I was just reading a short story in a book of short stories, by author Stuart Mclean. A friend of mine, Dave, lent it to me. Dave is Helen’s husband and Helen is the real estate agent, extraordinaire, who found us the perfect lot on which to build our new home here in La Cruz. That is La Cruz de Huanacaxtle. The huanacaxtle is the name of a particular tree that is indigenous to this area. This story isn’t about La Cruz and it is somewhat of a shame that huanacaxtle is such a long name since it uses up so much space in a story that isn’t even about it. I’m glad to get that out of the way so I can continue with what I was about to say in the first place. I should add though, that this isn’t to say that La Cruz de Huanacaxtle is not worth writing about. I have a feeling that one needs not walk too far down one of its shaded cobbled streets in order to unearth a wealth of hidden tales and secrets.
Dave likes to lend me books. Actually, the lending of books seems to be a fairly common activity here, around Banderas Bay. Maybe it’s partly because a lot of people have the luxury of plenty of time to read. The book he lent me previous to this one was Three Day Road, a story of native Canadians fighting in Europe in the First World War. I really enjoyed the book. In return I lent Dave a copy of The Idiot, by Dostoevsky. Now, The Idiot is not really such an easy read. Well, I should say that it wasn’t too easy for me. For all I know the average person might just breeze right through it. But I had found the book, on sale, really cheap, along with a few other classics including a couple by Homer. By the time I finished The Idiot I pretty much felt like one. That is to say I felt even more like one than before I had started it. But I did manage to finish it. Since then I have opened one of Homer’s books, read a page or two, and then set it back carefully onto the bookshelf, for another day, perhaps. The Idiot was lent to Dave as a kind of prank. You know, to get even with him for lending me a book and having the gumption to say that I would really enjoy it. If you see him please don’t tell him this because it could easily affect my being able to play a joke on him in the future. But Dave did finish the book. I know this because he talked about the story briefly with me. And it didn’t seem to turn him into an idiot. It didn’t seem to change him at all. I hate when that happens.
So here we were, having dinner and drinks, twelve of us. More drinks than dinner. This was one of those casual events organized by Helen, you know, Dave’s wife. Helen loves to get people together like this. I suspect she is quite gregarious, at least at those times when she can stand to be around other people. This particular gathering was in Old Town, Puerto Vallarta, at a place called Langostino’s. I’m not here to plug the name of this establishment and if the food and drinks and service weren’t so excellent I would not recommend it at all. In fact, the music wasn’t good at all. So we began, more or less collectively, to get up and add our own contributions to the sound. The noise then, of course, managed to get a whole lot worse, rather quickly. It didn’t bother any of us though and we barely noticed other patrons beginning to exit. If one could, then I suppose one would, try to blame this on the curse of the Happy Hour. I did mention that there were twelve of us sitting at the table. Eight were drinking red wine and at one point I counted fifteen glasses of, as yet unfinished, vino tinto. I do stuff like that, like counting the number of unfinished glasses of wine on a table. Again, perhaps a result of having too much ‘free’ time. More likely the result of having the brain of an idiot.
Gradually, my wife and I are getting to know more and more people around here. This particular group is a bit of an anomaly, though. The males consisted of Gene, myself and four guys named Dave. Not even a Davey or David among them. Just Dave times four. My wife and I were the last to arrive at the table. I had barely sat down when Dave hands me two books. “You’re gonna love these,” he says. I asked him why he would say that and he replies, “Because they remind me of you”. Oh, great, I’m thinking. I only recently loaned him The Idiot and he got through that without any apparent psychological damage and now he gives me something ‘funny’ to read that reminds him of me. Maybe he can see right through me. I hate when that happens. He then asks me if I have finished Three Day Road because Dave would like to read it next. Meanwhile, another Dave is talking to Gene about Theoren Fleury’s book. And then another Dave, please don’t ask me which one, adds that it is such a great read that you can barely put it down.
You will have to forgive me at this point if I don’t remember too much of the rest of that evening. Again, the curse of the Happy Hour. As if we need happy hour around here.
Back to my story, I’m reading one of the books Dave lent me and the author brings up a brief anecdote about Christmas. You know, Canadian style Christmas. Bing Crosby style ‘white’ Christmas. And for some reason it dawns on me that we only experience two seasons down here. Winter and summer. Cool and dry, warm and wet. But up north there are typically four seasons, although a lot of Canadians would dispute that. We’ve been coming here for three winters now. Sometimes I like to tell people that I miss the winter. You know, shovelling snow and stuff like that. When I say things like that my wife thinks I’m an idiot. Oh oh! Is there a pattern beginning to form here?
We are getting near my point now. My wife and I were having lunch at the Marina here in La Cruz. There are three main marinas in the bay. They each have their own terrific ambiance. There is a yacht club here that is open to the public. It is a beautiful, quiet place and is just another great example of how many different sorts of experiences one can have around Banderas Bay. This particular time we had gone back because we wanted to find out whether she could get the shrimp quesadillas for the same price as the previous time. This is one of their appetizers and yet it is large enough that she cannot finish it and asks me to help her. Twenty pesos, just same price as last time. If this is a mistake then we can only hope that no one ever brings attention to it. Please don’t mention it to anyone.
There is a very large yacht typically docked next to the yacht club. It has signage reading Four Seasons Resort, Punta Mita. Now, Punta Mita is situated at the northwest point of Banderas Bay. And while there are plenty of well to do people spread around the bay, it is my understanding that the really big money is in Punta Mita. If you want to drive there from Puerto Vallarta then you will pass through the sleepy town of La Cruz. I have a feeling that a lot of the people who go there travel by other means like helicopter, ridiculously large yacht or sailboat. People like Jack Nicklaus and Greg Norman and those who can afford to play at their custom designed golf courses. Or buy one of the multi-million dollar lots to build your dream home.
So my wife and I are enjoying our absurdly inexpensive lunch (our secret, right!) and I’m watching a handful of fellows carefully detailing this rather large yacht. Four Seasons Resort, Punta Mita. Four Seasons? I don’t think so, but what’s in a name, anyway?
Dave likes to lend me books. Actually, the lending of books seems to be a fairly common activity here, around Banderas Bay. Maybe it’s partly because a lot of people have the luxury of plenty of time to read. The book he lent me previous to this one was Three Day Road, a story of native Canadians fighting in Europe in the First World War. I really enjoyed the book. In return I lent Dave a copy of The Idiot, by Dostoevsky. Now, The Idiot is not really such an easy read. Well, I should say that it wasn’t too easy for me. For all I know the average person might just breeze right through it. But I had found the book, on sale, really cheap, along with a few other classics including a couple by Homer. By the time I finished The Idiot I pretty much felt like one. That is to say I felt even more like one than before I had started it. But I did manage to finish it. Since then I have opened one of Homer’s books, read a page or two, and then set it back carefully onto the bookshelf, for another day, perhaps. The Idiot was lent to Dave as a kind of prank. You know, to get even with him for lending me a book and having the gumption to say that I would really enjoy it. If you see him please don’t tell him this because it could easily affect my being able to play a joke on him in the future. But Dave did finish the book. I know this because he talked about the story briefly with me. And it didn’t seem to turn him into an idiot. It didn’t seem to change him at all. I hate when that happens.
So here we were, having dinner and drinks, twelve of us. More drinks than dinner. This was one of those casual events organized by Helen, you know, Dave’s wife. Helen loves to get people together like this. I suspect she is quite gregarious, at least at those times when she can stand to be around other people. This particular gathering was in Old Town, Puerto Vallarta, at a place called Langostino’s. I’m not here to plug the name of this establishment and if the food and drinks and service weren’t so excellent I would not recommend it at all. In fact, the music wasn’t good at all. So we began, more or less collectively, to get up and add our own contributions to the sound. The noise then, of course, managed to get a whole lot worse, rather quickly. It didn’t bother any of us though and we barely noticed other patrons beginning to exit. If one could, then I suppose one would, try to blame this on the curse of the Happy Hour. I did mention that there were twelve of us sitting at the table. Eight were drinking red wine and at one point I counted fifteen glasses of, as yet unfinished, vino tinto. I do stuff like that, like counting the number of unfinished glasses of wine on a table. Again, perhaps a result of having too much ‘free’ time. More likely the result of having the brain of an idiot.
Gradually, my wife and I are getting to know more and more people around here. This particular group is a bit of an anomaly, though. The males consisted of Gene, myself and four guys named Dave. Not even a Davey or David among them. Just Dave times four. My wife and I were the last to arrive at the table. I had barely sat down when Dave hands me two books. “You’re gonna love these,” he says. I asked him why he would say that and he replies, “Because they remind me of you”. Oh, great, I’m thinking. I only recently loaned him The Idiot and he got through that without any apparent psychological damage and now he gives me something ‘funny’ to read that reminds him of me. Maybe he can see right through me. I hate when that happens. He then asks me if I have finished Three Day Road because Dave would like to read it next. Meanwhile, another Dave is talking to Gene about Theoren Fleury’s book. And then another Dave, please don’t ask me which one, adds that it is such a great read that you can barely put it down.
You will have to forgive me at this point if I don’t remember too much of the rest of that evening. Again, the curse of the Happy Hour. As if we need happy hour around here.
Back to my story, I’m reading one of the books Dave lent me and the author brings up a brief anecdote about Christmas. You know, Canadian style Christmas. Bing Crosby style ‘white’ Christmas. And for some reason it dawns on me that we only experience two seasons down here. Winter and summer. Cool and dry, warm and wet. But up north there are typically four seasons, although a lot of Canadians would dispute that. We’ve been coming here for three winters now. Sometimes I like to tell people that I miss the winter. You know, shovelling snow and stuff like that. When I say things like that my wife thinks I’m an idiot. Oh oh! Is there a pattern beginning to form here?
We are getting near my point now. My wife and I were having lunch at the Marina here in La Cruz. There are three main marinas in the bay. They each have their own terrific ambiance. There is a yacht club here that is open to the public. It is a beautiful, quiet place and is just another great example of how many different sorts of experiences one can have around Banderas Bay. This particular time we had gone back because we wanted to find out whether she could get the shrimp quesadillas for the same price as the previous time. This is one of their appetizers and yet it is large enough that she cannot finish it and asks me to help her. Twenty pesos, just same price as last time. If this is a mistake then we can only hope that no one ever brings attention to it. Please don’t mention it to anyone.
There is a very large yacht typically docked next to the yacht club. It has signage reading Four Seasons Resort, Punta Mita. Now, Punta Mita is situated at the northwest point of Banderas Bay. And while there are plenty of well to do people spread around the bay, it is my understanding that the really big money is in Punta Mita. If you want to drive there from Puerto Vallarta then you will pass through the sleepy town of La Cruz. I have a feeling that a lot of the people who go there travel by other means like helicopter, ridiculously large yacht or sailboat. People like Jack Nicklaus and Greg Norman and those who can afford to play at their custom designed golf courses. Or buy one of the multi-million dollar lots to build your dream home.
So my wife and I are enjoying our absurdly inexpensive lunch (our secret, right!) and I’m watching a handful of fellows carefully detailing this rather large yacht. Four Seasons Resort, Punta Mita. Four Seasons? I don’t think so, but what’s in a name, anyway?
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