The first of September

croissant
Dining room table awaits croissants from the oven. I’m the maître d’.

IT’S A MORNING like most mornings, and here’s how it goes.

I get up first and check the news online upstairs. My child bride stays in bed and knits. She doesn’t do this every morning, but mornings over the past couple of months, yes.

Around 8ish, I return downstairs to light the oven where croissants already lie in wait. Then I walk to the bedroom to open the curtains, which were half open all night. I look out the window. Of course, what I see is color, but here it’s just black & white.

br

It’s cool, overcast and gray this morning, so black & white seems right. In the other direction, my child bride continues under the covers with her knitting. Or maybe it’s crocheting. I dunno. It all looks the same to me.

knit
Lazybones still in the sack, not noticing I’m taking her picture. Just as well.

I leave the bedroom and head back toward the  kitchen, passing through the living room where I pause to gaze outside. Looking good.

terraza
The living room window.

At last, she puts the handiwork aside, lifts herself out of sack, walks to the kitchen where the timer just sounded that the croissants are nice and hot.

September’s off to a good start. Plus, it’s Sunday, a day of rest.

* * * *

Note: A couple of hours later, the sun was out, and the sky was blue. Still cool, however.

The crack of dawn

YEARS AGO I would get out of bed between 5 and 6 a.m. Often I would have thought of something to write here on The Moon. But even if I didn’t, I would wake up early.

It’s said that you require less sleep as you age, 5 hours or so instead of 7 or 8. I was living the stereotype. But that changed a few months ago, and now I sleep in till 7 a.m. I don’t know why. The Savings Time switch didn’t help matters. I don’t want to rise in the dark.

It’s getting dimly light by 7. If I wake before then, say 6:30, I just lie there and listen to the sounds. Dogs, chickens, birds, the occasional burro.

They all wake with me, my morning amigos.

One thing I do not listen to is my child bride who makes absolutely no sound whatsoever while she sleeps. It’s quite strange, like I’m lying beside a corpse.

Since it’s May, the bedroom window is wide open. When we hit the hay around 10:30, it’s stuffy, so I turn on the tower fan, which is a very nice fan. It’s got a timer, and turns off around 2 a.m., which is when the atmosphere changes, starts to get cooler.

We first encountered a tower fan in a hotel eight or more years ago in Valle del Bravo where we overnighted during a detour driving to Mexico City. It’s a popular getaway spot for Mexico City residents. We’d never been there. We left the next day unimpressed.

The best thing we took away from Valle del Bravo was the memory of that tower fan. We finally bought one a year ago.

The view through our bedroom window is lovely at dawn, the plants and shadows combined with the animal sounds get the day off to a great start. And, of course, waking to a new day is desirable at my age, not guaranteed.

While my child bride sleeps like a corpse next to me, I don’t want her to have a real one next to her on any morning, but that will happen one day, I suppose.

But it did not happen today.

Instead of a corpse, she’ll have a croissant. And so will I.

Bagels and orchids

orchids
Leaning toward the sunlight.

WHEN BEACH BUM Steve Cotton and some of his kin stayed in our Downtown Casita in February he was gracious enough to leave these orchids as gesture of gracias.

Since then, this has been the morning scene as I breakfast on bagels and cream cheese lite or sometimes croissantitos and orange marmalade. It’s a good way to start my Mexican mornings. We moved the flower from the Casita to the Hacienda, obviously.

This was February, but not last month. Not last year either. But February of 2017. Except for a week or two fairly recently when it took a breather, this baby has sported orchids nonstop for more than two years.

How about dem apples? Or should I say orchids?

The AMLO sandwich

sandwich
What might have been and what perhaps still will be.

THE POPULIST president Mexico elected last year got off to a rip-roaring start in December, his first month in office. He wasted no time in causing chaos. He’s known by his initials, AMLO.

Here’s what he did, if you can believe it. Mexico has a longstanding and, apparently increasing, problem with gasoline theft by organized gangs. Their favored modus operandi is to tap into a pipeline, preferably in the boonies, and siphon it into tanker trucks.

Mexico is a major oil producer and has lots of refineries.

AMLO’s solution to this problem is to stop sending gasoline via pipelines and to transport it instead in Pemex tanker trucks, often accompanied by armed patrols. The fly in this ointment is that you cannot send anywhere nearly as much gasoline by tanker trucks as you can by pipeline.

This has resulted in severe gasoline shortages in parts of the country. Alas, one of the heaviest hit parts is right here on my mountaintop.

Most of our gas stations are closed all day. The ones that occasionally have gasoline have lines up to a half-mile long. I drove by one yesterday afternoon just up the highway from the Hacienda.

Here is an apt analogy to AMLO’s solution to the pipeline thefts: Say you want to halt bank robberies. The obvious remedy is to remove money from banks, right? Unfortunately, while bank robbers won’t have access to money in the banks, neither will customers.

* * * *

The AMLO sandwich?

Until this situation gets resolved, we’re not wasting gasoline on our habitual weekly drives to the nearby capital city to high-brow shop at Costco and Superama.

We’re sticking close to home. The Honda still has nearly three-quarters of a tank of petrol because I filled up Dec. 31 and have driven little since.

Costco is where I’ve purchased hydroponic lettuce for our nightly salads for years. I used the final lettuce Thursday night. Since no supermarket where I live stocks hydroponic lettuce, I planned to switch to egg sandwiches.

I was planning on calling them AMLO sandwiches.  It would have been a painful transition in spite of the fact that I like egg sandwiches. We are critters of habit.

But yesterday I decided to check the lettuce in our mountaintop supermarket. No hydroponic, of course. The store’s nod to highbrow is some sort of Italian greenery, so I bought four questionable bunches, brought them home and disinfected them.

No need to disinfect Costco’s hydroponic lettuce. It’s fast and easy.

We have bagels for only three mornings more, and the croissants are all gone. We’re just six weeks into AMLO’s six-year term.

This could get mighty ugly.

We are the bourgeoisie, so I guess we had it coming.

* * * *

(Here’s a Washington Post story on our gasoline crisis.)