Another day, another crisis....

now what? I'm forced to ask myself a million times a month. The washing machine has failed I am informed. Again! Fuck!

Hasn't enough gone wrong yet? Is there a break or is this all there is? No and yes, respectively.

I e-mailed Pedro, who is the only workman I have met in Mexico who has given me an e-mail address. I must commumicate in Spanish, which, after twenty years dealing with this strange tongue is not too difficult, verbally. Typing, makes it a horse (burro?) of a different color. Anyway, it's done. Now I wait. Will Pedro respond? Sometimes yes, when he checks the machine. Other times he is astounded that there was a message left on his machine last week.

Pedro does not appreciate the pressure of deadlines, because, as a Mexican man, he has none. If there is to be a deadline in his world he will be the one who sets it.

How then can such a man, living in such a world, understand that it is already Friday afternoon and washday is early Monday morning? Is this only an Anglo-saxon thing?


Happy Memorial Day weekend to those of you who celebrate such things. I think, in a pueblo nearby, there is a dance tonight in celebration of Our Lady of Fatima. I'll not attend, rather watch the NBA playoffs. If they're televised. And, not pre-empted by Mambo dance contests or beach vollyball.


QUOTE OF THE DAY:


I can win an argument on any topic, against any opponent. People know this, and steer clear of me at parties. Often, as a sign of their great respect, they don't even invite me. - Dave Barry


MEXICO ( as I see it ):

Between traffic lights drivers wrap their engines up tight,
cramming through all four or five gears, as if to deny they will
have to acknowledge the next signal a block away.

Every red light sets the scene for a million emergency stops
each day.

AND

From the slightest high ground one sees the smoky fumes
rising from the city. If we weren't in such civilized times
you'd swear the city and been sacked by marauding hordes and left
to burn.


THE SERIAL: Her viking

We left off here....


Now that the man had a name the Widow Mora felt closer to him. She could think of him as a person, a friend and confidant, without the nagging distress of not being able to place him. In her mind 'the' Viking soon became 'her' Viking.


For years the widow had not taken an interest in her personal appearance. Her days passed routinely. There were no visitors, no highlights, and there seemed no point in spending time making herself presentable. But, since the arrival of her Viking, she had begun to change. While the Widow Mora sat by the sunny bedroom window each morning, waiting to catch a glimpse of him, she toyed with her hair and rubbed her arms and neck with a creamy lotion. Within a few days she had Cee Cee move an old serving cart next to the window and on it she put her manicure kit, combs, brushes and more creams and moisturizers. In another week the little table's bottom shelf contained eye liner, a lash curler, tweezers and different colored pencils. All of these things had been tucked away years ago.

One morning, when her Viking passed by, she noticed that he had a serious look about him and she wondered why. From all appearances he was vigorous and in good health; why then, was his expression so pensive? Was he worried or, perhaps, frightened? Had something awful hapened to him in America or Norway or some other far away place? Could it be that he was sad? Had he suffered some tragedy he was unable to forget?

"Impossible," she said aloud, "Impossible to know any of these things and guessing at them only makes me nervous. If I could just see his eyes then his story would be told. The eyes are always the focus of the human condition. But, how will I ever see his eyes?" Thoughts like these continued to pester the Widow Mora and she was not at all satisfied with the situation.

She must see her Viking up close. It was maddening trying to imagine all the details she, now so desperately, wanted to know. How simple things would become, she thought, if she could just go down and meet him on the beach one morning and invite him up to the house for coffee. She flushed when she realized how brazen she had become in these few short days.

Could the widow send Cee Cee to act as laison? How ridiculous! The poor old thing could never negotiate the steep, rough stone, steps that descended through the jungle growth to the white sand below. Any idea that Cee Cee would be able to return to the house via the same route was beyond insane.

The Widow Mora was about at her wits' end when she remembered the binoculars. Her husband had used them years ago, but, where in the world would they be?

continued...