Coffee & Restaurants

Restaurants aren’t really my thing. They are costly and often don’t thrill the taste buds so why bother? But I do like to sit at an outdoor café with a coffee and observe the world as it goes by. In Puerto Vallarta I’ve been rather at a loss to find a place where I can spend a bit of time and do just that.
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The only place I had found was, (shockingly to me), Starbucks. It’s in a great location at the corner of the main plaza and has comfy outside seating from where you can watch the people, the cars, and even a little bit of the bay. The regular coffee is a decent price and actually tastes better than any other coffee I’d had in town. And this brings up the question of what the heck happened to Mexican coffee? I know they had great coffee 20 years ago but I can’t seem to find it now.
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A week or so ago I was exploring another part of town when I came across the local witchcraft shop and went in for a look. Not in need of any spells cast or bad juju removed, I nevertheless had a nice chat with the owner. Somehow we got on to the subject of coffee and he told me about a new place just three doors down that made primo coffee. I finally got there yesterday.

Café D’Flores is a lovely small coffee shop that you might find anywhere in California, but would never to expect to find it here. Garlands of hand-painted flowers adorn the walls; the clouds and sun decorate the ceiling. With all the lovely wooden chairs and tables, a sofa and cozy chairs, I wasn’t sure where to sit and actually moved places twice. I was the only one in that morning, but I could see that it would be a welcoming place for people with books to read or with laptop work to do. And the coffee was superb. It’s only been open a few months, and is off the beaten track, so I do hope that the word gets out.

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I spent a lot of time talking to the owner who, not surprisingly, had spent many years in California. He told me who when he’d landed in PV a few years ago he had stayed at the Rosita Hotel and how much he had liked it. So after I left the café I headed down to the Rosita.

I knew about the Rosita from when I was researching places to stay in PV. Seeing as it was right at the waters edge, and had been built in 1948, it had originally sounded interesting. But looking at the website pictures and at the prices, I had decided against it. And even now, looking at it from the street it just didn’t seem to draw one to it. But for historical reasons, it was the first big hotel in Vallarta, I had to take a look.

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I spoke with the woman at the reception and found out rooms were US$80 a night, even now in

the low season. I then crossed the open courtyard and went into the open-air restaurant. I needed to eat, so asked to look at the menu. I was surprised to find that there were reasonably priced meals. I took a seat and ordered.

The first thing I noticed was that I could not only see that water I could hear it. In every other eating establishment that I have been, the ocean sounds have been obliterated by either traffic noise, blaring music, or a combination of the two. I didn’t have an unobstructed view of the bay, (there is a metal security gate), but it didn’t really matter. It was lovely and the food was darn decent.

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When I finished I asked if I could see one of the rooms with an ocean view. I was taken up to the second floor and let in. it was your basic, clean, 1948 room; nothing fancy, nothing really renovated since it opened, no ceiling fan, no A/C. (but there was a standing fan.) It had a little balcony from which you looked right out onto the water. The scent of the ocean, carried on a lovely breeze, streamed up into the room. It’s the type of place I would feel totally comfortable in; it’s much like what I am in now. But not at $80 a night. I don’t quite understand the pricing. I won’t ever stay there, but it is another good place to take a break and have a sip of something.

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The street that fronts the Malecón is lined with restaurants, night clubs, and tourist stores. It’s against my moral principles to eat at imported chain restaurants while overseas, so Bubba Gump’s and Hard Rock Café are off the list of choices to stop in for coffee. Last time I was on the strip I had a bad cup of coffee in a place that reeked of bathroom disinfectant, so I wasn’t going back there. A few places looked ok except that they have pushy barkers outside hassling you to come in, and then there’s the blaring rock music. So how could I have missed Las Polomas?

It sits on a corner with giant, open windows allowing you to look out at the bay. As their ad says, it is a “Hacienda” style restaurant, which I guess means that you feel like you are out at the ranch; lots of tile, wood ceiling beams, Mexican furniture and dishes.

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I grabbed the corner table on the lower floor, which is still far above street level. My first visitor was a pigeon looking for handouts. He came back several times while I sipped my ice coffee and couldn’t quite figure out why I didn’t have any food to offer. There was some music playing but it was so low, and the cars were so loud, that you didn’t notice it. The large plasma screen TV’s, for some reason, were also not distracting. Looking up at one I realized that this would be a great place to watch the World Cup. Bummer; I’ll be back in California.

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I took a look at their menu for future reference and I will not be going there for lunch any time soon. Too costly for me, although they do have a decently priced breakfast.

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I am pleased that I have found these new-to-me locations. Otherwise I tend to walk and walk until I’m close to heatstroke. I am also amazed that I have not only eaten in a restaurant, but now am on a mission to find other establishments in which to dine.

Kate

Saturday Night

There is quite the night scene here; or so I’ve heard. I know I should go and see for myself, but just don’t see the point of changing out of my lounge clothes and doing something with my hair at 9:00 pm when I would rather be writing or reading or watching TV. Maybe if I had a friend to check out the action with me it would be different. I don’t need the buddy system during the day, but do at night. Nevertheless last Saturday I promised myself I would do it.

Probably my first error in getting out for the evening was leaving at 6:30 pm; heck, that’s night to me. I walked the few blocks to the beach. It was not a pretty sight. The afternoon stragglers, who looked to have been there for hours, were sitting and standing amongst piles of debris strewn all over the sand. Most seemed to be a bit tipsy and looked a little intimidating; not an area you would want to walk through. I stayed up on the walkway and decided not to stroll down the beach.
I walked a short way in the other direction and saw that it was high tide and that the waves were much more forceful than usual. A line of fishermen were working their rods and reels while the pelicans and other birds were swooping low over the area searching for food. The flying creatures were so low I could see their eyeballs. I sat down in the sand and stared up at the mesmerizing display until I realized I was getting a stiff neck.

Finding a bench to sit on I continued my wildlife viewing, thinking I would sit there until the sun set. To my left, and where the sand meets the promenade, sat the scruffy group of guys who are always there. I think they are beach fishermen of some sort and I think they might even live there. In the morning they seem to be setting up a few logs and rocks, surrounded by worn bags with supplies. In the afternoon, one guy is always shucking oysters and people are eating plates of them. Maybe it’s a fast-food restaurant. At this time of the evening they were drinking beer and still chomping oysters.

Between checking out the dudes, and watching the water, I noticed someone way out who looked to be snorkeling. I was a bit concerned; twilight was on its way, the currents were looking mighty strong, and he was a long ways out. Since no one else seemed to be concerned, I ignored the situation. It was at least thirty minutes after first spotting him that I saw him arriving at the shore. He must have been mid-40’s and wore a knee length wetsuit that had seen better days and smaller bodies. Ragged goggles draped from his neck and a lobster was attached to a home made spear. All his buddies were whooping and congratulating him on his conquest. All I could think about was how incredibly fit he was, even with the gut. He popped open a brew as soon as he was out of his wetsuit.

I really did want to take pictures and I always want to go over and talk to these guys and get their story, but it seems way too invasive. I’ve been know to talk to fishermen on the beach so it’s not an angler phobia or anything. I think it is more that they are in what appears to be a very exclusive club and I feel as if I would be crossing a line where I wasn’t invited. Maybe one morning I’ll get up the nerve to talk to them.

Having been sitting on a concrete bench for far to long, I got up and continued my walk. It was close to 8pm and no sign of a sun setting anytime soon. Forget walking by the nightclub scene; I was going home.

Maybe I will find the fortitude to once again try to get in on the night action here, but somehow I rather doubt it.
Kate

Nails & Books

Two days before leaving on my trip I got a manicure/pedicure. I had assumed that my fingernails would be chipped and ugly after a week in Puerto Vallarta, but that my toes should last the whole month. I was wrong on both counts. Nothing chipped that badly that a touch-up with some local polish couldn’t fix. The problem was that my nails had grown at such an astonishing rate that in only two weeks I had noticeable, quarter inch, crescent moon, unpolished nail beds; sort of a reverse French Tip. My nails usually do grow rapidly, but this seemed to be way more than normal.

My choice was to go buy nail polish remover and cotton and remove everything myself, (which is something that I loathe), or to find someplace here to do it. Having a well founded phobia of unknown nail salons, I already knew that I wasn’t going to let anyone do anything but take off he old and put on the new.

In my walks around town I’d passed a few places that advertised manicures, but most were in shops with no natural lighting and no air circulation. I imagined that anything at a fancy hotel would be more expensive than in the US. When I passed a place right off the beach, lit by only sunlight and cooled by ocean breezes, I decided to give it a go.

My first clue that I may not have made the best decision was when they told me to sit on a raggedy bench and brought over a dirty TV stand table to work from. My next clue was the basket of cheap, old, nail polish in ugly colors. Let me say here that I am just not good at standing up and walking out of any place even when I know I should. But I also reasoned that since they were not going to use any sharp, probably bacteria-laden implements on my nails, it would be ok.

I think the person doing my nails was actually a masseuse since she really didn’t seem to have a clue about how to even remove nail polish. She tried using some soaked cotton balls but the color remained, although it had now turned to semi-muck. Since I couldn’t smell any acetone, I asked her if she was sure she was using the right stuff. She then had another woman come out to try and help, to no avail. They both kept at it until I picked up the bottle of polish remover and pointed out that it contained lanoline and glycerin, (and I have a good idea that it had been diluted), and that they needed to use straight acetone. At first they weren’t sure if they even had any. It was another opportunity to walk out except that my nails were a sticky mess.

Once they used the proper stuff to clean my nails, I expected them to at least rinse them off; I was wrong. The manicurist picked up the bottle of bright red that I had chosen and started to open it. I asked about a clear base coat but she had no idea what I meant, not that they even had a bottle of clear polish.

Not having my reading glasses on, it looked as if all was going well. I told her only to do one coat; I just wanted to get out and would throw on a clear coat when I got back to the hotel. And then I started paying closer attention. The polish she was using was way past its shelf life; all gooey and thick. I mentioned that it looked a little old and that I was worried it wouldn’t dry. She sprayed some drying stuff on my toes, tested it and pronounced that all was well.

I paid and tipped and it really wasn’t that much less than a full US manicure. But it was done, so I didn’t dwell on it. It wasn’t until I got home, put on those glasses, and looked at my nails that I realized just how horrible a job she had done. It looked as though I had let some seven-year-old play beauty parlor with my nails. There was polish on my fingers and not on all parts of the nails; it was lumpy and bumpy and it would never thoroughly dry. I took a deep breath, an hour break, then headed to Farmácia Guadalajara for acetone and cotton.

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Knowing that one needs books for the beach, I’d brought down a bunch of paperbacks that I’d gotten from the library sale shelf. I also knew that there was a bookshelf in the lobby of the hotel filled with dusty, musty books, in which I’d found enough to interest me on my last stay. I figured there must be a whole new batch after the high season folks had left. After all, I had left my book, (as in the one I wrote), innocently amongst the others.

I was pleased to find that someone had liked my book so much that they had taken it home. I was not pleased to see that what was left on the hotel bookshelf were only the books that were so covered in mold and dust that you’d risk serious contamination if you were to pick one up. I was further bummed to discover that a good number of those books I’d brought sucked. So a few days ago I gathered al the books I had read, all the ones I couldn’t handle, plus another copy of mine, and headed for the nearby coffee shop/book exchange store.

I got enough in credit to pick up several books and started perusing the shelves. A lot of NY Times bestsellers and a lot of stuff I would never read. I am not at all a “literature” snob; just read my book if you need proof. It’s just that nine times out of ten, I do not care for anything on the NY Times list. And then there was the problem of the lighting inside the shop that made it necessary to move at maximum speed and get out.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted my book on a shelf. Wow, the counter lady was fast to already get it out and slip it in while my back was turned. I reached down to pick it up and then realized it was the one I had left at the hotel five months ago. What that means is that someone cleaned out the good books from the hotel, walked over four blocks and sold them. Rather tacky. I peeked inside to see what they were charging for my book and it was way higher than the average paperback. Guess the pristine condition and awesome cover was the reason. However, it also means that it has less of a chance of being bought and read, which was the whole idea of leaving a copy. I did notice that my book was not shelved with mysteries but on a floor shelf with trade paperbacks, or something like that. I quietly shelved it where it belonged.

I didn’t have a lot of patience that afternoon, so only picked up one book, which turned out to be awful. I returned today to stock up and noticed that they had moved my book back to the location on the floor where it is not easily found. And now there are two copies, side by side. But at least I had the energy to find some authors I did know and like.

Kate

The Navy

I do believe that on the first day I was here I wrote something about needing a long-sleeved shirt at night for the chill I was experiencing. That is no longer true. Right now it is 9:30 pm and I am sweating like a piggy. I just opened the door to get some circulation. It’s not really bad now, but I certainly felt the body-sapping weather today when I was out both in the morning and in early evening.

I wake up early here; like at 5am or 6, mostly because that is my norm but also because I think that maybe if I keep it up with it the sun will follow my example. And even though I am up well before the crack of dawn, I can’t seem to get out until I’ve already missed the sunrise.

A few days ago I did manage to leave the hotel and head for the shore at 7:30 am. The beachfront restaurants were busy setting up for breakfast both at the open-air, semi-indoor seating, as well as down on the beach. We’re talking white table cloths, cups and saucers, more flatware than one would need for a five course meal, and a whole lot of other stuff. While this was going on, other folks were wetting down the sand, putting out lounge chairs, putting up umbrellas. I wondered about all the effort for so many, many tables, when this is the low season.

It was pretty quiet as I walked along the shore; a few joggers and dog-walkers, and of course the pelicans cruising low over the water. I passed fisherman on the pier and some at the waters edge with nets or diving gear. It’s lovely at this time of day. (I happened to go by in the early afternoon and it was a nightmare of bodies crammed together in the sweltering heat).

Leaving the sand for the paved walkway of the Malecón, I decided it was a good day to finally visit the Naval Historical Museum, which I have passed countless times on this very same walk but have never gone in. When I got there I found out that they wouldn’t be open for another hour so stepped across to relax in the main plaza.

It was then that I noticed a flat-bed military truck loaded with guys in full combat gear. The men standing right behind the cab had big, possibly automatic, rifles at the ready and pointed out at the street. (No pictures as I knew better than to even ask if I could take photos). On closer inspection, I saw that they were from the Navy. Then I saw that a display of large posters had been assembled around the government building that fronts one side of the plaza.

The exhibition was in honor of the Bicentennial of National Independence, and the Centennial of the Mexican Revolution. It was put on by the Secretary of the Navy’s History and Culture sector, highlighting the role they have played in defending Mexico.

There were about fifty, 7 foot tall exhibition posters with pictures and text chronicling the struggle to reach Independence. It was beautifully done; each poster depicting an important person and/or significant event. I didn’t read every last word on each poster, but did skim through most of it and learned a lot. Now I feel I really need to go to Hidalgo and to Vera Cruz. (I also need a serious refresher course on what the US was doing in Vera Cruz in 1914.)

This very impressive display will be up for another week or so, then move on to other cities, eventually ending in Mexico City in November.

The Naval Museum was now opened so I popped back across the street and went in. Seeing as I was in a bit of history overloaded at that point, I did a quick run through and will return later to read things in more detail.

While walking around I saw that people were going upstairs and not returning. I followed them up to discover a restaurant, run by the Navy. It is a small affair, but its prime location on the Malecón means that one has an excellent view of the water. I checked out the prices and they were more than reasonable. And you get the bonus of young men and women in uniform serving you. Definitely a place on my list of things to experience.

Kate

Botanical Gardens pt 2

The first thing I did upon my return to the Jardínes Botínicos de Vallarta was to ask at the entrance if Domino the Dog was still there. She had been my hiking partner on my last visit and I was looking forward to getting reacquainted. Hearing that she most certainly was, I took off down the road that lead into the gardens.


Along the way I stopped to talk to the gardener tending the thriving rose bed. When I had last spoken to him in November, he had just started planting them and here they were, bushy and blooming.

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Walking towards the main building, (restaurant, gift shop, lounge area), I kept a sharp eye out for Domino. Before I knew it, she was at my side wagging her tail and leaning into me. I know she greets all dog-friendly visitors in the same manner, but I was sure she had remembered me. We were just set to take off together when a car pulled into a parking space and Domino went over to say hello. I thought she would probably come back over to me, but when another dog jumped out of the car I knew I had lost out for the day.

The first trail I took drops at a fairly steep incline through lush vegetation, crosses a little stream, then winds its way back up the mountain. It’s not what you call major jungle trekking but it could be dangerous for people like me were it not for the handrails along the entire route. All I needed was for my knee to go wonky on me and end up at the bottom of a gorge. And since I seemed to be the only one in this part of the Gardens, it seemed prudent to be cautious.

I was immediately struck by the number of birds talking as I headed into the thick vegetation. I swear they weren’t this many and at this volume the last time I was here. I would certainly have remembered the feeling of being in a jungle movie. I didn’t spot any of the birds but was content to just let their voices carry me along.

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Near the top of the trail I came upon a gardener watering the plants. We talked about the names of the trees and other flora in the area. I knew coffee, orchids, bromeliads, (basically the same names as in English), but was clueless about some other tree with a name that didn’t sound like anything I knew and a shape which I can only describe as “tree like”.

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A little further up, the narrow trail began its descent back to the bottom. I continued on down, (with a two-handed death-grip on that rail), until I reached the bottom and found myself surrounded by beautiful flowering bananas and tropical plants.

It was then that I noticed that my knee was no longer cooperating. Damn! Stuck at the bottom of the jungle never to be seen again. At least the bananas would soon be ripe. Eventually the knee decided to work and I climbed a short path which took me back to where I had started.

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The path leading to the River Walk has no railing. However, there are proper, wide stairs so if one goes down one step at a time, there is no fear of careening head over heels to the bottom. (I was pleased on the return to be able to stride uphill, normally and at a regular pace).

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Down at the river’s edge I thought how I’d like to camp there for a good long while. As it was, I just sat down on sand or rocks and let the positive ions flush through my body, mesmerized by the water lilies and the reflections on the clear water.

Back up at the orchid conservatory, I paid special attention to soil and planting, trying to pick up some pointers on cultivation. In this climate, there probably isn’t much you need to do to get them to bloom, but I did notice that the soil mixture had several ingredients more than I have in mine at home.

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The upstairs restaurant was totally deserted. I sat on the veranda, looking out over the valley and river below, slowly sipping a cold drink.

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When I walked downstairs, Domino was taking a nap on the cool tile floor. I bent down to say good bye and told her I would be back again for a walk with her.

Kate

Laptop Hell

I take a month off my low-paying job to go to Mexico to write; possibly not the most financially sound move, but necessary for the soul. So when my laptop conked out on me day 4, I was a bit more than slightly upset. I am well aware that we have all become so dependent on the internet and cell phones and all this other technology that it might be a good idea to disconnect from it all now and then. But not when it screws up all my plans for writing.

My plan was to do what I always do; explore during the day and write about it at night. I had also planned on getting back to that book that has been stuck on page 92 for months. I tried to fill the days as I waited for a recovery disc from the US, but it just didn’t work. I’d go out walking for several hours, come home, start to read a book, fall asleep, then go out for another walk. I was bored to tears.

I did make some small journeys and wrote down what I could on paper. But without being able to see my pictures to guide me through my day, it was tough going. (ie, I couldn’t download the pics onto anything.)

I contemplated blogging at an internet café, but there just isn’t enough privacy and I couldn’t see spending 3 or 4 hours a day under glaring lights and trying to block out the sounds of video games.

Just when I thought all was lost and I might as well leave PV, I found out about The Computer Store, a place run by Tom and Ron. Yesterday, Monday, I dropped the laptop off and the guys figured they might be able to work some magic and get me up and running for a reasonable price. Tom called me later that evening to give me the bad news that my hard drive was a goner. They could do something, but the price wasn’t worth it considering I’d probably need to buy a new one in two weeks. Needless to say, I was even more seriously down in the dumps.

But I woke up today with a plan. I would go out and pick up the dead laptop and see if maybe they had one to rent. I don’t think Ron quite understood why I would spend the money to rent a laptop for 14 days. I was literally jumping up and down with happiness as I left the shop.

So now I will have to back track through the past eleven or twelve days, pull out those stories I did in long hand, and hopefully come up with some interesting tales.

Kate

(That's Leo the Cat. I've been looking rather like him for the past week.)

Bucerías

On my last trip here I’d accidentally disembarked from the bus on an unattractive stretch of highway in Bucerías, thinking it was Sayulita. I soon realized my error, I waited for twenty minutes in the dust and dirt, peering across the freeway at ugly roadside buildings. I later heard that people actually retired to Bucerías and could not, for the life of me, understand why. Turns out there is good reason if one actually crosses those massive freeway lanes and walks three blocks into the city.
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The cobblestoned main road leading down to the beach was fairly quiet in the morning. I got down to the small street that runs along the beach, noticed that nothing really took my breath away, and thought, Ok, I’ve seen it, time to go back. It has been my experience that this is often my first thought when I’ve done day trips and have to remind myself that not only haven’t I done enough exploring to make a such a statement, but it is a one hour, two-bus trip back. Neither my psyche nor stiff knee could handle that. So I started to walk.

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The beachfront street I walked down was lined with restaurants both with indoor and waterfront, sand seating. I went into one to get a cold drink, have a seat, and to look out at the water.

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I was surprised to realize that I was still on Bahía de Banderas, (the bay), even after an hour bus trip. From where I sat I could see miles down the coast to Puerto Vallarta, and miles up the coast to Punta de Mita, where the really high-dollar estates lie. At 9:30 in the morning, things were fairly deserted and it was just me and the birds who were diving in for a fish breakfast.

Continuing my walk past other restaurants, I ran into an older gentleman painting a Mayan inspired mural on the front of one of them. I said something and he started talking to me in perfect English. It turned out that Sr. Jesus was from Los Angeles where he had spent his life as a hairdresser to the stars. He mentioned Ava Gabor, (though he’d never met Zsa Zsa), Hedy Lamarr, and a few others. But he had always wanted to be an artist so that was what he was doing at this stage of his life. He’d moved down here ten years ago and had kept busy painting murals and pictures for homes in the area. He pulled out photos and showed me some of his work.

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Walking back towards the center of town I reflected on how it looked sort of dingy and congested with too many eateries in too small a space. I carried on down a small dirt street lined with tourist kiosks. This lead to small streets with more little tourist shops and then into a little ally that had wonderful murals on both walls.

From there I crossed over a bridge and into another part of town.

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I soon noticed why people chose to retire here. The street I was on was wide, meticulously maintained, with this wonderful, small-town tropical feel to it. Not many people were out but I don’t know if that was due to the time of day or the time of year.

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I passed many shops that were owned by ex-pats and heard a lot of English coming from small cafés or by people greeting each other as they walked by. I noticed a sign inviting the public to walk up the small driveway and into a courtyard of artists’ studios/galleries.

The first one I walked into had some interesting mosaic work. A woman sat at a computer and ignored me. I asked if it was her work. She said "yes", and continued doing whatever she was doing. Hoping to start a conversation about her work, which really was rather lovely, I asked how long she had been in Bucerías. Without even looking up she rattled off some number and then just kept on internet-ing.

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The same lack of customer-concern happened at the upstairs gallery; lady at computer, back to me, non-verbal.

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I went into one more gallery and the sales woman did speak to me but kept being interrupted by her boss who kept calling. This is the gallery that had the most freaky, frightening piece of art that I have ever encountered in my life. On the wall hung a torso of a young woman that was so life-like you could have sworn she’d been gacked, hacked, preserved, and hung up to dry. The sales lady excitedly pointed out that no matter where you stood, those forlorn eyes would follow you. I had to avert my own eyes, I was so disturbed by the ghastly presence. I couldn’t even look at it long enough to get a good picture. I wondered who on earth would want that in their living room.

I strolled about a bit more and appreciated the pretty streets and slower pace of things. I went back down to the restaurant where I’d met the muralist and had lunch at a table set up in the sand, enjoying the wonderful view and the soft ocean breezes.

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Bucerías is a lovely place and I asked myself if I could live there. No, I couldn’t. Something felt wrong about it to me. Possibly it is that if I am living in a foreign country, I want to be surrounded by the locals, not fellow countrymen, which would seem to be what one would get in Bucerías. Perhaps I am spoiled by having lived in similar places where I am one of the few foreigners. Having said that, a weeks vacation there would be ever so relaxing.

Kate

Internet Cafe Blog

My laptop decided to not work yesterday. I freaked out a bit thinking that if I can´t get it to work, i would have to return to CA. I am here to write and that is a little hard without the computer.

Anyway, my cousin Bill, THE computer guy, is sending me a disk that should sort out the problem. I should be up and running by Monday.

Can´t write in public places like this internet cafe, so travel news will be a little delayed.
Cheers
Kate

5 de Mayo

No Mariachi’s, no dancing girls, and no 5 de Mayo in Puerto Vallarta; it was just another day in May.

It was during my morning beach walk that I really noticed the difference between December and May in this town. There are tourists, but nothing compared to the throngs that crowd the beach areas during the winter months. There seemed to be considerably fewer street hawkers selling jewelry out of suitcases and the ones I did run into were far less aggressive. I am never bothered by the constant sales pitches one gets while walking along the beach or on the Malecón, (the beach boardwalk). People need to survive and I thank my lucky stars I am not in their shoes.

In the shops and the crafts markets it was the same; very few tourists and laid-back sales personnel. Great for me, not so great for the stores.

Random thoughts and observations occupied the rest of my day. Like why are the hills I look out upon from my little balcony not that brilliant green they were in December? I do know that the rainy season is at the end of the summer and that winter is dry here, but it just seems so odd to see patches of dull green and brown in the spring. Especially since I just flew down form an emerald green California.

My mind was taken off that subject when I walked by the local newsstand, which is often just a row of newspapers laid out on the sidewalk. Graphic front page photos of dead bodies and car wrecks greet the passersby. This has been going on at least as long I as have been traveling south of the boarder. In the US, television news broadcasts have been airing corpses for some time now, and print media does their fair share, but they will never rival Mexican papers.

A stroll to the main plaza in the late afternoon is always a good idea and today was no exception. The pigeons had taken up residence in the trees and were having the best time talking to each other, scrounging for crumbs and keeping all of us entertained.

I almost forgot one rather small, but stellar experience I had earlier in the day; I saw two parrots up in a tree. (I hadn’t seen any on my last trip here which had been a disappointment). These guys were making so much noise I figured they must be rather large. However, it took quite some time for me to spot them because they were so small. I tried to get a picture but I don’t have the zoom capabilities necessary so all I got was tree.

Time to go to bed and actually sleep; yet another difference from the winter months. Although I am in the old section of town, with small cobblestone streets and low buildings, the noise at night used to be unbearable. Definitely it was unsleepable. I had thought it was only because of the way noise from cars and buses echoed off the buildings. I now realize that a lot of that din was a result of cars filled with tipsy merry-makers, their stereos blasting, cruising at speeds way too fast for this neighborhood.

Kate (there are 2 parrots in this picture)

Back in Puerto Vallarta

I’ve been in Puerto Vallarta for a little over a day now and am just starting to get in that mellow- tropical frame of mind. I should be fully there by tomorrow.

I’m back in my giant apt/room at the hotel but this time there aren’t a bunch of other folks in all the adjoining rooms. PV at this time of year doesn’t have all the winter retirees flying down from Canada and the US to avoid the snow and ice. It’s not like anyone was having mad parties when I was here in December, but it is nice feeling like I am the only one on the top floor apartments. I was excited to once again see all the lovely ladies who took care of me and the hotel on my last visit. I soon realized, however, that my Spanish was getting stuck in my mouth, where as it was flowing out when I left five months ago. That too should be in full swing in a few days.

Please understand that when I speak of speaking Spanish that does not mean I will ever be as good as I am in Portuguese, which is still a far cry from my ability in English, in which I am rather proficient. But as always, the people here don’t seem to mind if my words come out in some other language, (I may have said something in Vietnamese today), or with lousy pronunciation, (as mentioned above my mouth muscles need to re-adjust); they are just pleased that I am trying. Or at least that is my impression. Possibly they are telling their friends stories about the looney gringa who speaks in tongues.

Anyone who knows me will not be surprised to hear that even after about a month of planning what to bring, and about a week on barely controlled packing-insanity, I again didn’t quite bring all the clothes I need. For some reason I thought Mexico in May equals hot-hot. The days are fine for what I brought, but the nights are still a little cool and I should have packed at least one long-sleeved t-shirt for the evenings when I sit at the computer typing. I also forgot my Swiss Army knife, and can’t find that mega bottle of ibuprofen I know I packed. (I can buy it here but the cost is much higher.)

What I did remember to do was to book an appointment with my chiropractor today. Dr Lenny Sugerman is the man. I was pleased to hear his reassurance that I do not need a knee replacement as the Kaiser docs had told me, (not that I have any intention of ever doing that.) And it was heaven to get all those vertebrae back into place and moving freely. And again, creaky joints are just another little annoyance that should be righting itself, if not in the next 24 hours, at least in a week or two.

On the taxi ride in from the airport, I asked the driver what type of celebrations the city would be having for 5 de Mayo, which is tomorrow. Imagine my shock when he said that the only festivities would be in Mexico City. Huh? Can it really be that the State of California celebrates 5 de Mayo in a bigger way than the Mexicans? I’m rather bummed. Then again, I can do without the monster firecrackers that were booming most of last night. They don’t make them that big in the US. These sounded like grenades. I haven’t heard any tonight so maybe it was for some other event. Or maybe they were blasting open a new mine in the hills behind where I am staying.

There is only one disappointment that has occurred and that has to do with the sunrise. I knew that when I was here in December it would not be light early in the morning, but thought for sure that would not be the case now. I am 100% positive that I have been in places in Mexico where there is daylight at 5:30 am. Not here. It was pitch black at 7am. Sure, it is now 8:40 pm and its just getting on to dusk, but that isn’t important to me; sunrise at 5am is. In my opinion, if PV were on the proper time zone, which would be an hour behind of what we are now, the problem would be resolved. As it stands, PV is two hours ahead of California which just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like I was seriously contemplating buying a shack down here, but the lack of morning sun means that it will never be an option.

Tomorrow I will again get up early and go for a walk on the beach, but I will have to wait until close to 8:00 rather than 6:30 or 7:00. And I intend to search the city for a 5 de Mayo fiesta.

Kate

Mad-Crazy Waves

It’s been over a year since I’ve been down to the Monterey Bay Peninsula. As always, I wondered what made me think that the two-hour drive to get here was too labor intensive.

I had been forewarned that it would be a busy weekend what with the AT&T Pro-Am golf tournament at Pebble Beach, the holiday weekend, and Valentine’s Day. But I have a free place to hunker down in solitude, and miles of shoreline to traipse upon, and with sunny skies in the forecast nothing was going to deter me once I committed to the journey.

Right before I left home I heard on the news that the Mavericks Big-Wave surfing competition, held in Half Moon Bay, (about halfway between San Francisco and Monterey), was a go for 13 Feb.

Each winter, during a waiting period typically set for sometime between November and March – if and when conditions are perfect, and giant swells roll in from far across the Pacific – The Mavericks Surf Contest® is held. On just 24 hours notice, two dozen of the surfing community’s bravest and most skillful souls assemble to confront the thundering mountain of salt water many consider to be the most dangerous wave Mother Nature has ever concocted. http://www.maverickssurf.com/

I was thinking that it would be fun to drive down to witness the 50 ft waves and the 24 lunatic surfers but knew that although the waves would not be as massive along the Monterey Coast, they certainly would be impressive. And impressive they were.

One can walk along beautiful coastline trails from Pacific Grove right into Monterey Bay, or ride a bike or tool along in a car on the small winding drive; it is stunning. I tend to drive for a bit, pull over, then start walking. Yesterday, I was pleased to find that the air was a little nippy, but the sun was out and I knew I would soon warm up. The problem was that I stayed cold for longer than usual because I kept stopping to stare out in amazement at the spectacular nature show.

I don’t ever remember seeing something quite so dramatic as those huge, 15 ft waves, rolling in one after another and crashing down on those incredible rocky shores, foam bubbling up nearly to the trails, all of it beneath a brilliant blue sky. I kept screaming in delight at every giant wave curling and breaking. I walked and watched and shared my excitement with others along the path. Back in the car I drove towards Monterey and then strolled along another section of the Pacific coast until I decided I needed a meal on Fisherman’s Wharf.

Back in the day, maybe 20 years ago, it seems you couldn’t miss with any of the restaurants on the wharf. Unfortunately, that doesn’t seem to be the case anymore. I had been craving Fish & Chips; probably because I had recently seen Gordon Ramsey working his magic at a F & C tavern on TV. I was hungry, it was starting to get crowded, so I stopped at the first place that had outdoor dining. Disappointed does not quite convey the quality of the food. It was dreadful. I would have been better off getting something from the frozen food aisle in the supermarket. More disheartening was that I rarely eat out and when I do I have memories of what my food should taste like. When I get rotten cat-food, for which I have paid good money, it sucks.

As I left the Wharf planning to get back to the seaside, the fog snuck in. Time to go back home and tune in the Olympics. Seeing as they are being held in the same time zone as California, one would think that we’d have the best coverage. Not quite. As usual, NBC has decided to broadcast live to New York and let us view their limited coverage after the fact, and at hours when children and a good many adults are in bed.

But I had plans for Sunday, which included heading out to the AT&T Golf thingy. I looked it up and found out I could park for free in downtown Pacific Grove then catch a shuttle into Pebble Beach and back for a mere $15. (This is actually the only way I think you can get into Pebble Beach during Golf Days). I didn’t want to pay to watch the folks hit the balls, but thought I could get some good photos and maybe a fun story out of the trip. But then I read the fine print that said cell phones, cameras, and food were not allowed in and would be confiscated. If you can’t carry a camera, how can you take pictures of Pros and Celebs? It would be another day on the shoreline.

Sunday maybe was even better than Saturday, but this time the beach trails in PG were off limits. It seems that someone in Carmel, just down the road, thought hanging near those bone-crushing breaking waves was a good idea. Not. Still haven’t found his body. However, there was also a 10K charity run underway so that cars were not allowed on the road making it a fine, quiet place to walk. I did a repeat of the day before and headed back towards Monterey, which turned out to be a mistake.

As beautiful and warm and sunny as the day was, there were just way too many people for it to be enjoyable. Then I remembered where I was and it had been years since I had walked around the Monterey State Historic Park, which is right downtown. In fact I had only ever been in a few of the well preserved, clearly marked, old Spanish and Mexican buildings.

Apparently, no one else had thought of doing the history thing on Valentine’s Day; I had the streets mostly to myself. I dropped by one museum to get a map and found out that almost all the historical buildings in Monterey and, in fact, the state, have been closed due to budget cuts. The few places that are open in Monterey are so because they are run with city funding.

Colton Hall is the building where “the signing of California’s First State Constitution occurred on Oct 13, 1849 and on Sept 9, 1850 California became the thirty-first state.” (Colton Hall Museum, 11/07) I actually got goose-bumps when Donna, the docent, told me I was standing on the exact spot where this took place.

From there I followed the Path of History, designated by little yellow circular plaques embedded in the sidewalk, over to the Royal Presidio Chapel which was erected in 1770 and has been in continual service ever since. In 2009 a major renovation project was completed. Seeing at it was Sunday and mass was just finishing and a baptism was about to start, I found lots of helpful people to give me information.

I was especially excited to learn about the stone relief of Our Lady of Guadalupe that adorns the niche above the church entry. I recently returned from Puerto Vallarta where Our Lady is the city’s patron saint, and was fortunate enough to observe the 12 day celebration they have in her honor. I sort of felt like I knew the gal. This particular rendition of her has been on the front of the chapel since 1794. In 2007 it was removed for conservation purposes. After a long process, it was restored to its original incarnation and replaced in its home.

Walking inside the chapel, looking at the colours, designs, the alter and the pews, I felt like I was back in Mexico. They have truly done an incredible job. A really interesting aspect is the small, plexiglas covered sections in the wall that let you see some of the original painted frescoes.

Back outside in that magnificent spring weather I continued to meander around cute, downtown Monterey. I promised myself to get up to speed on my history before my next, more extensive visit to this part of town.

And I am already making plans for the next Maverick’s event.
Kate