• Mexico on My Mind – part 6: The Beach of the Dead

    If one goes to the farthest south end of the Sayulita beach where the sand turns to jagged rock, a secret road can be found that leads behind the rocks to Playa de los Muertos, a hidden beach invisible from the rest of the world. On the way, to the side of the road, one passes a grand old cemetery. The headstones, various granite memorials and gargoyled stone mausoleums can be seen, recently festooned with new flowers or streamers or papier-mâché effigies. There is no grass, only barren gray soil and stones. Trees that must have grown long before the graveyard was built hang sadly overhead providing shade in the motionless heat.


    Every night, skeletons, ghosts, Catrinas and even La Llorona herself, rise from their resting places, glistening under the pale moonlight, to come and frolic in the ocean, kicking sea spray, body surfing. The waves wash through their ribcages and loose-fitting jawbones, and gurgle down from their empty eye sockets.

    During the day, the few mortals who discover the secluded beach wander vacantly on the shore or venture into the water, their souls heavy with woe and the cares of this world. The sunlight is more bronze there, more penetrating, so much so that one can almost see the bones of the living through their thin skin. And the water whispers of countless old vessels that have landed there or, if less fortunate, were crushed to splinters upon the rocks.

    Studying a map, I noticed the secluded beach with its mysterious name. We decided we had to go there.

    Where the outcropping of sharp rocks marks the end of Sayulita Beach, a sidewalk leads further, past the more elite condos withdrawn from the teeming crowds. Kiosks serving wine and mimosas, cafe tables and chairs, and quiet, manicured foliage create a placid atmosphere. No peddlers come down this far. But shortly the resort condos end and the sidewalk turns into a dirt road leading inland and uphill into a dusty neighborhood. This is where we found ourselves late Monday morning.

    Suddenly we were alone, the din of town and tourists behind us. The dirt road meandered between the hulking concrete blocks of what aspired to be multi-story apartment buildings apparently abandoned midway through construction. Enigmatic graffiti defaced the blocks. Tall weeds, vagrant firepits, and rubbish persuade most of the curious to turn back at this point.

    I realized a stray dog had been following us for ten minutes, perhaps reading from our eyes that we were headed for Playa de los Muertos. Nobody claimed the dog. Could they even see it? It trotted along as if we were old friends, frolicking between the structures. We approached the dusty cemetery, the dog was the only living creature to be seen. He seemed familiar with the place. “Where is everyone?” I wondered aloud to Trina.

    The dog came and went. We would look around and notice he’d left us, and then he would reappear carrying some item in his mouth like a leg bone or half of a fish. I commented to Trina that his appearing and disappearing seemed fitting for the Beach of the Dead. The forlorn yet promising entrance to the beach then appeared on our right.

    Passing under an arch of high palm fronds, our route changed from dirt and rock to lovely white sand. Suddenly the view was beautiful again and the steady crash of the waves restored that unique seaside calm to our souls, disturbed only by a few strange human sights.

    An ageless wight rose from a chair in which he seemed to be sleeping, and he approached us slowly, his gait stilted, his eyes hazy like the undead, struggling to form his words into sentences. We perceived that he was asking if we wanted to rent an umbrella and chairs in the manner in which a witch would invite children into an oven. We said no with a furtive smile and a quick gesture. Behind him through the window of the lone food trailer, we could see hunched figures toiling obscurely over bright flames, but the trailer was not open for business.

    We walked out onto the short beach to wet our feet, our little carnivore still darting around us. To the right, a chaotic mass of ancient igneous formed a rugged peninsula, including one island with a forty-foot natural tower, accessible with a few careful leaps across boulders spanning frothing seawater that washed in between. I had to take a closer look.

    Here and there a few specimens of sad, statuelike animal life could be discerned if you looked carefully, often the same ashen hue as the ancient lava flow. A pelican with its bill nodded to its chest sat regally like an avian Ozymandias. An orange crab defied my approach and held its ground.

    On the island I saw fishing line strung randomly, a leather gauntlet, a golden earring. From the extremity facing back toward the land I could see that the summit of the tower was climbable but more treacherous than I dared. A pirate’s bones were likely arrayed on top for a witch doctor’s midnight bacchanal.

    Back on the beach, a man indistinguishable from an Indian swami appeared in loose-fitting cotton trousers and no shirt. His wild mane of hair and long beard were white, and his skin was like leather tanned to a dark umber. He sat under a small tree meditating then, rising slowly, he walked into the water and swam away and was never seen again.

    One or two other undead couples arrived and set up camp in the nearby grove inland from the water’s edge. They seemed to be content to sit in their loose-fitting, gypsy attire, avoiding sunlight, mostly concerned with each other rather than the features of nature. They produced black bottles of potions that they drank from pewter spoons, ate unrecognizable fruits, and smoked Bubonic #9.

    The weight of the sun and the languor of the beach of the dead, and the mulling and skulking of outcasts who trickled through the entrance gates began to wear on us and, feeling an inward pull from the holy ghost to return to the land of the living, we decided to return. Our little dog was gone and we never saw him again.

    Thanks for reading! Don’t forget to subscribe

  • Mexico on My Mind, Part 5 – Your lounge chair is now ready

    Neither of us slept well the first night following our traumatic entrance into Puerto Vallarta. But by 10 a.m. the next morning, we found ourselves in the backseat of the car of Mr. Benjamin Sanchez, our Uber driver, as he drove us to Sayulita on a mountainous, winding 2-lane tropical jungle road. We left behind the resort-style campus of the Hilton with its numerous buffets of bland (but free) California sushi rolls, bland red wine, bland quesadillas. But we had discovered the best Mexican beer.

    In my opinion, Pacifico is the best of all the popular Mexican beers and I give it my heartiest recommendation. Even more exciting is the fact that even Trina, who never drinks beer, liked it! More on that later.

    We soon came to trust Benjamin and shared stories about our families. We passed through coastal towns of Nueva Vallarta and Bucerias before plunging into the hot Mexican jungle for the final leg. Up and down hills, through narrow passes and always under lush high foliage. We zoomed by secluded fruit stands and merchandise vendors.

    I told Benjamin that we had considered renting a car at the airport, and asked what he thought. Was there any danger? Just a couple of rich gringos. Could we be captured by the cartels and held for ransom? No, he said. The cartels leave American tourists alone because local business depends on them. Kidnapping Americans would give Mexico a bad reputation, tourism would dry up, and the whole area would suffer.

    The ones to worry about are the police, he said, because if your car breaks down or if you get in an accident and need police support, their eyes will start spinning with dollar signs and you will have to pay a steep price to get them to lift a finger for you. It was better to skip the rental car and use Uber or the taxis. I think that was the first really good news we received on the trip.

    Sayulita’s streets are all cobblestone and we drove slowly. The sidewalks were teeming with people. Skies were clear, the sun was warm, and the air was dry. Benjamin had trouble finding our boutique hotel, The Distrito 88. There was no sign, no marquee, no welcoming entrance, and no check-in counter. After a call to the hotel, we learned that an understated, wrought-iron gate was the entrance, and it stayed locked at all times.

    The concierge whose name was Lalo met us at the gate with smiles and fluent English. Almost everyone spoke English. Benjamin wanted to book our trip back to the airport, but Lalo warned us all that the taxi union was very territorial about Sayulita, and they had an ongoing feud with Uber. Past hotel guests had been trapped in Sayulita when taxi drivers saw tourists getting the much cheaper Uber car and blocked their exit. If you want to use Uber, you need to meet at the edge of town to avoid angry taxi drivers. We told Benjamin Sorry, but we would be getting a taxi.

    Distrito 88 has only 8 rooms. No children allowed. The rooms were gorgeous and the view of the water from up the side of a steep hill was spectacular. Lalo led us on a long trip up outdoor stairways to get to the very top of the facility which was built into the mountainside. Our studio apartment had air conditioning, fast wifi and kitchenette. No rice on the bedspread.

    We skipped out to find some lunch: a hamburger and chicken enchiladas, and chips and the best guacamole anyone has ever eaten at a place called Chocobanana. We gave some pesos to a woman who came up to our table with a sign that said she had leukemia.

    It was still early afternoon so we went down to the beach for a dip in the ocean and a little beach reading. A man brought us cheap margaritas in our lounge chairs. I bought a breezy hat from a man walking around with 20 of them stacked in his hands. A group of teenagers sitting next to us were drinking tequila from a bottle and singing Mexican pop songs. After a while, they all fell asleep.

    At this point may I remind you that this vacation was just shortly after the Texas snowstorm that left us traumatized without power for five days. When we got back to the hotel to get cleaned up for dinner, the power was out in the whole block. Our hearts sank. I texted Lalo, did he know what was going on? Yes, he said, there was an explosion and probably a transformer had blown up nearby. It was Sunday evening. What chance was there, I wondered, that the Sayulita utility company would get power restored? I thought we were doomed to have no power for days.

    Back in the room we had no lights, no internet. Trina took a shower with all water in the water tank on the roof. I took a bath in the swimming pool.

    We went out to buy candles and bottled water, and to find a place to eat. We saw that most of the rest of the town still had power.


    We ate at a restaurant called Davalu that had a balcony overlooking the town square. The food was unbelievably delicious. I had the Filet Dorado al Pastor and Trina had Pasta Mexicana. Lalo texted me while we were there to say that the power was back on.

    A meek little girl about five years old and all alone came up to our table with a bundle of the same colorful woven bracelets we had seen other vendors selling. She mumbled something in Spanish that probably meant Would I like to buy one? We were already used to saying No to the numerous peddlers who were everywhere selling crafts, and Trina said “No thank you” at the exact moment that I said, “Sure! I’ll take one,” and the little girl turned to Trina and said “Ha!” right in her face. The bracelet was 10 pesos or 5 US cents, certainly worth it to make that spunky little girl happy.

    When we were walking back, there was the utility truck and three men who had just finished getting power restored! Shame on me for being such a pessimist about Mexico. I’m happy to report that contrary to what is often reported on American TV, it is a strong, beautiful country. So much of what we’ve heard about drug kingpins and gun violence was nowhere to be seen on our trip.

    That evening we heard that there had been mass shooting in Austin.

    The end of Day 2.

  • Once Upon a Time in Puerto Vallarta

    American corporations such as Hilton Hotels are careful to export a complete American experience and install it fully on foreign soil. No matter the country, soft-skinned American wimps like us can escape to our creature comforts like clean water, air conditioning, and daily maid service. The Hilton of Puerto Vallarta is just such an oasis.

    But our deeply unnerving experiences were not quite done.

    The check-in counter, while covered from sun and rain, is completely outdoors, part of a long open breezeway from the sunny pool and beachfront to the parking and drop-off circle. Fountains in rock gardens bubble, tan bodies luxuriate with daiquiris on lobby furniture. Smartly dressed attendants hustle luggage on bellman’s carts, and charming young faces smile to welcome you to the check-in counter. There’s still a general hubbub of vacationers and traffic noise, but the hotel campus is clean and most of the staff speak perfect English.

    Side note: Trina is a Diamond Hilton Honors Member, and we booked the hotel under her account.

    At the counter, we gave our names. “It’s under Trina Mays. Uh, she’s a Diamond Honors member,” I said feeling smug and entitled.

    After a small number of keyboard clicks, the spiffy hotel check-in staff fell silent. A strange, troubled expression came upon their faces. They started avoiding eye contact with us and furtively murmured to each other. Trina and I looked at each other. Behind us, more American families with children were queuing up looking at us in their straw hats and sunglasses and beach balls. Our check-in girl walked away without a word of explanation.

    One minute later, another woman approached us, not in hotel uniform, but in professional business attire. This one was corporate. She motioned for us to follow her. We trundled our luggage along, entering a network of corridors, arriving at a spacious business office with a 20-foot ceiling. Modular desk, computer, printer. She asked us to take a seat. Then she left.

    The room was quiet and cool, bathed in sunlight from a high window. Bon Jovi played in the distance. I felt for my passport in my pocket. I whispered, “do you know what’s going on?” She shook her head.

    We sat there, once again worried for our safety. Worried that our reservations could not be found, that the authorities were seeking us, that the Vidanta agent had caught up with us. Did anyone on the outside know that we were in here?

    The woman came back. She asked us if we would like a beverage—Coke, water, beer? We were relieved; they’re probably not going to kill us. But we were still worried that some really bad news was coming. The drinks were to prepare us for some devastating news.

    “Bottled water would be great,” Trina said.

    “Beer? What do you have?”

    “Bud, Bud Lite, Miller, Coors. And we have Mexican beers. Corona, Modelo, Dos Equis, Pacifico—”

    “Pacifico.”

    “One moment.”

    She came back with our drinks and sat down at the desk. Here it comes. We braced ourselves.

    “Welcome to Puerto Vallarta! Have you been here before?”

    “No.”

    “Well I hope you enjoy your stay with us. I just need to see some ID and I’ll get you your room key.”

    What? Yes. Apparently, being a Diamond Hilton Honors Member means you do not check in at the counter with the unwashed riff-raff of Puerto Vallarta. No. You check in in a calm, quiet room, seated, drinking a cold beer (at least at this hotel).

    We relaxed. The small courtesies seemed too good to be true. She gave us our keys. She encouraged us to go straight out to the poolside and enjoy our drinks; a bellhop would immediately deliver our baggage to our room.

    I asked her if she knew about Vidanta because of our airport experience. Yes, she said, it was a scam. “They say it is only a one-hour event but they keep you there all day.” All day. She knew of one family, she said, that only had three days in Puerto Vallarta. They lost an entire day trapped at the Vidanta tour.

    Dear God, I thought.

    We spent the rest of that day (it was only about 1pm) getting a buffet lunch and then walking the beach. A man with a rack of sunglasses asked if we wanted to buy some sunglasses. A woman buried in wool wraps asked if we wanted to buy bracelets.

    Another man asked if we wanted to buy a box of Cuban cigars.

    “No thanks.”

    “Okay, some weed? Blow?”

    “No thanks.”

    We took a taxi to the Romantic District, an area with oceanfront shops, local art, exotic statuary, a flea market. As we stepped out of the taxi a man asked,

    “Good day sir, would you like to buy Cuban cigars?”

    “No thanks.”

    “Okay, some weed? Blow?”

    “No thanks.”

    We found a small cathedral and went in to listen to five minutes of a choir and Catholic liturgy in Spanish. Then we left and went to buy some ice cream. Policemen were stationed on street corners, and as we walked along the sidewalk a man approached us.

    “Cuban cigars, sir? Box of cigars?”

    “No thanks.”

    “Okay. Some weed? Blow?”

    We started avoiding all street vendors. They were persistent. Some would call at you across the street like an old high school friend. You shook your head mildly and kept walking. Most took your refusal as a young Romeo would take rejection from a lover.

    Exhausted, we decided to retreat to the safety of our hotel where vendors were not allowed. Another taxi ride (about $3 US) took us several miles, rapidly, violently, through back streets, around hard corners, down cobblestone streets, past heartbreaking poverty and shocking living conditions, back to our comfortable American hotel.

    The final surprise: in our hotel room, the bed had a colored-rice artwork on the blanket. You can see from the photos, it was loose, unglued rice, somehow laid on the bedspread, welcoming us.

    I was simultaneously impressed and appalled by the sheer inefficiency of it all. American that I am, I couldn’t help but think that some housekeeping staff person was paid to craft this design that would inspire amazement, yes, but quickly following a sense of befuddlement.

    What were we supposed to do with it? A terrible mess just waiting to happen. If we ignored it and flung the rice all over the floor, then the same senorita who meticulously placed the rice there the day before would be sweeping it up into the dustbin tomorrow.

    We felt the only humane thing to do was to take two minutes to make a valley of the blanket, funnel all the rice into a channel and pour it into the trashcan.

    Trivial artwork admired and thrown in the trash. Like a black parade pantomiming the disparity between the opulent Americans that we are, and the quiet desperation of the locals locked in a world of dirt and disease.

    Thanks for reading! Please subscribe if you haven't already

  • My employment regression

    Here is a little interruption from my Mexico trip diary to talk about what I did today. In case you saw my Facebook post and wondered what’s going on, I am working for an company that provides staff for events: conferences, weddings, parties, etc. I make $15/hr and I stand on my feet all day. It’s brutal for a man of my age.

    Here’s what’s up. I have decided to become a bartender. I have always admired bartenders and wanted to be one since I was a teenager working at the Kingwood Country Club where “Cuz” was the coolest guy in the building. I have my TABC permit and, in addition to some life experience with drinks, I am studying mixology. I am working event staff to get back into the world of food service, and hopefully to get assistance with a job placement.

    This weekend, NASCAR is at Circuit of the Americas here in Austin. My personnel supply company needed warm bodies to serve drinks, bus tables, and work the buffet. I thought, “a day in the VIP area of COTA? Sign me up!” I met a number of interesting people including one young man who tried everything within his power to get me to understand that I knew nothing of the Christian faith and that I needed to seek power from God to cast out demons and speak in tongues. Stories? Yeah, mission accomlished.

    Thanks for reading! Dont forget to subscribe.
  • That Sinking Feeling, We Are Being Kidnapped

    Outside the Puerto Vallarta airport was a sea of taxis. Tired and sweating drivers stood around with rumpled collars. Again, a field of eyes turned on us.

    Getting a taxi at the PV airport is a racket. A young lady approached us with a kind of ticketing booklet and asked if we needed a taxi. “This is how we do it here,” she explained. “I write you an order for a taxi. Then you pay at the taxi kiosk and you are assigned to a driver.”

    “How much to get to the Hilton (about 3 miles),” I asked.

    “350 pesos,” she said. I didn’t yet know how to quickly convert dollars to pesos, but it seemed like a lot.

    We sat down in an airport café like fugitives. Having had just narrowly avoided one major scam, it was clear that before us lay an obstacle course designed for rich American tourists. I had an idea. I called the concierge at the Hilton.

    “What’s the best way to get from the airport to the Hilton?”

    “You can take a taxi.”

    “There’s no Hilton shuttle or anything?”

    “I’m sorry sir, there is no shuttle. But you can also take an Uber. It will be cheaper.”

    “You have Uber here?”

    “Yes, it works just like in the United States.”

    “Perfect!”

    We went out seeking where the Uber pickup was. There was a policeman. A blink of hesitation and I asked him where Uber was. Speaking excellent English, he said that, like American airports, rideshare services are not allowed on the airport campus. But there was a skywalk off the airport to the closest street. He pointed in the direction.

    A surge of victory! Our first success in finding the secret passage out of the world of exploitation of the newly-arrived-American-tourist-who-doesn’t-know-any-better. Instead of $20 US we would pay about $4 US. Now that’s more like it!

    The process was all familiar. A young man pulled up as we stood waving, recognizing his license plate number. He didn’t say anything, just lifted our bags into the trunk. His collar was rumpled too, and jaunty Mexican music played softly on the radio. He wasn’t the usual Uber chatterbox. Thin cloth curtains were mounted across the backseat windows concealing us from outside.

    From the wide, open six-lane road we were on, our driver suddenly turned off into a network of narrow, single-lane streets. Trina and I looked at each other. My neck hair stood up. I almost said in his ear from behind, “Qué pasó?” but I feared even more a hasty response that I couldn’t understand. The little car accelerated through what seemed like a labyrinth of cobblestone roads, darting left and right, high walls on either side and men standing around expectantly as we passed, their mustaches heavy, their tee-shirts dirty and not completely covering their big bellies.

    My heart was in my throat. I expected our car to stop in front of one of the shanty houses, to be hustled out at gunpoint. Were we being taken to a dank concrete room to be tied to wooden chairs, a flip-phone shoved in our ear with one of our children on the other end? If we were lucky! What if we were being taken to a chop shop to have our kidneys removed and sold?

    How could we have fallen for it? Uber was a just front for a Mexican kidnapping ring! and stupid tourists who refuse to pay the taxis mafiosos put in the tank. And that cop was in on it too! We had been fish in a barrel, easy prey.

    The car started breaking rapidly. This is it, I thought. But we were pulling up to an intersection to take us back onto the 6-lane road…going the other direction, into town. I saw that there are no U-turns on the road. The only way to turn around was to use the traffic light at the intersection.

    Realization dawned on us. Our shoulders relaxed.

    In ten minutes we were deposited with little ceremony (or conversation still) at the welcoming open check-in desk of the Puerto Vallarta Hilton, where we were treated like royalty.

    [More coming]

  • Mexico on My Mind, Part 2 – The Narrow Escape

    “Sir! Welcome to Mexico! Come, may I ask you something? Do you like tequila? We are serving free tequila! Look, let me give you this. Try this one. This one is called reposado. Good? Do you like it? Some for you Madam? Or perhaps a margarita? Yes? Wonderful, can I get a margarita for the lady? Here, please. Here you go. This one is for you. Real Mexican tequila, the best. Pretty good, eh? Now look at this one. You like mango? This bottle over here is different. This one is mango tequila. Here you go. Taste this. What do you think? No? You do not like the flavored ones. Just the straight tequila. I understand. A man of taste. Let me get you another.”

    We stood there bleary-eyed at a portable counter with our suitcases and shoulder bags, yet to set foot on Mexican soil. Across from us was a short man of about thirty and his female assistant who passed out tequila in small plastic cups with joy. Around us, other travelers were being compelled to stop off at counters and receive tequila shots.

    We were frazzled and ready to get to our hotel room.

    “Sir, before you go! you may have noticed coming down the corridor, the signs. There are many signs. Did you see the signs for Vidanta? Yes? Do you know about Vidanta?”

    “We already have a hotel.”

    “Excellent! May I ask where are you staying?”

    “The Hilton.”

    “An excellent choice, sir. How long are you in Puerto Vallarta?”

    “Only today. Tomorrow we go to Sayulita for the week.”

    “Ahh! Sayulita is wonderful! If you give me just a minute of your time I will get you free transportation to the Hilton.”

    To cut to the chase, Vidanta is a not-yet-finished resort. The whole presentation was about getting us to come to a one-hour tour of the Vidanta campus the following morning. The man promised to pick us up himself and take us to enjoy a free breakfast.

    (We later learned that “one hour” is actually literally the whole day. Trina and I fell for this once when we were newlyweds around 1992. They promised us a voucher for a luxury hotel if we come listen to a 45-minute presentation. We were dirt poor and naïve, and a free vacation was enticing. But you know how it goes: they trap you in a room for hours and pressure you to buy a vacation time-share package or something. It was horrible. We never fell for that again. I assumed that only American businesses could be so scammy. I wasn’t expecting it in Mexico.)

    To get us to sign up for a tour, the freebies started adding up. By the end, he had offered us:

    • A free taxi to the Hilton
    • Personal escort to Vidanta the following morning
    • Free breakfast before the tour
    • Personal escort to Sayulita after the tour was over (approximately a one-hour drive)
    • A full BOTTLE OF TEQUILA
    • 1000 pesos CASH! (approximately $50 US)

    He asked my name and wrote it on a registration form, thanking me on behalf of his poor children because he worked on commission.

    “Sir, we only want you to see Vidanta so you can tell your friends who may come to Mexico. To help get the word out with advertising, because Vidanta is new and not well known. Nothing else.”

    “But they want us to buy a vacation, right?”

    “There is no obligation to purchase.”

    “Yeah, but will we be pressured to buy a vacation, right?”

    He pointed to the registration form that said, “NO OBLIGATION”

    “I get it. We’ve done this before. They’re gonna twist our arms to sign up.”

    “Sir there is no obligation.”

    That’s when Trina said, “Nope. We’re gonna pass.” And I said “You heard the lady! We’re gonna pass.”

    “But sir! Wait, think about my children! What if I will give you ONE-THOUSAND PESOS!” And that is when we walked away.

    Suddenly the gauntlet of thirty other salesmen lining the corridor erupted into shouts— “SIR! PLEASE, ONE MOMENT! SIR! SIR! SIR!” They stepped toward us urgently, as you would for someone whose clothes were on fire, their faces shocked as if we had just personally insulted the whole nation of Mexico.

    For a moment, we sensed we could be in serious physical danger from the brigade of salesmen charging at us and pleading with us. Trundling our luggage behind, Trina and I huddled together and pressed into the fray like sailors into a hurricane. Adrenaline surged. We avoided eye contact. Perhaps the tequila steeled our nerves. But they didn’t follow us down the corridor. Thank God, we were safe.

    Physically trembling, hearts racing, and looking at each other in sheer astonishment, we approached the airport exit.

    But we were blocked by a line of people, like a game of Red Rover, urgently asking if they could hail us a taxi.

    [More to come]

  • Mexico on My Mind

    Our wheels touched down before noon at the airport in Puerto Vallarta, an overcooked tourist town on the sunset coast of Mexico, pinched between arid tropical mountains and a long sandy beach. I’d been up since four a.m., fifteen minutes before my alarm went off, to make some coffee and order an Uber driver to the Austin Airport. Now, at last, we had arrived at our dream vacation that had been canceled and rescheduled 3 times in the previous year due to the pandemic and the Texas Ice Storm of 2021. It was finally happening.

    The plans were to spend only one day/night in Puerto Vallarta. The following five days we would go to Sayulita, a smaller, lesser-known, less-touristy town an hour up the coast, or so we thought. More on that later.

    The international terminal and customs desks looked just like American ones, except Spanish was the primary language on all placards with English beneath in smaller letters. I don’t know what I was expecting. Armed militia with machine guns and berets? The officials and airport staff were well-dressed, clean and professional.

    I immediately felt a sort of gratitude toward them, perhaps for being so normal, for not demanding bribe money, or pretending to find something out of order with my paperwork and forcing us to sit in a sweltering adobe office for hours while the police chief returned from brunch.

    No, they positively seemed glad to have us in their country. They were patient, kind, and spoke perfect English even though I was all prepared to wrestle my Spanish back into use. I wondered if they would have been received the same way coming to an American airport.

    After only a short wait getting our COVID questionnaire approved and a few clamorous stamps applied to our passports, and an uneventful retrieval of our bags from the luggage carousel, we set out to find a taxi or, preferably, a complimentary, air-conditioned shuttle to the Hilton in Puerto Vallarta. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

    Now comes the part that I’m not sure how to describe.

    We had to pass through a series of corridors following signs for ground transportation. You are probably familiar with the way corridors of airports are often filled with poster advertisements of popular sights and events of your destination city. Sometimes they highlight cultural or artistic features or popular restaurants. Not the PV airport.

    The final long corridor out of the terminal had the typical poster frames regularly-spaced along the walls and video monitors mounted from the ceiling and hanging just above your line of sight. But these were all advertising only one thing: a luxury resort called Vidanta. Vidanta owned this corridor. Every square inch of ad space had been bought up by Vidanta. Sign after sign, TV screen after TV screen proclaiming only one message: the unalloyed paradise that is Vidanta—tan, slender bodies luxuriating in benign sunlight beside immaculate swimming pools, champagne glasses clinking in soft focus before a vespertine fireplace, the familiar swinging back-arch of a golfer just teeing off on a carpet of lush green grass. Vidanta was everywhere.

    Immune as we all are to advertising, it only made a passing impression in my memory because, well they just seemed so desperate! I mean, buy some ad space, sure. But to buy up the entire corridor? OK, whatever.

    When we left that corridor however, we learned what was going on with Vidanta. We entered a widened area in the corridor where folding tables chairs were set up. Here and there were highball tables with bottles of tequila and plastic cups. Soft music played overhead. And at least thirty men and a few young women stood lining the walls of our way toward the exits, dressed in not-quite business casual, each with a handful of brochures. It was the gauntlet. When we entered the room, all eyes—wide, hungry, tormented—turned on us.

    [To be continued…]

  • New Poem

    We Sail Ourselves

    You may be a yacht or a clipper

    or a catamaran or a little sunfish

    Whatever you are, you are

          on a voyage

    You are the little captain

          looking out

                at the seas ahead

          at storms or sunny breezes

    Sometimes we fear our doom

          when great waves hurl out stomachs

          and winds drive us off our course

    and leave us in uncharted waters

    Other times doldrums drag on

          and we can only wait

                and paddle

          if we don’t have a motor

     

    Yes, it’s a cute and obvious metaphor:

    I am a consciousness

          housed in a vessel

                a little man perched behind my own eyes

          peering out of my skull

    I’ve had my share of storms

          some victories too

    I steer this body that in a strange way

          is me

    Viewed this way I am

          a marvel to myself

     

    How did I get in here

          not exactly trapped

                but present inside this skull

          enfleshed and embodied?

    How is it I can control this hand

          holding this pen

                writing these lines

          that I am making up?

    Is this hulk of organic matter really me?

    Is this my home?

    I’ve known no other

          but somehow it feels provisional

    It’s the ship I’m sailing for now

     

    Some philosophers say consciousness is an illusion, a construct of billions of neurons passing electrical signals

     

    It is no more an illusion

          than a real captain

                sailing a real ship

          a little captain sailing a ship, sailing a ship

  • More love languages

    I was always a little suspicious when someone said there were only 5 love languages. After some years of gathering, here are some additions that I have found with my wife and family:

    • writing/singing jolly love songs by the water with s’mores
    • texting rude or risque memes
    • sitting on them
    • farting in the other room (not while sitting on them)
    • youthful deep-esophageal belching
    • saying anything in a British accent
    • peppering them with questions, frequently yes/no questions
    • telling a person to drive safely, wear your seat belt, keep your shoes on, and call me when you get there
    • making chicken sounds
    • hurting, pinching, pummeling, biting, tickling
    • telling them they are a dork, etc.
    • playing footsie under the covers (a form of sign language)
    • enduring the agony of listening to them describe a dream
    • eating food for them (food that they want but know they shouldn’t eat)
    • watching (another) sci-fi series with them on Netflix
    • not saying a damn thing for a while
  • Two classical music recommendations

    The first one I discovered on Radio Swiss Classical (which if you haven’t discovered yet, you should check out. There’s also Radio Swiss Jazz. Both have no commercials and just play music.)

    Not all classical music contains moments of sublimity, but when they do, there is something that aligns perfectly with something in the soul, a suspension, a discord, that resolves in a divine perfection.

    Tchaikovsky’s Sacred Choral Music is that way for me. I didn’t even know he wrote sacred music. Most people love the Nutcracker Suite, Swan Lake and Romeo and Juliet, and his 1st Piano Concierto. But these 9 Sacred Choral pieces are magical. I became addicted and couldn’t stop listening to them over and over.

    The second recommendation is Gabriel Fauré’s Requiem in D Minor. Unlike the previous, these are set to music. Fauré was an organist so it figures prominently. I love especially the final movement, In Paradisium, which you may recognize.

    This one also contains those resolutions that the aesthetic sense finds so satisfying.

    Enjoy, and leave me a comment if you find them lovely, or if you want to recommend something to me.

%d bloggers like this: