Visit to Mazatlan

I went to Mazatlan on Saterday to visit my friends. I took the bus. Because of my new handy-dandy Mexican senior's discount card, the bus fare for me is half price. The tolls on the highway alone between here and Mazatlan amount to over twice as much. Add in the cost of gas for my car and the savings are phenomenal, even though I drive a Smart diesel.

I was somewhat depressed and feeling very lonely when I got on the bus, but kind of happy over being a savvy traveler. The buses in Mexico are very nice. They are mostly quite modern, and clean and comfortable.

However, as if to prove that there is no such thing as even an almost-free lunch, the inescapable movie began to play. I did not bring headphones or music, or even a book with me, so I was more or less forced to watch it, as it is on several drop-down screens throughout the bus, and a larger one at the front, where I was seated. This movie was in English, with Spanish subtitles.

It was a kind oof mockumentary I suppose, consisting of a first person account by John Lennnon's murderer of his activities in New York, up to and including the murder. Just what I need, I thought, the highlights of the life of a deranged, lonely loser, exactly when I was feeling just like one myself. My mood was considerably soured by the time I got to Mazatlan. It soured even more when I realized I had forgotten all the phone numbers of my friends in my apartment in Tepic. And of course I didn't know their street addresses either.

I decided to buy a phone card, call my friends' father on the Baja, and get the phone numbers from him. He wasn't home. In a final act of desperation, I took a cab to another friend's house, who is a close relative of the friend I was to visit. As luck would have it, he pulled up just as I got out of the cab.

So we had a nice reunion, they fed me a couple of nice meals, and we made plans for Carnaval in Mazatlan. I came home on Sunday night, in time to call my sister and have a nice long chat.

In spite of all the minor mishaps, it was good to get away.

Independence Day Parade

Yesterday was the Independence Day Parade downtown. I went there to take photographs of my Zumba class, which will are displayed above. One of the photos is of the English class which I have begun to assist with.Aside from that, it was quite the longest parade I have ever seen. I watched about 1-1/2 hours of it and then could take no more.

It was hot, too downtown. And I broke two spokes on my bicycle coming back, because I was tired and used the damn throttle. Just too much torque on those little spokes I guess, asking them to support my weight while the tiny motor struggled to heave my bulk along. So I would have to give the day mixed reviews. It was nice to be with happy enthusiastic people though.

The class was happy to see me, and I only got out of participating in the parade myself by saying that I wanted to take some action photos of them marching. One does not go from being an almost complete recluse to rabid exhibitionist overnight.

Today I shall go to Mazatlan, to visit friends. I think I will take the bus. The tolls on the Autopista are prohibitive. I shall miss the car, but taxis are cheap enough.

At the parade, it was great to see so many happy people. The state police marched as well. I felt kind of sorry for all the participants, because after 1-1/2 hours of marching in the sun, they seemed really hot, tired and dehydrated.

Now I shall have to order more spokes from Canada, to repair my bicycle. I shall order a complete set, with some extra.

Zumba Today

Today I went for my second class of Zumba. I participated somewhat reluctantly in a dress rehearsal for tomorrow's parade downtown for Independence day. I confidently predict that no prizes shall be won by my group. And I say this with the full authority of having the distinction of being the worst one in the lot.


This sorry debacle occurred in the parking lot of the Soriana store which is adjacent to the senior's centre. We shuffled about ineffectually for about a half an hour. I was forced to give a jeering taxi driver a one finger salute for his insolence.

I was strongarmed after the practice to accept an INAPAM (Federal Institute For Retired People) T-shirt and to participate in the parade. I declined a graciously as I could, saying that I don't think that Mexico is quite ready to see me dancing in the streets. I also said that I had designated myself to be the official photographer for this event, and I would get the best photos printed for display on the bulletin board. This seemed to mollify them somewhat. Fortunately they do not yet know how terrible a photographer I am.

All in all though, it is always worthwhile to get some exercise.

While I was sitting on a shady bench at the centre, recuperating as it were from the sight of myself shambling about, sweating, overweight and old, among this group of scarf-waving Mexican ladies of similar vintage to myself, I was approached by my psychologist.

She asked me if I would like to assist at an English class being held under a large shady tree there a little later in the day. I agreed, saying only that I had to shower, change my clothes and have breakfast.

Some time later I appeared under the designated tree, to find a white haired gentleman of extremely advanced age attempting to teach a mixed class of seniors, who were as unruly as private school pupils on the last day of the term.

He greeted me brusquely after I had explained my presence there, and implied that I had interrupted his class. I offered to leave at that point, but he recovered himself and insisted that I stay. The class was attempting to sing the Beatle's song "Yesterday" first in Spanish, then in English.

Eventually, I was asked by the instructor if I wished to join in. I told him that I couldn't sing, but that I would read the lyrics aloud so that his students could hear the words pronounced properly. The instructor is Mexican, and although he speaks English well, does so with quite a pronounced accent.

I prefaced my reading with a self-serving little speech about how lucky they were to have me there since I am Canadian, and speak English properly, unlike the Americans. I don't normally brag like that, but in this case, I think it's true. Following this bit of rather timid bragadoccio, I read the lyrics aloud line by line, and had the class repeat each line after me so I could hear their pronunciation. I then corrected them on a couple of points of pronunciation, and had them sing it again A Capella. I congratulated them on their improvement. The class broke up shortly after that, and I receved an invitation to join them at a birthday party for one of the class, but I declined, citing household duties.

Now I must learn how to make my blog entries stop sounding like reports being written by an exceptionally dull police constable, and I shall be well on my way to blogger fame and fortune.

Zumba

I went today for my first hour of exercise at the senior's centre here in Tepic.
This was done on the advice of my psychologist to
a) improve my fitness level and distract me from my grief
b) get me out among people, to widen my range of acquaintances here. From 0 to something I guess.

I bicycled there on my new airless tires, which I am gradually getting used to as in, they don't feel so strange anymore. The 8 o'clock class did not begin until 8:15.

The instructor was a nice young woman who had little difficulty in quickly welcoming me, although I must have seemed rather exotic to her, this enormous Canadian, towering over the rest of her class.

The class consisted of about 15 ladies also about my age, and 3 men.

We did some rather uncomplicated aerobic/dance stuff for about 3/4 of an hour, and then a quick cooldown.

I have to say that overall it was time well spent. I felt better, more alert and less tired afterward. I shall do it again tomorrow.

Why it is called Zumba id a complete mystery to me.

The Psychologist

I am seeing a psychologist here in Tepic to try to get some help working through the grief I am feeling over the death of my girlfriend. Today was my third visit. It seems to be helping me a great deal. Today we laughed together for the first time.

This psychologist is a quite young and very attractive woman, with all of the confidence of untried youth. She speaks Spanish only.

It is sometimes difficult for me to express my thoughts and feelings in Spanish, because my grasp of this language is so poor, but we make progress nonetheless. I told her today that I am trilingual. Perfect in English and Espanglish, but my worst language is Spanish. She seemed to appreciate that.

She tested me today with some kind of formal verbal examination, I think to see if I am approaching senility. She assured me afterward that I am not. Nice to have that officially recognized.

She is encouraging me to interact more with people, but I am finding this difficult. I shudder at the thought of doing this, but tomorrow, for lack of any other resource, I am going to participate at this senior's centre in something called Zuma, which is apparently a form of exercise geared toward us ancianos. So we shall see.

Breakfast

It has been my habit of late to delay having breakfast until late in the morning. This has not been working out for me. I usually find myself downtown, at about 10 am looking for the first decent place to eat because I am ravenously hungry. Today I decided to change that and cooked myself a big breakfast on getting up. We shall see how this develops.

My aim is to try to get the most out of the cool pleasant mornings here, and not be rushing about in the heat of the day, but use the mornings for whatever business I have to do outside, then retreat to the cool of my apartment, to read or write.

Bicycling in Tepic

Bicycling in Tepic can be a difficult proposition. The main arterial roads are insanely busy here, and the motorists, especially the taxi drivers, have absolutely no regard for cyclists. Because of this, I stick to the back streets, and always cycle with the premise that each and every driver on the road would kill me if they felt it would go unnoticed.

The back streets are a big problem too, for a different reason. They are sometimes littered with glass and little bits of metal, too much to avoid.

Soooo...after countless flat tires I took the plunge and bought some airless tires. I felt somewhat like Wile E. Coyote, ordering airless tires from the Nu-Teck tire company in Colorado. Eventually they came, neatly packaged, coiled up in a cardboard box.

The guy at the bicycle shop that I use gave up after a frustrating hour of trying to get them on the rims. When I came to pick up my bicycle at the appointed time, he told me it was an impossible job. I managed to persuade him that the tires would stretch enough, and after reassuring him that I would not hold him responsible if he wrecked anything, we sat down together and managed to install one by experimenting with various techniques. I came back next day and my bike was ready because he installed the other one next morning.

Today I tried them for the first time. The ride is a little harsher, and I have to work a little harder, but overall I am pleased. I really love the no-flat-tires scenario. That works for me.

Now I am wondering if Wile E's Acme company sells somehing like a homicidal motorist's repellant.

Byelections in Canada

I was told today that there were four federal byelections in Canada. It is very difficult for me to get passionate about Canadian politics. There just isn't the same level of pure insanity there that exists in so many other countries. I must say that for me this is a wonderful thing. Our political scandals for instance, when we can summon enough energy to have one are so subdued, tempest-in-a-teapottish, kind of unimportant, that they drop quickly beneath even the Canadian radar

We really are reasonable moderate people, who have every right to be envied for that. And I believe we are.

cc

What Better Place Than Here

I am alone again. What better place than here, the internet, this place of millions and millions of anonymous blogs, to be truly alone. This is a unique place. It is the only place I know where you can make your private thoughts available to untold millions of people and be absolutely certain that nobody reads or understands them.

This medium is far better than shouting at clouds, or mumbling darkly to yourself in other public venues, and in a strange way, more socially acceptable.

I have had the pathetic impulse to whore this blog to family and friends, and did in fact point out my memorial to my girlfriend upstairs to several, but then the impulse died. I did that only because I know that memorials of any kind are for the living, not the dead, and that it gives us who continue to live on awhile, comfort to share our thoughts, to close ranks and fight the fight of life together in a symbolic way, like shipwreck survivors.

It is amazing to me that I can wander, vagabond that I am, down this great highway that is the internet, shouting, cursing, screaming my rage at the sky, and be still completely anonymous.

Is this blog entry a plea for some kind of company? Of course it is. Of course it is.

It is that, but at the same time it satisfies a kind of ironic impulse to immortalize myself, I suppose. The internet is a strange place. A place to be anonymously instantly immortalized forever.

Yes I am depressed. But I am not suicidal. I just think this is a great place to journalize my thoughts. To realize how incredibly juvenile my thoughts are right now. To wonder whether this kind of thinking is a product of grief, or whether I really am an aging child.

On the death of my girlfriend, Cuavia Carrillo Peraza

My girlfriend died on Thursday, November 5th, at 7:20 pm local time in Tepic, Nayarit Mexico. She was 37 years old. I had been her boyfriend for a scant seven months. She died in hospital, and was surrounded by those who loved her most .. me, her mother Sofia and her 10 year old daughter Cecy.

Those are the bare facts of the situation. I am writing this about her in an effort to mark her passing, more for mself than anyone else. Another bare fact.

I am posting this on the internet, on this blog, because I cannot think of any other way to immortalize her. I know that this must sound ridiculous to any anonymous reader who chances to pass by, but nothing published on the internet ever disappears, so here we go:

She was a beautiful woman, but quite sick with what was supposed was asthma when I met her.

She did not have the money for doctors, so I began taking her to doctor after doctor to try to get a decent course of treatment for her. We finally found a doctor whom we felt might be the one to help. He started her on an aggressive course of treatment not only for her asthma, but for the Cushing's Syndrome she had developed over the years when, due to lack of money, she had used excessive amounts of prednizone to treat her symptoms.


During the course of this "treatment" she went into a deep crisis from which she never recovered.

I loved her very much. Everyone she knew loved her. She lived in Tepic for six years prior to her death, working as an English teacher in various schools. The last one she worked in was Universidad Viscaya.

I persuaded her to quit working so we could concentrate on improving her health.

Irony at this point ran out into the street and got crushed beneath the wheels of a bus.

She died much as she had lived; gently, slowly, and with little complaint. It is impossible for me, a Canadian, to express the level of sorrow I am feeling at having discovered this great treasure in Mexico, and then to have watched it slip through my fingers due to the years of medical maltreatment she had received from others, inflicted on herself and that I caused through my bungling enthusiasm.

The only consolation I can rescue from this tragic experience is the knowledge that for the seven months that I knew her, she was a happier person, according to her family. This is a very small comfort to me, for having lost a great, too-short love in my misbegotten life.

I shall try to keep in my memory always her optimism, her love of laughter, her gentleness, her keen intelligence, and most especially her love and empathy.

"That time of year thou may'st in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare, ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang......:

...This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well which thou must leave ere long"

Wm. Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXIII

The Old Curmudgeon