Feliz Año Nuevo

Dusk, New Years Day, Yelapa

Last night we arrived in the tiny Mexican fishing village where we've vacationed every winter the past six years. We were met at the pier with hugs (uh-BRA-sohs) and a friendly “Bienvenidos” from Ana Rosa, our landlady. Cipriano, trabajador around town and ad hoc bell-hop helped my happy wife off the bobbing boat and wrestled three bags up to our penthouse.  Ronco, Ana Rosa’s usually reticent husband, shook my hand and greeted me with a smiling “Hola, amigo.” We were touched by everyone’s friendliness.

But I was knackered--we both were, but me, especially. I had been up half the previous night with a sinus cough, and hell, we’d arisen at o'dark hundred to a cold and foggy morn, spent an hour on airport shuttle, four plus on the plane, custom lines, land taxi through packed, humid Puerto Vallarta streets, and half an hour in a crowded water taxi bouncing twenty miles across the bay.

Narrow alley with Pollo Bollo at end

We were beat and hungry so enlisted Solana, our ex-pat friend, to squeeze with us through the alley up to Pollo Bollo for fish dinner. She caught us up with the local gossip and we brought each other up to date with what was happening in our own lives. Between visits back home to Portland and Texas, she is now dividing her time equally between here and a studio in the large Anglo community around Lake Chapala.

The view from recovery

Last night was again tough but I’m recovering today. The sun (good old vitamin D) is gloriously hot and there’s a cool breeze through our rooms. I’m sitting on the divan, leaning out the window overlooked by many pelicans and one parasailer wheeling around your classic cerulean sky. Waves slap the shore below. A radio plays Cuban music, coconut palms sway, and a Corona is at hand. Heaven, with a cough.