Cruise Ships and a Settled LIfe

I watched one of the gigantic cruise ships that arrive in Vallarta as it made its way into port early this morning. As it came near to the shore it moved along parallel to the developments on the northern side of the bay. Because it was barely dawn the brightness of its lights made each manoeuvre clear against the shore and the sky behind. A tiny boat (from my perspective) raced out to meet it, delivering the mandatory local pilot to assist in guiding the ship into harbour. Its duty accomplished, the pilot boat turned and headed back into port, followed slowly by the giant in its wake. Slipping into the marina area, the ship turned on its axis toward the north, soon exhibiting only its well-lit stern. As the forward portions of its body disappeared into the surrounding trees, the process resembled the slow ingestion of an animal by an enormous boa constrictor. Finally all that could be seen was the top-most portion of the ship’s superstructure, still brightly lit against the lightening sky. Within moments even that was gone as the creature settled into its berth to rest for a day. Soon its belly will open and hundreds of its denizens will be disgorged into the town to sample the local pleasures.

Living in Puerto Vallarta is a far different experience than visiting here. If you come for a week or two or three, you are assailed by its beauty, by the contrast to the weather that you have left behind, by the excitement and fun to be had, and by the depth of relaxation that is available under the warm and sleepy sun. Being here for a longer term, especially being here in a self-contained apartment in the old town rather than in an all-inclusive room out in the hotel zone, is entirely another experience. This is the ninth time that Mark and I have stayed in Puerto Vallarta. The range of visit periods and places stayed is wide.

Our briefest stay was two nights: we were on a Gap Adventures tour of colonial Mexico, visiting Mexico City, Taxco, Acapulco, Vallarta, Guadalahara, Guanajuato, and back to Mexico City. We had a room at the nearby Posada de Rogers, a small hotel facing onto Badillo. We have come for quicky all-inclusive weeks at the Costa Club, the Holiday Inn, and the Hacienda Hotel. And, we have rented apartments at the Encino Hotel right on the Cuale river; at a place high up off Jacaranda St; another place a block up a steep hill right by the main strip of Olas Altas; another at the upper end of Olas Altas; and, one other further up the Cuale, a lovely apartment but further from the ocean than we wanted. Our stay at these places has varied from ten days to a month.

Last year though we were in Vallarta for two months we were unable to secure our first apartment for the second month, which necessitated a move half way through our visit to a new location, giving us a new set of conditions to become accommodated to. While here, we looked for and found an apartment for this year where we could be at the ocean, in the old town, and with secure tenure. We have been here for almost two months and have another yet to go. Being here so steadily is an experience that I have not enjoyed for a very long time. Mark and I purchased our cottage in Orillia just over 15 years ago. Since, we have led a split existence: Monday morning to Thursday evening in Toronto; Thursday evening to Monday morning in Orillia: moving house twice every week. For the past year I have been hoping to bring this situation to an end. Both the Toronto house and the condo in Orillia have been on the market for a very long time. Neither was an easy sell, each because of its own peculiarities. Prospective buyers loved each of these when they came to see them, but for various reasons they would not work for them. My desire has been to sell both and to move back down to what I consider my neighbourhood – the Bloor/Annex area.

Happily the house in Toronto has sold (hallelujah!) and the condo is now rented. Our peripatetic life is coming to an end. When we return to Toronto we will have a couple of weeks to prepare for our move to Major St, where we will settle in for an uninterrupted existence such as we have here. Well, not exactly as we have here. But Toronto, and especially my Annex neighbourhood Toronto, contains many joys and pleasures that I look forward to immensely. It won’t be a perch at the edge of the wild Pacific but it promises a happiness particularly its own. I won’t at all mind the new style of moving home that I plan for at least the next few years: Toronto for spring, summer, and fall; Vallarta for the winter. What joy!

The Bay and the Book

Lots of wild life action in the bay this morning. I love to watch the pelicans skimming over the water checking out their chances of snagging some breakfast. Sometimes they fish alone, sometimes in concert: a line in formation holding steady with barely a movement of their wings as they glide over the rolling surf. Close to the shore a school of dolphins flash their fins as they move about within the same perimeter. Frigates float far above in circles, seemingly unconcerned about the quest for food of the creatures below. What they live on remains a mystery to us. There are several pigeons that strut along the grill-work of our balcony, cooing, mating, repelling interlopers, preening themselves, and puffing out their chests importantly.

I’ve been reading a great deal this week: two books by Larry McMurtry and two by Michael Dibdin. The latter is the author of the Aurelio Zen books, some of which were made into a TV series starring Rufus Sewell. Zen is a Venetian-born cop living in Rome who somehow is able to cut through a lot of the BS, corruption, and cronyism of his police force to bring resolution to difficult cases. His abilities can get him in trouble, of course, with various powers that aren’t necessarily keen to have certain facts hit the light of day. Zen lives with his mama, is estranged from his wife, and falls in love with beautiful women. He’s smart and he’s human, and especially played by Rufus Sewell, he’s attractive. Dibdin writes well; the various levels of politics and vice are interesting to see played out in a quite sophisticated Roman setting.

Reading McMurtry is to travel into a vastly different space. It all Tex/Mex: the border and all that that entails. I read first The Last Picture Show, of happy movie memory. Small town Texas in the 1950s: not a space with many options. Next: The Streets of Laredo: the old west as it’s beginning to “civilize.” He weaves real-life characters like Roy Bean, the hanging judge into his narrative and writes in a consistently minor key, appropriately picking up the brutality underlying much of the relations among all groups vying for life on the border: Mexicans, Indians, cow herders, settler farmers, and town folks. His work reminds me of that of Cormac McCarthy though I think that McMurtry digs deeper into the sinews of human relationships than does McCarthy.

It’s a wonderful luxury to have plenty of time to read. I count myself as one of the more fortunate of life’s creatures.

Mark Twain and Me

Around the corner from us is a business of whose offices we have made considerable use lately. There we have been able to print various forms to be signed, scanned, and forwarded to Toronto to promote our real estate capers. A few days ago I noticed that just inside their door they have several shelves of used books which are offered strictly on a bring one, take one, basis. Always looking to accumulate new books of interest, I made a special visit armed with three of my own. I picked out a two volume set of James Clavell’s Noble House, a tome I had read many years ago, but which seemed a likely holiday read, and, the autobiography of Mark Twain. I began with the Clavell book which, set in the post-war era in Hong Kong, had its historical merits. Alas, soon I found myself allergic to insipient mildew which had found its way into the pages, and had to give it up. I turned to see what Mr Twain had to say for himself and was delighted with his explanation of the method he used to write about his life.

As he grew older Mark Twain began seriously to range over and consider an exposition of what his life had been about. He made a variety of attempts to realize this project but would invariably give up after little time had passed. He began to recognize that the block that he hit each time was boredom. He was trying too hard and was being too linear. He saw that in fact over the years he had written various pieces about his life, but only as they had occurred to him for some particular reason. He was only able to write in a fashion agreeable and interesting to himself if the topic came to him, as it were, tangentially, rather than in some predetermined manner. Hitting upon this notion, he was then able to write, or more often dictate, stories about his history and experiences, that then formed the web of what came to be known as his autobiography. He was clear that these materials, specifically collated as “biography,” were not to be published during his lifetime. The version that I have acquired is the third attempt made (by different editors) to pull all of these disparate pieces into a comprehensive whole.

I was delighted with his explanation of his method as I recognized something of my own within it. Let me soothe you now by immediately declaring that I have no fantasy that a day will come when scholars will pour over my various oeuvres to tease out the threads and meanings of my life and times. No. However, the autobiographical impulse has been with me since I was quite young. In the Christmas break from my first year of university at Ottawa U, I was moved by the great books to which we had been introduced in our English course to begin to think of writing. And what did I know anything about? At twenty-three not much. But then there was my life to date. Of course such a project entailed writing about my family relations. Within a page or two I found myself delving into places that I would have to either whitewash or omit, leaving the story entirely pallid, or, I would perforce be exploring issues that perhaps were not “suitable” for a young religious sister, newly taken with vows. And so ended my early autobiographical career.

During my 17-year stint within the Therafields community I was wary of delving too close to my true thoughts and feelings, not especially of my past but more of the often strange and confusing present that I was living. Too much reality, T.S. Eliot reminded us, is difficult for humankind to handle. The corollary: too much truth could have its own dire consequences, as some of us were to discover. And so, better to keep that at a distance, even from oneself. In the early 1970s when the various publications were popping up within the community, writing was encouraged. When I would put pen to paper, however, I ran into blocks of the same nature that I had felt as a young nun. I could write a piece that would be acceptable to the editors but I knew that it would be all lies. Every sentence that would seem like a declaration of sorts would reverberate within me with all of its unspoken nuances of doubts and angers which I could never articulate without fear of confrontation, that terrible word de jour. And so I wrote nothing, not even to myself, and existed in a mental state of confused contradiction, viewed as not a particularly serious or interesting person.

In the early 1980s as I climbed out of that particular morass, I kept journals. Journal writing has a wonderfully freeing effect as one writes only for oneself. Dear Diary, one says. I will love you and tell you everything, all of the secret impulses of my heart and soul, the lovely and the nasty. I trust that you will keep all of this to yourself, because it is precisely that condition that allows me to tell you all. That and the fact that you/I are now secure enough to look at and feel pretty much everything that has been and that is now without condemnation or everlasting shame. It is a launch into that space that Socrates enjoined upon us: the examined life.

I have never been drawn to the writing of stories though I enjoy and learn much from them. Always my own writing circles about some aspect of my own interests or experiences. Several years ago Mark and I spent the Christmas breaks two years running in Guanajuato, a lovely city in the central mountains north of Mexico City. On both occasions I became entirely focused on writing out my memories of particular periods of my life. The first year I wrote a fifty page piece that I entitled, “My Own Personal Therafields.” In it I chronicled my history of entering, being with, and leaving that great experiment of a former era. The second winter I reviewed the history of my four year engagement with the Religious Hospitaliers of St Joseph, the order with which I spent my novitiate and a period of temporary vows.

I have always kept a journal during times of travel and have conserved these volumes along with an enormous bag of undigested photographs that may never find their way into order. In the past few years I have discovered the glories of the blog. This format has given me a space in which to write about either travels or about particular themes or issues that I am pursuing, with the added bonus of periodic feedback from others who read what I have to say out of interest or simple friendship. Within that genre I have written about my travels in Europe with my granddaughter, Emily; Mark’s and my time in Rome, Florence, Cairo, and along the Nile; some thoughts I have had about being a psychotherapist; my lengthy look at some aspects of the history of Therafields; last fall’s trip to Eastern Europe to visit and reflect upon sites of Nazi atrocities; and more recently, this particular blog which has no over-arching theme or purpose, other than to be a journal of happenings and musings as Mark and I spend three months of this arctic-like Toronto winter in the lap of warmth and beauty in Puerto Vallarta.

Seeing what Mr Twain had to say about writing his autobiography, I had the happy realization that I have been writing my own for quite some time. Bits and pieces, it is true, but nonetheless an ever-expanding whole that in some fashion reflects who I am and what my life has been about (to date, I hasten to add). My parents were reluctant to talk about themselves and their lives or about the histories of their families. As a result I know only the slices of themselves that they exposed publically or more privately within in our on-going family drama. Dad’s father, Charley Doyle was more forthcoming – telling me what he knew about the family’s origin and giving me a few stories of his own. I only wish now that I had spent more time with him collecting and recording his stories and encouraging him to tell more. If my own grandchildren when they are as ancient of days as I am now myself ever wonder about how my life was lived, they will have some sources to which to refer. That may never come to pass but nevertheless I enjoy and have enjoyed the processes of remembering and of musing about all the various strands and threads that find their ways into my mind.

Back to a More Restful State

All is once again at peace on the Pacific coast. I can sit on my early-morning balcony and range without inner turmoil back and forth from the distant past, the lovely present, and the relatively immediate future – ie, the next few months. This week we struggled alone and together: with our real estate agent, with the buyers of 2B Croydon Rd, with their lawyer, and with the home inspector, to flesh out a final decision regarding the exchange of funds for that property. There were problems related to the city’s possible claim to the front section of the lot and with some work not done entirely as ordered by our construction team. Oh the vagaries of property development! But happily, never again. As Dorothy Turner wisely said to us a couple of years ago, we’re getting too old for this kind of gig. As of yesterday afternoon all has been settled. The deal will close on March 21 and we will be moving shortly before that date.

Looking at available rental spots in the Annex area, of which there are few at the moment, Mark and I clearly had diverse ideas about where to go next. He was looking forward to a nicely put together building with an elevator and underground parking. For my part, location was of the essence. And optimum location for me was without doubt as close to Bloor St between Spadina and Bathurst as possible! These are pretty strict parameters but they were satisfied when I came across the second and third floor apartment at 278 Major St. Sight unseen I loved and craved it. My friend Roz and her sister went to look at it for me and pronounced it a very good place with a couple of caveats: no washroom on the third floor loft/master bedroom, and, relatively steep stairs leading to same. No matter, I wanted it. If you wish to see it for yourself you can look (for the next few days only) on mls.ca at the number C2770670.

So part of this week’s struggles were between Mark and me as I moved forward to secure Major St. and he looked again and again on line to find something else that could suit us both. He wasn’t able to come across anything that I hadn’t looked into, however. There were places available on main streets (too much traffic) or in basements (not on your life) or too close to Dupont (been there, done that) or in high rise, rental apartments over by Avenue Road. I considered briefly going along with the latter just to have peace but it felt depressing to me – hard to explain. I think that in the next couple of years it is likely that we will buy another place in the area, possibly a condo (despite the terrible maintenance fees). In that case we will have a lot more choice, and we will have options to fix up the place to suit ourselves.

Our “struggle” over this immediate plan wasn’t fraught with overt fighting; twice we had “WORDS” about it; mainly we both just kept on with our own desire and direction until it became clear that my feelings about this issue were the stronger. That is usually the deciding factor in issues that arise between us. OK, no elevator – but our legs can still handle a few steps (we climb up to the 9^th floor via the stairs most mornings after our malecon walk); OK, no street parking – but we won’t be there during the winter when parking problems mostly occur. BUT: we will have a lovely, unusual space with our own deck at the back, with balconies in the front, a huge bedroom, a fabulous location with close-by grocery stores, book stores, Shoppers Drug store, banks, restaurants, subways in both directions, the Bloor Hot Docs Cinema, AND, an on-site washer/dryer – not to be had in a rental building! Such all-around happiness! Yesterday Mark acceded to my wishes with little fanfare, acknowledging that it will work and we will be fine. We are now considering furniture needs and arrangements.

After all the sturm und drang of the week, we sat at the edge of the beach last night watching the most beautiful sunset since our arrival. A couple of guys cavorted in the enormous waves in their t-shirts and shorts, having a hilarious time being battered almost senseless. A sail boat moved against the glow of the setting sun. We had a drink, took some photos (which I will post on www.puertovallartaphotos.blogspot.com soon), and relaxed in the glow of house sold and future residence solved. Back to the ease and joy of living in this particular piece of paradise. 

I am posting tonight earlier pictures taken of the malecon in the late afternoon.

Remembrance of Times Past

On the Easter weekend of 1967 five members of the third floor, 32 Admiral Rd house group took a quickie get-away break to Chicago. Mike M, Don D, Joe B, Allison P, and I left early on Friday morning in Joe’s enormous GM car. Those of you who were around in those days will know of whom I speak. It was several months before the purchase of a farm north of Mono Mills which would come to be called Therafields, shortly to extend its name to the whole of the Lea Hindley-Smith’s burgeoning therapy practice. It was spring. We were keen for an adventure, albeit a modest one. I was very excited to be accompanying this crowd, all of whom were senior to me in age as well as in therapeutic experience: only Joe and I were not in one of Lea’s learning groups. Looking back on the journey I feel such fond amusement toward all of us.

We drove to Detroit on the first day. I had never been west of Toronto and other than Niagara Falls, NY as a kid, had little experience of the USA. I was shocked to see the area of Detroit that we found ourselves in as we searched out Mike M’s apartment to spend the night. Mike taught at a school in Detroit but commuted to Toronto on weekends to have sessions with Lea and to stay with our group as what was then termed an “outrider.” He had offered to put us up on our way through. We arrived at dusk; the streets seemed dark and dingy, scarcely peopled, and dotted by bars and other significantly down-at-the-heels establishments. The contrast with Toronto was striking. We stopped briefly at a downtown department store in what seemed to be a predominantly black neighbourhood. As we left I headed down its broad staircase. Coming toward me up the stairs was a middle-aged black man who looked intently at me with what I would have to term true hatred. With complete naivety we, at least I, had stumbled into one of the truly hot spots in what was to become a summer of riots.

At Mike’s apartment, finally located, we were welcomed generously. Allison and I were given his bed. The four men arranged themselves in some fashion to sleep in the living room. Before we settled for the night, however, Mike told us about a woman he had been seeing in Detroit. He spoke about how very good she was to him. To make his point he led everyone into his kitchen to display her Christmas gift. Reaching into an upper cupboard, he took down an unopened bottle of Scotch. His features were aglow as he displayed the trophy. My gentlemen companions, all of whom enjoyed a tipple, contemplated the bottle with happiness as their day had not yet led to that particular oasis. Still smiling in his remembrance of the lady’s fond gift to him, Mike turned, replaced the bottle, and closed the cupboard. Not a word was spoken. He clearly had no conception of the hope that he had awakened and then crushed in the bosoms of his houseguests and they, for their part would never have considered telling him. We went to bed.

The next day it was all I-94, Chicago-bound, in Joe’s car that seemed to keep pace with our eagerness to move along. It easily took 80 mph and even 90 mph without shudder or recrimination. We took turns driving. I adored it: the open road, the power of the car, and Chicago coming up – a city that had fascinated me since my grade 11 reading of Ginsberg’s fabulous poem. Reaching there we sought a place to stay – one night only. Our budget was miniscule and our tactics for saving worthy of Depression days. Allison and I engaged a motel room that boasted two queen-sized beds. Later in the evening when we were ready to retire the three fellows climbed the back stairs of the establishment to join us in our room. Allison and I slept modestly in one bed; Mike and Joe in the second; and, Don, with his head wrapped in a scarf, as I recall to ward off the effects of the air conditioning, slept on the floor.

For much of Saturday we wandered about Chicago’s inner-city squares and its waterfront. It was big, expansive, and quite beautiful. I liked it very much. But the whole point of my pondering and writing about this little episode that occurred these 47 (imagine!) years ago has to do with a brief conversation that I had with Don while enjoying the sun during one of our rambles. He had been struggling with depression through much of the winter – though I don’t think we expressly would have labelled it as such. At any rate he had been unhappy and oppressed in some fashion that he had been unable to shake. He confided to me that he had had the idea that by getting away on this little holiday that he would be able to leave that painful feeling behind and was finding this not to be the case. I said to him, “But, Don, you can’t take a holiday from yourself.” He looked at me as if I had spoken the wisdom of the ages, acknowledging the truth that I had spoken. I was rather surprised myself – that I had come forth with this statement and that he was so moved by it.

And now I find myself living with this same reality. I am here and now in a true paradise and still continue to live with the whole of who I am, my own propensities, my foibles, my connections with Toronto and its people who are important to me, with the difficulties of making decisions that will have ramifications not just for me but for others for whom I care. Life in its many dimensions impacting at all moments, all of the time. And that’s just how it is.

I feel so much affection for all of us funny people who took that trip so long ago. We are scattered across the map of Canada now: Mike in BC, Allison in Nova Scotia, Don at last hearing in Alberta, Joe, I would suspect no longer with us as he was in his early 50s in 1967, and me, still in Toronto, now Puerto Vallarta, and for the future, other ports still undefined.

A Word About Noise

Lots of action at the airport already this morning, though it isn’t yet 6:30. I’ve watched one airplane leave eastbound and three others describing their wide arc around the bay before settling behind the bank of hotels across the way. People coming and people going. And the beat goes on. The malecon is quieter now that the holidays have passed and the large condo building north of us no longer sports youngsters screaming their pleasure in the ground level pool. Why it made napping near impossible of an afternoon! Our days pass on in their lovely regularity as some of the intense real estate action has subsided. Mark is busier than I as he fields questions, draws up site plans, or redrafts heritage reports for his Toronto/Markham/Brampton clients. I have a few sessions by Skype, though not as many as last year as my practice atrophies through attrition.

Mark’s good buddy, Phil, and his wife Sue arrived a couple of days ago for some R&R. They have taken a condo on Jacaranda Avendida about a half a kilometre from our place. It is up one of the steep hills close to an apartment that we rented three years ago for ten days in March. That Christmas we had gone to Rome and then to Cairo and the Nile but didn’t want to entirely miss out on Vallarta. It was an interesting place: spacious, airy, inexpensive, rather Spartan in its accoutrements, a challenging climb back from the lower town, and, blessed with a fair amount of traffic noise from the close-by tunnel route.

In Vallarta noise is always an issue. I can’t think of any of the eleven places where we have stayed over the years that was a universal oasis of quiet. I guess that generally the hotels were the best for noise control, especially at night. During the day the usual kids-in-the-pool sound would ricochet about the courtyard. Staying at an apartment in the town leaves one subject to a variety of interruptions day and night: territorial dogs; men trolling the streets with voices that would lead to the stage in Italy, calling out their wares – in the main “pan” (bread) or “agua” (water in multi-gallon jugs); all night partiers making their boozy way home and continuing their fun en route; roosters that note the rising sun anytime after 4 AM; enormous air conditioning units of small hotels belching and snoring close to your window; and, our most recent offender: a nearby club whose shows are scheduled for 12:30 AM and 3 AM! The insistent sound of electric bass overrides even the pounding surf. In the night it awakens one, engaging the heart and demanding a pulse equal to its own.

I mentioned the noise factor once to an agent with whom we were discussing a future rental. He just smiled tolerantly. Vallarta is a place where people come to party, he said. There just is going to be noise. He is oh, so right. The challenge is: how to deal with it. Here at Vista Del Sol we have found our accommodation. We shut down everything at bed time and put on the ceiling fan. Voila. Do these considerations seem to you petty beyond belief given the luxury of living in a winter-free paradise? You are right, of course, but it’s a bummer to face the glories of the day with eyes like slits and bags to your jowls after a night of turning and tossing! No matter. Enough said.

Check out photos of the malecon and of the soon-to-our-own condo here at Vista Del Sol at www.puertovallartaphotos.blogspot.com. 

All About Real Estate

A few minutes ago I watched the first flight of the day leave the aeroporto across the bay as it climbed above the string of lights along the zona hoteles. (You will have to pardon my dropping the odd local Spanish term into the written word; these words drip inevitably into one’s speech the longer one lives with them; and, this is the way all languages gradually shift and develop; interesting to observe it happening within oneself and one’s partner!) But I digress. It’s shortly after 7 AM here; that would be shortly after 8 Toronto time. It’s Sunday, however, so not too likely that many of you will be up and at your day by now. Watching the planes leave, Mark and I often have a sense of sorrow on behalf of those on-board, leaving their holiday and heading back to the great white frozen north.

Things are, that is to say, I am calmer now than when I sent my last post your way. Our buyers have accepted the counter-offer that Mark pushed for (I would have taken their initial proposal) and baring any difficulties re their getting financing (not likely) all conditions should be satisfied by this coming Friday. I’ve been assiduously trolling the net for rental places in the Annex. There are lots of apartments in high rises; on streets with lots of traffic; a few in houses without a great deal of light available. We have narrowed the offerings to three possibilities: 1) (my favourite) the second and third floors of a house on Major about a block south of Bloor: excellent location, at tree level, a large living room and loft bedroom, and walk-outs to balconies at the front and to a deck at the back. 2) (clearly Mark’s choice) a 9^th floor condo at the corner of St George and Lowther: architecturally interesting older building, floor-to-ceiling glass windows, on the south-west corner so not facing either street, views over the city, an elevator, underground parking, and a block from the subway. 3) (the favourite of neither of us but a possibility) the ground floor apartment in a Victorian house on Lowther close to Avenue Road: good location though not as good as the other two; only one bathroom; probably no parking. Actually I guess we can scrap this one.

We don’t look like ideal tenants for any of these places as we aren’t moving until about the middle of March and obviously any sensible landlord wants one to move in immediately or sooner. I have contacted the agents advertising each spot to see if we could tie up one of them. Each has promised to ask the owners if they would be willing; so far, no response. Something will happen and we’ll get a place, but I am hoping for Major St.

In the meantime it’s Puerto Vallarta all the way. I don’t think that I have mentioned in these pages that Mark and I are buying a condo in the building where we are currently renting. Lots of you know about it though, so you can tune out right about now. For the first few days of our stay here we couldn’t get the internet to work in our apartment, though it was fine in the lobby. Up and down we would go during the day to check emails, until the resident techie guy sold us our very own modem and brought us up to speed. While working my way through my vast (ahem) correspondence one morning, I paused to chat with a lady who was tidying up the leftovers from a sale held of donated goods. This event occurs yearly to buy Christmas presents for the employees’ kids. She volunteered the information that she had lived in the building for 17 years but was planning to move to Palm Springs to be near her daughter and grandchildren – and that she wanted to sell her unit.

Now these were words that flew directly to my heart as I was in the first throes of puppy love with not just Vallarta (a constant) but with this building as well. I told her that Mark and I had thought from time to time of buying a place here though our capital was currently tied up in our places at home. I suggested that perhaps we could come and see her place anyway. Certainly, she said, come anytime this afternoon as I am leaving tomorrow. We came; we saw; it conquered. The lady, Susanne, was most accommodating: she could be very flexible with us about terms as we continued to try to sell either Orillia or Croydon Rd. Her price was good, her unit lovely, and we went for it. Mark, such a good lad, said that he would not have sprung on it given our current financial encumbrances, but he thought we could handle it, AND, he knew it would make me happy. He was oh, so right.

So we tell Susanne we are interested. She leaves town and her buddy, Mercedes, comes on the scene. Mercedes is another long-time Vallarta resident, currently living in an almost entirely open air house that she built along the highway near Misaloya (about 20Km from here). Mercedes is fluent in Spanish, has had lots of real estate dealings here over the years, has an ace lawyer, Oscar, and, has been give power of attorney by Susanne. Mercedes comes to see us and proceeds to mediate, via emails, an offer for the unit that works for both parties. The deal: we make a small deposit now and another one on April 1/14. We take possession on July 1/14. If by then we do not have the necessary at hand, we enter into a “land-contract” with Susanne, whereby we pay her so much per month on what is essentially a mortgage that she has taken back at 3% annual interest. By the end of 2014 if we still do not have the jack, the land contract can be renegotiated.

We went with Mercedes to Oscar’s office. He speaks no English but is an affable fellow and clearly a friend of Mercedes. She interprets. She also is engaged by him to translate the contract documents into English for our perusal. Susanne, who is in her early 80s and not in very good health is currently sharing facilities with her daughter in Palm Springs and apparently the arrangement is not working out too well. Irritations on both sides. She is keen to get cash from us more quickly as she wishes to rent a place of her own. Understandable. Now that Mercedes knows that we are in the way of a sale in Toronto, she is making noises about throwing something Susanne’s way. We probably will do something for her though the money will come from our line of credit in the short term. Sometime this week we will accompany Mercedes back to Oscar’s office for the actual signing of documents regarding the sale. There will be happiness on all sides when it becomes clear that we will be able to purchase unit 804 of the Vista Del Sol outright on July 1.

Though we have had many different versions of the weather here during the summer (mainly hot, humid, with rainy nights), our current plan is to come back here on July 1 to take possession, arrange bank accounts and so on, the steps befitting resident landowners/cliff-dwellers. We will find out for ourselves the horrors or the pleasures of summertime a la Vallarta. We might bring the three grandkids with: they will spend the days in the pool or in the ocean out front.

So enough of the real estate report already! It’s a gorgeous day and I’m reading an excellent book by Canadian Guy Vanderhaeghe called A Good Man. He seems to dwell in the late 19^th century in his novels and he uses somewhat arcane (like that) words that tickle the linguistic palate. All the best.

PS. I've just started another blog at www.puertovallartaphotos.blogspot.com to post some of our pictures.

Both Moving and Being Here

I’ve been seriously distracted from the beauties around me for the past couple of days as we have received an offer on our house on Croydon Rd. This is an event for which I have been hoping and longing, lo these many months. Initial reaction: fantastic, excellent, and hooray! Soon afterward: so many various complications re price, date of closing, this and that stipulation and requirement. OMG: will it all come to pass? Don’t get agitated: be cool, be cool, and let the process take its path. Even now as I write, it goes on about me and in the ether between here and Toronto: emails, documents, conference calls, signings and scannings, real estate agent (one), and lawyers.

The second distraction follows from the first: where shall we live? Kijiji, Craigslist, mls.ca. To rent or to buy? What is available? If we rent, are the owners willing to hold until the middle of March? Two weeks from when we arrive in Toronto until moving!! What to do with all that stuff? So much to consider, and all from a distance of a few thousand miles. So very distracting but so very exciting at the same time. It will be wonderful to get all of this settled and to be able to slide back into my current primary occupation of enjoying Vallarta.

On another note: my husband is much more of a gourmand than I. I have my favourites but my tastes don’t tend to stray, as do his, far afield from the basic Ontario-raised diet of meat, fish, potatoes, and veggies. I have come to enjoy sushi, Italian cuisine, and the odd fajita; Mark, on the other hand, enjoys nothing more than to sample all of the foods of any land wherein we travel – and Mexican food is one of his favourites. When we eat out here in Vallarta, as we often do, we are perforce confronted with compromise. It looks something like this: I don’t care too much where we eat so long as it is on the beach, is not desperately expensive, and, I can get something approximating my regular diet. Mark doesn’t care whether or not the place is on the beach; he doesn’t mind if it’s expensive; and, the more exotic its offerings, the better.

We ate last night at a modest little place literally right on the beach. Our white plastic table and chairs rested on the sand about thirty or forty feet from the surf. There are restaurants of various degrees of hauteur strung along the length of the malecon. Those directly on the beach are huddled at the extreme northern and southern ends, however. The southern ones tend to be either plebeian: lots of beer and rollicking good music and fun, or, of a more fine dining nature. The food is pretty good and the ambiance is lovely, but unfortunately the experience is continually interrupted by roving bands of mariachi musicians keen to play a romantic piece for you, by little kids and their moms with boxes of gum, and, by ladies or gentlemen laden with clothing, or blankets, or silver, all wanting your attention and custom. Sometimes the waiter is keen to practice his English with you or to let you know of the various tours that he can set up for you, or even, give you a chance to hear about a great new time-share offer! One begins to feel a little callous after saying, “No, gratias,” so many times.

At the extreme northern end there are only two restaurants on the beach. Neither looks especially promising, BUT, they share both the beach itself AND a fair amount of isolation from the traffic in commerce located to the south. This is the spot where the boats that are used for fishing come to rest at the end of the day. A bevy of young lads – anywhere from ten to fifteen – can be found playing soccer at the edge of the water as the day dwindles and the light begins to fail. From our table we can watch kids playing in the water, the soccer pandemonium, a couple of local feral cats disporting themselves in the sand, AND, most brilliantly, the sun as it sets over the Pacific, lighting the overhead cloud formations in shades of light pink, gradually melding into deeper and deeper stripes of rustic gold. It’s a place of deep beauty and pleasure. And, the food wasn’t at all bad. We shall return.

Reading and Remembering

I feel moved to interrupt the regular course of events this morning to put fingers to keyboard. We have had our walk on the malecon and soon I will resume my pattern of going up to the roof for a swim. In the meantime I want to send serious condolences to all of you up north, many of whom have been sending me reports of unparalleled cold, ice, and snow. I feel here somewhat as I did the first time I visited Vancouver: all I could think of was, “Why isn’t everyone living here?” I know that I am amazingly fortunate to be in Vallarta, not just because of missing the difficult winter, but because it is in itself such a place of beauty and delight.

Last night I took several books around the corner to A Page in the Sun, a local cafe and used book store. Gaby, the owner, is Mexican; her husband is French-Canadian. They have lived in Canada at times and he continues to go there to work during the summers. Gaby accepts used books for her shelves in return for credit on others. I have picked up a couple of her books since we arrived; last night I purchased a large volume of the collected stories of Frank O’Connor. Wow! He packs a tremendous Irish punch. I am five generations removed from the old sod on my father’s side, though there is also a great deal of Celt in my mother’s Scottish background. Every now and then I come across a film or a story that sets that heritage alight within me in ways that probably would mean little to my children, and even less to my grandchildren whose polyglot backgrounds set within a “multicultural” and secular Toronto bear little reference to the “olden times.” The BBC series ‘The Irish RM’ did that for me as did the books upon which they were based. James Joyce Dubliner stories, and powerfully the film by John Hughes’ son of the last story of that collection, “The Dead,” completely wowed me and put me in touch with some sense of the society that my great-great-grandparents, Martin and Mary Doyle left when they immigrated from Wexford County, Ireland to Perth, Ontario in 1826.

In the second story that I read last night a shanty-Irish lady is telling the narrator about the tragedy of her only son’s mental illness. The patois, the lyricism of her words is faithful to the Irish-English of her era and social location. Two words were used by her that I recall from my childhood: fornenst and whisht. I suspect that they were more commonly used at my maternal grandparents’ farm or by my mother when in a particular mood. Fornenst was used in the following context: “I can’t find my book.” “It’s right fornenst ya.” Whisht (pronounced Whee-shu-st) was a command to be quiet, to shut up. My grandfather John Alexander Craig who religiously followed the politics of the day would adamantly rap out this word when his hourly news came on the radio. And we would obey!

As I read that story and another this morning I was filled with a sense of my father as I had known him when I was very young, in my first few year of life, some delicious, lovingness about him. He was my daddy and I loved him passionately. I remembered how later in his life he would speak of his own father, Charley Doyle, whom he always called Charley. “Ah, Charley would love that,” he would say, or, “I wish that Charley could see this.” He spoke of him with such love, such fondness. Though my father and I had many difficult times over the years and only on one occasion were we able to speak some painful truth to one another, I think that on another level I knew and valued something about him that I connect with in these spaces created by the stories of Joyce or Frank O’Connor. It makes me ever so happy.

I plan to launch another blog on which to post my pictures as like with the Holocaust blog, I find it difficult to manage the photos with the written word

Visiting Sayulita

For several days last week we had stormy weather over night and during the day periodic rain showers. It was exclaimed everywhere – so unusual for December! – but last December there were similar periods. The new weather encroaches even in Paradise! The rain slowed little activity down, however, as the weather was still warm, the rain for the most part light and alternated with patches of sun. In the midst of this period we embarked upon a little adventure: renting a Jeep and going over to Sayulita. The rental office is half a block from our condo; there, Mark spent close to a half hour going over the terms of the contract with the owner, inspecting the Jeep itself, and waiting while various wiper blades were attached to the functional arms, in an attempt to find one which would fit. Next, along Badillo St. on its cobblestone road together with tight, fast-paced morning traffic; out through the tunnel road leading to Pitillal (a Vallarta suburb,) curving along the path to join the main highway route through the hotel zone, past the marina and Walmart, the airport, Nuevo Vallarta, and to our first stop: the Mega on Highway 200. Mega is a chain of stores rather like Walmart. This particular one, out in the boonies but close to Nuevo Vallarta, a seriously up-scale and fairly gated development, sells all varieties of consumer goods of an excellent nature: wine, cheese, chocolate, from all over the world, fresh produce -- whatever you want, it’s there. A walk through consumer paradise. In fact we stopped only to pick up some ibuprofen to stanch my beginning headache brought on from riding the cobblestones. In the event, I purchased a large chocolate and coffee gelato cone which somehow rendered the medication unnecessary.

Back onto the highway: past Bucerias, another small town on the beach which has managed to spread out along the highway for miles in the form of businesses of every nature. Not too far beyond, the highway narrows from four to two lanes. It is the main route from Vallarta to Tepic and then to Guadalajara so is quite busy. It is a winding road over hills and through magnificent jungle topography. Flora of every kind is blanketed with dense ivy – scenes of intense beauty. The pleasure to be enjoyed in this drive is greatly limited, however, by the speed of and close contact with immense buses and transport trucks coming in the opposite direction, perilously close as we manoeuvre around tight corners. Along the route are little shrines commemorating those who died at that particular spot. A reminder and a warning.

But then we have arrived. The simplest way to come to Sayulita clearly is by the public bus: it costs 25 pesos – a little over $2 Canadian; you can sit back in your seat and trust to the experienced driver to get you there; and, you are not able to see the on-coming traffic that might be on a course to do you in! The bus drops its passengers at the edge of the small village proper. Immediately beyond lie the streets that lead to the beach. Each is lined with restaurants, hotels, hostels, art shops, tattoo parlours, massage kiosks: all painted in bright pastels of red, orange, green, blue, and purple. The Christmas-New Year’s weekend was possibly one of the busiest of the year and the pavements and cobblestone roads were crowded with tourists and locals. We drove some distance around the neighbourhood before finding a place to park close to its entrance.

Down at the beach we joined hundreds of others ignoring the periodic showers, gathered under large umbrellas on beach chairs provided by the open-air restaurants that line the long arc described by the sand and the ocean. We were welcomed by a waiter who brought us to reclining lawn chairs under our own umbrella and provided us with a menu for lunch. Because of the intermittent rain, chairs and umbrellas were drawn together closely. This made for a cosy atmosphere but a sizable intrusion of chatter. Much was blanketed, however, by the groups of 5-8 young people who roamed the beach playing music – mainly percussion – as well as singing, dancing, and even performing acrobatic feats. At the end of a set one of their number would comb through the rows of beached tourists, soliciting recompense. In spite of all the action around us, Mark and I both fell asleep for some time after our lunches. Most delicious.   

During a break in the weather we walked along the beach and headed up a road leading south. Elizabeth had spent a day in Sayulita when she was visiting us last year and had told us of a lovely path and clearing in that area. We didn’t find either but did get some great views of the beach area and of a couple of beautifully designed and decorated resorts nearby. We returned to Vallarta in the late afternoon.

There are a number of small towns and beach places around the bay or higher up in the mountains, all worth a visit. This week we plan to take the daily water taxi to Yalapa, a spot on the southern coast of the bay. A friend gave us a film made there and we are going to see it for ourselves. The beach is fine and there is a resort/hotel of a modest sort where one can eat lunch and relax. When Mark’s brothers come to visit later this month we will rent a Jeep again and travel farther afield up into the mountains to visit some of the older villages. I think that my next trip along the curvaceous and lovely highway to Sayulita will be by bus, however.

Being Here

I have not written as much on this blog as I had originally intended. A great deal of what happens here is simply repetitive – our daily routines with some slight deviations. Not too much of interest. Besides I’m rather a lazy person about tasks that don’t grasp at my attention for some particular reason. Being here is something like being at our place in Orillia, in that it is a world separate from that of Toronto where the ordinary daily business life is on-going, especially for Mark. Here (and in Orillia) we dwell more within the same space; our daily activities are more co-ordinated with one another’s. At the same time there is greater possibility for quiet reflection.

For me that comes especially, though not exclusively, in the early morning, from about 6 AM to 7:30, while I breakfast on the balcony, watching the sky and the water shade from very dark to progressively lighter tones of blue and gray. My mind travels over decades back to periods of my life that I rarely visit. People, events, and impressions come back with great clarity and I wish that I was able to record them all before they slip back again into the regular stream of consciousness. The morning after talking with Maurice a few days ago while he was at Catherine’s Christmas party, I found myself back again in the early days of our relationship at 55 Admiral, remembering so much more than I could easily communicate to him or to our daughters. This morning I thought for some time about Tom O’Sullivan and the two year period when I saw him as a therapist, a period that saw many changes for both of us. I had only two other “close encounters” with Tom after that time: once when I had lunch with him when I was in graduate school; and, at lunch again years later when I interviewed him about his experiences in Therafields. Our relationship was so vastly different in those two encounters that it had been in the earlier days.

I told my writing group buddies some months ago that I think that I and most of them are now in what I view as the middle years of old age. The early “senior” years seem now like an extension of middle age – still lots of restless energy, ambition, and great mobility. Now, less so. Still we are some distance from what I think of as true old age, as experienced, for example, by my mother in the last five years of her long life. I like the period that I am in right now. There are real life issues to be dealt with: professional, logistical, financial, as well as health and family issues. But other than the odd twinge from the past I rarely struggle with feelings that I must accomplish more or be more. I am mostly able to take each day as it presents itself and to deal with and enjoy what it has to offer. I don’t think that the days of adventure are over though. My mother continued to do some travelling into her late 80s, her last voyage being a cruise in the eastern Mediterranean and a visit to Crete when she was about 87. I fully intend to take the opportunities that Mark and I have to travel and to learn about other places in the world and other histories that in various ways intersect with our own.

I think of all of you people while I’m here, glad that you are there, sometimes wishing you were here, even as I know that if you were, I might rather soon wish you were there again! Such is the inconstancy of human emotions!