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One of the more frustrating things about living here has been the limited access to movies and music on the internet. No free Hulu movies, no renting Amazon movies, no watching full episodes of Criminal Minds, no buying mp3s. I guess if I were an i-thingy kind of person - iPad or iPod or iWhatever - I could take advantage of iTunes but I'm not. Besides, I'm not sure how much iTunes' content is available outside of the U.S.

There is now Netflix Mexico but I couldn't get that to work. I don't want to use any of those download sites like Pirate Bay because I'm paranoid about viruses.

So one of the things that saved me from feeling culturally deprived was my Kindle e-reader. As least I could feed my need for instant gratification with books from Amazon.

Then suddenly one day I could purchase mp3s from Amazon. A friend was visiting last fall and she tried it on her Kindle Fire and was able to successfully buy an mp3. What the hell? So I tried it from my computer and tada! it worked. With no hoopla or notice, people outside the U.S. (at least here in Mexico) were able to buy mp3s.

Books and music. That's a start.

I gave my mom my Kindle when I upgraded to a Kindle Fire.

One night I was roaming around on the Kindle Fire and just for the hell of it I clicked the rent button for "Silver Linings Notebook" and voila, there it was. I was so shocked that I couldn't concentrate on the movie. I figured it was a fluke so the next night I tried it again. Bingo! "The Promised Land" with Matt Damon and Frances McDormand.

Free Prime instant videos are still holding out, expressing their condolences that because I'm out of the U.S. I can't view them. But I keep trying, knowing that it's only a matter of time until they cave.

I love the Kindle Fire. The Dolby sound is terrific. I've enjoyed watching movies in bed and last Sunday I sat outside beading with the Kindle propped up on the table, watching some lame chick flick. The battery life of the Fire is good and can be extended by keeping the wireless signal off. Setting up my email account was super easy. And I can even download transcription jobs on the Kindle to be uploaded to my laptop which is what I plan on doing when I'm on this road this summer. (When did we get to the point where laptops are considered big and cumbersome?)

Finally I'll get caught up on movies! I don't mind paying a rental fee - to me it's worth it. And when I'm in the States I plan on taking advantage of the free Prime movies as often as possible. I'm not sure if I'll regret not getting the 4g version. If so some day my mom will be getting this Kindle Fire HD 8.9"....

No Mas Hora Feliz?

From 2010 a smaller happy hour group

A few years back - before all the scares about Mexico - our happy hour group here at the trailer park would number somewhere around thirty. People gathered in a circle by the seawall, or if it was too windy they'd set up between the first and second rows of RVs. Often there'd be two separate groups - the Canadians in one and the Californians in the other although the lines weren't that clearly drawn; the Canadians included New Mexicans and the Californians included Oregonians. But the two groups represented a sort of changing demographic where the California group were the older people who'd been coming to Islandia for years and the Canadian group represented the more recent arrivals. Then the Canadians left. Because Mexico was too dangerous. Because there were too many dogs. Because it was too noisy. Because it was too cold. Because of whatever. The Californians - the old-timers - they just got old (and beyond old if you get my drift).

Now, no matter the state- or country-hood or size of the group, happy hour happens every night at the patio table at S's place on the front row. If S isn't there for some reason, happy hour happens anyway (we don't need no stinkin' host). A couple summers back when I returned to Mexico after a month or so in Bisbee I was surprised to see that happy hour was in full swing with Islandia's three full-time residents. Senior Citizens and Happy Hours go hand-in-hand come hell, high water, humidity or hurricanes.

But a change is comin'. S may be moving out of the park to a place he's built a few blocks away. He has a buyer for his RV but the sale is contingent on whether he not he's going to like living in town, whether or not he'll be happy giving up his ocean view, and whether or not he'll be lonely at happy hour. He's got a couple buddies who I'm sure will go to his new place but will they go every night? Will the rest of us want to walk over with our snacks and beverages? If I need to refill my gin and tonic I won't be able to just wander back over to my trailer; I'll have to arrive at happy hour with all the fixings. And do I want to sit on someone's patio inside a walled compound and not be able to see the sea, to watch the sunset? Isn't that one of the reasons I'm here?

This summer will be much like my first summer here when there were so few people in the trailer park and I had no friends outside the park. I was pretty creative that summer. I spent a lot of time in the water. I read and drank beers under the palapas watching the pelicans and gulls do battle. It wasn't as hot that summer and I spent a lot of time walking the beach, taking photos. I'm kind of looking forward to my own private happy hours.

The current happy hour spot - soon to become a thing of the past?

All Hell Keeps Breaking Loose

I just finished typing up my version of the events for the police, the district attorney, the judge, whomever needs to see it. It was a pretty easy task because I'd run through the story of that night hundreds of times - in my mind and to other people. But there is one part I have a hard time recalling in detail. It's the part where I wasn't killed or bear spray sprayed.

The man in the RV right next door to mine tried to kill his wife. What would you do if you heard your friend screaming? Police always say domestic violence calls are the most dangerous and they warn the public to stay clear and let the police do their job. But the police were slow in arriving and I felt we had to do something so I started banging on the RV door.

This is about the creepiest image from that night: The husband came to the door and smiled at me through the window. "Everything's fine. She's just drunk." He walked away and resumed beating her.

I guess our banging on the RV and screaming at the husband pissed him off enough that he left his wife alone in the back bedroom and when he did that she managed to fling herself head first out the emergency exit. A huge feat and fall for a woman her height (around 5 feet tall).

This is where events get foggy. Another neighbor carried the wife to the lounge chair in front of my trailer. I went inside to get a blanket. When I came out I saw the wife slide off the chair and crawl under my trailer. I watched her husband walk the road in front of my trailer with bear spray in his hands, arms straight out like that pepper spraying cop at the Occupy campus, direct shots to the eyes of two men standing there, direct shot to the eyes of the nice Mexican woman who lives at the end of my row. Where was I that I saw this but was out of the line of fire? I must've been hiding in the shadows next to my trailer where I could see that the wife was under my trailer and that the husband was spraying people but he couldn't see me. I tossed the wife the blanket.

The cops arrived and found the husband. After he'd been cuffed and taken away the wife came out from under my trailer. That's when we learned that another neighbor - the man who had banged on the RV and yelled at the husband right along with me - had received a machete blow to the head. One thousandth of an inch more and that man would be dead, the blade slicing into his brain.

I tended to the two men who had been sprayed, leading them to chairs, turning on the hose, grabbing towels. I sprayed water directly on their faces, rinsed the towels, held them to their faces. BAD MOVE! When I saw the towels the next day - turned orange like they'd been dipped in napalm - I realized I'd been reapplying the bear spray to their faces. And I had failed to keep my hands thoroughly rinsed so they burned all night long along with the area around my mouth.

There was one funny moment. I had to lead one of the men back to his rig. When we got to his door he said "take off your shoes." I mean really, he was worried about the carpet? I led him to his bedroom where he stripped naked while I turned on the water in the shower, being careful to only see his backside.

It wasn't until two mornings later when I woke and realized that if I hadn't gone to tend to the wife at the other side of the RV, if I'd been standing by the door when the husband came out with the machete, I'd be dead. He's a big man. No way my little head - as stubborn and hard as it is - could've survived that blow. And how was it that I avoided the bear spray?

Thankfully no one died. The wife is banged up but okay. The machete'd man will survive. The bear spray sprayed people were resuming normal activities the next day.

What about our decision to get involved? I think our relentless yelling and banging on the RV is what caused the husband to leave his wife alone for the time she needed to escape. Would I do it again? You betcha. But I now know to move away from the door when the husband emerges.

The husband is being held in a Mexican jail on two counts of attempted murder. It will be interesting to see how this plays out. Since living in Mexico I've witnessed expats suffering medical emergencies and sudden deaths. I've seen how the judicial system works for Mexicans. This will be the first time I will see how that system works for an American in Mexico. Of course most people I know hope he rots in a Mexican prison but I wonder if they (his lawyer? the American consulate?) will try to get him extradited.

Most people were shocked - they seemed like such a loving couple. When someone said that to the wife the next morning we looked at each other. I said "I'm not surprised." I knew her husband didn't like me and I didn't like him either. I'd seen bad behavior (not on this level) from him before. This year I felt that things were not right over there.

Domestic violence and RV parks, they seem to go hand in hand, not just here but when I lived up in Amado, too. Retirees mostly. People who are bored. Who maybe drink too much. Who share a small space. I spent years living in close proximity to other people - mostly apartment buildings - and I never saw this much spouse beating.

So far the wife is hanging tough. She's got lots of support from the community and her family. It's difficult to throw over a 30-year marriage but I think she can do it.

I got an email from her the next day when I was up in Tucson. She said everyone in town knew - Mexicans and Americans alike. Can't you just picture the talk in the barrios? "Did you hear about the crazy gringo who almost killed his wife and machete'd a neighbor?" Aye carrumba. Things have been a little too crazy in the park in the recent weeks. Let's hope these things don't happen in threes because if so, we're due one more.

After a Sudden Death all Hell Broke Loose

I keep thinking about the woman whose husband died suddenly.

What have these past two nights been like for her? She's away from family and close friends. I think about the heaviness that must fill the motor home. The heaviness of that abrupt absence, the heaviness of the silence around her, the heaviness of the reality of her future alone.

My understanding is that her husband had not been well and they were hoping to get in one more trip to the beach. I wonder if his refusal to go to the doctor was his way of acknowledging that his time was now.

The day he died was a bad day in the park. As I was offering my condolences to the wife, Flo walked up and I could see she'd been crying. One of her beloved dogchilds - the uglier but nicer of the two - had died at the vet's in Hermosillo. He was there to get his intestines unkinked. I don't know if he died before, during or after the surgery. He had congestive heart failure and his heart couldn't withstand the stress. I felt worse for Flo than I did for the woman whose husband had died.

And then some other wild things happened that I can't really write about but I'll just say all hell broke loose.

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Elmore Leonard wrote some of the most worthwhile tips for writers I've ever come across. In one of his tips (see below) he says to never use "all hell broke loose." I was in the midst of writing my book and when I read that I thought oh-oh and sure enough I used that phrase to describe a scene where two men were having a confrontation in my small trailer. I was afraid they were going to break into a fight. I was afraid all hell would break loose. You bet I got rid of that! (oh and don't use too many exclamation points for goodness sakes!). So as you read, be on the look out for "all hell broke loose"; you will see it everywhere. Keith Olbermann said it last night in his show.

Here are Elmore's tips from the NY Times. They're priceless.

JUL 16, 2001 Easy on the Hooptedoodle By ELMORE LEONARD These are rules I've picked up along the way to help me remain invisible when I'm writing a book, to help me show rather than tell what's taking place in the story. If you have a facility for language and imagery and the sound of your voice pleases you, invisibility is not what you are after, and you can skip the rules. Still, you might look them over. 1. Never open a book with weather. If it's only to create atmosphere, and not a character's reaction to the weather, you don't want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead looking for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways to describe ice and snow than an Eskimo, you can do all the weather reporting you want. 2. Avoid prologues. They can be annoying, especially a prologue following an introduction that comes after a foreword. But these are ordinarily found in nonfiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want. There is a prologue in John Steinbeck's "Sweet Thursday," but it's O.K. because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says: "I like a lot of talk in a book and I don't like to have nobody tell me what the guy that's talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks. . . . figure out what the guy's thinking from what he says. I like some description but not too much of that. . . . Sometimes I want a book to break loose with a bunch of hooptedoodle. . . . Spin up some pretty words maybe or sing a little song with language. That's nice. But I wish it was set aside so I don't have to read it. I don't want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story." 3. Never use a verb other than "said" to carry dialogue. The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But said is far less intrusive than grumbled, gasped, cautioned, lied. I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with "she asseverated," and had to stop reading to get the dictionary. 4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb "said" . . . . . . he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances "full of rape and adverbs." 5. Keep your exclamation points under control. You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with exclaimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful. 6. Never use the words "suddenly" or "all hell broke loose." This rule doesn't require an explanation. I have noticed that writers who use "suddenly" tend to exercise less control in the application of exclamation points. 7. Use regional dialect, patois, sparingly. Once you start spelling words in dialogue phonetically and loading the page with apostrophes, you won't be able to stop. Notice the way Annie Proulx captures the flavor of Wyoming voices in her book of short stories "Close Range." 8. Avoid detailed descriptions of characters. Which Steinbeck covered. In Ernest Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants" what do the "American and the girl with him" look like? "She had taken off her hat and put it on the table." That's the only reference to a physical description in the story, and yet we see the couple and know them by their tones of voice, with not one adverb in sight. 9. Don't go into great detail describing places and things. Unless you're Margaret Atwood and can paint scenes with language or write landscapes in the style of Jim Harrison. But even if you're good at it, you don't want descriptions that bring the action, the flow of the story, to a standstill. And finally: 10. Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip. A rule that came to mind in 1983. Think of what you skip reading a novel: thick paragraphs of prose you can see have too many words in them. What the writer is doing, he's writing, perpetrating hooptedoodle, perhaps taking another shot at the weather, or has gone into the character's head, and the reader either knows what the guy's thinking or doesn't care. I'll bet you don't skip dialogue. My most important rule is one that sums up the 10. If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it. Or, if proper usage gets in the way, it may have to go. I can't allow what we learned in English composition to disrupt the sound and rhythm of the narrative. It's my attempt to remain invisible, not distract the reader from the story with obvious writing. (Joseph Conrad said something about words getting in the way of what you want to say.) If I write in scenes and always from the point of view of a particular character — the one whose view best brings the scene to life — I'm able to concentrate on the voices of the characters telling you who they are and how they feel about what they see and what's going on, and I'm nowhere in sight. What Steinbeck did in "Sweet Thursday" was title his chapters as an indication, though obscure, of what they cover. "Whom the Gods Love They Drive Nuts" is one, "Lousy Wednesday" another. The third chapter is titled "Hooptedoodle 1" and the 38th chapter "Hooptedoodle 2" as warnings to the reader, as if Steinbeck is saying: "Here's where you'll see me taking flights of fancy with my writing, and it won't get in the way of the story. Skip them if you want." "Sweet Thursday" came out in 1954, when I was just beginning to be published, and I've never forgotten that prologue. Did I read the hooptedoodle chapters? Every word. Copyright 2001 The New York Times Company | Privacy Information

Toilet Paper! (Living in Mexico Tip Numero Tres)

As most of you know, most of Mexico is a no-flush-toilet-paper zone. So if you decide to stay in Mexico for a while bring the biggest, fluffiest, softest and most favorite brand of toilet paper you can buy in the good old USofA because a) you won't be flushing it so no worries about clogging up septic systems, and b) you won't be able to find it here.

Mexican toilet paper sucks. Even the brands you can find in Walmart are not on a par with the paper we're used to back home.

Now here's additional information for those of you who will be staying in an RV.

If you keep your black tank valve closed (which most RVers agree is the way to go) and use that blue stuff that breaks down solid wastes, then you can flush all the toilet paper you want. Keeping the black tank valve closed is environmentally better because you use less water that way. What I used to do before my valve got stuck in the open position - and thank God it didn't get stuck in the closed position! - is when it was getting near the time to empty the tank (and believe me, you won't need a gauge to tell you when that time is approaching), I would close the gray tank valve (which I normally keep open), take a shower, do dishes, all of which fills up the gray water tank, empty the black tank, then open the gray tank valve to thoroughly flush everything from the sewer hose.

Should you keep your black tank valve open, you'll be using a lot more water to make sure stuff is flushed from the bottom of the tank. A handy gadget to have is a wand-like plastic tube with holes in the end. Attach the wand to the outside water hose, insert in toilet and turn the on/off knob to open. Water will spray all sides of the tank thus doing a bang-up job of cleaning out that sucker. Of course you need good water pressure for that to work which we ain't got - at least not here in Kino - so you might want to add a water pump to your list but I'd hold off on that until you know if you're going to be here for a few months or for forever.

Senior Camp

We were on our way home after a fun day in Hermosillo - ATM at bank Santander (no fees!), hair color from Sally's at Mall Galerias, expensive steak lunch at Palominos, grocery shopping at Mega and Costco - and as we neared Kino I tried not to panic over what was awaiting me back home: Neighbors.

As I sit at the computer typing this I look out the window and instead of an open space with palm trees and sparkling water beyond I see a white wall with a blue stripe down the side. The neighbors' motor home.

I wake at 6:30 to a sound I'm gotten unaccustomed to. The neighbor opening a bin in the motor home's "basement." Their lights are on, they've been up for hours. I know their habits as they surely know mine.

I'm irritated by every sound I hear coming from the space next door. What the hell is that shuffling noise? What's he doing now? Jesus, they're retired...can't they sleep in? I know it could be worse. It could be that lady who smokes who spends hours each morning coughing up her lungs. It could be that guy who called Obama the "n" word. It could be those people whose space is a pigsty. Did I mention they beat each other up? Or how about the pedophile? Or the guy who takes naked photos of young girls and putas? Or Flo with her constantly barking dogs? Did I mention they bite?

Already the senior citizens are acting like high school seniors over the issue of dogs. Get this: the park now has rules about dogs. The dogs must be on leashes. The owners must pick up dogshit. Holy crap!! Say it ain't so. The snowbirds say "the park dogs shit in the park, why can't ours?" What? Now we're in grade school?

As I said to my friends yesterday, I have two options: find a new place to live (not another RV park) or rise above it all. Until a secluded RV space lands in my lap, I guess I'll have to practice the fine art of rising above the dramas. I'll take deep calming breaths before I exit the trailer door. I'll be cheerful and say "I missed you guys" to every returning snowbird.

Oh how I long for those 112 degree humid days with electricity surges and brown-outs. How I miss the warm  Sea of Cortez water. I miss weekends packed with partying folks from Hermosillo, Ciudad Juarez, with the smells of carne asada, blaring ranchero music.

In a nutshell, I miss Mexico.

Sliced by a Ninja

Last year a couple was here for the winter - I'll call them Casey - in a 16 or 18 foot trailer called a hi-lo. Hi-lo's are first generation pop-ups. Because of all the stuff in their hi-lo, Mr. Casey called it their trash compactor. That should give you a pretty good idea of the mechanism of a hi-lo and also how much stuff they crammed into that 16 or 18-foot space. There was so much stuff that the only time Mr. Casey was allowed in the trailer was to sleep. The rest of the time he sat in a lawn chair outside, coffee and cigarette in hand until the day began to warm, then it was beer and cigarette.

That little hi-lo was some kind of magic box. Ms. Casey could produce anything at any time. You needed an exotic spice? She had it. Tarot cards, chimes, laptop, love potions, snake venom, crock pot, espresso machine, sewing machine. She had two coffee grinders. Two.

When the coffee roaster in Bisbee gave me hell for not buying beans, I said "you don't understand, I live in a tiny space. I don't have room for a coffee grinder." Ms. Casey, in seven less feet, had TWO!

I still don't have a coffee grinder but I have added a few appliances: small crock pot, one-cup coffee maker, and mini food processor. I keep them stored in the oven. But I began jonesing for a blender. That food processor was not doing a very good job with hummus. And the local store had fresh strawberries. I began craving strawberry margaritas. So I did a lot of online research and ordered a Ninja Major Prep. It had great reviews, was cheap, and looked small.

It ain't small. It's got two containers - one for drinks and one for food processing. It's got extra lids. It's got a manual and recipe book. I have to keep it out on what little counter space there is. It's always in the way. It needs to be moved to get to the coffee maker.

But I've got to say, it did an amazing job with the strawberry margarita, smashing the ice to smithereens. The Thai peanut sauce (made with fresh peanuts) was creamy. Of course one of the things that makes the Ninja so good is the blades - the really, really sharp blades. I went to wash one and sliced right through my thumb. Took forever to stanch the bleeding. Now I'm terrified of those blades. I approach them with caution, focused, zen-like.

One of the things about trailer life I like is getting down to the absolute essentials. What is it a person really needs? What is it I absolutely cannot live without? If I lived in a magic box like the Caseys' hi-lo there's no telling what treasures I'd carry. I'd have at least one coffee grinder.

Going, Going, Almost Gone

By the end of April the last of the snowbirds will be gone. One rig pulled out on Sunday, three more head north this week.

My first year in this RV park only six gringos stayed through the summer. One couple, one married man (sin esposa), and three single women. This year three single men have joined the year-rounders along with two Mexican couples.

Three single women and three single men. Hm, is there the potential for love under the palms? Senior citizens indulging in sex on the beach?

Hell no!! At least not with this group.

The single women are these: one an ex-trucker whose dogs bite; one a woman who rarely leaves her rig and when she does all she talks about is her health; and me - cranky and "too opinionated," intolerant of bigots.

The men: one who's really, really old (older than old); one a man most people have never seen except for those of us who have seen him naked; and the third I can't say much about except he often has his shirt off. (It is my opinion that most men - of a certain age - should leave their clothes on. Please. I'm begging you.)

But if it's a typical summer - hot and humid - I won't be seeing much of the year-rounders. AC's run 24/7 and most people stay holed up. I don't know how the locals do it. I tell you, Mexicans are tough.

What I do look forward to is swimming in the Sea of Cortez followed by an icy cold cerveza under the palapas. Let's see how long I'll be able to stick it out this summer before crying uncle and heading north.

And if I do leave this summer, will it be for good?

Practicing for Lonesome

In two weeks - mas o menos - most of the snowbirds will have migrated north. What will remain are the people who live here full-time or those who try to stick it out as long as they can before heat, humidity, and power outages send them fleeing to dry-heat Arizona.

With every rig that pulls out, I breathe easier. I especially look forward to the day my neighbors leave. I couldn't have nicer or more considerate neighbors but you know you're too close when your neighbor is in her rig, she sneezes, you're outside and say "bless you" and she responds "thank you," all at normal volume. But the main reason I look forward to their departure is that I will have an ocean view. Space. I crave space.

And solitude.

And therein lies my ongoing dilemma. I am a solo being, awkward in social situations, but I miss certain people interactions. Frankly, I miss the barfly life, the one place I can choose when and where I socialize. Here, in a small trailer park in Mexico, I don't have that luxury. Snowbirds, vendors...when the trailer door is open, that's a sign you're available for company. So not true. When my trailer door's open it means my trailer door's open. Nothing more. I wake early. I work or write with the trailer door closed. I need that time alone. People think I'm in bed till 9 or 10. They can't seem to grasp the concept of aloneness.

Of course this was also true in the trailer park I lived at in southern Arizona. Snowbirds especially are great socializers. They like their happy hours, potlucks. They like visiting. I'd be outside reading or beading and, just like here, it meant Chez Airstream was open for business.

So I've been gearing up for lonesome.

I stopped going to happy hour a couple months ago and I'm much happier. I don't have to feign interest in stories I've heard over and over again. I don't have to tolerate digs at bleeding heart liberals. I don't have to hear Obama called the "n" word. I stopped going to potlucks, meals of perfectly edible dishes like grandma used to make.

All that being said, I will be sorry to see some people go. I'll miss the "frenchies." How great it's been to have their joie de vivre wafting through the park like an elixir (along with the aroma of bread baking in their outdoor oven). But they'll be back in the fall with the intention of being here full time, if they can withstand the summer. Of course, I'm not sure I'll be here but if I am, I'll be looking forward to their return.

It's obvious that living in such close proximity to people has made me less tolerant of people. Familiarity breeds contempt is certainly an idiom that holds true for me.

Lordy, I've created an anti-RVing blog. Well, shit, the blogosphere needs an antidote to all those happy RVing blogs. It's my pleasure to oblige.

The Mexicans are coming!

If you're a snowbird or ex pat living in an RV park or a condo, you can pretty much go about your day without interacting with a Mexican unless it's the clerk at the Super T where you buy your El Presidente brandy or the women who work at the park scooping up mostly gringo dog poop. If you're a snowbird or ex pat more than likely you don't eat at the taco stands or fish stalls. You go to Club Deportivo for pig roasts or you go to the Marlin for the Friday night special - stuffed crab or sauteed pork chops. You go en masse, reserving tables for twenty or more. Rarely an odd number as it's mostly couples. Jorge's does a Mexican food special on Tuesdays which includes a margarita chica so you'll probably go there. The only Mexicans at Jorge's on Mexican food night will be Jorge, his wife and staff. Same is true at the Club and the Marlin. The poor people in this village do not eat out unless it's at a carne asada or fish taco stand.

But bring on the beginning of spring when it is blazing hot in Hermosillo and this little town gets invaded by Mexican tourists. It's the best time to be here.

I can go to the estuary on a Saturday and be the only person there. But this past Saturday the place was packed with tourists from Hermosillo. The atmosphere was festive. The guy who plays music around town - not Xavier with the crappy voice but the other guy - showed up with his guitar but no one likes him much because he charges too much for a song (50 pesos) and he's got a bad attitude. Still, any man with a guitar adds to the party-like atmosphere.

Yesterday we walked to the beach with the I-don't-know-how-many palapas. Fifty? Nearly every palapa sheltered a picnicking family. The beach was lined with kids digging in the sand and building castles. The ninos were even in the water which is muy frio, the sea not warming up until at least May.

What I was hoping for most happened: the mariachis from Hermosillo showed up!

Then a school of sardines must've been traveling along the shore because pelicans suddenly began falling from the sky.

This is when I enjoy Kino the most. Yes, I love the quiet fishing village atmosphere but I look forward to the return of the Mexicans. I can hardly wait for Semana Santa!

Winter Camp for Seniors

I've often wondered why it is that snowbirds head south to the same location year after year. It's not that these people don't have a sense of adventure; after all, it takes courage to drive a 45-foot motor coach or tow a 39-foot trailer thousands of miles, especially if Mexico is your destination. Yesterday, as I welcomed two returning snowbird couples back to the park, it dawned on me that this experience is like being a kid and going to summer camp, a place where you caught up with friends from other parts of the city, state or country; a place where you romped in the sun, camped out, did arts and crafts. That is the snowbird experience.

Even though the snowbirds are camping in campers that have all the luxuries of home (and in some instances are their homes), they're still camping. They're enjoying the sun and the outdoors unlike their friends in Minnesota or Oregon. They're doing arts and crafts; the women bead, sew, work in the glass house on stained glass projects. The men read, play poker, fish, and when they're especially bored yearn for a system malfunction on someone's rig. (I'm waiting for the right moment to spring my leaking toilet on a couple of them.) Instead of nightly campfires, the snowbirds sit in a circle for nightly happy hours. They have beanbag tossing championships.

The difference is that unlike summer camp kids, these winter camp seniors don't have a lot of new stories to tell or experiences to relate. No stories of school or groundings or boyfriends. Here's how it works at senior camp: the new people arrive, join happy hour, and update the group on the surgeries they had over the preceeding six months. Once that's out of the way, we're back to the same old same old stories, usually from the men holding court. The women politely feign interest. Wives laugh at jokes they've heard a hundred times. Some roll their eyes. Finally last year the women began breaking off into their own groups which I thought was a great idea. I think we have much more interesting stories to tell.

Things will be different this year. The Canadians have chosen not to return for one reason or another - dirt, dogs, Mexico travel advisories. "Our" Canadians are heading to an RV park in Yuma where they will still have that summer camp experience only without the water and that pesky language barrier. This year some people have moved on - and I mean MOVED ON. This year some women from Bisbee will be coming down on the occasional weekend so we'll have an infusion of progressive blood.

So the migration south has started. Let camp begin.

Nirvana in the Sonoran Desert

When I left Portland, Oregon, six years ago I wasn't quite sure where I'd live once I reached the desert. In Tucson I toured various RV parks around town, most of which were 55 and older parks. As I drove through paved and neatly landscaped parks in my one-ton van, my throat would tighten. Panic would wash over me as I thought I can't live in one of these places. I don't fit in here. American flags waved from nearly every RV site. Lively senior citizens waved from golf carts.

About 30 miles south of Tucson I came across a former KOA recognizable by its A-frame office building. The Santa Rita Mountains rose in the background. In the front of the park were about 50 RV sites; in the back was the mobile home area. People and trailers of all shapes, sizes and ages stayed there, not just overnight campers or snowbirds but people who lived there year round: retirees, working stiffs, disabled vets, druggies. It was my kind of place.

I lived at that park for two years. There I found nirvana. Or my version at least. I was never as happy as I was there. Oh sure, life wasn't perfect. I had my moments of worry and doubt especially when dealing with arrogant bastards, with living in a red state, with listening to rants directed at Hispanic people whether they lived in the U.S. legally or not.

After leaving the Sonoran Desert in Arizona, I went to the Sonoran Desert in Mexico.

This blog is not only about life in that park and life in Mexico but it's about finding your place in the world. It's about finding peace and contentment. It's about finding a spiritual path without having lots of money and the means to travel to countries whose names begin with the letter "I".

It's about trailer park life.