That's One Crazy Grouse

Five weeks or so ago, I went up to the mountain house for the first visit of Spring. A warm Winter and early Spring promised grass, and lots of it. So.... I, not wanting a repeat of last years mowing and "baling" fiasco, wanted an early start.
Aaah, one of the first "rites of Spring". I was actually excited about mowing grass. Geez!
While mowing behind the pond, I spotted a grouse at the edge of the pine woods. Not acting too afraid of me, I suspected "she" had a nest nearby and was attempting to ward me off.
Fast forward, three weeks ago, and, same thing occurred. Same location. Cool!
Oh.... sorry.... for those of you who don’t know what a grouse is. It is a bird. About half the size of a chicken, with a speckled brown plumage, a beautiful tail that can fan like a turkey and a peculiar collar of feathers that can "puff-up" when it’s excited. My previous experience with them had been limited to hunting with my father when I was a boy.
I was more than a bit excited to see grouse here, what, with coyotes, hunters and the disappearing habitat.
Fast forward, this past weekend. Again me, mowing, around the pond, but this time, nearer the front. A grouse, and it was agitated! It would come out from the growth at the waters edge and literally attack the mower, pecking at it’s tires. Why, I almost ran over the poor thing. Again, must be a momma with a nest. Then, around the backside, same as before. Another grouse, at the edge of the pine woods, not as aggressive as the other. Wow! Two grouse. Now, this is exciting!
Back at the house I tell Sandy of my experience. She too has had a siting, but not a grouse, a turkey... she thinks. Made a small funny noise, it did. You mean like that, I said. Yes, yes, that’s it! And, looking over the edge of the porch rail we both spot... a grouse. Wow! Three in one day. We’re polluted! Sandy, that’s no turkey, that’s a grouse. Can’t you tell the difference? Actually the next day we did spot a turkey walking near the house, but.......

Now this grouse was determined to be our friend. To say that it hung around, no.... it was like a baby duck, following my every move. Always with a kind of "clucking" noise, sometimes a "whimpering" noise. Made us feel terrible. Poor thing must be hungry. Dinner that night on the back porch. Me, Sandy and... the grouse. Know I shouldn’t have, but, tried feeding it with bits of our dinner. Bread, corn, nothing. Not a peck, not a sniff, nothing. And it looks healthy. It comes close, let’s me get very close. Must have been hatched and raised by people. So tame. But, what does it eat?
Next day. More of the same. Me, a bunch of chores to "tick-off", the grouse, my trusted companion. I plant the basil, the grouse "helped". I dig up a couple of wild ferns for transplant, the grouse "helped" by hopping up onto the fern as I was easing it from the earth. I plant the ferns in the planter by the back porch, the grouse "helped". I nearly dumped pine bark mulch on him/her, it was quite funny actually. I’ll bet the little creature put in half a mile or more following me around that morning. And.... it was getting quite familiar, not at all afraid. I could almost touch it... but... it would tense up, peck at my hand, maybe sorta fly up at me. A couple of times it seemed to run at me. Oh well......
Morning’s chores complete, I’m a mess. Time for a shower. Afterwards, down the stairs and toward the front porch, Sandy’s sitting in the living room, pissed! "Your bird" is outta control! It flew up onto the porch and it flogged me! I tried to fend it off with my magazine, but it just kept coming after me! I came inside and it attacked the screen door!
Wow! What was that about? How Hitchcock!
By now the birds not to be seen. We go out to sit on the porch, Sandy a bit timidly. No bird.
Whew!
In no time I hear something below the porch in the leaves. Yep, the bird. The bird’s walking around the porch, and.... up the stairs.... and onto the porch. Standing there in the middle, it is whimpering. Sandy’s telling me to do something!
Not having my broom, an object I’ve frequently used against obstinate animals, cats, dogs, etc. ....to the amusement of my wife and friends... I do the next best thing, I grab the local phone book. Holding the book in an open position, I much like a matador, shoo the grouse off the porch and down the stairs. All the while the bird’s making that whimpering sound. I don’t feel so sorry for it at the moment. Maybe it’s not a whimper after all?
Well I’m here to tell you, it was none too pleased with me. It adopted the posture and temperament of one of those fighting cocks. Hopping up, flapping it’s wings, lunging at me. For a startled moment the phone book became my shield.
Now wait a minute! Kevin’s not going to put up with this! I gotta show this grouse just who’s the boss!
Yeah right. Me, flapping the phone book at and then into the grouse. The grouse hopping, flapping, lunging and pecking and tearing at the phone book with its claw adorned feet.
Damn obstinate bird!!!
Well, this went on for the better part of ten minutes. My goal, not to injure the bird, but to dominate it, make it submit! Ten minutes pass and the grouse’s obviously tiring, me too! I push it to the ground with the phone book, trying to hold it down, wanting to hear it say "I give". I back off, facing the grouse. It doesn’t advance. Whew!!
That evening out of curiosity, I walk over to the pond, wondering about the other grouses. And... no grouses, nothing! Hummm? I wonder? I wonder if this crazy grouse is the only grouse?
Next morning, the grouse is back. And.... it acts as though it has unfinished business with me.
It comes to the porch steps.
Right!!! Where’s my phone book?
That’s it!! You and me budd!!
Again, me the matador, the grouse the bull. And this time I mean to finish it. I can’t have a grouse chasing Sandy and I every time we go out the door. No siree.
Ten, maybe fifteen minutes, we "spar". The grouse is ferocious. Me more determined than ever. Sandy "don’t hurt it". Again, the bird tires and I try the pin it down strategy. I don’t know why I think this will work, I just do. After two or three "pins", I hold the bird down for maybe twenty seconds beneath the phone book. Removing the book, the bird walks off.
Later, and all through lunch on the back porch..... no grouse.
Later that day, I go down to water the newly planted basil. On the path there, I spot it, the grouse, in full territorial display... tail fanned and collar fully poofed. He was a majestic sight. I just walked on by within a couple of feet of the bird, ignoring it, and it me so it seems. It, no lunging, no flapping or pecking. Me, no counterattacks. The same on my return pass.
Well. I guess this means I’m the biggest meanest cock! Uh... at least to the grouse that is.

Sorry, but for all of this tale, there are no pictures. No camera. Cell phone, decidedly "old school", of no help either. So.... I leave it to your imagination.

She's Just a Tease

It is.... well.... I mean.... well .... it's just a little frustrating. Isn’t it?
It is late February, early March here in the Piedmont. And.... it wants to. It want’s sooo bad, to be Spring.

And... after Mexico... well... Mexico... you know... she’s a party girl, isn’t she ?
No holds barred, straight up fantastic. Day after day after day of nothing but.... well great!
I mean, you can almost tire of it. Well... not really.

But now. Here. The Piedmont. The Spring. She.... she wants to... you know...real bad.

Cold, dreary, dismal. The disappointment almost gone now. The boredom, the gloom, the repression.... giving way to anticipation.
Today, this day. Blue skies. Morning.. not so cold. The breeze... not so blustery.

Just emerging. That green. That young green. I long for that supple glow to envelope me.
Sap ...rising. Rising to nourish swelling buds. Splitting forth. Soft tender shoots. Promise of fragrant blossoms of desire. Luscious fine filaments of soft new unmown grass. Kissed by remnants of moist dampness, of mornings dew yield tenderly under bare feet..

She teases me.

I feel it. I feel anticipation.

Reclined in my comfort, I shed the trappings of Winter. I expose myself to her abundant charms. The sun, warm to my touch. Warming my bare skin. Warming till I’m flush. Silky breeze caresses me. Softly.... tempering the rising heat.

I look to the sky.... azur blue, irrestible. I cannot look away. Soft puffs of white clouds, wafting by my eye. They provoke, no, they excite the imagination.

Virgin green. The glow of the warm sun. She envelopes me.

Oh yeah.... she teases me all right.
Spring... upon me. It is so.... so close. About to.... overcome me.
Unashamedly, slave to my sensations. Content to let the moment wash over me.

Perfection.
Spring, she plays the part well. The perfect lover. The moment. One builds into the next.
Anticipation. Expectations rise. Three o’clock. Climax to this sensuous day at hand.

But.... soft puffs of white, now, give way to expanses of translucent gray. The green glow, is lost, no longer enveloping me.
The suns warm caress leaves my skin. The soft breeze, now pricks at me with a chill.
Anticipation... expectations, go limp.
Frustration.
Gone. Her promise. Her charms.

Tomorrow..... 52, gray skies and the disappointment of a cold rain.

She has been....she has been teasing me. It is not the time. It angers me.
She is just a tease.
Why do I let her do this to me? Why am I always chasing her the way that I do?
Nobody... nobody likes a tease, most of all a little p***k tease like her!

But....20 March. I know, I’ll do it all again. I can’t resist her. After all, She is Spring.


Channeling my Pagan roots.

"Beachin'"

I get it a lot, ya know? Anytime someone finds out I’m goin’ to Playa for a month. First, Wow, a whole month! That must be great? Yeah..... it is pretty sweet.
Then.... the next question is usually something like, wow, a whole month, what will you do there for a whole month? Do you travel? Do you dive or snorkel, parasail, surf or fish?
Uh...... no!
No, I go to the beach. I play the beach bum. It’s why I’m here.
It’s that simple....really!

6:30, I get up early most days, the birds in my courtyard “jungle” won’t allow me to sleep much past that. A small breakfast of fresh fruit and cereal on the palapa patio. A quick shower, pack my bag and a “long” two block walk to the playa (beach). I usually land a front row seat, I’m early remember? But, sometimes it does help to tip the beach wait staff generously the day before.
Warm morning sun on my skin. Cool breeze coming off the water. Beach to myself. What could be better?
Around 9:30-10:00, I take a long walk, an hour maybe, up the beach. On my way back, I’ll stop by the Mayan fruit vendor’s cart and buy a cup of freshly cut-up pineapple , solemente pina (only pineapple) por favor, it's Sandy’s favorite. In a plastic cup, a squeeze of lime and a dusting of arbol chili powder, oh yeah! I grab a small bag of chicharones hanging from the awning of his pedal cart and a generous shot of hot salsa, por favor. 35 pesos with a tip, that’s about US$2.75.
Mouth watering, I hurry back to find Sandy eagerly expecting the “little” snack we will share. Accompanied by an ice cold Mexican lager with a squeeze of lime, what could be better?
After a well deserved “rest” in the sun I’m thinkin’ I’m about ready for some lunch.
Well, as luck would have it, the patio restaurant here at the beach club does a mean ceviche. Ceviche in these parts is chopped fish, or shrimp, conch or octopus, your choice. Marinated (cooked) in a mixture of lime juice, salt, chopped onions, tomatoes and cilantro. That’s it! Add a basket of “to to pos” (corn chips) and ice cold Bohemia. The perfect lunch!! And so it was. Every day (todos los dios). For me it is the essence of Playa. I will really miss this!
Leisurely lunch complete. It’s back to work! There’s a chair out there on the beach and someone’s got to man it! And.... I’m the man for the job.
The sun, a little warmer now. Thankfully, the cool breeze still blowing in from the water. The beach more crowded by now. The view, I must say the scenery has improved measurably over the morning.
I’m hot! A little thirsty. Think one of those fruity tropical drinks might be called for.
More sun, more breeze, a dip or two in the gentle surf. More eye strain from the now plentiful scenery. Maybe a cold cerveza. Aaah.... yes.... this is why I’m here.
Sometime around five, “the whistle blows” and time to head back to the apartment for a well deserved rest after a hard day in the sun.
Might be a night out. There’s some great little mom and pop Mexican restaurants over around 30th. Or, maybe a pizza, it’s “little Italy”, remember? Or, maybe I’ll just cook-in this evening. Our apartment has a decent kitchen, I love to cook, and hey, I don’t care how much I like real Mexican food, and I do, I can’t eat out every night for a month.
Yes, there’s a number of clubs, bars and even a casino, or so I’ve been told. But, I’m a bit past all that, imagine, me clubbing til 3 or 4 in the morning. Yeah.. Right! So... a quiet evening. Conversation, emails, a blog posting? A quiet drink, perhaps a Cuba Libre with a splash of Mexican vanilla, my touch. Maybe a movie, yes I think a movie from our sizable collection on the PC we’ve brought. Yes, a quiet evening, that’s it!
Tomorrow....... the sunrise, the birds in the “jungle”, It all starts again.

A whole month!
What do I do?
Well...........

The United Nations, On A Beach

Beaches. Everybody loves beaches.
Beaches are, by definition, “magnetic” places, drawing peoples far and wide to the waters edge. A primal calling, the sounds, the smells, the feelings are universal.
This beach, however, more than any other I have known, it is incredibly multi-cultural.
I come here for the month and just as all things change in the course of a month, so does the composition and personality of the beach. Allow me to share my observations with you.

Because it is winter in most of the northern hemisphere, it should come as no surprise that there are many of those from places colder, but.......
In my first few days here, I find myself surrounded by Italian, lots and lots of Italian. Now, I know that we live in what’s known as “little Italy”, but jeesh! I feel more like I’m on a beach in Liguria, only much prettier, and with sand. Still... it’s an odd sensation, all that Italian here in Mexico. Maybe more pizza than burritos and tacos, it’s really weird. For maybe two weeks, Italian, Italian everywhere. And here in “little Italy” it’s all spaghetti, pizza, gelato. All these Toscani have created a home away from home for themselves.

About this same time , I take notice of something else, very curious. Lotsa pretty young girls with those lovely Brazilian thongs. I mean, how can you not notice that! And people, all about the beach. Couples, groups, those pretty young girls, all with these little metal pots, a metal straw and a thermos. Passing and passing the little pot around to one another all day long. Ah ha! Herba mate. Yepp! Mate, that weird herbal tea, if you can call it that, an obsession that can mean only one thing. The Argentines are here! Yes the Argentines have arrived. Largely from Buenas Aries, they sound Spanish, sort of, but they look more Italian. It’s summer there but I’ve been told the waters pretty cold down there. So... voila. For a while it’s the Italian/Argentine beach.

They stand out, really stand out. The Heidi’s. Tall, thin and blond, often braided. Striking in their appearance, they travel in groups, circling their chairs to form a mini community. Sounding somewhat like a mouthful of marbles, they stand out in every way. The Scandinavians are here too.

Amongst these unexpected faces and voices, you notice it. The same faces, day after day. They look like me, even sound sorta like me. But, they come from places like Alberta, Saskatchewan, Montreal, Toronto. Canadians! Tons of them, French and English. They come and they stay, and stay and stay. Two, three some even four months. I mean who can blame em? Eh?

Yeah, there’s even a good many “garden variety” Americans here too, but not as many as you’d expect. I think they peaked over Christmas holiday, but can’t say with certainly, I arrived just after that. And... with Cancun about an hour up the road, I suspect many don’t get this far, I mean Cancun, it’s an American enclave. When the cruise ships show up over in Cozuemel , they arrive by ferry, appear for a short while, but, then they're away. Can’t always be sure though, they can "masquerade" as Canadians.

There’s a small French community here as well, complete with cafe’s and a boulanger-patisser (bakery). A welcome touch of Gaelic flavor.

And.... how odd, but late in the day and you’ll likely see them. Two, maybe three of them, hubbly bubblys (hookah pipes). They appear on the beach. Big ones, small ones. One day I watched a young man unpack and meticulously assemble his “porta-hookah”. It probably took him at least 20 minutes to set it up. A little later and he was puffing away, soon to be joined by others, all puffing away. There’s a sizable Lebanese community in Mexico. They’ve left their mark. Kabobs, tacos al pastor (from the rotisserie spit), tacos Arabe, they're not hard to find.

Oh, and.....I almost forgot. The Mexicans! Yes, the Mexicans! Yes, I know you’d expect this, but... hey I’ve been to plenty of beaches where the locals don’t feel welcome on their beaches. But, not here. Young people, lotsa them, the lovely senoritas, the young men. Families, from small to as large as a small village. They show up, usually late in the afternoon and especially on the weekends. Lots and lots of them. But hey..... you’d expect that wouldn’t you? And... they seem to be having a blast, just like the rest of us. My favorite scene, replayed over and over, has got to be ..... Guy walks onto beach, OXXO (a local “C-store”) cooler on his shoulder, loaded to the brim with cervesas. And... just maybe, a jug of Clamato juice, to create a uniquely Mexican cocktail made with the beer. (an acquired taste at best) Behind trails the “sidekick” carrying the foam lid, won’t fit, cooler’s too full, a bag with cups and maybe lime slices( for the Clamato/beer cocktails), a bag of ice, a bag or two of chicheronies, again a uniquely Mexican snack something like fried pork skins with hot sauce of course. All of this followed up by two or three or a dozen amigos intent on finding their little place in the sun, eyeing the senoritas and drinking lotsa lotsa cervezas, with and without the Clamato. Amazingly, I never saw anyone get what I’d call out of order and everyone by and large picked up after themselves after the “festivities”. Just having a lota fun. Bueno!

After a while, you settle in to your groove, all of this is the normal. You see the patterns. This group for a week or two, another follows. The same faces the same behaviors, then different. You learn to “read” the beach. It’s all just so cool!!

Reporting from:

Mamita’s Beach, Playa del Carmen, Mexico
The Mercedes Benz sponsored Winter Beach 2012.

A Brief Moment In Time

The hammock stretched taught between the white stucco walls of my patio. It’s “belly” sagging precariously beneath the weight of, my own belly. Contrary to what I’ve always heard, these things aren’t so comfortable. Matter of fact, I think I feel the beginnings of a backache coming on.
It is night, the patio dark. Looking up from my under-sprung slumber, I can see only the bottom of my palapa (palm leaf) roof. Layer upon layer of palm fronds woven into a thatch-like roof supported by peeled lodge poles. I can imagine the artistry required to produce this long lasting and nearly waterproof roof.
Funny, the paths your brain takes in moments of idleness, innit?
Momentarily abandoning my serious inspection of the underside of my palapa roof, I turn my gaze to the left, through the peeled lodge pole railings of my patio and out onto the now dark night and the virtual jungle that is the courtyard three floors below. This little jungle is one of largely coconut palms, ficus , banana palms, even an almond tree. It comes as quite a surprise as you enter into this wholly enclosed courtyard from the street.
My eyes adjust to the light, the full moon above shone through the partial clouds and creates a filtered effect as it passes through the fronds and leaves of the jungle. Strange shapes appear and just as easily disappear.
Across and to the far rear of the courtyard, a golden hued light shines from a stairwell. Before it the giant leaves of a banana palm sway in the gentle breeze, looking all the more like the ears of a great elephant, flaring and waving before the golden glow.
My senses slowly awaken to the front and across from me, the little palapa roofed “Papa’s Bar”, it’s evening crowd just beginning to settle in. The chatter of the guests, the "klink klink" of the glasses and bottles. This evenings performer, a blues artist begins . A not to loud but not too soft Delta Blues number wafts up through the jungle and into my slumber. I don’t recognize the tune, but I do like the blues, I find it very pleasant.
I am content. I am aware of noises coming from the street. I’m sure they were there all along, it’s almost as though I’m waking up and first becoming aware, Voices. I hear voices. Near, far, certainly to the end of the block.
A staccato conversation., Spanish, maybe Italian, just below my patio. Two people I think, back and forth. A bit loud, but jocular, I think.
The low roar of car tires as it passes down the cobbled street and by me. A “ka-thunk ka-thunk”, a bit further down as it runs over something sounding like metal in the road.
Yeah... I think I’ve been hearing this all along, I’m not sure.
Multiple conversations. A cacophony from across the street, a little café, counterpose to those from Papa’s Bar below in the corner of my courtyard.
Blue and red lights flash off of the white stucco walls and the bottom of my palapa roof. I know this to be, maybe not the first, but defiantly not the last pass of the municipal police down the street outside my patio. It is one of the many rhythms I’ve come to expect.
Wow! What was that? A shadowy figure, caught from the corner of my eye. It swooped through the canopy of the “jungle” beside me. What was it? Did I imagine it? Do they have owls here?
The full moon has risen higher. It’s golden light more penetrating the “jungle canopy”. It flickers as the soft breeze sways the fronds and leaves.
The same breeze, blowing across me, relieving the hot moist air of the early evening. It feels so sweet!
I hear it! I hear crickets, no, maybe cicadas, singing softly in the foliage. How had I not heard this?
An Elvis tune? Don’t know Elvis well, punctuating the insect symphony.
“Ka-thunk ka-thunk”, another car passes below. A scooter buzzes and farts along not far behind. A car horn honks just up the block.
Garlic! I smell wonderful garlic! Waves of it.
The jumble of voices, the café across the street, Little Papa’s Bar, one, then another. People walking this way or the other way. The voices rising as they approach and receding as they move away.
Klink! Creeeak! Thonk! The big wooden door into the courtyard below, someone has come in, no wait, or was it out? No in. I hear their footsteps on the flagstones below. Back corner, opposite the “elephant”. I look in his direction. His ears flaring in a defiant challenge. I hear the key at the lock, it opens, with a soft thunk, the door closes.
Papa’s crowd a bit louder, the air of a party just trying to begin. A female voice has joined tonights music A strong, beautiful voice, singing the sweetest blues.
Red and blue lights flashing off the white stucco walls and the bottom of my palapa roof.
“Ka-thunk ka-thunk” as he runs over what ever’s in the road.
Honk of a horn. Someone yells at someone, maybe passing by on foot. What language was that anyway? No matter.
The breeze ruffles the fronds of the palms. The fringe of my palapa.
Low chirp, chirp, chirp of a bird in the canopy, disturbed by something? I don’t know what.
The crickets, or cicadas, the symphony goes on.
Wood smoke, meat cooking. Wow, what a smell! Grilled meat. Where? Where is it?
Like an exclamation point! A trumpets sound sears through the nighttime air. A beautiful, forceful sound. A Mariachi Band? For a moment I hear little else, commanding my undivided attention. Fading, as if turning a corner. Muted, more muted now.
The cacophony of voices returning. Soft Jazz wafting up from Papa’s. The “klink klink” of glasses and bottles.
The now lessening “ka-thunks ka-thunks".
A “rattle, rattle rattle” of a roll-up metal garage door, the kind shop-owners roll down to close-up their shops, rendering the shop invisible to the passerby and hopefully impenetrable to the would-be thief.
Who knew!
Who knew all of this was just outside my patio?
I had surrendered myself to the moment, and, I had found an evenings entertainment. A feast for the senses. The sights, the smells and the sounds, all painting a rich tapestry of the night.
And time? I don’t know. 30 seconds, 30 minutes, or three hours? I just can’t be sure.
Does it matter?
And. Tell me. Where? Where am I ?

Ouch!!
These things really are uncomfortable!

Early Morning On The Beach

There’s just something really special about getting to the beach early in the morning. And, truth be told, I am more a morning person.
The sun is about, popping out from behind the passing puffs of clouds that always seem to be present here. The water “exploding” into that unearthly turquoise glow every time the sun parts from a cloud. The morning breeze dispelling any sense of tropical heat and humidity. The promise of yet another beautiful day, despite the tiny sprinkles falling on my skin at this moment.
The chairs. The umbrellas, they are largely in place and await todays throngs.
The beach crew is here , probably since daybreak, busily raking the seaweed washed ashore last night, digging holes in the sand and burying it. Like most things here it happens everyday. Those daily rhythms I’m always going on about.
At my feet, a little team of Sand Pipers, zigging and zagging, peck pecking at the sand. They are mesmerizing.
An old and stooped woman walks by the waters edge, searching for seashells, her mesh bag by now holds several. I don’t ever see any when I walk the beach, no doubt she is the reason why.
Staff, they all greet me upon arrival, “buenos dias, como esta?” or maybe “todo bien? “, greetings exchanged, wishes for a good day “buen dia”, everyday it starts anew, just as the last.
A few more people wander onto the beach, there to lay claim to their little square of paradise for the day. Front row and center! The privilege of an early arrival, that’s me!
When I was a younger man at the beach, I always wondered , why do the “old gits” always have the front row chairs? Well... now I know. I’m one of those “old gits” now and it’s ‘cause I get here early. The view’s grand and the breezes delicious. As I pass through the chairs behind me, I look at the faces, mostly younger than I, and I just smile.
I gaze to my left, a beautiful arc of white stretching out of sight, rimmed on the left by green palms and on the right by the lovely glow of that turquoise water. Soft white waves wash ashore. Only a few people in sight, milling about the white sand, a few maybe two or three playing in the surf.
Soon, being Sunday, it will be almost cheek to jowl.
But, for now, paradise!
The privileges of an early arrival.

Todo bien!

Hey Mon, don't worry, be happy, get braided

For reasons I don't fully understand myself I have always wanted the "Island Girl braids" so I decided it was time to get me some.

Many of the shops here offer, amoung other things, hair braiding. They have signs in front that say "Your name on a bracelet in 5 minutes, Your name on a grain of rice, Temporary Henna Tattoos and Hair Braiding". Last year I had gotten one of those temporary Henna tattoos, a sleek gecko about 9 inches long on the side of my leg - one that you could not miss. This year I was going to get some braids. Knowing that I wanted to get some, I had eyed for several days, the shop across the street from the hotel. It was one of those small family owned businesses. They offered the general tourist stuff, the mayan calendar plaques, t-shirts, silver jewelry, shell earrings, resin figurines of Spanish dancers, embracing lovers, Mayan pyramids and skull heads, hammocks and those colorful woolly blankets that you can't imagine anyone in the tropics using ... and they braided hair.

I went in the shop and was immediately approached by a very friendly young man. "I am interested in braids" I said. Their sister does the braiding, they told me, "she is a professional". He and his brothers brought out pictures for me to look at and sample braids. "Lady she can be here in 5 minutes, there is a man next door he does the braiding but they are fat, my sister do fine braids, she is a professional" . They kept showing me pictures and the hair she used for extensions "Lady you should get extensions". "It takes between 2 - 21/2 hours to get all of it braided - my sister is a professional". I was about to learn that Mexican hours are like country miles.

Just as they predicted she was there in minutes and before I knew it I was getting my hair braided. For a while they were interested in me, talking to me in broken English about which hip-hop artists they liked, did I like Mexico, how early his baby daughter woke him up this morning. One of the guys even tried to sell me some silver jewelry while I getting my hair braided - I think the look on my face made him realize the futility of it.

After a while I became invisible to them. and they went about their business while the sister braided my hair and braided my hair and braided my hair. A roaming mariachi band cranked up at a nearby Italian restaraunt to seranade the tourists for tips. They played what seems to be the same song all mariachi bands play, but this band had an incredible trumpeter. Lost in the moment one of the brothers moved into the street and danced that fast feet shuffle they do to that music. The brothers stood in the street calling to the tourists trying to get them in the shop to have a look and spend some pesos.

After a couple of hours the brothers started closing up the shop taking down the hammocks, t-shirts and moving the table of silver jewelry back into the shop. They hung grates up over the opening and closed the gate reminding their sister how to lock the gate. And their sister kept braiding my hair.

After they left, she put in a CD of slower Mexican ballads and sang low and sweetly while she braided my hair and braided my hair and braided my hair. "Lady you can be my assistant" she said showing me to hold my hands up and spread my fingers. She laced little bits of the fake hair for the extensions between my fingers so she could grab them when she was ready without having to stop the braiding. Over and over she partitioned tiny sections of hair on my head and braided, adding in the hair extentsions. She must have laced hair in my 10 fingers, 4 or 5 times. You could tell that she took pride in what she did and she even said "I like my job too much" and she braided on. "Lady you can wash with leetle, leetle shampoo and much water, one day yes, 3 days no, one day yes, 3 days no". This I took to mean you can wash it every 4 days. "Ok to swim tho". I couldn't figure out how swimming was ok but the washing was not, I guess it must be that "leetle, leetle" shampoo that is the problem.

At one point a tourist couple came by looking in thru the grates at the wares. "Come in, come in, look please" she said and managed to lure them in all the while braiding my hair. "You like" she said as they were admiring a tacky tourist mayan calendar plaque, " 20 dollars US", she said. The man indicated it was too much, she stopped braiding momentarily and looked the plaque up in a booklet as if it was a rare artifact "180 pesos" she said. They haggled, she braided my hair and they settled on 150 pesos, which is about $11 dollars US.

After a while a friend of hers showed up and stood outside the grates talking at high speed in Spanish - they chatted and she braided my hair. The friend left and she resumed singing the Mexican ballads, it was the same CD and just kept playing over and over, after a while I could have sang along.

After just 4 1/2 short hours I heard what I had been anxiously waiting to hear "Ok lady feenished". She showed me in the mirror - I was shocked I looked so different with the long "Island Girl braids". She had done a magnificint job, I later counted 58 braids, each about 14 inches long, no wonder it took 4 1/2 hours. They were very fine braids, not the fat ones, and just as her brother had said, "she was a professional". Before leaving I asked her name - Sandra, which they pronounce Sondra, hmmm, what a coincidence.

One of the little secrets about getting your hair braided all over is that you get a complementary face lift - they pull the braids very tight - I guess so they will stay in. As they braid you don't notice this, but the more the braid, it is cummulative. It makes your head throb a bit, but you get used to it. The next day I walk by the shop and the sister came out to greet me. "Lady you like your braids?" She admired her work and touched the braids on top of my still throbbing head. "Too much ouch?" she asks. I said "Si, un poco" ("yes, a little) "You come back in a week and I will switch the elastics". Apparently the rubber bands break down from the sun, but actually some of them snapped over night but the hair stays braided because .... did I mention ... the braids are very tight.

I guess I must have had some sub-conscious Bo Derek envy, remember the movie "10" from circa 1980? That head full of braids? Well, now I got my own. I have always been slow to follow fads, which is why just 30 years later I jumped on this one. I have to admit in all honestly that I would not have done it if I had know it would take 4 1/2 hours and your head would throb when it was done. But , thanks to the young man's over salesmanship and under estimate of how long it would take, I figuratively speaking, had "scrathed an itch". Now a few days later, I literally want to "scratch an itch". Once the throbbing stops the itching starts, I think partly from the feeling returning to your scalp and partly from the "wash one day yes, three days no". I can't wait to cut off the rubber bands and give my head the scratching and the scrubbing of its life.

Hey Mon ... Don't get braided, be happy

P.S.

The truth is I didn't think the braids flattered me at all, but it is a little hard to come to terms with that after spending 4 1/2 hours getting it done and quite a few pesos. They were uncomfortable to sleep on and there was "too much ouch" and "too much itch". I only lasted 4 days with the braids. Now I find out what takes 2 to 2 1/2 hours that the young man had said. It is the removing of the braids. Kevin spent a little over 2 hours taking out the braids. Clipping the extension ends off and using a pencil to unbraid the hair, you have to start at the bottom and work up the braid removing each overlap, if you try to start higher the hair tangles horribly. Kevin did not sing Mexican ballads low and sweetly while he unbraided the hair and he did not "like his work too much", but he was a trooper and did unbraid my hair. I don't think I could have done it myself. Once done I had the afro of all afros. I had to brush my hair quite a while but it did not tame down until I washed it and used some conditioner and then it was just as if the braids had never been there. That is the most I ever enjoyed washing my hair. We both agreed that I would not have my hair braided all over again. So I have done the temporary tattoo, the head full of all braids, I think in the future there is a gonna be a grain of rice with my name all over it.