Where hippies still live

hippie

YESTERDAY ON the main plaza downtown, I noticed this old gent. He looks like a Gringo, not a Mexican, but I cannot be sure.

I’m guessing he took the wrong exit out of Woodstock in 1969 and ended up South of the Border when he intended to head toward Haight-Ashbury.

That strange Americans, sometimes on the lam but usually not, have long moved to Mexico is a fact. But many more normal folks are now retiring here because it’s cheaper, and because they think Mexicans are sooo nice. Earlier on, many came down to escape their lives north of the border. That was certainly my story. Escape.

Speaking of hippies, fellow retired newspaperman and blogger Al Lanier recently said there are no hippies in San Miguel de Allende near where he lives. I burst out laughing because there certainly are, thousands of them.

I’d wager that 90 percent of the mess of Gringos who move to San Miguel were stoned and swaying during 1967’s Summer of Love. Probably the fellow in the photo was there too. But San Miguel’s former hippies are now simply far older and wealthier.

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When I arrived home yesterday afternoon, I noticed this view, the colors and light mostly but the bougainvillea too. This is one of my three bougainvilleas that know their places. My sole monster bougainvillea will join them soon in size and good breeding.

But mostly, I just like the late-afternoon colors. The name of the paint color on that wall is Hacienda Red. Really. But any nincompoop can see it’s orange.

bougain
I subject this plant to stern discipline.

Life on the streets

vendors

I’VE NOT BEEN shooting as many photos as I used to. I’m good at photography, so this is a loss to the art world. The main reason is that my best camera, a Canon, is heavy, and I  weary of lugging it in my man bag.

So I’ve taken to toting the other camera, a Fujifilm Finepix, which is far lighter, but the zoom is significantly less. I have to be closer to things. No matter. I used the Finepix yesterday to get the above shot of street vendors. I’m acquainted with those two. They are very friendly people though they look quite serious in the photo.

paulaframe

I also got this photo of Paula Romina, a great-niece of mine. It appears she was happy to see me. Maybe she was just happy to see the camera. She’s a drama queen.

I’m going to make a matte hard copy of that photo for her parents.

I have no grandchildren, nor nieces and nephews above the border and never will have. My father’s only sister was a lesbian. My only sister is a (grumpy) lesbian. My mother was an only child. My sole offspring, a daughter, is almost 53 and childless.

Our line of the family ends with my daughter. We are so conflictive and nuts, especially the distaff side, perhaps it’s for the best. Dr. Laura pointed out that it’s men who cause problems between nations, but it’s women who cause problems in families. Quite so.

What I lack in living Gringo relatives, I make up in Mexican relatives. While the generation of my child bride has passed beyond child-bearing age, the generation just after is breeding like bunnies, often without the benefit of matrimony.

If you’ve not seen my great collection of black-and-white shots, feel free to see it here.

A sunny Sunday

New Image
Photo by Paul Whalen.

DAWN DEBUTED sunny today, and it is cool and nice.

Cool being the weather, not the overused adjective.

Hauling my body from the king bed at 7, I looked out the window and saw a black-vented oriole in the bottle-brush tree. Approaching spring brings new birds hereabouts.

After getting a glass of water and a piece of toast from the kitchen, I came upstairs, where I now sit, fired up the H-P All-in-One at my desk to begin the news day. There is a bank of windows in the wall where I face, one being directly behind the H-P All-in-One.

The view has been cleaned up since a technician came a few days ago and removed an unsightly WiFi antenna that disrupted my sight of the mountains.

So Sunday, vista-wise and other wises too, is getting off to a great start, certainly better than what happened yesterday with the dead bat in a pot.