May-June
2003
West
Coast--Seattle to San Jose!
Folklife, friends, and Tassajara return
Crossed fingers as I left, just before Memorial weekend, for nearly 3 weeks.
Ready or not, frost nipped tomatoes went in the ground; spinach and lettuce
on the verge of harvest; iris about to bloom..... Turned sprinkler
system over to God (forgot to mention Idaho Power).
The theme for Folklife 2003--East Meets West (coasts)--called like a siren.
This year I particularly enjoyed hearing northwest authors read maritime
works--from sinkings to savings, enjoy the no nonsense approach to life
people who live from the sea have, controversies and all. I was so
smitten by Leslie Leyland Field's poem about losing possessions to the
sea, I'm still waiting for interlibrary loan to find her book of poetry.
Meanwhile I'm borrowing her compilation of maritime experiences and am
boggled by tales of a young fellow diving for sea urchins during the winter,
off the coast of Maine.
Repeatedly hoofed across Seattle Center to watch maritime documentary films--a
cool break off still tender feet. I was disappointed that "The Water
Talks to Me", filmed in Gloucester MA, apparently didn't show up, but I
met one of it's subjects in person, Sam Novello, the donor of the historic
Vincie
N . I was touched by "The Cranberry Report". Adored "The
Moveable Feast", which followed Boston Italian Americans back to their
ancestral hometown, Sciacca, Sicily, to participate in the Fisherman's
Feast in honor of the Madonna del Soccorso ..... Way cool.
Awesome retired Royal Navy shantyman Tom Lewis came to Folklife this year--what
a treat! He's moved from the east coast of Canada to BC now.
Hearing east coast folklorist Jeff Werner sing and speak about collecting
maritime songs brought out my old passion for folklore big time.
Ended up short on shanty singing (taiko and things Balkan) this year, but
enjoyed shape note and Total Experience Gospel choir singalongs to the
max. Whow! How my soul loves to sing out, dance and laugh.
Delighted that this year's Community Choir conspiracy included CSL's Choir
or Light.
As always my heart was lightened to see old friends. Ron Terryl took
time to catch me up on Barb and life in Hillsboro. His "come visit"
is impeccably sincere. We both learned Helena (MT) Mini is now Hawaii
Marion! (Hope she visits family in Boise soon!) Always a warm
greeting from old Illini and dance buddy John Lawson with new wife.
Judith Alexander's retirement is spent between Seattle and Germany, from
whence her handsome German former exchange student (high school, if I got
it right) hails. So good to see downtown Susan. Missed bumping
into Grace and Janet this year.
Johnny Moses tickled my funny bone to near hysteria again this year.
He brings out the kid in me something awful. Like Pat Wright, I call
him a living Seattle treasure. Of course Folklife is packed with
living treasures. Speaking of laughter... once again split sides
watching Ballard Sedentary Souza Band. That Edith!!
Didn't dance much. When I did contra dance, realized how all those
Seattle years of clockwise swinging had literally corkscrewed my body.
(Keep yoga-ing, Jeannie.) Sat safely on the stairs and listened to
the music I so love. However I was helpless to resist Sunday night's
Balkan music and dance, so familiar to heart and mind, but feet not up
to speed. Where else can I hear those complex beats played live and
throw myself in, following behind the line. Surely musta had a major
former life in eastern Europe, as well as by the sea.
Most evenings my incomparable Seattle hostess Marli and I ran into each
other and staggered back to her home together on the full 16 bus.
Without her priceless hospitality, Folklife wouldn't be Folklife, like
it has been all the years since I moved inland. Now a septuagenarian,
her sore feet have slowed her closer to my pace; we enjoyed extra conversation
this year. Although she'd hate to hear it, she's something of the
Mother Teresa of Seattle, caring and cooking for so many.
Ever since moving away from Seattle, Memorial weekends I start Sundays
at Center for Spiritual Living--8:30am! Kathianne's perfected that
service. Left wild roses and tears--one for mom, one for Char--in
the mass bouquet created each memorial service. Off to Folklife,
with an extra sense of awe and appreciation.
Marcy joined me Monday afternoon. Dragged her to films and music;
she enticed me to eat African food, though I was full to the brim.
Speaking of food, this year I had calamari twice--such a treat to this
inlander. Discovered Marli liked Philippine meat sticks; tricked
her into letting me buy snacks. Then discovered Philippine
sticky rice balls--yum. Chai, Thai iced tea, and amaretto fudge
at Seattle Fudge--good as ever. (Dodged strawberry shortcake this
year!)
Each year I try to do something new--this year it was hear Portuguese Fado
singers. From Argentinean Tango to Sicilian Madonnas, what an experience--Northwest
Folklife!
One last Seattle magic moment took place while making regular urban stops
(Discount Books, Thriftco, Whole Foods, Horizon Books, Daly's). I
was talking to Bert, who "just happened" to be trading books at Discount
Books, mentioning his beloved Pastor Rodney Romney was moving back to Twin
Falls, Idaho--good news for Idaho! About that time my eye caught
the unmistakable flutter of a large moth--Cecropia or Prometheus--the kind
that thrilled me to bits as a child! Here was one of those treasures,
casually flitting through an urban parking lot, midday, headed for the
alley. Hadn't seen one in decades!
On to Bremerton, by ferry, to recover from the weekend, while Marcy finished
her 24 hr shift in Seattle. I'm always sorry not to see everyone
I remember fondly while I'm in Seattle; however, the Boise welcome mat
is out and gathering dust. By the end of Folklife, I'm completely
done in, socially and physically. When I found a park, napped in
the car, then limped over and gazed at the water.
Good visiting Marcy's new life and home for the night; discussing our minority
views on health and church, and the general instability of the world, over
tea. In the morning, after admiring the amazing new grandchild live,
headed towards California. (Not before running into a Seattle contra
dance woman at the nearby Safeway. I'd known her as Rebecca; she
lived in Boise briefly, where we bumped into each other once!)
CALIFORNIA.
Somewhat nervously headed down I-5 towards wild and crazy California, chanting
All God's Children. The second night, near San Jose, delighted to
come upon lovely reservoir campsite in the dark, full moon dancing beside
it. The warning to move on never came, so I slept on peacefully.
With telephone guidance, found Paul Brickett and Christina's delightful
Willow Park neighborhood in San Jose the next afternoon. "What would
you like to do", my hosts queried, as we sipped real lemonade under
their kiosk? (Not being used to doing much besides yoga classes and
talking to myself...) Uhh...
The pace picked up--lovely California patio dinner--swallows dove, hearth
flickered, heaters glowed. Due to my lack of interest in doing much
(except drink lemonade), the all neighborhood yard sale that was going
on all around us was just the ticket. My eyes flew open when I saw
Christina's pile of vintage jackets from across the street. With
2 days of car rest under my feet, off we went, coffee and tea cups in hand,
across the street, up and down and around the block, meeting neighbors
and finding treasures. I was wow-ed by the California flora straight
out of Sunset magazine around us--jasmine, hibiscus, lemon, orange, grapefruit,
avocado, you name it trees and flowers. Stuffed beautiful big lemons
from a free box into my conveniently just acquired pack. Periodically
Paul shuttled goods back to the house, while Christina and I continued.
I was especially pleased to find a pair of attic exhaust turbines (from
a remodel)--stuffed one into the RAV. Learned a lot about the golden
state circumambulating the neighborhood. Enjoyed hearing lots of
Spanish, meeting a non denominational monk--admired his garden buddha through
the fence--researching potential churches, smelling roses, admiring lilies.
Remarkably, after all that, that evening we wined and dined at a Russian
piano competition finalist concert. Wore the "new" designer dress
from the vintage clothes collector across the street, with a bear fetish
necklace from the neighbor in the San Jose chorus, and yin-yang earrings--getting
in the mood for Tassajara--from the Chicana jewelry collector, who also
offered the lemons. Christina carried her new vintage jacket--way
too hot to wear it turned out. What a fun, fun evening!! This
adopted Idahoan was blown away! How welcome Paul and Christina had
made me feel.
As I stuffed the car Sunday morning, photographed Christina's volvo wagon
for Eric, and the cool kiosk for my dream board, Paul's and my long lost
college buddy Mark Wilson phoned. We agreed to meet Mark at Mission
San Juan Bautista, which pleased me, since I couldn't get to both church
and Tassajara in one day after all, but was possibly a bit close to the
opiate of the masses for Paul's comfort. Mark hadn't changed an iota.
Recalling my passion for things geologic, he trotted me right over to the
San Andreas fault. Right on! At a picnic table, Paul, Mark
and I rewound and fast forwarded lives, which hadn't crossed in many, many
years. Reluctantly left Paul and Mark plotting (I hoped) the next
rendezvous in the Wind Rivers, and headed onto Tassajara, deep in the Vantana
Mountains above Big Sur country.
Mark - Jeannie - Paul meet
up at San Juan Bautista
Hours later, dropped down into Tassajara Hot Springs, the Buddhist monastery
I'd driven into with Art Mears, August 1971, just long enough to see his
Boulder friend Jerry Halpern. This time for a 5 day meditation and
yoga workshop. I appreciated the kindness of the check in woman,
and was charmed by the kerosene lanterns that lit walking paths late evenings
(extinguished at 10pm). After the heat of the day, loved that first
cold, cold night. Since I arrived in the middle of introductions
(no starting time available) to a strange place, the first couple of days
were mainly survival, learning the lay of the land, getting used to having
a dog following--somehow I figured Tassajara was pet free since info said
don't bring pets. (Tidbit the cat won my favorite cat name...)
Although the combination of meditation zen practitioners and wine drinking
summer guests was a bit uneven, the loveliness of Tassajara can't be missed.
Immediately adored the creek, the bath house, my young Bay area roommate.
Wished the folks who shared the bathroom wouldn't keep locking us out though!
Judith's yoga instruction and Abbess Linda Cutts meditation talks were
wonderful. The hardest part (for me was reconstructing the zendo
several times a day. It was almost more than I could do to repeatedly
help move dividers and cushions each time we used the zendo for classes.
By the end of the week I was even more exhausted than when I'd arrived,
which was pretty much! I'll leave the mosquitos, flies, and heat
in this paradise to your imagination.) The food, as rumored, was
way above average. I was particularly smitten by pitchers of herbal
ice teas (and coffees) set out in the afternoon. As wonderful as
the food and sitting in the creek (so flies couldn't bite legs at least)
were, the very best thing about the retreat was the community spirit that
Judith creates at Tassajara. I've never enjoyed workshop folks so
much! (Helped that this was not a silent retreat.) We
had a barrel of laughs, everyone enjoying everyone else. I learned
a ton of yoga, got confused, got clearer, got affirmed and inspired.
After the workshop ended, I drove up the everso steep hill to the nearest
campground, to spend the night and figure out why I was so exhausted!
So good to "do nothing" that I stayed Saturday night too. Going no
where, doing nothing, recovering. Those days of no agenda under huge
California oaks, were as wonderful as any on the trip. Listening
to nearly 24 hour bird calls, safe from mosquitos in the dome tent, was
bliss. Frequently I unzipped and chased after a bird call; never
found who done it.
Descended to Carmel Sunday in time for mass at the mission, followed by
a drive along Big Sur. Yum, yum. One last night in San Jose,
delivering Tassajara sour dough bread, telling tales, checking email, before
heading to Nevada and home. What a wonderful Journey! Music,
Dance, Friendship, Yoga and Meditation, beautiful country. (Books
on tape selections were a bust this trip!)
Back home--Yup, iris had bloomed, lettuce and spinach bolted. Power
outages had kept the sprinkler system down. My transplanted lavender
didn't survive. Welcome Home!
March
2003
Southwestern
Journey--Colorado, Utah, Nevada!
Ashes, friendship and desert peace
Just before noon, Wednesday the 26th, headed south on I-84 towards Salt
Lake City between rain squalls. The Toyota was buffeted to the point
I wondered if all tires were flat! Winds so strong, could barely
open the door to Wendys in Burley (was it?). Patch of blue, more
rain. Traveling in line of trucks and others, going where and why?
Me, in hopes of intersecting brother Stuart and family vacationing uneasily
in Durango, to scatter mom's ashes at the cabin she loved (followed by
visiting and relaxing in the southwest). The family cabin (in the
midst of last summer's huge Vallecito burn), now, after a dry winter, was
being dumped on by late spring snowstorms, I was warned.
The new war in Iraq just a week old; Mom fully released from this world,
2 weeks that Friday.
The night before mom died I was awake--more wide awake than usual--between
2-4am. Hmm. How was it that I “happened” to be home at the
computer the following morning to receive brother Stu's email at the time
he sent it from the nursing home?
Shortly he phoned, sitting with mom's body. I ventured: "I just wrote
some stream of conscious thoughts, about scattering mom's ashes in the
desert," "I'm having the body embalmed so the children can see her",
came back. [I thought: he's there; I'm not.] Then something
about Jacksonville, and dad's grave. "You know mom hated Jacksonville",
I said, sticking my neck out further. "When I think of her, I think
of her love for the canyons, the southwest and the cabin." I sensed
relief in Stu's stunning response--“We're vacationing in the southwest
next week for spring break, flying to Albuquerque”, he revealed. My teary
eyes widened. He seemed to understand what had just happened and
to be open to cremation as well! I knew I'd be going to Minneapolis
and to Colorado, and would be welcome. After walk on
auto pilot by the river talking to mom—in times of stress: head to the
river--began clearing the rest of the way. (I'll be writing about
the Minneapolis experience under Hospice or a new page for Mom.)
Listening to radio as I near Salt Lake, I soberly pondered my roll in the
outrageous society we've created. For decades my thoughts through
the Salt Lake basin, have been stuck in the same loop. Each time
I drive hours of freeway through the steady growth of "civilization", same,
same. Sometimes smog entirely obscures the stunning Wasatch backdrop
to the east. The old west I adore is being covered as we fruitfully
multiply and consume, homes marching up valleys, basins filling with roads,
vehicles, billboards and malls. I'm just one of a vast stream of
cars. (Seattle, LA, Mexico City, same, same.) Just finished
listening to Caramelo. As a new Spanish student, I'm enchanted
to hear “Mexican” roll off Cisneros' tongue! Heard tell she was a
wonderful speaker on her recent visit to Boise. (Her family story
ain't nothing like Illinois Heffalumps, I muse, referring to my family
with rare fondness—Minneapolis softened me.) The story about the
grandmother, however, was familiar and touched me deeply— disappointment
with life, clinging, obsession with sons. Always and forever the
scramble for love and happiness.
Rain turned to snow in Price Canyon, where I pulled off for the night,
having learned (but forgotten until it became dark), I can't drive fast
enough at night. In the morning, not one, but both front door locks
were frozen. Luckily I could get out the back side, until the day
warmed. Arrrrg. The drivers lock has already been in once for
repair…
Gorgeous fresh snowy views all the way on southeast. RAV so salt
coated I stopped and paid to wash it in Price! Dat's a first!
Lunch and gas in Moab. Gorgeous drive through canyon country, filled
with years of camping memories. Pygmy owl sat on a power line about
there… coyote crossed there one evening… the group camped off
there--whata storm! bought pinto beans there… the year of the
root canal… Around Dove Creek, always recall a great seasonal job
and boss, driving back roads of southern Utah, inspecting oil and gas fields
outa Cortez…
Late afternoon, dropped down into Durango. Anticipating another cold
night on the road, toyed with idea of staying in the motel by mom's old
house on 5th (or was it 4th)-- but there was no sign of it! As I
drove the main drag puzzled, noted “Fierce Grace” on the marquis at the
Abbey Theater. What luck, an opportunity to see the documentary about
beloved teacher Ram Dass!
Back in town—late supper with Stu/family; ended up camping on their Best
Western suite floor—probably larger than my house!
March 28. In the morning, familiar sunlight on valley where I lived
2 years. By the time we got to the cabin, light snow was drifting
down between patches of sun. Such turbulent weather this week!
Cabin fine--weathering, aging. Effects of fire in area not so obvious
as anticipated.
While Stu's family (from Minneapolis, mind you--one daughter in spaghetti
string tank top--huddled in the van with the baby, or shivered around the
heater in the cabin), Stu and I opened mom's ashes. With a lid from
mom's notorious collection of odds and ends, began scattering ashes off
the deck where mom loved to feed and watch birds, and entertain people.
So many of mom's letters began ... "I'm sitting on the cabin deck while
Stellars jays...". Then we walked the ridge of the property.
Stu and I each had a copy of the prayer of the camper found in mom's camp
poems and songs folder. I read and sniveled. Ever collected
Stu scattered ashes along the deer trails back towards the cabin.
Mom would be pleased. Stuart and I felt right. Mission Mom
accomplished.
Cabin - front porch
Like old times, picked up a Griego's green chili burrito on the way back
into town. I'd let the family eat in peace—ha, ha, a 2 year old—while
I went off to see "Ferocious Grace" (alas--no one else interested in Ram
Dass!) As always I was profoundly touched by the authenticity and
humor Ram Dass radiates. What a teacher. Honesty and compassion
always breaks me, to use an evangelical term. Thank you filmmaker
Mickey Lemle. Between the power of the film and my raw emotion from
mom's death and confusion and grief about family and life, “obliterated”
was the only word that came to mind--I was utterly spent.
Fell asleep on floor again, while brother Stu on all fours, entertained
the 2 year old, and the other kids watched tv (1 of 3). In the morning,
while family slept in, Stu slipped off do long distance contract work via
laptop, in the continental breakfast room. Packed up and joined him
for a few more minutes of long, long awaited (on my part) sibling connection.
Filled thermos, nuked popcorn for the road. Good byes to wife and
family when they appeared.
PART
2. Desert Solitude
Onward, across southern Utah, through country mom enjoyed on many Audubon
and Archeological Society field trips, and I too enjoyed during and long
after living in Colorado (13 years!). Down McElmo Canyon. Crossing
the White River plateau, the urge to make camp in the piñon-juniper
of this familiar area, over looking hogbacks and anticlines, under at last
cloudless, sunny skies pulled me over early. Gorgeous view east back
towards old friends: Hovenweep, Sleeping Ute, Mesa Verde, all the way to
the LaPlatas.
One wing of this trip (centered on Mom) was a promise of desert “down”
time, to read, write, ponder and be. This was it. For 24 hrs
I stayed in one place! Bliss. The night was so cold that at
first I was grateful I no longer made spring campouts with the old gang.
Brrr! But in the night I got up and saw the stars and remembered
why I went. Whow. Returned to spacious desert dreams awed.
The next day I leisurely did my favorite things: made and sipped tea; read
and wrote. Sitting on a mat, with laptop on camp chair seat, composed
gratefulness list—so many people responsible for helping me through mom's
transition. Many blessings in the midst of this season of change
and stress. Shifted to editing mom's Prayer of the Camper--ever so
satisfying, digging in, a prayer in itself. This put me in the mood
to scatter pine nuts into the breeze, off the cliffs, in honor of mom,
my personal canyon good bye. Ashes not necessary.
After soup late in day, reluctantly headed onward, across Hite, towards
Las Vegas. Such gorgeous country! So many years since I'd driven
this region of Utah; kept stopping for photos. That night, after
(finally) enjoying Stephen Jay Gould on tape, pulled off for another good
rest in piñon-juniper. Stupendous morning drive down
into Escalante Stair Case country—Lorrie, Mike, Ben and I hiked there in
1973! Although it was spring, because of these recent storms, snow
was low; few folks were out on the roads; most campgrounds were closed.
Peaking into Bryce National Park at a Fairy Point pull off took my breath
away!! On across the northwest corner of Arizona, finally dropping
(or so it seemed) into the big, warm Las Vegas basin.
After an unexpectedly stunning and remote drive along the north edge of
Lake Mead National Recreation Area (No, No, No Camping anywhere--though
I hardly saw a vehicle!!), drove straight to the Henderson public library,
from which point Sue fetched me. Following her past subdivision after
subdivision I was exceedingly grateful she'd insisted on meeting me.
I'd had NO idea how big Henderson and Las Vegas were. Without her,
I'd still be looking for Moon Vision Street!
PART
3. Friendship
Two lovely warm days and beautiful breezy nights with Sue and family.
Great pleasure to see Sue's gracious, busy family and home. Accompanied
Sue to her classes in recreation centers around Henderson, including the
ultra-spectacular, new, multimillion dollar one. Each center had
lovely rooms, agreeable staff! How blessed this crazy area is to
have grounded Sue sharing her full warmth, skills and wisdom in any number
of fitness classes! (I teach one brand only; Sue teaches any number
of them ably!) While we were out, we dined on carrot ginger soup
and cranberry pies at our favorite grocery store, Wild Oats. Above
all, it was a pleasure to catch up with the letter writing buddy who listens
to my stories of church and exchanges inspiration, learning and teaching
stories. Knew it'd be good for my tender heart to visit an understanding
buddy this spring (hoped the same for Sue). Second wing of this trip
based on mom--friendship--accomplished.
Bryce View Point - Fairy
Point
|
Desert Friends - Las Vegas
park
|
Sue headed me north with fresh cut fruit. The new moon sliver I'd
been waiting for hung over basin and range country. Fine cold, starry,
dream filled night off a cow road to a low rocky ridge. Ah, Nevada
public lands--pull off most anywhere, close gate, my kinda country.
After finishing book club's Nickeled and Dimed in America, plunged
into Bo Lozoff's It's a Meaningful Life-- yum, great travel companions.
The next morning I thought about Sue's strong kick boxing legs as I puffed
up to the ridge, resolved to strengthen legs and stretch shoulders open.
Beautiful drive north along side a string of state parks; Cathedral Gorge,
looked especially inviting for “another time”, as did Caliente Springs.
How I love this old mining country! Couldn't help noticing the snow
level beginning to dust valley floors. About the time the the crescent
moon dropped behind a hill a second evening, I was car camped by snow patches—although
I didn't see them until morning. Brrr!!
By now I was enjoying listening to Simon Winchester's account of the Balkans,
The
Fault Zone. Although I'd read his biographies of the British
geologist and dictionary compilers, hadn't realized Winchester was a foreign
correspondent. Because of a compelling passion for Balkan/Eastern
European music and dance, I was interested to travel and explore with him,
fascinated and chagrined by the complexity of history that has led to such
bloodshed, intractable positions and resentment, sprinkled with hope.
Yugoslavia, Serbia, Croatia, the Balkans, history I knew only except through
their spirit of music and dance.
About the border into Idaho light snow began to fall—home just in time
the way I saw it, recalling my last snow covered drive through Nevada—
February 2001! Safe, warm and grateful. Mission accomplished,
for both mom, family and me. Always too much driving; always wonderful
to see The West, always yearn to see more, stay longer. The next
morning I was sipping tea, poured from Birgit's authentic German teapot
and stovchen with the women at church.
Once
again carried on great winds... *
*
Native American saying: "Sometimes I go around pitying myself, and all
the time I am being carried on great winds across the sky". reminder
by Mary Manin Morrissey
South of the Border style
hammock potato - digital by Kyle
February
2003
South
of the Border--México!
¿what? ¿what? mantilla ready, ¿where're the
vegetables?
After years of threatening to do myself in each gray winter if I didn't
escape to warmth and sun, I did it (escaped).
A board with photos of folks frolicking in tropical waters caught my eye
last summer at Volcanic Farms produce stand in Horseshoe Bend. Even
before they started making cherry pies, once I discovered V.F. green beans,
strawberries and sweet corn, began looking for excuses to drive north outa
town as often as possible. When I saw off the beaten path tours in
Mexico advertised during the gloom of winter, I decided this was it.
Maybe I'd even meet Idaho folks! (Imagine that.)
Dialed Don Heffner; he understood--can't stand Idaho winters either, began
"going south" awhile back. Sometime last fall, memories of gray winter
overcame my fear of bargaining and being a sitting duck-no-hablo-espagnol-gringo.
Bought plane ticket to Puerto Vallarta; sent deposit to Don. Before
I learned much more, Don was drove off to Mexico with my arrival time and
a casual "be sure to bring a swimming suit and sun screen".
Eek! México. In 1966 I picked up an embarrassing number
of anthropology credits during summer school in México City just
riding buses to places like Acapulco and Oaxaca. I remembered that
if I ever returned, I'd bring a mantilla. A few years ago
I found one at a yard sale in Spokane.
Although I promoted the opportunity, there were no bites. Perhaps
not enough information! (All I required was a picture of the beach!)
México--uhh, Guadalajara, I shared, getting more and more nervous
myself. God, you're in charge, I prayed repeatedly. Dug out
the old Rick Steves Backdoor pack and money belt, stuffed in snorkel, shorts,
film, mantilla, and sun dress. At the last moment, couldn't
leave without yoga magazines, tights, hat, gloves and socks.
Early one dark, gray inverted January morning, my neighbor dropped me at
Alaska Air. By the time I got to the boarding area, my winter hat
was lost. The suspicion that followed 9-11 and stunted traveling
seemed to have backfired; folks knocked themselves out to be friendly.
Through a twist of fate, a rare en route moment (and brief reunion) were
recorded in San Jose by old college outing club buddy Paul Brickett on
his digital Pentax.
jeannie touches down, San
Jose, digital by PB
|
Excellent Tour Van XLN2R4U
photos on Ben's travel Olympus
|
A few hours later I recognized tour leader Don from a brief Boise
encounter in the exchange line at the Puerto Vallarta airport. In
the Excellent Tour van I met 5 total strangers (Don hadn't mentioned who
might be along) whose fates became sealed with mine for 2 weeks.
Gulp. We're gonna love this trip, I prayed, as the early arrivals
fueled on margaritas giggled.
True to his word, Don sped us outa town on narrow, winding roads, past
pedestrians and bicycles, past everything and everyone, through the debris
of the fall hurricane. I was reminded of clear cutting.
Immediately we were introduced to the nightmare of Mexico's version of
speed bumps (topes, or, if ridged, vibradores)--the first
of hundreds--which tossed us out of our seats, even at a crawl.
In San Blas, estado de Nayarit, we dinned on camarones gigantes
(sp?)
and guacamole at Don's favorite cafe, which immediately became ours.
By the end of that first delicious meal we 7 near strangers had begun to
fall into familiar style eating. Don and I quickly ate any leftovers,
though my gut dropped out of the race shortly. After several days,
polite offers "Anyone like another shrimp?" faded away and raised eyebrows
became negotiations followed by a swift stab or grab. We were all
appalled but complicit. As days went on, meals were a huge source
of entertainment, wonder and confusion. No one went hungry, but we
regularly ate things we didn't have in mind. Amy's and Barb's quick
"It looks wonderful" at a total surprise, were indispensable survival skills
of the veteran traveler. (I'm "sorry" I missed the night of the chicken
foot.)
We returned to Casa Mañana (Wed.-Thurs.-Fri. nights).
Security guards loitered. I cracked the sliding glass door to the
ocean and braced it with a chair. It was hot, the ocean crashed.
While others listened to air conditioners, I thrilled to hear waves right
outside the window! Slept deeply. The following couple of days
orbited around the same routine, with side trips like boat trips, banana
farm, ruins on the bluff (El Castillo Hill?) over San Blas. ("Once
a military center of Spain's Pacific holdings, San Blas boasts a genuine,
16th century Spanish fort".)
Casa Mañana view
My impression of México thus far was healthy, happy people, many
still walking, (also infamous crazed drivers), gathered around small
evening campfires, along the road, socializing, eating, drinking at outdoor
restaurants and one grill stands. Since my idea of a good life is
camping (rather than a big house), living near the ocean in a small house
that might not have a roof, didn't feel like poverty to me. (I couldn't
distinguish aftermath of the hurricane.) In the central, agricultural
area we traveled, I observed children accompanied by adults, but not the
large families of the past. The biggest surprise, which continued
throughout the trip, was that dogs were passive, few and far between,
clearly not the center of attention or community. Human relationships
appeared most important. As I grew more adventuresome wandering around
towns and villages, I was able to walk streets without causing a ruckus
or being chased by dogs. What a pleasure!
Ubiquitous tipping, selling, negotiating anything and everything
unnerved me, as I knew it might. Metaphysically I believe obsession
with lack attracts more lack. Physically I found it awkward to frequently
dig for pesos, deal with another money system, and to pay for things I
would have done for free for anyone. I just didn't get it and I still
don't know but what paying for everything is just a tourist issue, nothing
that continues into personal lives. Don kept us clear from any need
to participate in the "little bite" system. And of course, México,
like the whole world, is changing tremendously. World travelers for
some 30 years, the two retired couples in the group repeatedly affirmed
the changes they perceived in México.
Morning mangrove panga/boat
excursion. See Kyle for crocodile evidence!
Speaking of savvy world travelers... my companions folks were the
most prepared scouts I ever hoped to meet--in all ways. There was
nothing Amy and Barb didn't have along. I was grateful.
Don plugged us into a 2 meal a day routine; by majority rule, the 2nd was
preceded by the most serious happy hour I'd ever witnessed in my life.
Didn't even know booze came in bottles that large, let along anyone might
pack such items along. While 3 imbibed bottled water, the others
bellied up. (I promised to have a Mexican margarita when the time
was right; until then, body and mind warned "don't even".) The search
for a real Mexican margarita was truly epic, as was Amy's patience.
As a non traditional, tea (but not coffee) drinking breakfaster, after
fresh orange juice, morning meals became problematic. Tried ordering
just frijoles, like the side dish the morning before, but they came laced
with chili's and chorizo, too spicy for this wimp. Mexican American
breakfasts, like omelets, made me nearly comatose. What!--no fried
potatoes, yams and broccoli like (I make) at home? (Of course not.)
Hiccuped onward.
Although technically we were at the beach for about 3 days, the shore was
rocky from losing its sand in the hurricane Don said. The balmy evening
we arrived, I tested the warm water with awe. I didn't swim.
We watched oyster divers in the rocks to the south. Since oysters
were never on a menu anywhere, assumed they were going to Asia.
ONWARD
and INLAND - Guadalajara and San Ignacio Cerro Gordo, estado de Jalisco
Then the "fun" began. Although I was vaguely aware of a fiesta and
some inland travel, I wasn't prepared for hundreds of miles of travel.
Although we "fought" to sit in the back of the van, the riders in the back
bore the brunt of the van's violent swaying. Quickly the savvy senior
couples laid claim to the back seats (where I'd imagined lying down) of
the Excellent Tour Van; agreeable Kyle went wherever was left. Quickly
driver/farmer Don preferred retired extension agent Earl's knowledge and
company; he requested his presence in the front where agriculture was discussed
in depth--root stocks, varieties, pesticides. No field, crop or orchard
remained unidentified--tobacco, agave, pineapple, mango, avocado or onion.
We 3 women chatted easily, as women seem to do. The men, tending
towards hard of hearing, were off in their own worlds. The dominant
word for the entire trip cudda been "What?"
By nightfall, having used "new" toll (aka troll) roads, we were in Guadalajara
(Saturday
night.) Familiar with Guadalajara, Barb and Herb escorted me down
the street to the famous cathedral. Several of us went out later
to the even closer San Francisco church. While either a wedding or
a coming of age event was in progress (decided it was not mass), we wandered
the back of the flower filled church in awe. Unbelievable, lively
places of worship. (No mantillas here either.)
This Saturday night, the el templo San Francisco was packed, inside
and out. Down the street at the Guadalajara cathedral teenage boys
lined up for confession. When my exhausted chaperones drifted home
for the night, I sat in the plaza, watching and listening to Saturday night
live a la México. What activity--sirens, draped couples, all
ages out and about, stores open, tasty food and drink booths hopping!
The following morning includes a scrumptous food memory--buffet offering
of baked zucchini and cheese--the last perfectly cooked fresh green vegetable
I was to see and enjoy! Then, off to Ballet Folklorico, down the
street. Right then and there, I decided that in spite of doubts about
a culture that seems to care so little about environment, any culture that
could produce so many men who dance so easily and unabashed, was doing
something very right. The men were absolutely the equal of the women.
No recruiting anything in pants here! My head swam with color and
grace!
That afternoon we tore on to San Ignacio Cerro Gordo (Sunday night)
to experience the final night of their Virgen de Guadalupe fiesta.
After dropping bag in the room on the plaza, walked up to the hotel roof
to survey the country. Looked right in the cathedral bell towers.
The 360 degree scene bathed in late afternoon light was beautiful--from
plaza across fields to a ring of distant mountains. Experienced a
moment of pure travel bliss. This was real México.
Hot footed to peek into the church (el templo) a few doors down.
(Hopes of having company for appreciating cathedrals were dashed early
on with a blunt any-religion-that-builds-churches-while-people-starve....
(Likely Kyle didn't hear this.) Regardless, it was impossible to
repress my enthusiasm for the center of each community.) San Ignacio
Cerro Gordo's templo de la Virgen de Guadalupe was well kept, loved
and lovely!
Since two large meals a day was keeping my gut in turmoil, I passed on
dinner, having spied real french fried potatoes at a booth on the plaza,
and opted to see if I could return to the church for a mass. Don
said there was a special festival mass that evening; however, when I heard
the bell toll I crossed the plaza and found a seat at what turned out to
be a very crowded mass in a small church. No mantillas here either.
Although the Padre was behind a column, I could see the large imagen
de la Santisima Virgen de Guadalupe above the altar. The Padre's
gentle voice was clearly telling a story to friends; the congregation chuckled
frequently. This was religion as it was meant to be, communal, warm
and beneficial. I loved seeing families, lots of men, old and young,
rough working hands and business men; voluptuous women, attentive spouses,
teenagers, and of course, wailing babes. Determined to use everything
I brought all these miles, I got up the nerve to slip on the mantilla.
No one flinched at the strange nortéamerica in old fashioned
mantilla!
Although my feet gave me fits this trip--too much sitting, too little yoga--I
hobbled around the plaza repeatedly. (Benches fully occupied, early
on.) When I wanted to sit, I returned to Don and Kyle's upstairs
balcony room at the hotel. At the time, didn't realize how fortunate
I was to have an inner room. Later, I grabbed Señor Don to
help me order french fries. (When I asked leader Don if I should
try the local french fries, he repeated his usual chant: "I eat everything"
(and never get sick). (I was later to discover he had indeed been
sick in Mexico, he just doesn't blame it on food!) The fries, from real
potatoes, were terrific. After that night, I was more or less on
my own if I wanted to buy something. The introvert in this foreigner
reigned painfully. This had nothing to do with how I/we were treated.
I was just one of the crowd.
Each night we traveled we fell in bed earlier and earlier. It became
quite a joke until San Ignacio Serro Gordo. "Fireworks are about
9 or 10pm", Don crooned. Ha. As the evening wore on, the plaza
slowly filled with more and more folks, until there was barely a square
foot free. Loud speakers broadcast music. Don mentioned that
the people of the region often had blue or green eyes. It
was so, I observed closely: beautiful faces, attractive people. We
were on the plaza when the parade came around the corner.
Bands were interspersed with floats re-enacting religious tableaus(sp)
or scenes. Folks held their pose as Jesus, Maria or apostles with
utter seriousness. I was fascinated. No way on earth
was this the good old US of A. Don chatted in Spanish with a couple
who invited him/us in for posole. Don returned their graciousness;
we all stayed at the parade.
After the parade circled the town, kids carrying heavy picture frames of
the honored, drums and instruments from the parade walked through the plaza.
A crowd poured in and spilled out of the church for another service.
The traditional plaza promenade slowly evolved. Although some
women circled the plaza while men watched, arm in arm walkers included
mothers and daughters, girlfriends; whole families held hands, any combination
seemed a "go". Favorite young girls had confetti (thrown) in their
hair. The promenade went on for hours and hours. Meanwhile,
power for most of the plaza was off for an hour or so, casting much of
it into the dark. Power flickered on for a few moments--the crowd
cheered--then was back off, returning much later. More and more folks
came into the plaza. In the corner of the plaza, below the hotel
balcony, a large blown up animal booth ceaselessly bounced and entertained
kids. Judging from comments from our group, folks enjoyed this more
than anything else, reliving stories of their kids and grand kids.
I, on the other hand, was utterly transfixed to to see such a huge, calm
gathering, without seeing a single person carrying, leading or letting
loose, dogs (cats, ferrets, snakes). No way could Nortéamericanos
have resisted bringing pets to a big outdoor gathering! A lone dog
slunk along a wall, about it for dogs. This was a family centered,
religious based festival. One could promenade without pet jams or
stepping in pet do!! Hallelujah!
Early in the evening Amy and Earl turned in--Amy was ill. Barb and
Herb watched the world another couple hours, then gave up without fire
works. Garrulous, long gone native, Don wandered the plaza meeting
natives (many of whom he reported had worked part time in Michigan) in
their language. Don speaks a wicked Idaho flavored Spanish.
From the hotel balcony, Kyle and I (fascinated, but fading) observed the
plaza. Like attendance, the volume in the plaza was steadily growing;
small brass "um-pa" bands began circling the plaza, often stopping below
the hotel.
Similar to my desire for french fries, Kyle's interest in cotton candy
drew him out onto the plaza with his pesos. Shortly, he proudly handed
me green (or was it pink?). My sensitive teeth cringed as I politely
ate wisps, my mind went straight back to the Morgan County fair of childhood.
(Good sports that we all were, every last one of us, in spite of ourselves,
ate just about anything on this trip. At some point Kyle abandoned
kosher and ate most anything, as did nearly all of us.) Eventually
I too gave up on fireworks, handed the last of the cotton candy to Kyle
and turned in. By now bands sounded like they were right in the hotel.
By now knew right where ear plugs were, the only trouble being, then I
couldn't hear my alarm.
The next morning a testy, pale group was standing impatiently by the van,
as I stumbled downstairs groggily. Drums lasted until 4am, someone
commented. As if we didn't know! What a night. The building
vibrated. I'd tossed and turned in yet another strange, large bed.
Several times, when a particularly loud bang went off, rolled outa bed
in nightgown, slipped on shoes, and hobbled up to the roof to see if the
alleged fireworks had started. No. A magical, but grueling
night. Don and Kyle reported they saw fireworks around midnight.
The rest of us gringos missed out. Little did I know, San Ignacio
Cerro Gordo's all night drums would turn out ot be a piece of cake....
ONWARD
and INLAND - Pátzcuaro and Uruapan, estado de Michoacán
On to Pátzcuaro (Monday and Tuesday nights)--I'd heard of
butterfly net fisherman! Hadn't ridden far when light rain began,
unusual of course, for the season, but that's how the world is, that's
how travel is. As Don hurtled towards 7000' we put on more and more
clothes. Luckily my socks were in my purse. At the unheated
hotel around a lovely inner courtyard, I pulled tights and pants under
sun dress, cotton knit sweater and nylon shell, grateful for (red) wool
gloves and grieving the loss of the hat at the airport. What I would
have given for a WalMart ski hat! Or, a heavy rebozo like
natives were wearing. Never had I slept in so many clothes and wished
I'd had more! In the morning realized I could wear my (unused) beach
towel over head, around neck. Who cares, I thought, as I walked before
breakfast on narrow streets, up and down hills, past piles of bakery goods.
The street between the hotel and the plaza was closed/torn up; walkers
hiked on narrow trails each side. Parents walked kids to school,
hand in hand; workers walked to shops. I wandered, much warmer now,
in my beach towel rebozo with trains on it. The others in
the group were slow to complain, but I whined and shivered unabashed--
thought we were going to the beach! Nothing about 7000' on the flyer
I saw! The others quietly got sick. At times we were a bit
of a traveling
farmacia/pharmacy, dealing with so many prescriptions
and maladies!
We were visiting the copper ware village of Santa Clara del Cobre when
the sun came out--Amy especially appreciated shopping opportunities.
I voted for a boat trip to see those fisherman I'd heard about. Little
did I know we'd be shown a total tourist set up, complete with fellow paddling
over to collect money. Whether real butterfly net fisherman still
exist, I don't know. I know we didn't see them, and so do the guys
who pretended to be 'em. This was the kind of thing that confused
me—indifference? game? disdain? dishonesty? a joke? Lovely boat ride.
("You
can take a short boat ride to the island of Janitzio, an interesting
native crafts and fishing village. An enormous statue of revolutionary
hero Jose Maria Morelos crowns the island. Fisherman with butterfly nets
fish the lake's shallow waters." [oh yeah] )
We also visited Aztec like ruins (near Tzintzuntzan)--Los Yacatas(yacatas
being structures, of which there are 5 enormous), built by the Purepecha
(Tarascan) people. Below Los Yacatas Don stopped so I could snap
photos of one of the many elaborately decorated cemeteries that intrigued
me.
Los Yacatas; cemetery
below Los Yacatas
The best thing about Pátzcuaro was our hotel was across from the
la
Basilica Virgen de la Salud, a huge old church (there are so many!).
Down the street a block was a Jesuit college and another old cathedral,
not kept up like the basilica, with wonderful old parquet wood floors.
I loved the way churches were always open, occupied, folks young and old
always pausing to pray, kneel on the boards of the old wood pews or at
a favorite statue or altar.
webshot of Pátzcuaro
basilica
|
Pátzcuaro - possibly
the old Jesuit or Franciscan convent
|
Imagen de la Santisima Virgen
de Guadalupe
|
Lake Pátzcuaro "taxi"
to island, like the boat we took
|
Isla de Janitzi shops
|
Gave up trying to read church schedules--not really posted--everyone knows--and
listened to bells. As Don promised, we were well off the beaten path.
Monday evening, when bells rang on the hour, I found a handful of folks
attending mass, led by a lively, alarmingly appealing priest in green.
An older man dressed in everyday clothes sang beautifully at a keyboard.
The priest's voice was fatherly, the music lovely. The woman in front
of me recited and sang loudly, confidently. A family came in "late"--one
woman wearing flashing tennis shoes. (Now I really want some!)
People felt at home. I loved being there.
After the service, I wandered around on tender tourist feet studying statues,
art, the painted dome, windows, altars. My first experience knowing
in my heart that religion was “real” occurred in 1966 at the cathedral
in the Zocalo of Cuidad México. Seemingly out of the blue,
after being brought up anti-catholic, I was profoundly moved to tears.
I turned when a woman burst into song, and saw the old woman wrapped in
a raboso, who'd been standing at one of the statues. Her clear,
beautiful "Ave Marie" filled the huge stone basilica, giving me goose bumps
like the opening melody of the gypsy film, Latcho Drom. A man waited
nearby. Aiyiyi. I was jealous of this faith, trust and passion.
This was why I came to México--to witness simple faith. Again
I was moved and teary. One church, one community, one God, one México.
After 2 chilly Pátzcuaro nights we continued the inland loop onto
Uruapan,
México, I was learning, was vastly vaster, more full of cities than
even Don's road atlas could begin to show. Two nights in a plaza
Hotel Concordia (Wed. & Thurs.), this time with only occasional bands.
Jungley, botanical "Parque Nacional Eduardo Ruiz" up the street was beautiful.
Our jaunt to see the volcanic field from Paricutín volcano took
us to remote Indian country. ("Paracutín volcano &
village of Angahuan - Paracutín erupted in 1943 and over the following
nine years doused the surrounding 40 sq. kilometers with molten lava.
Located in this area was the village of San Juan Parangaricutiro. Visitors
can tour the area on foot or horseback and view the amazing sight of the
town's church spire and walls emerging from the sea of hardened lava").
Only a savvy veteran of many years in Mexico, like Don, could have gotten
us there. Amazing. I was feeling home in hilly pine tree country,
almost able to tell avocado farms from mango. Ha.
lava buried village church
from distance
|
|
viewing distant steam vents
from XLNTR4U van
|
avocados maturing
|
Although I practiced Spanish words in the van or over meals, when I was
off on my own, folks generally look puzzled. Belatedly, in this mid
sized city, I was able to buy material for a rebozo where yardage
prices were posted and I didn't “have to” bargain; rent an hour of internet
time; buy post cards and stamps. Bought French fries (papas francesas)
on my own again (still 10 pesos). Delicious.
My body was becoming delirious for vegetables, eyes acquiring alarming
black circles. Who was eating the beautiful vegetables we occasionally
saw in markets? Not us. "We" ate eggs, bacon and hot cakes.
One Uruapan morning I wandered off and found fresh peas, carrots and an
onion on a corner that clearly supplied bulk buyers. After looking
confused by my lone onion, I heard a man tell his child, “nada”; it was
given to me. Another young helper took centavos for the peas and
carrots. (Before leaving Pátzcuaro, I managed to buy a memorably
yummy peach in a morning market. God knows what I paid. Why
we didn't enjoy the bounty, my belly and I never understood.)
An especially magical experience happened while I waited on the Uruapan
plaza for the rest of the group to exchange money. The plaza was
filled with hundreds of (well, many) mom and dads, holding small kids by
their hands, following instructions blasting from an amped woman on-stage.
¿Que pasa? Parent-child pairs held newspaper pages, or hula
hoops, and marched to tunes like "Hokey Pokey". Gathered up my roll
(bolea?),
avocado and onion, and camera, and moved closer to observe. An obvious
favorite tune was "Ooo ee, ooo ah-ah, ting tang, walla walla bing bang
"of "Purple People Eater". On cue, everyone waded up their newspaper
page; on cue, everyone tossed it high; on cue, they threw their wads onto
the ground; on cue, they picked them up, and smoothed them out! What
were these folks doing dancing around, suddenly lying on the pavement,
in response to instructions being called out. Lots of encouraging
"muy biens" from the enthusiastic emcee. In my wildest dreams I couldn't
imagine a troop of les estatos unidos parents jumping around with
their kids in a public square. In México,
no problema.
With or with out a page of newspaper, parents laid happily on the plaza
while small kids sat on their back per instructions. When I realized
the emcee was calling out to parents to massage head, neck, ears, shoulders,
hands to toes, I was completely enchanted. Watched one father carefully
rotate his child's ankle. This was amazing! Then the parent
lay down and the child moved from head to toe as parts were called out!
Holy toledo! Although most anyone I've tried to describe this to
since I returned has snorted, this appeared to be an everyday event in
México. The mystery was solved to my satisfaction on the plane
flight into Boise. My hispanic seat mate from Nampa immediate said
"kindergarten graduation".
Jouncing out of town in the van, I peeled the carrot with a tiny borrowed
knife and shared chunks with those willing to eat off the street, as it
were. I was becoming desperate! Don understated the long drive
back to the coast. He had to or we'd-a-revolted! Our good natures
were crumbling. I no longer needed my stripped "rebosa" for warmth;
instead I threw it over my face each time the van passed a line of vehicles
on narrow, curving, mountainous roads, which was often. To be fair,
over the weeks, a handful of vehicles actually passed Don.
Rather late Friday night, we pulled into Punta Puerula, for our final stay.
It was humid and warm. We staggered into bed. Thought I heard
the ocean. In the morning, under overcast skies, Don, Kyle and I
swam and jumped in warm swells.
I'll get the night from hell out of the way. The following night
(Saturday) there was a special disco in the vacant lot next door with transvestites,
a benefit for AIDS. Don't ask. We were in the middle of next
to nowhere, not even a cathedral. Don, the hotel owner's son and
I were game to go, until the wall of volume blew us out of the entrance
gate. San Ignacio revisited, disco style. I was sure my companions
(that weren't hard of hearing) were going to freak. As usual, I was
wrong. In the morning I was the only one perturbed. My night
from hell. In "the middle of the night" I'd got up and walked the
couple of blocks down to the ocean, and sat below the sand piled by the
hurricane, to escape the beat. I was absolutely beside myself.
This was major, offensive volume.
After a couple of days of being the only regular visitor to the beach--it
slowly dawned on me that my desire for sun and salt water was not shared!
Those in the group who had "been there, done that", played cards in the
shade, rarely leaving the hotel. One day, the men went out in a boat
to fish; we dined on what sounded like "Sierra" that night. The following
morning, Ernesto dropped Kyle and I at an island beach to snorkel.
Don predicted we wouldn't see anyone. But times had changed-- Club
Med had tents set up under tarps; locals camped; jet skis roared.
The beach was discovered. Nude women snorkeled, but didn't wave.
I finned among the rocks watching blue fish, which were just as numerous
on the rocky beach down from the hotel, or so I thought.
Breakfasts and dinners we commuted to a restaurant on the main road, which
prepared guacamole from the case of prime avocados Don picked up en route
to the coast. Yum. When the owner took off on a Herbalife mission,
service slipped noticeable. By then, we'd learned soups might contain
vegetables. But there were only 2 servings, and so on. The
last few days Don helped me ordered fried potatoes, squash and carrots;
my gut was desperate.
as close as it came to a
group shot,
and as close as some got
to the beach
Two days before we left, we discovered a bar on the beach had margaritas
and real french fries. After seeing whole limes chopped up into the
margaritas--I LOVE limes-- I realized this was my Jimmy Buffet moment.
Didn't have to get up early. Yum, yum, yum. Waves rolled in,
the company was a little worn and impatient, but really, it was a lovely
time. The rest of the evening predictably was a bit of a wash.
Had to lay down awhile, before staggering down to the beach for my evening
walk.
Never did walk on that enchanted island beach I'd imagined from Idaho,
in breezy, white cotton dress, solving the mystery of my place in the universe.
But I did walk barefoot in sun dress over frayed men's shorts and tank
top, past small restaurants, huts and hotels, abandoned and otherwise,
past boats with fish lying in their bottoms, along open stretches, past
occasional walkers and waders. Watched pelicans dive and the last
light of day and the new sliver of moon dance on incoming waves.
(With water so warm that fantasy white get up wouldn't have lasted a minute!)
Beach time turned out to be a small part of the trip. When we finally
got there, I cudda stayed for weeks watching sunsets, snorkeling and swimming.
(Not me, go to México to shop, eat, and drink--do that at home!).
Left happy hours and shopping to others, though I acquired dos hamacas
(hammocks) and a number of small sea shells ("coquina" I think).
Although I snatched a few quiet moments, swinging in the hotel's fleet
of hammocks several afternoons (also crash landed one) it seemed like every
time I settled in to do nothing, it was time to do something. How
could that be!! I'd return for more barefoot walks on the beach in
a heartbeat.
As always when traveling, I learned more about people than place (which
was a lot!) We Idahoans traveled with, to understate, diverse interests;
we survived. I miss Amy's incomparable diplomatic skills. My
straightforward: "the door's not shut", was ignored. Her sweet "maybe
the door's not shut" was a powerful teaching. I miss howling with
Barb, her devastating sense of humor. The winner for humor, however,
in my book, went to the nearly silent Kyle, who suddenly offered to buy
dinner February 3rd (is that the right date, Kyle?) in celebration of the
4th anniversary of his divorce. I shrieked with surprise! I
miss Don's irrepressible enthusiasm for México and his boldness
(though not his turning a convenient deaf ear to our whispers for an ice
cream stop--even Amy's world class skills persuasive skills couldn't prevail--or
mangos.) I miss Earl's small kindnesses, but not the ceaseless smutty
jokes and innuendoes that sounded like they came from his direction.
I miss Herb's good nature and ability to recognize a familiar Mexican dump.
What a trooper!
Although my gut is still reeling from Mexican adventures, other physical
reminders have faded--the bloody scrape on my palm from scrambling out
of the snorkel rocks when I realized the van was waiting and all the pesky
mosquito and noseeum beach bites found even in paradise, which splotched
a faint tan.
I've signed up for espagñol classes--no small thing from
a long time phobic language student--and ordered books on México.
This gringo loved the heart of México. It was like coming
home to who I want to be. I wanna hold hands with kids and pray on
my knees daily. (But no, no tortillas and frijoles, gracias!)
¡Gracias a Dios!
