Micky, we hardly knew ya!

Two days left….

Illuminated towers of impossible stone tracery at night … five bands of mariachis (one at a birthday party) and vocal groups all playing at the same time across the street in every part of El Jardin – not to mention the fire jugglers … the baroque gone baroque in the shrine at Atotonilco (look it up on the web) … a chicken roaster with at least fifty chickens on it – ours came with a Spanish vocabulary lesson and warnings about the chiles …the wonderful botanical gardens outside town, hundreds of acres of cacti around a dying reservoir with much restoration going on …

I had seen a comment on them by some corn-fed broad from Iowa (I tracked her to her blog, which had her picture on it: lots of corn consumed, believe me!) saying you didn’t want to visit, it was just a bunch of cactus. I wanted to point out that the waves breaking on the rocks at Craster or Los Cabos are just a pile of salt water, but I contented myself with Bill’s oft-cited prayer for us arrogant INTJs: Lord help me to appreciate other people’s point of view, wrong though they may be!

… faces, old and young, some going about their lives, some about their business of selling you everything from tchatchkis (spelling, Marvin?) to wonderful crafts, some just begging; one little girl that Jeanne gave a few coins to, and who came back on another occasion while Jeanne was eating dessert, requesting the last piece, which she slid off the fork and popped into her mouth before vanishing -- such a face … steep, steep cobbled streets leading down to restaurants and everything else, and which must be climbed afterwards with a full stomach -- that Triathlon Tours guy is getting old now! … sitting on our rooftop with a pipe, watching the storms roll by over the mountains to the west … making new friends who’ve invited us to their beach palace near Puerto Vallarta … bells at all hours which set off the dogs, which set off the man who howls at the dogs, which sets off the big dog near us who howls for the end of the world …

Still., SMA is quieter than SJC and SLP. And why should a man of my religious sensibilities be plagued with such place names? Will no-one rid me of these cursed saints and their initials?

Well, bye for now, St. Micky. We’ll be back!