Happy for now. Somehow the good feeling spikes each time I hear a chop of the machete, eight floors down by the cobblestone street. Seriously, cobblestones. Does anyone around here realize how valuable is the texture of cobblestones set in cement? Even more, the irregular pattern, the patches, the inconsistency of it. How nearly impossible it would be to recreate the depth of experience and history of these Mexican cobblestones. And someone has planted bougainvillea in the hairpin turn down there. The commons works well enough for me in this pinnacle of costly condo development above Puerto Vallarta.
The cathedral bell tolls, like a gong, quickly and frenetically. Not like Italy, any of this, yet so much like. I look forward to Spain–I have no idea how cathedral bells toll in Spain. And just like that we’re out and driving around the Bay of Banderas towards the airport to go home. Am I happy now? It’s so hot and dry and, commercial, out here on the busy highway. I haven’t seen any of the poorer parts of Puerto Vallarta. Our cab driver says he lives out in the country with three horses. I gather he’s fortunate. He speaks calmly and intelligently on a range of topics from the benefits of Spanish to the distance one can see land across the ocean. He delights in counting the horses beside the road and complements my wife on her Spanish. The handmade bracelets and the dolphins are behind us. The frantic cathedral bell. The walks in the morning to get coffee and sweets. The quick debates about where to catch a taxi.
Mexico, I don’t question your charms. What better way to reflect upon them than to next see Spain? Though the idea resonates the moment isn’t happy. Strange, because now I’m back in the Bay area, though I don’t have to work tomorrow I feel frustrated. There is talk about our cute dog, oohing and ahhing at photos of her exploits while we were abroad, the kids bang their water bottles they’ve found in the back of the airport limo, and I have a headache. I feel like everything in the car is happening inside my head as everyone seems to talk at once. Perhaps it’s just me. If I relaxed a little maybe I wouldn’t mind so much? That presupposes I can let go of the pressure I feel to perform so I can travel more. Let go and be happy. Maybe I ate something with gluten earlier. So the headache could be from that. Welcome home!
I remember sitting on a beach at the end of another trip to Mexico, also Puerto Vallarta. I’d been traveling that Winter, first to Hawaii, then Mexico. As we prepared to return home, with our two very young children, I sat with my youngest on the beach while she played on the sand and I watched the sunset from a beach chair next to her. I said to myself “We’ll come back as often as we like.” Then life whisked me away, back to California. And the kids grew up. I won’t say we came back As Often As I Liked, but I eventually got to plan a train trip with my daughter and read Calvin and Hobbes to her. Years later I did get to walk down to a restaurant on the beach at Old Town with my son and write while he played on his computer. From the restaurant I could just about see the Melia, up the bay, where I’d sat most of a decade earlier watching the sunset while my infant daughter played in the sand. And the decade hadn’t been all bad. And I could have told myself again that I could come back as often as I’d like. But I didn’t. And my son is two-thirds of his way to eighteen, and in ten years these childhoods will be gone.