TRAVEL

Lessons from Mrs. Goodfellow – Oct 2014

When I was in college, I spent summers waitressing in a perfect, perfectly charming historic inn in Maine.

One of the delights was to be assigned to a table of summer “residents” — guests who came to stay at the hotel for a month or so, who had been coming to the inn for decades. One of these was Mrs. Goodfellow.

True to her name, she was a delight to be around. Just taking her order for breakfast or dinner was a lesson in grace, old-school courtesy, and a pinch of old-girl mischief. A spry octagenarian, she was my lifetime role model.

Her birthday was August 3, and somehow, I always remembered it. The dining room in those days was low-key and tables were covered in ancient white damask, and the atmosphere was genteel and calm, with the most beautiful view of Somes Sound and Acadia National Park. Men in jacket and tie, ladies in dresses. Mrs. Goodfellow shared her table with another widow and a spinster, all from Philadelphia. They were a jolly trio. If you could look forward to serving breakfast (and I did) it was for those three ladies.

On my morning walk to work, I strolled past all the most beautiful Maine wildflowers. So, for Mrs. Goodfellow’s 83rd birthday, I picked her a bunch of lupine and Queen Anne’s lace, black-eyed susans, added to a mass of of fragrant phlox and roses from our family’s garden. I arranged them artfully in a vase and set it at her place before she arrived for breakfast.

She exclaimed over the thoughtful gesture even more than was necessary, her luminous blue eyes shining, lighting up my day.

Sometimes being the giver of a gift is happier than being the on the receiving end. That’s certainly how I felt giving that simple bouquet to Mrs. Goodfellow.

The next week, after the flowers had faded, she returned the vase to me. With a box of chocolates inside. “Mother always said to repay a kindness with a kindness.”

That was lesson #1. A life lesson, and I have never forgotten it.

A few weeks later, I was about to depart Maine for France to begin my junior year abroad. At tea time on the porch, as we sat chatting, Mrs. Goodfellow quietly slipped an envelope into my waitress pocket. Patting my arm, she said, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Mother always said, ‘When travelling abroad, take twice the funds and half the clothes that you think you’ll need.'”

The wisest travel advice ever.

Thank you again, Mrs. Goodfellow. And Happy Birthday.

Childhood Memories Remixed – August 2014

The first time I met Paul Bunyan I wet my pants.

In my defense, I was only four years old — a skinny, sickly kid who was scared of most everything. That summer our family had traveled to Brainerd, Minnesota to spend the day at Paul Bunyan Land, a small amusement park that had recently opened.

Unbeknown to my older sisters and me, my dad told the person at the ticket window the name of his three young daughters.

As we walked through the park’s entrance we caught a first glimpse of the gigantic Paul perched in a sort of rustic log cabin setting high above the tourists. Mesmerized by the enormous figure in the plaid shirt, I followed my sisters to stand at Paul’s huge feet where we gazed up in awe. Babe, Paul’s trusty blue ox stood off to the side.

I remember thinking Paul’s face had a cartoonish look, but overall he appeared kind and impassive.

Suddenly Paul came alive, swiveling his huge head and raising an arm in a jerky salute. His booming voice addressed my sisters and me: “Welcome to Susan, Barbara and Nancy from Sauk Centre!”

Paul Bunyan knew my name! He knew where I lived! I felt dizzy and I’m sure my heart missed a beat. It was all too much for a little girl who rarely left her small hometown.

Wet pants ensued.

Since that sunny, summer day, I’ve seen many giant statues of Paul Bunyan (along with his trusty blue ox, Babe) and I am proud to say have never wet my pants again.

Why does the legend of Paul Bunyan resonate today? The tall tale of Paul Bunyan was probably the creation of lumberjacks telling stories around the campfire. They wove tales of a giant logger with superior strengths. Over many years, Paul Bunyan stories spread steadily by word-of-mouth. Paul first appeared in print around 1916 in an advertisement for the Minnesota-based Red River Logging Co.

Although I now recall it as an fun family outing, the grainy, black and white pictures of our long-ago trip to Paul Bunyan Land tell a different story. I’m crying in all of the snapshots and no one in my family looks as though they are having a good time.

Yet, I choose to look back with fondness and weave my own Paul Bunyan story. Don’t we all make our own family folklore and remember what we want rather than what was?

Nancy Wurtzel writes about making big changes at midlife in her blog Dating Dementia. Read about Nancy’s often humorous and sometimes twisted journey as a baby boomer, single woman, empty nester, feminist and caregiver.

The Best Margarita In Town…Puerto Morelos – August 2014

We were sitting in a rustic, mostly outdoor beach bar in the small town of Puerto Morelos on Mexican’s Mayan Riviera sampling what the bartender promised was the best Margarita in town. The temperature was about 85 degrees Fahrenheit and the ever-present sea breeze was wafting in from the Caribbean. Shore birds were circling overhead in a cloudless blue sky. From time to time, one would fold its wings tightly against its body and dive into the brilliant aqua waters to snatch a small fish from below. Only a few yards from the bar’s entrance, two men were lounging in hammocks playing their guitars and singing in wonderful, Spanish harmony. It was as if the Chamber of Commerce had staged this entire scene just for us but I knew better. This is really our life!

Five years ago, our circumstances were much different and the future of our retirement was grim. We left the states in 2012 after realizing that our life as retired expats living offshore could be much better than remaining where we were. After significant research, we moved to the coast of Ecuador. Our lives in the small fishing and farming community of San Vicente, Ecuador allowed us to observe life at its most basic level; a place where our rudimentary Spanish language skills were developed through immersion as virtually no one spoke English. After two years, the need to live closer to first-world medical care rose to the top of our priority list and we moved from Ecuador to Cancun on the Caribbean coast of Mexico.

Puerto Morelos is one of our favorite places to visit and a great place for a day trip but we love living in Cancun. Our condo is situated on a strip of land with the Caribbean Sea on one side and a large lagoon on the other side.

Cancun offers all the modern conveniences one would expect from a world class destination including large malls, major shopping outlets, more restaurant choices than one could visit in a lifetime and great hospitals. Cancun is the most popular destination in the Caribbean and hosts a modern International Airport. Direct flights from Miami take about 2 hours.

So, this is our retired life! I say that out loud several times each week just to be sure I’m not dreaming. Every day as we watch airliners departing in the distance, I realize that most of those passengers are headed back to a job and a life somewhere else when many of them would rather be here….where I live.

I have to go now. Maybe Diane will join me in the pool before a lunch of fresh mango and pineapple.

Donald (Don) Murray is a retired guy living in Cancun with his Pocket Babe, Diane. You can follow him on his blog, www.donaldmurrayexpat.com. He has written a top-selling Kindle book, Our Ecuador Retirment…The First 8 Months available for download from Amazon. He now spends his time doing whatever the hell he wants!

Little Red Schoolhouse – July 2014

Growing up in central Minnesota, little country schools didn’t seem so special. They dotted our landscape and were just a part of life. By the late 1970s, the one-room school had become the relic of a bygone era. Public school buses picked up country kids so they would have the larger, town-school experience.

Sadly, most of the one-room schools had simply outlived their usefulness. Most often, they were neglected and eventually torn down or sold. However, a few were preserved some became small stand-alone museums or were incorporated onto the grounds of other museums.

This is the case of the Little Red Schoolhouse that sits in a park in my rural hometown in Minnesota.

If you saw it, you’d agree it is an interesting school that has been lovingly preserved and restored. The school has the original chalk boards, old pull-down maps, framed pictures of founding fathers, an American flag, a bell on a rope and hooks along the back wall for hanging coats and scarves. Sturdy, much-used wooden desks and chairs are bolted in neat rows lined on the creaky wood floors.

It is indeed charming.

The little red school is open only for special tours. The first time I visited it as a museum, it brought tears to my eyes.

I knew this place.

Several of my good friends attended this very same one-room school, before “coming into town” in seventh grade to attend junior high. I spent countless days and sleepovers at the farm of my good friend, Kathleen, whose father donated land so the township could build a school, just as my grandfather had done in Iowa so many years before.

This school is the perfect example of ‘the circle of family life’ in small town America.

There are still about 200 of these single-room schools still operating today, down from 200,000 at their height in the early decades of the twentieth century. Today, kids attending these tiny but modern-looking schools use computers and study the very same curriculum that students learn in big schools. It’s not quite the same schooling that Kathleen experienced.

Am I glamorizing the one-room school house and farm life in the Midwest?

No doubt. In reality, I couldn’t wait to leave my small town and see the greater world.

Moving far, far away, I created a much different life for myself. However, the older I get, I more I realize that I can never really escape my upbringing. At the heart, there is a small town inside of me and a one-room schoolhouse off in the distance.

Two Lies – June 2014

1. Atenas Costa Rica has the best climate in the world according to National Geographic magazine.

2. Costa Rica has two seasons: The Dry Season and The Green Season.

The first is easy to debunk. The National Geographic magazine NEVER wrote that… but like all good marketing campaigns, it has a life of it’s own and is often repeated as fact. I have no problems with a good marketing campaign, I do have a problem with attaching it as a quote from a reputable magazine. It’s the definition of “Truthiness.”

The second lie having to do with the two seasons… it’s also truthy, but the seasons are “dry” and “wet” or “brown” and “green.” Mixing the two is like putting ballerina slippers on a rhino. It may look cute, but it will never be graceful.

Calling it the “green” season may sound nicer, but it doesn’t change that fact that everything gets wet and stays wet until the dry season.

We got our first overall soaking rain this morning. It’s been at least 100 days since our last good rain. Consensus is that the “green” season has started … ugh.

I didn’t move to Costa Rica to be wet. I’m not crazy about the onset of rains and clouds. Having never-ending muddy dog prints everywhere, dealing with breeding grounds for dengue mosquitoes… and having to unplug electronics at the first hint of a storm. And dog-killer toads breed…

Other names for the season that isn’t “dry”:

• Muddy Dog Feet Months

• High Humidity Heydeys

• Roads to Rivers Revival

• Dengue Days

• Unplug Upturn

• Toad Time

I put the “I-Love-Green-Season” folks in the same boat with “I-Love-Snow” folks.

They are “special.”

Mark Van Patten writes a blog called Going Like Sixty and has been married to the same woman since 1968.

Couch Surfing – May 2014

Nearly two years ago, my wife and I retired to the coast of Ecuador in South America. The cost of living is a fraction of what it was in the states, we love the culture and our Spanish is improving daily. It’s almost perfect…almost!

Returning to the states is expensive! While our income is more than sufficient to provide a very nice life here (complete with a housekeeper/cook), purchasing a couple of roundtrip tickets to the states, hotels, meals and a rental car for a week or two can quickly do some serious damage to the checking account.

I recently needed to return to Florida for some required medical stuff. There were no friends or relatives nearby where I could crash. I have always been fundamentally opposed to the notion that I must pay someone to sleep so I sought alternatives to conventional hotels. My wife remembered meeting a young couple traveling through Ecuador. They had mentioned something called Couch Surfing.

It took only a few minutes to find their website and register. The concept is quite simple. One opens their home to fellow couchsurfers and there is no charge for the guest. You can review profiles, pictures and reviews of any particular host. You also make your home available to accept couchsurfing guests seeking a place to stay in your area.

Each member creates a profile and describes their accommodations and any restrictions, such as “no smoking”. Most offer kitchen privileges as well as a willingness to provide tours of the area. Some, indeed, offer couches while others have complete private rooms and baths available.

I submitted my request to a handful of potential hosts who seemed compatible and in just a couple of days, had connected with someone. My experience was extraordinary! My host was a wonderful and generous person who loved to cook, and prepared complete and scrumptious meals for me. I had a private room and bath in a spotless home and great companionship when I returned each evening.

I can’t imagine that I’ll ever need to stay in a hotel ever again, anywhere on the planet. Couchsurfing Rocks!

Donald (Don) Murray is a retired guy living on the coast of Ecuador with his Pocket Babe, Diane. His South American life can be followed on his blog, www.donaldmurrayecuador.com. He has written a top-selling Kindle book, Our Ecuador Retirment…The First 8 Months available for download from Amazon. He now spends his time doing whatever the hell he wants!

Surrounded by Storks – May 2014

All around me, big white storks lounge around on their king size nests, bird versions of those tourists you hear about, the ones that come to a nice warm beachy destination on holiday and like it so much they forget to go home.

These Iberian White Storks should spend their summers at home in their European nest and then migrate to Africa for the winter via Gibraltar. While not very good fliers, they are great at gliding the thermal air currents. But even gliding is still an arduous journey only to be repeated in the spring when they have to glide back home.

Ten pairs of storks own homes in my new neighborhood. I say own because they stay in their nests for decades. They live 20 to 30 years! Never having been around storks before, I am totally enthralled with so many living right next door. Even when it’s cold and raining, you’ll find me still sitting on my balcony surrounded by computer and binoculars, swathed in sweaters watching “my” storks and Googling anything I can find out about them.

When they are feeling frisky, I hear lots of clattering and see head bobbing. This means the eggs will show up in a month, then the babies a month later. From what I can see from my balcony, there will be little stork-lings come April. Mr. Stork will be the Baby Daddy for all the little ones; Iberian White Storks don’t fool around like some of those other storks. All the babies are treated the same, from the meekest to the meanest, they all get the same amount of food and the same chance to grow up and probably stay in the Algarve.

Here in Portugal if a person has bad luck, the old saying was “he must have killed a stork”. If you were caught killing one, your hand was cut off, and that’s pretty bad luck right there. Living here, surrounded by storks I am lucky if I can accomplish anything anymore. When the sun rises and silhouettes the towers of the old sardine factory, I stare at my winged neighbors, vision magnified with binoculars. I have become a stork stalker of the worst kind.

If I ever become so jaded by life that my heart does not leap out of my chest when these magnificent birds swoop by me as I quietly watch in awe, it is time to send me back to where cubicle walls defined me. The breathtaking beauty of being surrounded by storks, or whatever your “stork” is, your passion, is a wonder to cherish and delight in each and every day.

Constance left the U.S. not for spiritual enlightment (Eat, Love, Pray), or to run away from anything, but to challenge herself in a new culture, living a simple life. Portugal seemed to be the best fit, and so far it is just the right size. Read lots more at her blog — An Adventure Abroad.

Costa Rican Shoe Tips – April 2014

Crocs for gardening, hiking boots to fend off snakes, rain boots for you know what, cowboy boots for horseback riding, water shoes for the beach, wedgies for height, running shoes for exercise, and flip flops for any other time. But the number one type of shoes to bring to Costa Rica: Stilettos! Huh? Really? And to think, I gave away dozens before moving to Costa Rica. I didn’t know. Before moving to Costa Rica as a full-time expat, I spent most of my time at the beach community of Nosara. The beach lifestyle is mostly barefoot; flip-flops are the shoe of choice, with the occasional donning of running shoes if you are going running on roads instead of barefoot at the beach.

My husband and I moved to Atenas, a Central Valley community not far from San Jose. On my first outing to the town, I saw women in dresses or nice jeans with blouses and on their feet – stilettos! My jaw dropped as I watched them maneuver the uneven sidewalks and streets riddled with potholes, cracked cement, tree roots, uneven brickwork, crazy staircases, wooden ramps, and the occasional horse-dung pile.

Determined to re-build my stiletto stash, I found a shoe boutique in town, purchased a modest pair, and made a dinner reservation at the nicest place in town. The gravel road leading to the restaurant was hazardous, so we made a plan: I carried a large purse which housed my lipstick and the shoes. I wore flip-flops to the edge of the smooth walkway leading to the restaurant. My husband, Don, promised to be Prince Charming and place the shoes on my feet before entering the restaurant. We entered the dining room of what we were told was a five star restaurant, and saw that we were the only guests, other than the huge dog sleeping in the corner.

I proudly strutted to the table in my new shoes, crossed my legs with my foot sticking into the aisle to show off the ‘choos’, ordered a martini, and enjoyed the moment to the fullest. The dog perked up when he heard the “click-clack” coming across the tile floor; I‘m not sure he had heard that sound before. This was mostly a gringo place; most gringo expats do not wear stilettos. I have since discovered the tico places where my shoes and I fit right in.

Next thing you know, I’ll be zip-lining in stilettos!

Carole Connolly is an American expat living in Costa Rica. She makes an adventure out of anything and find humor in everything. Her blog, Carole Jean’s Capers covers expat life as well as stories from her former lives as an international flight attendant, real estate agent, and dancer.

This Side of the Tree Line – April 2014

“Business Insider Magazine conducted a poll in 2013: “Which State has the Worst Scenery?” Kansas got the most votes, not New Jersey (which came in 2nd), or Iowa, Nebraska, or Nevada (which were tied for third). Now why would that be?

Classmates of mine coming from “back east” to college in Colorado often complained about the drive across Kansas. They said it was boring. (It is a long drive, over 400 miles, 6 hours at 70 mph on Interstate 40.) Some said it was so flat. (Look at a topographical map closely along the James River in Virginia or the Ohio River in southern Indiana; now those places are flat.)

But the Worst Scenery? It took a while thinking about why that would be, but I think I get it. It takes time to come to a point where a person really “sees” Kansas. Those of us who grow up on the plains come to know it, even feel it (I’m from Hoxie). But folks particularly from “east of the tree line” don’t get it at first.

The newcomer is overwhelmed by the vast openness, all that sky, horizon to horizon unbroken by trees, mountains, or cityscapes. The colors appear drab – various shades of brown, large expanses of subtle green (if Mother Nature has brought rain for the pastures), or field after field of wheat or corn. But always the wide-open spaces, horizon to horizon.

My wife (who is from New England) observed as we drove west approaching Hays on the way to Hoxie: “There’s nothing out here.” Then as we turned north on K-23, crossed the railroad tracks with the Grainfield elevator passing out of view to the left, with no power lines or fences along the highway, she said “Now there’s even less.” It is true, there is less – nothing as far as one can see (say 20 miles?), not even a farmhouse or barn anywhere in sight.

Today, having lived in the west for 4 years (albeit New Mexico), she sees beauty in the sky, in the subtle colors of the prairie, in the sunrises and sunsets that are often 360 degrees around, the changes in the seasons and weather that are so evident throughout the year, and not least the openness and friendliness of the people who are molded by this environment. It’s beautiful, but it takes time and an openness of spirit to see it.

George Young is a hiker, bicycler and pilot who is always on the move, unless he’s working on building a strawbale home in Manzano, New Mexico. And yes, he’s a native of Hoxie, Kansas.

The Costa Rica Noise – Feb 2014

I used to get aggravated sometimes in the old country at the noise.

We lived on the flight path for the small airport with no commercial airline service. On the weekends it could get very busy with small private prop planes and corporate jets flying in and out. There were enough corporate jets coming and going at an altitude of a hundred feet on approach that it could be really irritating. Of course, a lot of my aggravation came from the CEO’s that worked in the town, but lived in posh Chicago suburbs and commuted courtesy of the shareholders.

And the hobby pilots would practice touch-and-go landings and approaches. Those little prop planes can be really noisy when flying low and slow.

When we were looking for a place to live in Costa Rica, we knew that this is a very noisy culture. They love their loud motorcycles, loud music, loud car alarms, loud dogs and loud talking (aka yelling.)

Apparently this is a surprise to some people. On a Facebook group, a guy asked…

if I had to sum up this area, it would be… “car alarms, barking dogs and loud ‘music’ briefly interrupted by very short periods of silence.” For those that have figured out how to avoid the noise, how do you do it?

The answers ranged from sleeping with an iPad with headphones on, to ceiling fan white noise, white noise machines, even earplugs!

Others are trying to accept the noise level as just a concession to all the other pluses Atenas offers:

After living in CR 16 years( 12 in Atenas) I need to say: Costa Rican´s love noises, you just need to take that or leave….I personally somehow learn to take it and tolerate all , but never will like that!

One soul is peddling the idea that the noise is a positive:

They were people I knew; kids laughing, husbands coming home from work, women chatting for a moment as their friend walks by, the guy who whistles as he walks down the street every evening at 9pm, coffee trucks full of fresh beans, horses trotting by, dogs barking because their owner was coming home, trucks honking to say “hi” to their friend, etc etc etc. Sound lets you know you are still alive. They were the sounds of the reasons I moved here….the people, the culture, families, and freedom.

Others are just tolerant of the noise that surrounds them.

This is where the strategy of “rent, rent, rent…” before you buy in Costa Rica fails. Renters usually want convenience and that means closeness to the community center – often within walking distance. These are the same attributes a Tico would be looking for in housing. That means living in a medium to high density area.

The only solution to find peace and quiet means moving to the country where roads are poor, and bus service is poor or lacking, and other services (cable tv and dsl internet) may not even exist.

So if you’re gonna live here, or visit for a long period of time, you need to ask yourself how you will handle the noise. We’re fortunate (for now) that most of our noise comes from the cows bellowing from the field across the road.

Mark Van Patten writes a blog called Going Like Sixty and has been married to the same woman since 1968.

Army of Ants – Feb 2014

Soldier. My, what long legs you have!

When the army ants come, get out! That’s the word on the street. I heard it when we first came to Costa Rica in 1989, and I still hear it today.

Last Tuesday I came home from Dance-Fit class at Su Espacio, and Don was in the carport working on the car. His greeting: “You just missed the army ants!”

“They came and went? So fast? I’ve only been gone for an hour. How big?”

“Solid!

“Huh? No, how big was the column?”

“Solid!”

“Yeah, but how wide? Two inches? Six? How wide?”

“Solid!!”

“Ayyyyy! O.K. honey, what happened? Did they march through the house?”

“Well, yeah. They just seemed to come out of nowhere, and the next thing I knew, the floor was solid black. The whole mass moved like a unit, up and over the door, across the floor and out the back door. There are a few stragglers on the back patio. I’ve never seen anything like it! They cleaned the floor pretty well though; no bugs.”

The stragglers on the back patio were running back and forth in a two inch column. That’s when I remembered: solid! In 1992, my kids and I were visiting Nonnie in Nosara., and we rented the house next door. Our first night there, my daughter, then nine years old, starting screaming from her room, shouting: “Get them off me! Get them off me!” Thinking she was having a nightmare, I rushed in, flipped on the light and the entire floor was black. Yep. Solid with ants. They weren’t just large black ants, though. As I took a closer look, there were smaller red ants in the mix, and they appeared to be fighting. This was not our war! I grabbed Chelsea, threw her in the shower and got the ants off her. I was thankful she didn’t have too many bites, all things considered.

We ran in the night to Nonnie’s house and hung out until morning. We went back after breakfast and all the ants were gone. The army ants haul everything off to the bivouac. Yes, they ‘bivouac’, not nest. They make temporary dwellings out of their own bodies. I learned that recently from reading about army ants. I found out about the different sizes: drones (small, no mandibles), soldiers (large body, gigantic head, big hooked mandibles), and the enormous queen. They are mostly blind, communicating by pheromones. The good news is they don’t attack humans, although they will bite if threatened.

Be on the look-out. If you see them coming, head for the hills. No, not the hills, they like hills. Head for Happy Hour. It’s 5:00 somewhere!

Latin Ninjas – Jan 2014

I’ve lived in many places across the globe and regardless of where I lived, there were houseflies. Now, I am certain that there were subtle biological differences between them from one continent to the next but to me, they all looked the same and behaved in the same annoying fashion; that is until I made contact with the Ecuadorian version of the common house fly…the Latin Ninja! These flying nuisances make all other houseflies seem like warm, snuggly kittens in comparison.

I am absolutely certain that some devious, whacked out geneticist has intentionally engineered these demons using a bit of Bruce Lee’s DNA, combined with a bit of DNA from Rodney Dangerfield. They are not only brutal and cunning in their repeat attacks but combine their brutality with all the annoying qualities of Dangerfield, going for all the weak spots in typical Dangerfield fashion!

They land on my eyelids, my lips, the tip of my nose and attempt to get into my ear canals. They take great glee in landing on the backs of my hands so that I will try to swat them, only causing harm to myself. These attacks go on for tens of minutes before they retreat to plan their next sortie.

I recently bought one of those electric fly swatters shaped like a small tennis racket. It holds an electrical charge and crackle-fries the little terrors in mid-air as I practice my best John McEnroe vocalizations. I’m an animal lover but apparently, I have limits.

In their most recent and bold assaults aimed at provoking me even more, they land on the back of the hand holding the electric racket and I swear, they do some kind of an end-zone victory dance as if they’d just scored a touchdown.

Yesterday, I was working at the computer and there were, perhaps, 3-4 of these Ninjas taking turns. One would repeatedly land on my wrist while another kept trying to do a water landing on my eyeball. I kept typing while waving my free hand and shaking my head like I was under the control of a drunken puppeteer. Eventually, I reached my limit, stopped working, grabbed the racket (which I have now named Fry Baby) and began to stalk my tormentors in earnest.

They stayed in low formation, flying among computers, speakers, printers, cables and stacks of papers. A swift swing of “Fry Baby” in that tangle would surely damage my stuff and the Ninjas would escape. I waited.

Eventually, the pair lost their focus and landed together on the back of a chair. In an instant, I anticipated and calculated their departure route. I began my swing and, as hoped, their flight path intersected with Fry Baby’s swift justice about 2 feet over the top of the table. Two bright flashes provided visual verification and two loud electrical crackles added additional confirmation. They had met their end.

Speaking as a fellow aviator, I have to admire their courage as well as their flight skills. Unfortunately, they picked the wrong target too many times. Brave and skilled aviators for sure… but stupid! What the hell…they were only flies and there are plenty more. As a matter of fact, two of them have been bugging me while I’ve been typing this.

Gotta’ go. Fry Baby has been charging and it’s time for justice!

Mercado – Dec 2013

A Mexican Mercado is like a Farmers Market. While not unique here in Mexico they are ubiquitous. Nearly every pueblo has a Mercado of some kind. Puerto Escondido is no exception. At the entrance to Lic. Benito Juarez Mercado the sign lends as much space to the bathrooms as the Mercado itself.

In fact as Mexican Mercado’s go, Puerto has a pretty good sized one. You will have to spend some time if you plan on visiting the many shops, stands and street vendors populating the huge open air covered awning that encompasses an entire city block or more.

You will find grains, nuts, fruits and veggies, meat, fish, fresh cut flowers, pottery, pans and cooking utensils, sandals, straw hats, table cloths, furniture, hammocks, candy, candles, tamales, caged birds, baby chickens and rabbits and many prepared food vendors and stands. There are key makers, cobblers, clothes menders and makers, and much more. Most everything can be found in booths under a huge awning type roof. Most of the time trade spills out on to the sidewalks and streets nearby.

They are organized in the sense there is the fish aisle, the carne (meat) isle, the pollo (chicken) aisle etc. All the cut flower vendors – one aisle. It is rather amazing that side-by-side vendors selling essentially the same products, usually at the same price, seem to remain in business. How does one choose from a half dozen or more vendor stations selling various fresh fish on ice? We have yet to figure that one out.

There are two more U.S. typical grocery stores in town. Both are Mexico grocery chain stores. How do we choose the Mercado or Chedraui?

Well it is mostly a learned system from experience. We know on Wednesdays (Chedraui’s sale day)

vegetables are less there – particularly avocados and tomatoes (very much staples in our diets). Fish is always cheaper and fresher at the Mercado; although there are also fish specific markets and sales boat side. Cut flowers – better deal at the Mercado. Grains, seeds, chilies – Mercado. Canned goods and such – Chedraui.

We might visit the Mercado once or twice a month. Chedraui’s at least once a week. We are glad we have both options.

John Calypso lives outside Veracruz, Mexico, as well as Puerto Escondido. Back in the 60s, he was a very hip guy living in Hollywood and rubbing shoulders with Beatles and Monkees. Read lots more in his blog, Viva Veracruz and Viva Puerto Escondido.

You Say Tomatoes – Dec 2013

Tomato sauce in zip-lock bags and crazy versions of tomato soup are frozen solid, stacked in the freezer, jars of spicy salsa and chili sauce line a shelf in our refrigerator. The kitchen resembles the aftermath of a slasher film. From three little packets of seeds grew an extraordinary amount of tomatoes.

We weren’t prepared for the abundance of Roma, cherry and those fat silly looking heirloom tomatoes that took over the citizen’s first Algarve garden. Was it the judicious use of the soil from the old chicken coop? He insists the secret is weeding early and often then watering every day at the same time. Each time I compared the healthy basket-loads of our daily harvest to the sad shriveled tomato plants of our neighbor, I am reminded that karma works in mysterious ways.

We don’t have only tomatoes. Basil, oregano, dill, rosemary, lemon grass, mint, parsley, thyme, (no sage, sorry) little very hot chili peppers and big mild chili peppers clutter the path to the kitchen door. A season of spinach and now green peppers are looking very healthy. This is being gown by a man whose only previous farming experience was growing a pineapple plant in an office window planter. It was a lovely pineapple plant if you ignored the cigarette butts people would grind into it and the parked dumpster nearby.

I am from the United States; eating produce from a supermarket in the States is similar to eating the waxed props you see in furniture stores. However, these fresh organic “wolf peaches*” are so good I eat them every day (sometimes, twice a day). Slice a few, drizzle them with azeite, balsamic vinegar then sprinkle a bit of Algarve sea salt, oh my, lycopene heaven.

My doctor, hairdresser, real estate agent, therapist and favorite characters about town have all been gifted with mixed bags of fresh picked tomatoes garnished with a bundle of herbs. The “Connie Tomato-Seed” of Lagos, casting seeds of friendship into the fertile life of my new home and crossing my fingers for a sustainable crop.

In the distance I see smoke as the real farmers are clearing their fields for whatever farmers plant next. The cute little cherry tomatoes are still hanging on, the last of the crop. In the nick of time, my imaginary friend, TV chef and fellow adventurer, Anthony Bourdain showed me a recipe using the little cherries. Cut them in half , toss with croutons, herbs, azeite and balsamic vinegar.

Sprinkle a bit of the Algarve sea salt on, it will be fabulous.

*Wolf peach is derived from the tomato’s scientific name, lycopersicum. It comes from German werewolf myths. Since the tomato belongs in the nightshade family of plants, all sorts of evil were associated with my innocent little fruit (berry if you really research it).

Constance left the U.S. not for spiritual enlightenment (Eat, Love, Pray), or to run away from anything, but to challenge herself in a new culture, living a simple life. Portugal seemed to be the best fit, and so far it is just the right size. Read lots more at her blog — An Adventure Abroad.

Magic Summer in France – Nov 2013

Forty years.

Forty years ago today, I boarded an Air France flight at Orly to return from France to the U.S.

It had been a magical summer. My first time ever in France. A life-changer.

That June I had graduated from high school and had gone on a three-week whirlwind tour of Romania with my school glee club. In anticipation of the flight’s stopover in Paris, earlier that spring I had begged my parents to see if they knew anyone in France with whom I might spend some or all of the summer.

Hooray! As it turned out, there was a family. Friends of friends had lived in Paris working for Time-Life; eight years before, in 1965 when they were leaving Paris, they had brought along a lovely young Parisian, Marie-Noelle, to Connecticut as an au pair so that their children could keep up their French.

Fast forward to 1973: Marie-Noelle was now in her late 20s, in Paris, married with a baby of her own. Her extended family (grandmother, parents, and sisters and their families) spent the summer on Ile de Ré. They would be delighted to have me as an au pair for the summer.

Back then, a fille au pair was not hired help, not a euphemism for a nanny. Au pair meant on a par. (In fact, I was never paid a cent. In retrospect, I should have paid them.) From the beginning I was treated as a younger sister or cousin, completely part of the family, who earned my keep by lending a hand with the children and household duties, mostly with the assistance of Mamita, the grandmother.

For eight weeks I was immersed, submerged in French family vacation life. Upon my arrival, they asked if I would rather speak in English or French. “En francais!” I blurted rather vehemently. Oh-so-politely, not another word of English was spoken to me all summer. (Except most evenings when Marie-Noelle’s husband Jacques would re-re-fill my wineglass at dinner, joking, “Just a leeeetle drop, Pollee?”)

It was a summer of transformation. Twelve years of classroom French, filled with Moliere and Sartre and verb conjugations, rapidly transformed into must-use everyday French. Who the heck knew what a biberon was? Une couche? I thought une couche was a layer. Baby bottle and diaper. Got it. But in short order the learning curve became so fast I didn’t have time to translate: I just had to figure it out.

Example: I knew the word for floor was le plancher. But when someone said “Tu peux mettre cela par terre,” I had to do some quick mental leaps to figure out that it meant “Put that down (on the ground).” Finally the mental leaps were arriving at such locomotive speed that I put away my mental French-English dictionary and just went with it. And French food and cooking lingo deserve their own chapter…

I had to keep up daily with spoken French on all levels: toddler and pre-school age; vivacious sophisticated Parisian 20-somethings with their large entourage, with full-on colloquialisms, at dinner or dancing at island nightclubs or sailing; kind and worldly grandparents whose English far surpassed my faltering French; and the clear-speaking but cryptic Loma, the ancient, tiny, widowed great-grandmother swaddled in black. To me, it seemed Loma parsed out wisdom in 19th-century French haiku.

But it was far more than just a language-learning experience. For 8 weeks, every minute, every hour was an awakening. This life is what I was meant to know, I thought. This is where I belong. French beach picnics — feasts, not just sandwiches! — boat outings, everyday summer dinners, daily shopping, meal preparation, everything about French lifestyle was both eye-opening and instantly right. The pace of life and the focus. I found my true sense of self.

I was eighteen.

Reality check: 1973: no cell phones, no internet, no TV on the summer island; and a long-distance call was prohibitively expensive, ergo was for emergencies only. Thus my only communication with American family and friends for eight weeks was via postcard or aerogramme. Bless my mother, who saved all my letters home. By mid-summer my English syntax was down the drain, and the vocab was slipping: “We go every day to the plage with the children,” I wrote. I wasn’t putting on airs, I was losing myself in French and France.

And that is how I really learned French. I lost my American self in the French world.

I think I never fully returned.

Oh, I physically returned to America on that Air France flight 40 years ago. I had flown from La Rochelle airport to Le Bourget (I think). I know I took a connecting bus to Orly. Gilles, my handsome summer-unrequited-crush who had spent many July and August weekends as a guest with the family, was waiting for my bus as it pulled in to the bus lane at Orly (he worked for Air France, as had his uncle, Antoine de St. Exupery). Belmondo-esque, he stood at the entrance, one leg perched on the barrier, leaning and smoking a Gauloise. My heart fluttered.

I attempted to haul my embarrassing, oversized, orange, too-American Tourister suitcase from the luggage compartment of the coach.

“Laches,” he asserted gently, grabbing the handle.

Lâche raced through my brain, seeking quick processing. Lâche, poltron, couard, peureux went the brain scan in a nanosecond from senior-year Advanced French language class when we had to memorize synonyms. Why was he calling me a coward? My heart pounded.

“Laches,” chided Gilles, tugging more firmly. I finally released the handle to him (which was what he was in fact saying: “Let go”), banking on the body language, still unsure why I was a coward. Did he think I was grasping so tightly because I was embarrassed at the weight of my suitcase?

He bought me an Orangina, got me checked in with his svelte, perfectly perfumed young French colleagues at the desk, and finagled as much VIP treatment as a junior Air France worker could finagle. After some final chit-chat, address exchanges and “Oh yes, we’ll keep in touch” banalities, he accompanied me to the gate. A total gentleman, truly and genuinely so.

It didn’t register — actually at that point, I couldn’t really fathom what it meant — that I was leaving France and returning to the States. A seven-hour flight was not enough time to adjust, linguistically, emotionally, or culturally.

I had become a different person. I was still Polly, but who was she?

Three days later I was sitting in a freshman “French class” in college in Connecticut: nothing French about it, at all, really.

Lost.