A Journal of Sorts
A first post. You never quite know the shape things will take when you first start out.
I recently quit my job, grew a beard, began a relationship with a best friend of almost ten years, turned thirty and after a short stint in San Diego, headed back to Mexico.
In the dark of morning over a near perfect home-brewed coffee, surrounded by the echo of roosters, I realised that we really should be laying down a journal of sorts. I guess this is it.
We’ve spent the last few months catching up with friends, experimenting with new recipes in the kitchen (let’s be honest, that’s been Elena for the most part), building bits and pieces and intermittently wayfaring through the mountains that watch over the coastline in search of rivers and waterfalls.
It’s always hot in the south of Mexico, I don’t mind it but the last few weeks the local Mexicans have also started questioning when the relief of the first rains of the year will come. Most trips via colectivo someone will raise the question of when the skies will open. Colectivos are a favourite part of my day-to-day; each one different, each carrying a disparate conversation. There’s always something to see on public transport, especially here in Mexico.
Summer means different things to different people. As a self-confessed pluviophile I’d usually be settling in for a season of lightning shows and surfing until I couldn’t lift my arms, but there are opportunities elsewhere this year. Instead I’m putting the collection of boards on ice and preparing for what will probably be the longest time out of the ocean since……. well, maybe forever? For me Puerto is paradise – there’s the pre dawn coffee, cool morning breeze, colourful food, it’s dirty, dusty and full of waves. It’s lost some of its small town charisma as more buildings sprout, they light the highways and add paint to concrete kerbs pre fiestas, but that dilapidated undertone will always have my heart.
I was juuuuuust adjusting to the rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan at night, the mangoes that litter the streets are only now gaining colour and that all too familiar ripening smell, but it’s time to pack up the four of us, including the resident arsehole ‘Rojito’ (he bites most people at least once) and leave again. As the number of days until we leave continue to dwindle, the ‘to do’ list only seems to grow – painting, pruning, packing and vet visits. Yesterday we took Rojito for his last health check to re-enter the states and he gave the vet a parting snarl and nip. Almost funny, more so embarrassing.