and then sat on the deck most of the morning. When I went out, I intended to have breakfast. Instead, I stopped bythe realtor’s office for a discussion on purchasing ejido land. He has some ideas of putting together a deal. We will have dinner tonight at Café de Flores.

I did not eat breakfast. Instead, I walked over to the house -- again looking around the neighborhood. Even though the neighborhood is primitive, that is one of its charms. When I arrived at the house, a man was there weeding. I assume he was the owner, but we could not communicate with one another, once again, due to my lack of Spanish skills. So, I walked back to the village where I spent the afternoon on my blackberry -- as well as reading and snoozing. This has hardly been an exhausting visit.

I had dinner with the realtor at Café des Flores -- seafood lasagna with alfredo sauce. It was good. We talked a good deal about life in a rather college dorm manner -- including the inevitably of a Ron Paul presidency. (That gives an idea how connected with reality we were.) We also touched a bit on the process of buying ejido land. Between the borrowed name and lack of title, I am not certain this is the place to buy. But I want to show both places to my mother and brother – perhaps in January or February.

I have packed what I can for my flight tomorrow. If I can sleep, I would like to get up early enough to walk around town and perhaps actually have a dip in the ocean.

7 December

I did not get up early, but early enough. I waded in the ocean and took a walk along the beach. I stopped at the restaurant where I had breakfast my first day in La Manzanilla. It was great.

I then finished packing, walked down the steep hiking trail that passes for a driveway, and caught a taxi to the Manzanillo Airport. One thing I will need to adjust to is Mexican driving. No distance is left between faster and slower cars. The next trip down, I will need to rent a car and get a feel for playing in a bit part in the drama that is Mexican transportation.

I was three hours early for my flight. To kill some time, I decided to sit in the café and have lunch. Most of my fellow diners were either Canadians or Americans -- slightly older than I am. But I felt that there was a wide cultural gulf opening. One group was having a discussion whether Taco Bell was better than the Mexican food they ate during their week in Manzanillo. They concluded Taco Bell was better because the taco shells are crisp. I decided that weeping was not an option on my part.

A second group -- two couples -- treated the waitress like dirt (at least, the women did). And then they started talking as if they were the only people in the restaurant. Loud. Simultaneous. No wonder most Canadians and Americans find Mexicans to be shy. We tromp through the world like herds of elephants -- oblivious to our own actions. I am not even certain they realized what they were doing. I suspect I may be guilty of the same sins.

After eight days of thinking through this process, I know the following:
1. I should not retire before January 2009.
2. However, I could afford to buy a home before retiring – even though it would change my deferred compensation plans.
3. If I decide to rent when I move to Mexico, my lessons learned could stop here. I would simply leave Salem in 2009 and head to Mexico.
4. That would be fine if I had some idea on what will happen to the Mexican housing market. It appears to be steadily rising -- any Californian in 2005 would have said the same. All of the arguments for buying and renting in retirement are the same in Mexico as they are in the United States.
5. If I decide to buy in July 2009, I can deal with financing at that point.
6. If I decide to buy now, I will need to figure out a financial strategy.
7. Then I need to decide what to do with my Salem house.

Plenty of questions to discuss.

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." 

birds of a feather

Some say it was six inches.  Others, over nine.

Either way, we had plenty of rain in Melaque during the past 24 hours -- almost a quarter of the annual rain in my old sloshing grounds of Salem, Oregon.  And when it rains like that, my Melaque neighbors do not slosh through our streets during the rainy season.  We row.

The laguna in back of my house is a natural wetland.  With all of the wildlife joys that accompanies a body of water.

But it is also a potential flood threat.  Think of it as a dammed river.  The water flows down from the mountains and collects in the laguna.  The laguna rises.  If it were not for the intervening hand of man, I would be sleeping with the crocodiles.  Literally.

During most summers, the laguna is opened several times to release water.  That means breaching the sand dunes that block the water from entering the Pacific.  And when the dues are breached (drained and dirty), the water rushes out faster than a flushed toilet -- pulling the water hyacinth and lots of wildlife with the flow.

My neighbor Bill told me the dunes were breached early on Sunday.  By the time I got out there, my pond was empty and most of the surface plants were gone. 

After attending church, I headed to the beach -- expecting to see the tangle of plants I saw last year (flushing the loo-guna) when the flotsam on the beach was nearly a foot thick and several feet wide.

This is all I saw yesterday.  Pretty tame.

Maybe the rest of the plants washed up on some other beach.  If they did, we will hear about it.  After all, our bay is about to be invaded by tourists celebrating Independence Day.  They do not need to be turned off by piles of laguna plants.

When the beach is breached, my neighbors take advantage of our new circumstances.  Families comb amongst the weeds for fish, snails, or river shrimp.

Our skim board boys even get a taste of surfing as the laguna water rushes into the ocean waves and tide -- giving a far more adventurous ride than our usual bone-crushing waves.

These two boys have managed to combine two sports.  While swimming in the strong current, they saw a small crocodile that sent their companions scurrying to shore.

These brave lads took the opposite tack by trying to capture the crocodile -- to return it to the safety of the laguna.  It escaped their grasp.

The lowered water level also attracts new varieties of wildlife.  This odd grouping of birds gathered on the opposite side of the laguna.  The mud flats offered a veritable avian buffet of crabs, snails, and clams.

The white morph of the Great Blue Heron, the Great Egret, and the Snowy Egret are regular visitors.  The Roseate Spoonbill and the Wood Stork are not.  And almost never in this type of gathering.

In a comment yesterday, Patzman may have unraveled one of the mysteries of why I live where I do.

I think I have figured out why the heat/humidity hasn't driven you to the highlands.  The tropics contain a lot more critters than the highlands.  As you are a 9 year old (at heart), going on ?, the critters keep your interest. What 9 year old critter hunter was ever stopped by heat and humidity?

Well, not this one. 

I looked at a house today that may be going on the market in the next year.  I did not pay as much attention to the house as to the nests of crocodiles, turtles, and iguanas in the back yard that leads down to the laguna.

I may have hit on a theme here.

to air is human

Some preconceptions take time to be eroded away by facts.

I brought a carpetbag of notions with me when I moved permanently to Mexico in 2009. And I was foolish enough to write an essay on the thirteen factors I would use to find a place to live. If you are interested, they were:

• university nearby
• archaeological sites within driving distance
• central location for other archaeological sites
• warm, sunny days; cool nights
• new acquaintances -- some with a love of food
• the challenge of a new language
• time to read; time to learn; time to rest
• daily learning to survive
• facing mountains of difficulties -- and being repeatedly crushed
• long walks with Professor Jiggs before breakfast and after sunset
• living outside of a car
• offering help to others
• graciously accepting help from others

You do not need to read too far into that list to realize that, by buying a house in Barra de Navidad, I either ignored my own desires or I changed my mind -- or maybe both.

The "warm sunny days, cool nights" is half right -- even though "warm" and "cool" are adjectives not often used here. "Hot" is.

I suppose because I was looking for cool nights, I never seriously considered air conditioning. Fans, cold showers, and a pool carried me through seven summers.

For some reason this summer has been different. A lot of it has to do with Barco. Even a golden retriever born in Mexico is still a golden retriever and is not well-equipped to deal with our summer heat.

So, I finally broke down and decided to put air conditioning in my bedroom. I told you about it in weather or not.

On Thursday, the installer (Gabby) showed up with the ordered equipment, and we did a quick review of my bedroom. I was a little surprised when he told me I would need to install a door between my bedroom and bathroom, and that I would need to enclose two openings that repeat the architectural lines of the house.

When I told him that was not going to happen because I wanted to retain the lines, he informed me that would be fine, but I would need a larger compressor. That sounded like a great solution -- even though it doubled the price of the job from $7,000 (Mx) to $14,000 (Mx). Still a bargain at $740 (US). It would also mean waiting until Monday for relief.

Gabby worked magic and called me this morning to tell me the equipment had arrived. And I could be cool by nightfall.

All went well. The plumbing the builder of the house had installed was easily found. The compressor was hoisted on top of the pavilion above my bedroom and matched up perfectly with the installed plumbing.

It was all going too well. There had to be at least one major muffler-detaching tope in the road. And there was. Electricity.

None of the breakers in my two boxes carried power to the area over my bedroom. With a little bit of ingenious re-wiring, a circuit was created -- without a breaker. The breaker will be installed on Monday.

But the good news is I now have air conditioning. Barco is curled up like a sled dog -- just as sleeping golden retrievers should look, instead of sprawled on he floor like road kill.

And, for the first time in this area, I actually feel cool enough to have a good night's sleep.

weather or not

Something seems to be amiss with the weather this year.

At dinner on Monday, Ed, Roxane, and I were talking about the lack of hurricanes this summer -- even tropical storms. They simply have not been directly affecting our little villages.

What caught out attention is that there have now been thirteen named Pacific storms this season, but none have threatened our bucolic shores. Lester, who is now barreling down on the Hawaiian islands, was spawned off the coast of Mexico. Apparently, it had a mind to wreak havoc on higher priced land.

When we are not calling it the hellishly hot season, summer's well-earned title is the wet season. The problem is it has not been very wet this year.

One of the pleasures of past summers has been the rain that would fall a couple of times a week temporarily relieving us of the type of humidity that is just short of waterboarding. At night, it can feel as if someone has wrapped a hot, wet towel around my head.

I can recall only two rainstorms this year that are worthy of the name. We have had a few sprinkles now and then, but almost no gully-washers.*

That is one reason I have succumbed to the siren call of air conditioning. At least, for my bedroom. Barco is struggling with the afternoon heat. If I am home, he has his nose pressed as close as he can to my floor fan.

The installer was here this morning taking some measurements. He will be back tomorrow afternoon with his crew to install a system -- with the compressor resting on the roof.  All that for $7,000 (Mx). About $370 (US).

I now have the pool for daytime cooling -- and will have air conditioning for sleeping. It will be far better than waiting on the rains to break the heat.


* -- We are not yet out of the weather woods. Our big hurricane last year (Patricia) did not show up until late October. That orange X, off the coast of Guatemala, on the hurricane map may bring us some joy -- or terror. With storms, you never know what you are going to get.

flying with hef

People who fly for the quality of airline food are the same people who read Playboy for the articles.

That pearl of wisdom came to me while flying high above the Atlantic. I was reading Hugh Hefner’s obituary in The Economist. The cabin steward delivered my full English breakfast just as I was reading: “Hef in his dotage would retie his silk dressing gown, shuffle into his velvet slippers and get one of his nubile assistants to adjust his hearing aid, since too much Viagra – ‘the fountain of youth’ – had made him deaf.”

Now, that is a sentence with punch.

I could not say the same thing for my breakfast. Or my chateaubriand last night. Even though I flew first class from Mexico City to London, in-flight meals are subject to the “Playboy for the articles” rule. If you want good food, you do not book a seat on British Airways. You book a table at Noma in Copenhagen.

The only true luxury of flying international first class is the seat. The Mexico City-London leg of my trip was just over nine hours in the air. Too long to stay awake the whole trip -- especially, on a night flight.

I have trouble sleeping on aircraft. For a pilot, that is a virtue. For a passenger, it is an annoyance.

I cannot sleep sitting up. And, if I am to avoid wandering the aisles in the night like an air-borne Lost Dutchman, I need a seat that flattens into a bed. That means a first class seat -- along with a duvet and black pajamas that look as if they are from Viet Cong war surplus.

That is the theory. And, it usually works just as it should. But, not last night.

Because a few older passengers complained the first class cabin was “freezing,” the purser stoked the heat to what my father called “cremate.”

They slept. I didn’t. I sweated. Until I started wandering the aisles like -- you guessed it -- an air-borne Lost Dutchman.

After a quick layover in London, I was on my flight to Copenhagen. And that is where I am now.

It is evening, and I have met up with my friends Nancy and Roy. I am ready for bed. But not before I share just one more thought.

One of these days the crankiness that comes with old age will most likely catch up with me. Maybe it has already. Until then, I am going to keep the airlines in shekels and the flight attendants in stitches.

As for Hef and his Viagra-induced deafness, everything has a cost.

Even travel.

a comet tale

Some people are morning people. Others are night people. I am both.

Or, I once was. My usual pattern, until a couple of months ago, was to get to bed around 2 in the morning and then get up around 6. There was, Of course, a nap tucked in during the afternoon.

That pattern was set when I was in college and worked a late shift at the bank. Well, without the nap back then. Napping at twenty-something would have been sure evidence of sloth.

My recent bout of "head colds" this month and last March seem to have re-set my sleeping patterns. I still get to bed around 2, but I am now sleeping in until 9 or so.

I suppose it really does not matter. I know the reason: the colds have left me feeling more fatigued than my years would allow. Or maybe it is the combination of age and these minor bouts with viruses.

The effect is that I am now missing Mexican mornings. And I do mean "miss." I miss the birds threatening one another, the strange yellows and pinks at sunrise, and the sounds and smells of my neighbors as they begin their days and the aroma of their breakfasts fill the day. Each morning is a unique combination worth experiencing.

But what I am missing most is the opportunity to witness one of nature's most fascinating creations -- a comet. To be more precise C/2020 F3. Or its more common Matrixesque moniker -- Neowise.
Neowise shows up in our northeastern skies just before dawn. If that is too early for you night folk, it will soon be showing up in the northwestern sky just after sunset.

There is one caveat. Comets are fickle performers. A lot of us have been disappointed with the lackluster stellar performances of past comets. Yes. I am talking about you, Halley's Comet. And don't think we don't remember your world-class fizzle, Kohoutek.

Comets are fragile objects made up of rock, dust, gases, and ice. That is why they are often called "dirty snowballs." It is also why comets often just fall apart as they approach the sun. They do not do well with high temperatures.

If comets survive their encounter with the sun, they often develop a longer tail as some of the comet's material sloughs off from the heat. That is what happened to Neowise when it swung past the sun on 3 July. It now has a rather pavoine tail.

The chances are that the night people will eventually have the best view of the comet. It appears that the comet will survive its visit to our solar system. But, you need to get out there and see it soon. It will not stamp its passport for another visit for another 6800 years.

And, if you choose the evening, you will always have an opening act of some of the most colorful sunsets in the world.

Something both morning and night people can enjoy.    

showers of blessing

Summer is the rainy season in Barra de Navidad.

Or, so it once was. Last summer left us very short of our annual rain. And it appeared we were heading down that same arroyo this year.

But two storms have done their best to catch us up. The first was the remnant of hurricane Franklin as it stomped across Mexico a few weeks ago (gone with the wind) leaving downed trees and umbrellas in its wake -- as well as inches of rain in the streets. And the fields; where it was needed.

Then came Lydia. And I do not mean Groucho's tattooed lady. This was our latest eastern Pacific tropical depression/storm that sashayed up the coast on her way to Baja. She was far enough offshore that we did not have high winds. But she was close enough to give us some much-needed rain. Twenty-four hours of it.

The amount of rain is hotly debated on our local message board. Running from two to six inches. The pail on my upper terrace had about six inches in it. But it is certainly not a scientific instrument. Let's just say it was an adequate amount.

I am a little fuzzy on time. On Tuesday night I was laid low by some sort of bug. It could have been something I ate. Or something I encountered on my daily rounds.

Whatever it was, I had the classic symptoms of diarrhea, vomiting, and one of those stomachaches that would have qualified me for John Hurt's role in Alien. It was bad enough I went to one of our local pharmacy-owner doctors, who, upon hearing my symptoms, prescribed a large bottle of Pepto-bismol.

I have had enough of these episodes to know this was not something that called for an antacid. So, she pulled out a blister pack of far more expensive tablets. And, yes, for all I know, they were Bepto-pismol.

Because I wisely spent the day in bed yesterday while it was raining, I did not get around the neighborhood to see how much water was washing down the streets. But I did wander around this morning.

Let's keep this in perspective. This is not Houston. Houston is suffering a weather tragedy. Barra has experienced the opposite -- a blessing of rain. A blessing that turns our little laguna into a respectable version of James Joyce's "snot green sea." It looked far more Celtic than tropical this morning.

And the blessings come in several ways. The first being the most obvious. Our local farmers needed water in the fields -- even though the rains would have been more beneficial if they had arrived earlier. Our local cucumbers have been so deprived of water they could substitute for rubber novelty toys. And we all needed the water table to be replenished.

My favorite benefit is heat relief. When it started raining on Tuesday night, our temperature plummeted into the 70s, where it has remained. That will soon change. When the sun comes out.

And that is when we will pay back those blessings. The rain will evaporate into the heat and we will once again live in our permanent sauna for another two months. But it was nice sleeping for two nights without either fans or air conditioning in my bedroom.

What was not pleasant this morning was the number of places on my walk that are still blocked with water. Walking in water does not bother me. I am made of sterner stuff than that.

The bother is what is in the water. Our sewer system is rather primitive. As was once true in all cities, our sewers carry both toilet flushings and rain runoff. When it rains heavily, the runoff overwhelms the sewer system (often blocking it with sand) causing the effluence that was once enclosed to mix with the runoff in the streets. When the sun comes out, our streets will have the unmistakable aroma of a Venetian canal.

However, on the whole, the rain is always welcome. Even when I discover new leaks in the house.
  

warm, sunny days; cool nights

When I graded Melaque as a potential spot to start my Mexican adventure, I knew that weather was going to be a problem.


I like warm, sunny days. The type of weather that lures you outside to enjoy adventure.


Remember? The ultimate goal of being here is for the adventure, not the minor details.


But I need those days of adventure to cool off at night. I seldom sleep under sheets or covers -- I like my sleeping chambers to be cool.


If we were in court, I would be objecting to my testimony. Warm. Cool. How subjective can you get?


OK. I will be more specific.


My comfort envelope goes from about 45˚ to 69˚.


65˚ to 69˚ is warm. Anything over that is hot -- and I will tolerate it: to a degree.


55˚ to 45˚ is cool. And usually comfortable.


I gave Melaque an unabashed "F" on this factor. And then I weaseled: "I am not moving to Mexico for the weather."


So, has two months changed my mind?


No. But I certainly know more than I did before I moved down here.


Nancy recently commented on the weather in Mazatlan in "It’s a scorcher" complete with charts and graphs. Jennifer then entered the discussion.


I now know that I should be looking at dew point if I want to fully understand the comfort factor between temperature and relative humidity. I also know that any dew point over 74˚ is considered "extremely uncomfortable, fairly oppressive." And that does not strike me as being very subjective, at all.


Let the record reflect that the dew point in Melaque has been over 74˚ for the past two weeks. And I will stipulate that it has been "extremely uncomfortable, fairly oppressive."


And what about those weasel words of last August? "I am not moving to Mexico for the weather."


True. But almost irrelevant.


Ignoring the weather on the coast is like trying to ignore that your left sleeve is on fire. You may not be there to be immolated, but it is happening.


I have discovered, though, that I am not the dilettante I styled myself to be in August. I have a far greater tolerance for weather -- when forced to be tolerant. (There may be a broader lesson there. But, it will wait for another post.)


Both Jiggs and I have enjoyed being out in the otherwise-oppressive weather for short bursts during the day. Otherwise, we sit in the shade of the patio reading. Well, I read. Jiggs thinks about reading -- with his eyes shut.


But tolerance only goes so far before turning into mindless patronizing. And all of my ability to tolerate the sun during the day does not work when the sun goes to bed and leaves its demon heat children behind. Even with three electric fans, I have trouble sleeping.


To give Melaque a fair shake, I need to see what the other seasons offer. But, so far, my inability to sleep is starting to affect my judgment on other factors.


The warmth by the sea during the day gets a passing grade. But the nights get an "F."

fosse, fosse, fosse!

I thought I was in a Bob Fosse production.

You know the feeling. Hyponagogia.  That stage between wakefulness and being asleep where anything seems rational. You can fly. The national debt can be resolved. Beaujolais actually lives up to its hype.

Yesterday afternoon, it was Bob Fosse. That is, I thought I must be in a Bob Fosse production when I blinked open my eyes from a well-deserved (and much-needed) siesta.

Chicago. Or maybe Cabaret. One of those stages where shadows play out on a back-lit scrim.

But it was just the shadows of the tropical plants outside my bedroom door. Ann Reinking was nowhere to be found.

Our weather in my part of Mexico has taken a turn. Every year around March or April, we have a few weeks where the evenings are temperate. Offering the hope that nights will actually offer up pleasant sleeping weather.

But, it is all a tease. By May, summer starts to set in. When temperatures and humidity start a race to the top.

Last night was a good example. At midnight, the temperature was a reasonable 80 degrees. But, combined with the humidity, the heat index was 91. And it felt like it.

For the next few weeks, the ceiling fan in my bedroom will provide sufficient relief to allow me to sleep. But, at some point (I suspect around early July), I will surrender to the use of the air conditioner.

That is not my basic martyrdom speaking. I just do not like becoming a self-imposed exile in my bedroom. Once I turn on the air conditioner, I will spend most of my time in my room.

And I want to avoid that. Because I will miss experiences like this morning.

I am sitting at a table beside my pool on a clear morning listening to the various birdsong, including the comically mechanical call of a pair of Chacalacas who have been flitting about the neighborhood for the past month. If I retreated to my sanctuary, I would miss all of that.

A Mexican friend messaged me last night that he would like to borrow money to buy a fan. "Borrow," of course, means he would like me to give him the money. He complained he could not sleep because of the heat.

I fully understand. Unlike my house, that was designed to use natural ventilation to its best effect, his little concrete room has windows designed more for security than comfort. I have been there in the afternoon and found it impossible to stay in the room for more than a minute or two.

This is not a complaint about the weather here. It would be churlish for me to even hint at that. I did not move here for the weather. If I wanted my ideal weather, I would have moved to the Isle of Lewis.

It is just one of the factors I deal with daily. I suspect there are many people around the world who would gladly trade places with me. Syrians, for example.

But, without the sun here, I would never wake up on Broadway. Even if it is just for one magic moment.

soggy is my baguette

I am an air conditioning snob. 

Whenever anyone acts surprised that I do not have air conditioning in my bedroom, my response is usually a haughty: "Who needs air conditioning in Melaque?  I have a fan."

Well, as the old saying goes -- "the wages of hubris is mirth."  Or is it "pride goeth before 'e' except after 'c'?"  I forget.  But I am getting my comeuppance.

Despite all of my bravado, I do not care for the heat.  Any heat.  If the temperature stayed 55 degrees all year someplace on earth, I would declare it Eden and move in.

But that would not be Melaque.  And I like the other things more than I dislike the heat.  Or so I thought.

I was in Puerto Vallarta on Tuesday night to pick up a friend at the airport on Wednesday.  Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by air conditioning.  Shopping at Auto Zone, Office Depot, Walmart, and Costco.  Watching a movie at the Liverpool mall.  And sleeping in a motel room with the temperature cranked down to 65 -- where I still had to sleep on top of the covers.

Oh, yeah.  The rest of the time I was entombed in the cool refuge of my car.

I could never live in Puerto Vallarta.  The city traffic alone would be enough to dissuade me.  Other than some great shopping, the place is devoid of much interest.  It is the type of place that goes to Oakland just to find some fresh there.

But the air conditioning tricked me.  For almost two days I had been living under the illusion that Pacific Mexico's weather was practically perfect in every way.

That is, until I got back to Melaque and started carting my Costco erasures into the house.  By the second trip, my forehead had reached Niagara level and was going for Victoria Falls.

Not surprising, given the fact the temperature was 91 degrees with humidity in excess of 70%.

But the best evidence was provided by one of the treats I had bought for dinner.  I found some single serving tubs of tzatziki -- if done well, one of my favorite treats in the world.

I am not a purist when it comes to tzatziki.  There are those who say nothing but grilled pita should be used to scoop up the ambrosia.  I favor baguettes.

And Costco was selling baguettes fresh from the oven.  The outside was as crisp as an ostrich egg.  I had dreams of eating its crusty shell and doughy center while typing up this essay.

Well, I got two out of three.  The tzatziki is good.  Probably a C plus.  And the bread was soft in the center.

But crisp on the outside?  Make your own judgment.  The crisp crust turned into something of a humidity sponge.

That leaves me wondering whether my war against air conditioning is simply posturing.  After all, last night I had the first full night of restful sleep in months.

I am going to have to give that some thought.  In my advanced years, I would rather think of myself as crusty -- rather than as a soggy baguette.