I like Puerto Vallarta so much because the visual feast that one sees everyday encourages my mind to take a more philosophic bent toward life.
Last week, for instance, I was meandering along the seaside malecon, which is a sort of a brick boardwalk, when I was drawn to the edge by the sound of small rocks being pushed back and forth by the constant surf, making a distinct rumbling noise that was far from unpleasant. I suddenly had a vision of these rocks, wandering the bottom of the ocean for two millennia or so and now having finally made it to shore where they can sun themselves forever.
At the same time a family of four came rollicking along the beach, all overweight and breathing heavily. The two children, holding potato chips and cokes, ran into the water, but only up to their ankles and screamed happily while their giant parents looked on proudly. Suddenly one of the wretched offspring stubbed his large toe on one of the exhausted rocks trying to make the last few yards to freedom. After shouting abuse at the poor stone, the frightful child picked up the innocent chunk and hurled it far out into the surf, no doubt condemning it to another thousand years underwater.
I reeled from this injustice; however if I took the philosophical point of view, what I had just witnessed was very much like life itself and therefore a lesson. Not sure what lesson, though, maybe watch out for fat families.
At the same time I cannot stop thinking of our cats, Pericles and Bertram. These cats have now reached, according to the estimate of our last dipsomaniac veterinarian, approximately 15 years of age. This would make them elderly felines. How long will they go on? The Bible tells us Abraham had a child at 100 years of age and lived till 175. Methuselah, the son of Enoch, lived until he was 969 for heaven’s sake. The cats, dare I say it, seem to be becoming stronger as the years go on. I refuse to pass away before them. It is not fair
I find it difficult to be calmly resigned about the cats, as it is extremely tough to separate the fearful smells of everyday life with them and the higher plain of a Socratic outlook. I cannot seem to put aside my utter dislike for them, but that should not make me a bad person.
The cats seem headed toward 20 or older, which is not fair, as one hears most weeks of terrible tragedies taking away the young and middle-aged, not to mention the expectant seniors. Why couldn’t something “sad” happen to the felines, as their time with us here on earth is more than up? But no. They snooze all day before walking to their overflowing bowls, where they eat happily, and then, after a few desultory stretches, return regally to their still warm beds. How will they ever pass to their reward doing that all day? Something must be done or I shall go mad.
I must not brood on things like the cats as that is not why I came to this asylum by the sea. It was to nourish the grey cells and eat fresh everything. It really is extraordinary how all a farmer has to do here is to put a stick in the ground. The earth in PV is so fecund that something will grow. !
The vegetables and fruit that we digest here are the richest and freshest I have experienced in my long life. My wife Kitty fairly dances with delight at the thought of a Mexican salad. It might sound disloyal, but the club salad of wet lettuce, diced carrots with a glob of mayonnaise and a hosing of oil and vinegar pales beside the Puerto Vallarta variety.
Salads in Puerto Vallarta are a combination of vegetables, fruits and all sorts of nuts that bring strong men to tears. This and the sauces combine to magnify the difference between dining in Canada and Mexico.
Now I know there is nothing more lethal than a Mexican hot dog, but then again I will not be eating those anytime soon, if ever. Instead Kitty and I wander through the indigenous markets, which include fish caught that morning, while the tourist market with its scented candles and the like could be in Vancouver. We uncover new and exciting Mexicana every week. What a thrill.
Of course I do look forward to returning to my chair by the sea at the club in Victoria, and my roast beef lunches with the raisin pie finish. One cannot find a decent raisin pie here for want of trying, but still that is to be expected. However no one seems to know what horseradish is. There is still work to be done.
Copyright Major’s Corner 2015.
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