Shakespeare tells us concerning youth: “My salad days / When I was green in judgement, cold in blood.”
If “salad days” represent my youth, then I must be on my second course of dessert. Where did time go?
Author: Major Nigel (Page 18 of 39)
Before I continue with our misadventures of buying a condo in Mexico circa 2011, I would like to pause to give you some of my thoughts on the little tourist town of Puerto Vallarta that my wife and I have come to love.
I was thinking of Honore de Balzac the other day, odd perhaps, but that is what a club is for, to have the time to examine different paths. A huge man with enormous appetites who rarely bathed, Balzac wrote 12 hours a day, every day. His masterpiece, The Human Comedy, deals in novel form with France as a sort of “people-watching” nation in the post-Napoleonic times in which he lived.
Step 8 to buying a condo in Puerto Vallarta.
So back to Puerto Vallarta. I flew in July 2011 to a steamy, rainy and hot Mexican beach town. I decided to stay at the historic and oldest hotel in “Centro” PV, the Rosita, but as my cheeky children like to remind me, the hotel is two years younger than I am.
New Year’s always comes as a profound shock to me as I am not ready for it. In fact I loathe it, particularly at my time of life. To me it appears to be a rush to the grave.
All this jumping around about another 365 days down the drain and they are not coming back. If one knew that one had but 10 years left on this planet before the high jump or approximately 3,650 days, how happy would one be to celebrate the loss of 10 per cent? It would be a calamity, not a celebration. Staggering towards your personal Golgotha is not, repeat not, a time for light-hearted greetings and stupid smiles. Gnashing of teeth and renting of clothing in utter despair is more like it. Bah!
I have always disliked hugging people I know at the best of times, but complete strangers? Out of the question. There is no excuse for that, no matter what the reason or season. Whoever invented the frightful “group hug” ought to be strung up at the next sunrise. It is an appalling habit and should be done away with immediately. I think you take my point: I do not like New Year’s.
I am always being asked what Kitty and I do to pass the night in question. “Nothing much” is the answer. I am a great believer in Sartre’s philosophy: Hell is other people.
It must be said that Kitty has fought me over the absence of celebration in our household, but nothing doing in that area. She still tries to attack my forthrightness on the subject with inane phrases such as, “Jack and Mabel thought they might drop by tonight, you don’t mind do you, Nigel?”
This my cue for showing tremens in my lower quarters, while letting my tongue slide out of my mouth as if in the throes of a minor stroke. I have even gone as far as being found on the en-suite washroom floor with shaving cream about my lips, speaking in a made-up language. These falsehoods have served their purpose. We have been left on our own for years. Jack and Mabel will not be “dropping by” this year or any other, besides I am not at all sure I even know who they are.
At one time the club provided a very nice New Year’s early dinner at 6 p.m., with the normal midnight outrage taking place at a reasonable and much subdued 8 p.m., meaning home in bed with lights out by 10 p.m. All well and good one, until the club felt it was not earning enough for the club exchequer with what the new board called “the Old People’s Party.”
What a cheek to say that about us, but they went with the more traditional midnight party the next year.
Now don’t quote me, as it is just a rumour, but I am told by one reliable factotum that several of the club women were seen dancing without brassieres. The waiters did not know where to look and one or two staff resigned the next day. Also several men undid their cufflinks in direct contravention of club Rule 42; Subsection 109, Sleeve Wear. Madness, you see.
Then apparently mass hugs took place at midnight, whereupon the staff rioted, running for the doors in an effort to clear their heads. Several committees have been convened to examine the depths to which the club has fallen because of outrageous conduct on New Year’s, but takings are up, sad to say, so I am sure nothing will come of it.
We are down in Mexico this year for a few months and so will celebrate the end-of-year party in the tropical fashion: Explosions. They call them fireworks, but anything that goes on for more than 100 minutes can only be compared to the Battle of the Somme. Then the locals turn up the music and drink themselves silly, only turning off the noise when they awaken about 9 a.m.
We attempt to deaden the noise by shutting all windows and doors, turning on the air conditioning, then pumping up the whale music, hoping we can get some sleep. It is better than nothing and I don’t have to hug drunken club mems.
The really great thing about all the noise is that the bangs of explosives make the cats, Bertram and Pericles, do nervous backflips, which is very amusing to watch.
Happy New Year.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2014
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