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?

Parade of Putas

Sometime this afternoon the owner returns and I will be officially released from my house-sitting duties. Even though I've been in the trailer for three weeks, I do go to the house twice each day to check on it - in the morning to raise the hurricane shades and water the plants, in the evening to lower the shades and turn on the lights. A couple days ago the cops were at the neighbor's house - someone broke into the storage shed - and that made me nervous and made me wonder if I shouldn't spend the nights at the house. But the neighbor's shed was broken into even though the house was occupied so I doubt if my presence would've been much of a deterrence. Besides, I'm pretty convinced that the break-in was done by friends of one of the many putas who frequented that house.

Man, you should've seen the parade of putas when the gringo first moved in for the winter months. I had no idea so many Ladies of the Night lived in this town. I wondered if some of them maybe didn't come all the way from Calle Doce. One of the women I'd seen many times before around town, skinny and tweaker-ish. Some of the women were very beautiful - especially one woman who seemed a little older than the rest with her hair done in a beautiful thick braid. She wore the prostitute uniform of skin-tight low-slung pants (all the better for showing off the Sonoran Belly), tight blouse with not a lot of cleavage, jean jacket, jewelry. Some of the women even brought their babies with them.

I know all this because to get the old gringo's attention the women (and one or two girls) had to walk past the windows of my house and then call his name at the gate of his house. One time the tweaker-ish one asked me where the gringo was and when I said I didn't know, she asked me for money.

Suddenly the parade stopped. I speculated that either the gringo's supply of little blue pills had run out or his funds had. But I did notice that as the trickle slowed, one woman would hang out across the road/alley and stare at the windows of the house I was staying in. The windows are reflective so it could've been that she was merely staring at her image in the windows. It felt more like she was scoping the place out. A year or two ago, after the gringo went north, there were a lot of break-ins along this stretch of beach. That doesn't seem coincidental.

Having that gringo as a neighbor is one of the things I will not miss. I will miss the kitchen counters and the speedy DSL. I'll miss the privacy and the view. Oops, time to walk over and water the plants, raise the shades on a whole new season...summer is coming to Kino.

Wish Me Luck

Today I'm going to Calle Doce with Florence - not Florence of the Machine but Florence of Kino. Or as Florence says, we're going to Cow-wah doe-sah. I need to get an estimate on how much it would cost to get the roof of my van painted and I need to go to quite possibly the best hardware store in the world, La Rumba, for screen material and propane tank valves and screws.

Trips to anywhere are always a trip with Florence but right now she's on a pissed-off tear. She was mad at me for weeks because I went to the movies without her even though she HATES movies. And now she's pissed off at someone in the park and has de-friended him in real life, not social networking life. BTW, I heard his side of the story and I'd de-friend him too if I were her. Oh wait, I already de-friended him because he's an arrogant bastard.

Anyway it's hot, it's muggy. We'll be making lots of stops and Flo will be leaping out of my huge fucking van I don't know how many times. It'll be major exercise for her legs. She's gonna get cranky; I'm gonna get cranky. If only I had Valium.

Travels with Florence

Flo says she only drives erratically when I’m in the car with her because I make her nervous with my nervousness. I guess I’m not supposed to yell “stop!” as she nearly runs through a red light at a busy Hermosillo intersection. Or point out the speedbump (tope) she’s heading for at full speed. Maybe I shouldn’t mention that she’s driving in the wrong lane as though she’s in England. I’d feel better if she didn’t tailgate. To top it off she’s got this little problem with clogged carotid arteries so I’m a little worried about blood flow to her brain.

Florence has lived in Mexico for about eight years and the only Spanish words she kinda knows are buenos dias. I cut her some slack on this lack because she has a hard enough time with English. Still, she could try just a little. However, it’s amazing how much she accomplishes. I’ve seen her in action. She keeps going on and on in English until the poor worker or clerk cries tio and chases down someone who speaks English. Because I know a few more words than she does, I’m given the job of translator which is a joke. She always has me asking for directions. I say “Flo, I know how to ask where something is but I won’t understand the answer.” Doesn’t matter; she makes me ask anyway. (Will I ever sort out derecha (right) and derecho (straight)?) And Mexicans are so nice that even if they don’t know where something is they’ll make up directions so as not to disappoint.

Yesterday we made a stop at the dentist office in Calle Doce on our way back from Hermosillo. Her regular dentist’s office was closed so we went to the one next to the Santa Fe market.

The dentist spoke almost no English although he could say “pull out” as in “pull out teeth” so guess who had to convey what Flo wanted and what the dentist suggested? Moi. Could Florence need something simple like a cleaning, filling or crown? Hell no. Thank God I know the words for bridge, plate, pain. That got us pretty far. And the dentist was nice enough to speak really slowly except he kept his mask on which added to the challenge. Every time he said a word I understood, I’d repeat it in English for Flo’s benefit. “Una pregunta” he’d say and I’d say “a question.” I’d catch dormir and dolor and I’d say sleep and pain. Jesus, talk about painful. Finally a patient came in so the dentist wrote down an estimate for the work (incredibly cheap – barato) and we vamanosed out of there.

In the car Florence said, “Yeah he was nice but I’d never go to him. His office was too dirty.”

“Then why didn’t we turn around and leave? Why’d you put me through all that?”

She just shrugged. All I could say was “I need a beer” which is how most of my travels with Florence end.