Friday:
Go to Spanish class mildly hung over from the shenanigans with Montana Man (see Mexico: Week/Weak One post), which is held at the local gringos elementary school with an earthen-floor playground (as in: compacted dirt; as in: open-air outside). My school room is under a large palapa within the confines of la escuela (the school). Mini Flee (3-years old, remember?) is doing yoga with a group of other hipster kids not far from me. She knows more Spanish than I do, so—yes—the simplistic images of pescado, perro, y gato (fish, dog, cat) are for us adults trying to catch up to these fast Spanish-talking toddlers. My brain is foggy from frolicking in a tequila haze. (I only blacked out for four blocks. Ish.)
(Side note: Montana Man sent me an email saying that I was so concerned he wasn’t going to get any from me that I was trying to hook him up with sexy Mexican senoritas on our pit-sniffing walk home … Yes, that’s just the kind of considerate chick I am.)
Anyway, mid-lesson a spider the size of one of the common malnourished local dogs decides to drop in via spidey-super-web on our group of three. Fortunately, it’s on Mexican time and traverses slow enough for my classmate to move his overturned cowboy hat out of the way so the eight-legged, eight-pound insect doesn’t land in it. I’m amazed (and terrified) that such a monstrous bug can be supported by such thin silk. Nature is glorious. My nightmares were goryous. (New word, go with it.)
Moment of truth: The spider was less than half the body size of a juvenile tarantula, but hello, people that’s still ginormous!
Emergency Homework Alert: Get wide brim hat so that B-rated scary movie spiders don’t land on my (hysterically hyperventilating) corps!
After class, I walk half a block to view a new apartment complex with owner (construction cost research), avoiding the aforementioned stray dogs and their fresh, steamy mounds of perro shit on sidewalks that are still scattered with yesterday’s petrified piles. The cobblestone roads also display poop, but it’s been squished by ATVs and golf carts along with the ever-present road apples (horse shit.) After a few days, playing hopscotch is damn near a necessity never mind a fun drinking game. But it adds to the character and is soon an unnoticed novelty of the local culture.
I meet with Teresa, the contractor’s semi-English speaking wife. She’s coiffed with painted on eyebrows, which I now take to be the Latin standard of eyebrow beauty. We somehow communicate in her broken English and my hand-waving, miming Spanish. Ultimately, I get a price per square foot on what construction costs would be if her husband were hired—for the same price I can build a house at home. Now my spidey senses are on alert, and I smell shit again. Bullshit. (Raised unpainted eyebrow.)
Saturday:
After a sleepless night dreaming about giant spiders and friendly fleecers, I get up at 4:22am, turn on all lights, check for critters, declare the coast and cuarto (bedroom) clear, throw down my yoga mat and throw down a decent home workout.
Make coffee, put away dishes, and hope like hell I’m putting them in the right place—Flee is more OCD than me. (Find out later, a glass was misplaced! Chastise self and feel really shitty because I sooo get it!)
Watch Mini Flee have a mini meltdown, flee to Paninos bakery/espresso-cafe/place-making-me-fat(-but-happy), and write. Walk on beach, buy silver bracelets, negotiate price to less than half the asking, (note to self), wear bracelets, get accosted by 23459 additional Mexican beach vendors, (note to self), take off honing-device bracelets (for now).
Watch longboard/SUP competition, say no, gracias (no, thanks) 13 million more times to offerings of jewelry, scarves, cactus drinks, massages, commercial-restaurant-sized umbrellas (?) and donuts (who doesn’t need a hot, melting donut on the beach in a tropical climate??)
Decide today’s Mini Flee fickleness is preferable to further proffers on the beach. Go home, sit by the pool and watch Mexican family of nine drinking, laughing, splashing and doing drunken laps. Chill out via (Deepak) Chopra.
View lots with Flee and Arturo, the gardener of Flee’s complex and whose friend owns the lots for sale for me today. Discuss lot prices and building costs. The gardener can get me a better buildout cost—at least 25% less than the swindling apartment owner. (Note. To. Self.) Contemplate later over a glass (or two-ish) of Chilean Pinot. (Did I mention Flee Market is also an expert sommelier? Bonus.)
Sunday:
Walk on beach to Paninos. Say no gracias another 3451 times on the patio before I get my bagel with cream cheese. Add to list of to-dos: Get t-shirt made with ‘‘no, gracias,” start a trend, make a business selling “no gracias” t-shirts on the beach, retire at the age of 117 years (with one tooth left, but sporting the ultimate leather tan.)
Visit with Sarah, Flee’s friend from Bucerias area, another developed beach town. Eat pizza. Add “do not eat pizza in Mexico” to “save myself the disappointment” list.
Monday:
Go to school. Inquire why my teacher is a no-show. I’m told, She is losing her dog. Then another teacher corrects the first with, She is losing the dog of her friend. Oh, of course.
Go to Paninos. Eat croissant. Add to “Don’t do it, did you miss the first notice, dumb-ass?” list.
Tuesday:
Go to school. Teacher is late. No other students. Take field trip to town while sort of doing Spanish lesson along the way, which really means getting frustrated, switching to broken English, skipping rest of lesson and instead going to Paninos. Eat pastry. Feel fat, but happy. View overpriced property with Señor Fish Taco who assures me it’s a good deal for me today. (Cough—bullshit!), buy fresh tortillas, eat ten. Watch Mini Flee do fashion show to old Madonna songs, remember all the words, feel young again. And yet so old. (But not as old as Madonna. Ha!) Meet with Arturo and Estefan, a building contractor with Caribbean eyes and a Celine Dion cell phone ring tone. Laugh every time he gets a call (often) as he blushes, and resist singing my heart will go on but do dramatically clutch at my heart. Get better price on construction than I did from the first guy. Smell more Mexican bullshit. Search MLS listings until I fall asleep. Dream of casitas.
Wednesday.
Walk to end of beach where yogis are hoola-hooping, downward-dogging and sitting cross-legged with straight backs and serious countenances. Immediately label them as upright uptights, the superior-minded mindful exclusionary types. Am I assuming here? I think not.
Meet with Armina, Mexican neighbour and CEO of major construction projects, get better precio (price) by almost half again. Do. Not. Trust. Mexicans. (Except Armina.) As a half-Spic chick, this is disappointing. The Viking in me wants to whip out my sword and start slashing, but I’d develop joint pain in my shoulder and calluses within a few months, plus it would be ineffective because it’s a fucking cultural thing. (Also, I’m OCD so I’d have to practice with both hands, and I’m not ambidextrous so I’d probably Van Gogh chop my own ear off, damn it. Plus! Real swords are heavy, and I am a girl after all.) Decide to suck it up and keep looking for alternate land options.
Thursday:
Flee studies (economics and business) at home while Mini Flee is in pre-school/daycare (8am-2pm), so I do yoga in my room, then hit the beach determined not to judge the yogis who are brave, fit and flexible enough to do yoga on shifting sand. Sadly, they weren’t there for me to practice my not judging. Go back to Flee’s, feel in the way (she needs solo time for studies), and go sit by pool. Half-ass review my Spanish lessons while trying to maneuver my ass on the hot, plastic lounge chair so the gardener can’t see my illy ladyscaped lawn, which sprouts from nickers to knees as I’ve been lazy since leaving Cali—it’s only been 10 days, but gardens grow faster with heated vitamin D, I’m pretty sure. (Let’s remember I’m not trying to impress anyone here.) On the flip side, I read Deepak Chopra’s How to Not Age, which says exercise actually does helps prevent aging. Practice butt clenches while trying to lift said saggy ass in the air (ever so subtly, of course) so I don’t get the smiley face tan lines under my cottage-cheeks. Give up, go inside, nap. Feel sooooo unproductive.
What have I relearned?
French croissants, Italian pizza, and Land of the Fatties patties (burgers) are not Mexican specialties. So stop eating them, idiot.
Also, there’s pretty much crap [aka BS] everywhere, but with the right attitude, it kind of adds to the charm of the place (and to the people who dish it up.).
Homework:
Re-right my attitude. Check.
*
Here are my latest essays on elephant journal. Only view if you want to. (Which you do.)
How to Grow Young Gracefully. Reversing the Aging Process.
Today’s Dirty Word: Aging. A Quick Quiz To Find Out How Well We Fair.
