I know this is perhaps not the place to say anything about club women, but dash it all, they do try my patience. For instance, most mornings I come into the club’s senior reading room accompanied by my eager mind and still-full lips. I nod to a few raised heads acknowledging my arrival, then plunge into the waiting newspapers from around the world that the club flunkies have laid out on the large wooden table that dominates the room.
When we first moved to Puerto Vallarta, I was afraid to go to the nearby supermarket, Leys, because, well, it appeared so Mexican.
Most of my loyal readers will recall that I have a Wednesday morning club advice hour, when I dole out the wisdom that I have accrued over a long lifetime to mems who have problems. These can range from the home front to the everyday goings-on at the club and all and sundry found throughout life itself. My helping hour has acquired a nickname: “The Queue.”
I sometimes wonder how many more surprises this world has in store for me and why it is that at my great age I have not yet experienced them all by now.
You never know what you are going to pick up as a new talent when you move to Mexico. Many of my friends, for instance, have become fluent in Spanish after immersing themselves in language classes for eight hours a day for months.
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