San Pancho Vida

Upside Down at Luz de Luna

Things have been a little topsy-turvy around here lately.

A couple of incidents led me to the idea of this particular post. The first was a change of plans precipitated by someone who is not me, which threw me for a loop for a day or so. Nothing a woman of intention and determination can't handle, of course, just a brief inversion in the order which I'm handling with help from my amazing and resourceful friends here in San Pancho. 

The second came about because of a situation I wrote about in my previous post, Armchair Wanderlust. It had to do with those long hours of research sitting in front of the computer, exacerbated by a serious addiction to Downton Abbey, all three seasons of which I watched sitting at my computer instead of on a comfy couch in front of the TV because I like to pretend I'm doing something productive while actually being entirely involved in the show.

I stood up the other night and finally had to admit to myself that I'd been in pain for days. My legs hurt, my hips hurt, my lower back hurt. Surprise, surprise, Candice. How about getting off your arse and doing some stretching exercises? Might that help?

So that's what I did. I began to stretch. Those stubborn quads first, then a bend to the ground, hair touching floor, to stretch stiff and resistant hamstrings. 

Goodness, what's that? I thought, and went and got my camera.

I'd never really paid attention to what my house looks like upside down.

You can imagine my delight. I took photo after photo, many of which didn't turn out well due to the lateness of the hour and my disinclination to use a flash. Some were interesting, though.

I continued this rather ridiculous pursuit the following afternoon.

I wandered around the house, bending double and looking up to see what I could see.

I learned a lot from this flipped-out exercise. I discovered a different way of viewing my surroundings. Now, I likely won't go around town bending over to take upside down photos: that seems eccentric to excess. Plus it would be weird. But I did realize the value of looking at the world from a different point of view and reminding ourselves to do so now and then.

And besides that, I don't hurt any more.

Chuckling as I took these shots, I was intrigued by the thought that it's not a bad thing at all to be turned on our heads once in a while. I've had a few lessons in that this year, being upended, and they have left me more in touch with life, I think. I hesitate to use words like wisdom and awareness, yet each life learning, if assimilated and examined, must eventually add up to something.

Even if it's just an upside down photo of a garden.

Armchair Wanderlust

You know that big hook they used in vaudeville to pull people off the stage? I need someone to come right away with one and pull me away from this computer.

Okay, it's true I'm not cloistered in a stuffy room with only a flickering fluorescent bulb and the monitor to suggest the memory of daylight. My computer desk is the giant table on the veranda where I'm surrounded by one of the world's best views and caressed by the gentlest of sea breezes which keeps the ceiling fan and palm trees in soft motion.

But I'm obsessed. I've lost all perspective, all sense of time or motivation to get up and move. 

I'm doing research.

I can't stop.

Go ahead, ask me something about Italy. If I don't already know, I'll Google it.

I'm having so much fun, being (for now) an armchair traveler and world wide web explorer. My trip is beginning to take shape. A reservation here, a reservation there. Ideas for daytrips. Checking out places recommended by friends. Leaving a few nice big holes for serendipity and following my nose. And mostly, wandering the infinite brain map that is the internet.

If only you could see my Safari history on this machine. One link leads to another, from an intriguing ruined temple to a history lesson, from an ancient walled city on a hilltop to a nearby farmhouse that serves guests cappucino with fresh baked bread for breakfast and a homecooked dinner of homegrown produce, meat, olive oil and wine. How does one stop?

The internet is an avid traveler's dream come true. Guidance abounds. Photos elucidate. Small lodgings and hamlets often have informative websites in several languages, and a single email begins a warm correspondence with an inn owner or a language teacher.

I've come across some wonderful websites on my quest to pack lightly so as to be more fleet of foot. I'm pretty sure I spent an entire day on Journeywoman.com, where I read all 500 Best Travel Tips even though many of them were about places like Africa and Shanghai. I couldn't resist. You never know what advice the next tip will offer. Why wear a money belt, for example, when you can remove the pads from inside the cups of a bra and pad it with your cash? I'm not sure I have enough space in my bra size to do that, but still.

I'm not sure about a few others, either. Am I going to wear heavy black rubber-soled shoes with black wool socks, as recommended by one very serious woman traveler? Not this shoe fetishist. I'm going to have a hard enough time keeping my favorite high heels from jumping into the suitcase when I'm not looking. And, speaking of footwear, how about this idea which is supposed to prevent jet lag: "Wear damp socks on the plane." Ooh, I don't think so, that just sounds icky.

Some of the tips I like a lot. Taking a sarong along, or a pareo as we call them here.  It can do lots of things from a being a lightweight blanket or picnic cloth to covering a swimsuit to draping around your shoulders for extra cathedral coverage. Best thing about that idea is that I can just pull one off my couch and throw it in the suitcase.

How about this one? Scan all your important documents into your computer so you can access and print passport copies and luggage receipts in case of emergency. That's a good, responsible idea. Now that I've installed the new Mac operating system on my laptop (don't even ask), I'm going to be able to access everything on my distant laptop from my handy lightweight iPad, or so they tell me. Through The Cloud, whatever that is. I had to research this stuff too, you can bet. I'm still in an "I'll believe it when I see it" frame of mind, but I'll bite. Mostly I'm hoping I don't lose my passport or my luggage.

I'd like to pack a compass, as another woman suggests, or maybe I can find a nice old-fashioned-looking compass app for my iPad. I like getting lost when I travel. Way back in my twenties, I made a habit of driving or walking wherever I wanted and not worrying about where I ended up. I had a map: I could trace backwards to my place of origin when I was finished exploring.

I still like to do that. Now everyone says get a GPS. I'm considering it, but it seems like cheating. I'd rather have a map and a compass. It's more...adventurous. More Around-the-World-in-Eighty-Days-ish. Anyway, getting lost is half the fun.

Now that I think about it, that's what I've been doing on the internet, too. Floating around, getting happily lost.

Maybe you'd just better hang on to that hook for a while. I'll find my way back eventually.

Moments--For Mother's Day

There are these moments in Mexico, one of which erupted at 1:17 this morning, just as I had truly and soundly fallen asleep after a very long and full day.

I was awakened by a squeal, a bang, a crash, an explosion of sound that nearly lifted me from the mattress.

No, it wasn't a gas truck smashing into my front gate. It was the banda, our local "musicians", appearing at 1:17 in the morning to perform for someone's birthday a half block away. You can't imagine how loud was this cacophony. They may as well have been under my bed: drums, drums, drums, tuba, trumpets and more horns, pounding out Las Mañanitas, the Mexican birthday song, followed by an assortment of other less melodic tunes which went on for nearly half an hour at full volume.

At moments like these, I have been known to decide that I've had it: I'm leaving Mexico tomorrow. What kind of insanity is this? Who's idea was it that the banda should play for the entire neighborhood in the middle of a soft, cool, quiet night with the sound of surf as soothing as a mother's touch?

I'm accustomed to the roosters, which crow pretty much twenty-four hours a day. I rather enjoy the cohetes and other fireworks, the ultra-light which buzzes over the village at sunset sounding like a flying lawnmower, the blaring announcements from delivery trucks that invariably arrive just at siesta time, the blast of the camote man's whistle as he peddles his baked yams...all sounds that have been known to drive other Northerners crazy.

I was just so NOT in the mood last night to be "serenaded" by our (still learning) troupe of music men.

I got up grumbling and closed my windows, grabbed my trusty wax earplugs from the drawer beside my bed, and finally fell back to sleep just as they were finishing their last honks and drum flourishes.

This morning, in the light of a gentle blue day, I was cheered by the thoughts and photos of some other moments that arrived yesterday like Glinda floating up in her golden bubble.

I was on the patio at Sheri's house when I saw the flock of goats that spend days grazing in the big field scampering toward me. One of them had spotted a pile of garden prunings tossed over a house wall next door.

The little ones are growing fast but are still so cute.

Sheri and I walked to the beach for sunset and more farewells. The beach was glorious yesterday, the water a brilliant deep blue, a soft breeze stirring the palapa palms, the sand freshly swept by the surf. We sat a big table and watched as yet another divine sunset bloomed.

I swear I did nothing to enhance this photo.

I'd spent much of the day at the beach, too, having a lengthy lunch with Tom from La Peñita, who, when his partner Bruce is in the States working, is wont to wander. Tom is a good backroads explorer and we enjoyed sharing tales of our travels through Mexico. He is starting a new website where he'll publish his trip reports. I'll link to it when he gives me the go-ahead.

I spotted this Big Bird on a branch beside the estuary. I think I recognized it from the boat trip up the river near San Blas, but had never seen one in San Pancho. I'll look up it's name later.

As we left the beach, walking through our now calm Malecon, my little buddy Javier, the child of a family of basket weavers whom I've told you about before, romped up to me with a grin. I met Javi when he was three years old. He turns nine later this month.

He handed me a basket filled with magenta bougainvilleas and announced that it was for Día de Madre. 

"Javier!" I said. "This is for me?"

He bounced with pleasure.

"The basket, too?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, in Spanish of course, although he is learning more English all the time. "AND there are surprises under the flowers!"

I thanked him and gave him some kisses and cuddles. When I returned home and removed the thorny branch of flowers from the basket, I was delighted by his resourcefulness. I found jewels!

I have no idea where he found these gifts. The bracelet is possibly made by his family as it is woven like a basket. The huge necklace is a mystery, as is this magnificent piece which I proudly wore for the rest of the day and night:

Diamonds! An adornment fit for a goddess, I'm sure you'll agree.

So subtle and tasteful, isn't it? Don't worry, it fits fine. It's adjustable.

Okay. So everything in life is a balance. The unpleasant and difficult on one side of the scales, the delightful and joyful on the other. How do the scales tip? That's always the question, isn't it?

I guess I'll stick around for a while.

Happy Mother's Day, all you goddesses out there. I'll be thinking of you with love as I sit on the beach with another goddess, treating ourselves to a game and Sunday brunch with our feet in the sand.

♥    ♥    ♥

Addendum: Ah, what a fool I am, and suitably abashed. In my wanders today, which included a long Rummikub tournament and lunch at La Playa, I spoke with Hansel, our waiter. He reminded me that today, Friday, May 10, not Sunday, May 12 as in the U.S., is Mother's Day in Mexico. The banda which exuberated outside my window overnight, and other bandas performing around the pueblo all through the evening and (according to other yawning folks I spoke with) well into the hours before dawn, were celebrating mamas, not birthdays.

According to Hansel, it is a great joke and gift to send the banda in the middle of the night to wake up Mama, who often responds by rising from her bed and making coffee and treats for the band members. His warmth in recounting the tale, his pleasure at memories of doing the same for his own mama, made my soul cringe in remorse. How could I have not known this? What does a night of inconvenience really matter in the face of this passionate salute to hardworking Mexican mothers? Again, a reminder that this culture so different from my other one has its own private humor and traditional expressions of love. 

I must go now and ponder my intolerance and lack of understanding...during a nice long siesta. 

Funky Dance and Fancypants

Last Friday, Carol and Canela and I finally made it to Sayulita's weekly market, just in time to catch the last one of the season. We lingered and wandered, visited with people we had or hadn't seen lately, and generally enjoyed the scene, which included, naturally, a belly dancer.

I bought chimichurri from this friendly fellow who made the chopped herb and olive oil concoction himself. I served it Sunday night with pulled pork piled high on fresh baked rolls.

I didn't buy a cigar, even though this man was rolling them by hand in the ancient time-honored manner...while his companion played with her iPad.

I didn't buy any nopal or dips, either, but I stopped to admire the display.

We did buy frankincense and copal (which is different from nopal) from this smiley guy, who sold all kinds of honey and potions that apparently make you very cheerful. 

I liked this view.

Afterwards we were all hungry, so we had lunch at Mirabel's restaurant. It's name is Huichol for 'walking'. She explained that, before settling in Sayulita, she has always moved around, walked about in the world, and that's why she chose the word Yeikame for her delightful restaurant.

In San Pancho the following day, the pueblo was abuzz over the major goings-on just down the beach in front of the Hacienda San Pancho development. Elaborate preparations went on for days. Rumors had swirled and crested all week long. Was a movie being filmed? A commercial? Tall light towers sprouted from the sand. Couches, chairs, tables and dance floor followed. Aha! It was a wedding, and a fancy one at that.

I wandered down before sunset, real nonchalant, and started snapping photos. A full Catholic Mass was underway, with people in fancy dress lined up to take communion as the bride and groom knelt before the priest. A small orchestra played beside the beach altar.

I didn't get too close, trying to be respectful...but sure enough, through my camera lens, I saw this burly fellow trudging toward me through the sand.

Respectful or not, I'm really not that fond of authority figures, particularly on what is ostensibly a public beach.

So I took his picture.

We had a little chat. He informed me that this was a very private wedding. Yeah, yeah, I thought. Very private. Certainly isn't attention getting in any way, is it?

As it turned out, from earlier reconnaissance by our own local wedding planners Nicole (co-owner of Panchito's) and Katy, who cleverly managed to waltz in and scope things out before the guests arrived, it was the wedding of a family member of an ex-ex-ex-Mexican president, which more or less explained Sr. Burly and his security team. All the wedding paraphenalia, including tables, couches, musicians, hardwood dance floor, walkways, carpets, flowers, lights, caterers, food, and priest, were brought in from Guadalajara, four hours away. The four hundred guests were staying at the Four Seasons in Punta de Mita, transported to humble San Pancho for the ceremony. Perfection, planned and accomplished.

I left. I had my shots. As I turned back to the beach restaurant where friends were waiting, I smiled at beautiful funky San Pancho, a far cry from the bazillion-dollar extravaganza down the way, yet so exquisite in the soft pre-sunset light.

At the table, we drank a toast to each other and to the sunset and discussed further reconnaissance reports of evidence that an elaborate fireworks show was to be part of the wedding. That sounded good, so we headed up to my house to wait and watch from the living terrace.

The show, when it finally came, was more fabulous than we'd dared to anticipate. From the beginning, all the fireworks were pure white, some lit from within by showers of gold. Artfully designed of texture, movement and light, the show went on for maybe fifteen minutes (time stops during good fireworks) against the deep purple sky.

Smack in the middle, though, came a surprise: a single giant red flower of fire blossomed inside the white light lace. Only one.

I had to wonder: was it intentional or accidental? I'm going with accidental, a red rocket mistakenly added to the order, inserted into its launcher as white only to explode in a burst of vivid crimson, an abrupt reminder of the folly of the expectation of perfection and the glorious serendipity of real life.

Isn't life on this planet a kick?

My wish for you this week is the peace of perfect white with a red rocket thrown in now and then.