The boat teaches many lessons in conservation. This is part of an ongoing series of posts about how we boaters do more with considerably less. The tips are valid for land based life as well, though, so hopefully folks can use some of these ideas.
I found a bag of winter clothes this week while cleaning out the master cabin lockers. I should say “another bag of winter clothes.” We lived in Seattle for so long, I begin to think I could pull fleece, flannel, and long sleeved shirts out my butt for a year before completely shedding the old life. A fellow cruiser from the same part of the country admits she carries on her boat at least a full bag of her favorites from the old life... as if a boat which for the foreseeable future will never travel north of 38 ever needs a pair of wool socks. I nearly pitched the found treasure full of jeans, sweatshirts, and two scarves overboard until my charitable self agreed to keep it until the next time we find a place to donate the stuff. Ironically, when the temperature drops to 60 in Mexico, they actually pull on these gifts from overheated Pacific Northwesterners.
But it got me to thinking about how dramatically our family has reduced the quantity of clothing we own. Granted, we don't have jobs or school driving us to enhance our wardrobe. On the other hand, I've learned so much about living with less, I can't see that I'll ever need a walk in closet again. Even my clothes-horse eldest child agrees that there are many ways to reduce the volume and cost of your garment bag. The following are our ideas on the subject of doing more with less clothing:
One Year Rule – Throw it away if you haven't worn it in one year. If you live in a location with a relatively tame climate, you can reduce the time horizon to six months. The point is that the stories you tell yourself about wearing an item are self-delusional lies. You won't wear the pants that don't fit you today. You won't need the fancy coat, the slinky dress, the heels. If you haven't had occasion to pull them out off the rack or out of the drawer in the last year, then it's time to donate the item to someone who will.
It's Gross, Destroy It – Ladies, you know what I mean. The Stain says, “Throw me out.” I'm sorry, but there is a reason my Mom keeps sending me new panties. She has a 1 for 1 rule. She sends one, I'm required to throw one out. The bra with the broken under wire, the favorite shirt with the wine stain that you're positive some magic goop somewhere will get rid of, the Led Zeppelin shirt so worn you can actually count the number of hairs on your husband's chest when he wears it... these all must go. Don't give them away. That's insulting, rude, and wasteful. Just shred them.
Create a Look – Rather than investing in a dozen outfits to wear to work, create a look which involves interchangeable tops and bottoms but is effectively the same every day. Dressing for success doesn't mean variety unless you are in the fashion industry. For most of us, it involves cleanliness, consistency, and forgetability. Boring as it might seem, my look back in the day was clean, pressed khaki jeans, black boots, and a branded company shirt. Every day for nearly seven years. My look today is unwashed hair and a t-shirt dress that falls to my knees. Okay, it's embarrassing but it suits my current job.
Thrift Stores Are Your Friend – I can't believe I ever bought anything new. It's improbable that I will ever do so again. Panties, bras, socks, and good shoes are the only items I recommend purchasing fresh and shiny. Everything else can be had in almost new condition from your local consignment and thrift stores. For kids, you can even get the socks and shoes. Sometimes you can get good deals on second run tennis shoes, Crocs, and sandals. Always check the book and wine glass racks while you're there... if only out of sympathy for Toast who lives on a boat in Mexico with three girls who are rabid readers and destroyers of glassware.
Launder Frequently – Three messages on laundering... First, make sure that everything you own can be laundered in the same load without consideration for color, fabric, temperature, or fancy additives. You do not want to sort. It's a complete waste of time and energy. Second, make sure that everything you own can be washed in no more than two loads, three if you count the sheets and towels. Third, get a clothes basket only big enough for a single load and wash it the instant it is full. Washing frequently reduces your need for clothing volume. It's also easier. When the laundry pile is roughly the same height as that of your eldest child, the problem is not laziness, it's too many clothes. Carve the pile down.
Make Your Children Buy It Themselves – If you're having trouble getting your kids to stop whining about the latest Hannah Montana skirt or Gap jacket, there is a very simple solution: Don't buy them clothes, give them money. Every month each of my daughters gets a small sum of money for her clothing allowance. I haven't purchased an item of clothing for any of them in over a year. Interestingly, they haven't either unless it was absolutely essential to their survival. They don't beg, they don't buy, and they no longer lose hats, sunglasses, shoes, shirts and swim suits. They love thrift stores, cheap t-shirt deals, and two for one swimsuits. Stop fighting your child's desire to be fashionable and instead make it her problem. Instead of new clothes, Aeron and Mera pooled their resources and bought an iTouch. Be still my geeky heart.
Cut Up the Cards – You need to get out a pair of scissors today and cut up all but one credit card. In particular, destroy the clothing store cards such as JCPenny's, Target, Nordstrom, or whatever you can afford. Pay for all of your clothing items using cold, hard cash. Nothing looks quite as good on your ass when you're paying real money for it.
* * *
Every item of clothing I own currently resides in a space smaller than a carry-on suitcase. It's still more than I carried across the country when I rode my bike. Special lives, you'll say, but I look at those two little shelves and ponder how much I'd add if I had a “real job in the real world.” Weather would probably double the volume, and a job would add at least one more shelf and a pair of boots. That still puts me in a dresser half the size of the one we used to own to corral only Mera's wardrobe.
Which gets me to another topic, doing more with less – furniture. If I don't have anything to put in it...
Monday, April 13, 2009
Thursday, April 09, 2009
One Bite at At Time
Believe it or not, cruising is not a vacation. It feels like it should be, but it isn't. After all, we're on the Mexican Riviera in the middle of winter while everyone else is slogging through sleet and snow. We enjoy pleasant company, great surfing, and wonderful weather. And we don't work for a living. Which is the problem. We're not working.
See what happens is this. You leave your home port after many years of preparation. The boat was at the dock while you outfitted, prepped, primped, polished, and laid in fifty cans of diced tomatoes. Then you left the comforts of home and started cruising. Which is great, mind you, but cruising is hard on the boat. Mexico is really super dirty. Children and cats and husband notwithstanding, it is fair to say I could be down here on Don Quixote all by myself and the boat would be covered in grime from bow tip to stern step in grime within a month.
And did you know the ocean is salty? And full of sand?!
Every day you live on your boat something gets worn down, dinged, scratched, or a little dingier. Every day the salt water gradually eats away the finish on the metal shiny parts, and the Mexican dust scrapes away at the plastic buffed parts. One day the dinghy oars scrape down the side of the starboard hull. Another night, the cat gets hold of a rug and tears it to shreds. Two weeks ago, every thread on the sail cover decided to simultaneously self-destruct in a puff of reinforced DB-92, sun-resistant dust. The electronics randomly quit, not always permanently but more or less in a fashion to render them useless as reliable tools. The sail locker builds a layer of mud and ocean gunk which ripens in the hot sun to a stench that rivals the kitty litter. Your children forget to use a cutting board one day and leave scratches on the counter top, your husband doesn't wipes his hands when changing the oil and leave stains all over the stairs. A pin box explodes and scatters pins everywhere which subsequently rust leaving long pin-sized shadows in odd locations in the cockpit like the outlines of murder victims etched into the white fiberglass floor.
The only way to combat this inevitable, inexorable process is with an equal, sustained maintenance effort. Every day, a little here... a little there. But no one does this the first year. Actually, there are a few who do. Beach Access does. His boat looks new. I don't know anyone else in their first year of cruising, however, who has managed to get anything constructive done this season, let alone set up a regular, consistent maintenance schedule which fixes as much as the cruising life destroys.
No... we're all dreadfully far behind. The world is fast destroying our floating homes. We're watching them literally shake themselves apart under our feet and now that the end of the first season approaches, panic is starting to set it. Because frankly, there is no effing way any human alive can catch up. We're in the 14th week of a 16 week semester, and we haven't read any of the course list. We talked the graduate assistant into giving us a passing grad on the mid-term then downloaded 95% of the contents of a mid-semester paper. We can barely remember from one day to the next what time the class meets. With two weeks left, we have to master the economic and political history of Western Europe from 1600 B.C. To 1950 A.D., and we can't remember if the Black Plague came before Joan of Arc or after the invention of the printing press.
Except it's worse. This floating monstrosity is not only our home; It represents roughly 50% of our net worth. With the market for yachts presently about as active as the market for the toenail clippings of dead fat white guys, we can't sell the boat to pay off debts, revert to a land based life, or otherwise escape the nautical trap into which we dropped our sorry asses. Cruisers who fail to adjust to the reality of their self-destructing floating investments, lose them. The boats sink. This is not a metaphorical literary device to induce sympathy. It is a literal truism.
I'd rather not go down with the ship, so after hyperventilating, screaming in my pillow for an hour, and indulging in a good cry, I set us up with a schedule. The way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time. The way to get Don Quixote back in trim is to do a little bit more than a little bit every day. Just as we spent nearly a year not doing enough, we're going to have to spend nearly a year doing just a little bit too much. Mathematically speaking, this should result in a fine cruising vessel with functioning equipment and decently maintained deck by roughly this time next year.
Our first week of what I think of as Routine Maintenance Plus went very well. DrC changed the oil and oil filters, fixed the water maker, replaced a fitting on the starboard traveler, and installed the dinghy wheels. I decided to recover the cleanliness and “beauty” of the boat first through reinstituting our “Make It Light” program. The purpose of Make It Light is to both improve boat performance and trim while also controlling crap. Each and every locker and cubby on the boat is periodically emptied, wiped out, inventoried and reorganized. All the tasks in my iGTD Make It Light project were roughly six months over due, but this week I made inroads. I purged and cleansed the medicine cabinet, pantry, under and behind stove, navigation table, salon center seat, under galley sink locker, and master cabin. I also scrubbed the starboard hull since the bottom paint has basically cried Uncle on its attempt to keep the hull free of grass and barnacles.
It's a start. We can not afford for this renewed maintenance energy to go the way of similarly well-intentioned New Year's Resolutions. It's okay be fat and drunk. It is not okay to be fat, drunk, and sinking.
Editor's Note: After writing this post, DrC and I got a super deal on a boat cleaning in La Cruz. All the crud was gone in a spasm of work by the fantastic team of Remington and Crew. All hail Manuel Labor! This allows us focus on the real "fixer upper stuff" for the next few months instead of cleaning cleaning cleaning.
See what happens is this. You leave your home port after many years of preparation. The boat was at the dock while you outfitted, prepped, primped, polished, and laid in fifty cans of diced tomatoes. Then you left the comforts of home and started cruising. Which is great, mind you, but cruising is hard on the boat. Mexico is really super dirty. Children and cats and husband notwithstanding, it is fair to say I could be down here on Don Quixote all by myself and the boat would be covered in grime from bow tip to stern step in grime within a month.
And did you know the ocean is salty? And full of sand?!
Every day you live on your boat something gets worn down, dinged, scratched, or a little dingier. Every day the salt water gradually eats away the finish on the metal shiny parts, and the Mexican dust scrapes away at the plastic buffed parts. One day the dinghy oars scrape down the side of the starboard hull. Another night, the cat gets hold of a rug and tears it to shreds. Two weeks ago, every thread on the sail cover decided to simultaneously self-destruct in a puff of reinforced DB-92, sun-resistant dust. The electronics randomly quit, not always permanently but more or less in a fashion to render them useless as reliable tools. The sail locker builds a layer of mud and ocean gunk which ripens in the hot sun to a stench that rivals the kitty litter. Your children forget to use a cutting board one day and leave scratches on the counter top, your husband doesn't wipes his hands when changing the oil and leave stains all over the stairs. A pin box explodes and scatters pins everywhere which subsequently rust leaving long pin-sized shadows in odd locations in the cockpit like the outlines of murder victims etched into the white fiberglass floor.
The only way to combat this inevitable, inexorable process is with an equal, sustained maintenance effort. Every day, a little here... a little there. But no one does this the first year. Actually, there are a few who do. Beach Access does. His boat looks new. I don't know anyone else in their first year of cruising, however, who has managed to get anything constructive done this season, let alone set up a regular, consistent maintenance schedule which fixes as much as the cruising life destroys.
No... we're all dreadfully far behind. The world is fast destroying our floating homes. We're watching them literally shake themselves apart under our feet and now that the end of the first season approaches, panic is starting to set it. Because frankly, there is no effing way any human alive can catch up. We're in the 14th week of a 16 week semester, and we haven't read any of the course list. We talked the graduate assistant into giving us a passing grad on the mid-term then downloaded 95% of the contents of a mid-semester paper. We can barely remember from one day to the next what time the class meets. With two weeks left, we have to master the economic and political history of Western Europe from 1600 B.C. To 1950 A.D., and we can't remember if the Black Plague came before Joan of Arc or after the invention of the printing press.
Except it's worse. This floating monstrosity is not only our home; It represents roughly 50% of our net worth. With the market for yachts presently about as active as the market for the toenail clippings of dead fat white guys, we can't sell the boat to pay off debts, revert to a land based life, or otherwise escape the nautical trap into which we dropped our sorry asses. Cruisers who fail to adjust to the reality of their self-destructing floating investments, lose them. The boats sink. This is not a metaphorical literary device to induce sympathy. It is a literal truism.
I'd rather not go down with the ship, so after hyperventilating, screaming in my pillow for an hour, and indulging in a good cry, I set us up with a schedule. The way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time. The way to get Don Quixote back in trim is to do a little bit more than a little bit every day. Just as we spent nearly a year not doing enough, we're going to have to spend nearly a year doing just a little bit too much. Mathematically speaking, this should result in a fine cruising vessel with functioning equipment and decently maintained deck by roughly this time next year.
Our first week of what I think of as Routine Maintenance Plus went very well. DrC changed the oil and oil filters, fixed the water maker, replaced a fitting on the starboard traveler, and installed the dinghy wheels. I decided to recover the cleanliness and “beauty” of the boat first through reinstituting our “Make It Light” program. The purpose of Make It Light is to both improve boat performance and trim while also controlling crap. Each and every locker and cubby on the boat is periodically emptied, wiped out, inventoried and reorganized. All the tasks in my iGTD Make It Light project were roughly six months over due, but this week I made inroads. I purged and cleansed the medicine cabinet, pantry, under and behind stove, navigation table, salon center seat, under galley sink locker, and master cabin. I also scrubbed the starboard hull since the bottom paint has basically cried Uncle on its attempt to keep the hull free of grass and barnacles.
It's a start. We can not afford for this renewed maintenance energy to go the way of similarly well-intentioned New Year's Resolutions. It's okay be fat and drunk. It is not okay to be fat, drunk, and sinking.
Editor's Note: After writing this post, DrC and I got a super deal on a boat cleaning in La Cruz. All the crud was gone in a spasm of work by the fantastic team of Remington and Crew. All hail Manuel Labor! This allows us focus on the real "fixer upper stuff" for the next few months instead of cleaning cleaning cleaning.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Cooking Tip: Weird Foreign Stuff
As you are no doubt aware, every Costco is organized in precisely the same way. Membership counter as you walk in the door, electronics and specials on one side, pharmacy, glasses and copy center on the other. Proceed all the way to the back for cold goods and produce then work your way gradually forward. The familiarity of organization, product and layout promotes a sense of comfort to the customer even if – for some bizarre reason – he decides to treat himself to a $1.50 polish hot dog and Coke while on a vacation in Puerto Vallarta. After wedging down the ice cream bar – just couldn't resist at that price – he knows all he has to do is waddle halfway down the store and on the right for the dish and laundry soap.
Using a similar retail principle, the big supermarket chains in Mexico are interchangeable: C.C.C., Soriana's, Mega, and Commercial Mexican. You can tell that they are owned by the same parent company because the organization and products inside are identical from store to store. Also, they all happen to share an enormous orange and white pelican logo.
Now, here's the useful bit. Between the abbarotes (produce) section and the carneceria (chicken, beef, and pork) counter at the back of the store, there are several racks of a random assortment of goods. I imagine the conversation goes something like this:
Juliana (in Spanish of course): What is this?
Rebbecca (her coworker): I have no idea. Looks like some weird foreign shit. The gringos might like it.
Juliana: Got it. I'll throw it in the rack by the meat counter.
Pine nuts, nori, specialty jams, bags of walnuts and cranberry sauce, Italian pasta, Oreo cookies, and rice wine vinegar, olive oil and Krusteaz pancake mix. Large jars of Skippy peanut butter and Romanian cookies, Thai fish sauce, microbrewed beer from Colorado, and seasoned popcorn cakes. It's the most god awful mix of random stuff you'll ever lay eyes on. The selection changes from store to store, from day to day.
Today's cooking tip is that when you travel in Mexico, you must check the weird foreign section each and every time you go to the store. If you find something you like, buy it in quantity. There is no assurance you will ever see that particular good for sale again anywhere in Mexico. It is for this reason, we currently have twenty packages of nori. I can not regret this otherwise ridiculous hoarding. Who knows what Juliana will do with the seaweed the next time it arrives on the loading dock?
Using a similar retail principle, the big supermarket chains in Mexico are interchangeable: C.C.C., Soriana's, Mega, and Commercial Mexican. You can tell that they are owned by the same parent company because the organization and products inside are identical from store to store. Also, they all happen to share an enormous orange and white pelican logo.
Now, here's the useful bit. Between the abbarotes (produce) section and the carneceria (chicken, beef, and pork) counter at the back of the store, there are several racks of a random assortment of goods. I imagine the conversation goes something like this:
Juliana (in Spanish of course): What is this?
Rebbecca (her coworker): I have no idea. Looks like some weird foreign shit. The gringos might like it.
Juliana: Got it. I'll throw it in the rack by the meat counter.
Pine nuts, nori, specialty jams, bags of walnuts and cranberry sauce, Italian pasta, Oreo cookies, and rice wine vinegar, olive oil and Krusteaz pancake mix. Large jars of Skippy peanut butter and Romanian cookies, Thai fish sauce, microbrewed beer from Colorado, and seasoned popcorn cakes. It's the most god awful mix of random stuff you'll ever lay eyes on. The selection changes from store to store, from day to day.
Today's cooking tip is that when you travel in Mexico, you must check the weird foreign section each and every time you go to the store. If you find something you like, buy it in quantity. There is no assurance you will ever see that particular good for sale again anywhere in Mexico. It is for this reason, we currently have twenty packages of nori. I can not regret this otherwise ridiculous hoarding. Who knows what Juliana will do with the seaweed the next time it arrives on the loading dock?
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Fake Mexico
As we pull into the Las Hadas anchorage, the girls standing on the bow let out a delighted cry, “Fake Mexico!” Aeron comes running back to the cockpit, “Mommy! I think it's fake Mexico!”
Fake Mexico is a relief after months on the hook in Zihuatanejo and traveling for over a week through remote parts of real Mexico. What fake Mexico means to the girls is swimming pools, air conditioning, and white, slightly pouchy, North American kids on winter break with their parents. What it means to DrC and I is unlimited fresh water to wash the boat in the morning followed by drinks at a swhttp://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=38495401im up bar in the afternoon. Fake Mexico has green lawns, obsequious waiters who quietly tolerate obnoxious drunks, and no graffiti. The groceries stores go by names like C.C.C. (pronounced say-say-say) and Sorianas, and they all look precisely like WalMart. In fact, the stores are so familiar they even go by names all would recognize such as... yes... WalMart. And Costco, Domino's Pizza, and Burger King.
There are many reasons we do not spend a great deal of time in fake Mexico, though I'll admit that probably the most important is financial. Fake Mexico costs about the same as Real United States. We had heard about this phenomena even before leaving. Apparently, fake Mexico used to be considerably cheaper but – perhaps because of NAFTA, perhaps because the Mexicans have just figured it all out – goods in fake Mexico are basically the same price as your average bar, mall or hotel up North. Now if you are one of those folks who can afford to live at a hotel 24/7, then pricing in fake Mexico won't pose a problem. Cruisers on a budget, however, need to be more frugal with the cruising kitty and so spend more time in real Mexico where the food and fuel budget drop by at least half.
Another problem with fake Mexico is that it misses the entire point of traveling aboard. You can't really tell the difference between a bar in fake Mexico and one in San Diego or Miami. I say those cities deliberately because I sometimes think more Spanish is spoken in Miami or San Diego than in Nuevo Vallarta or Las Hadas. You could spend a week in Ixtapa and never go to a taco stand or mercado. You can pull up to the dock in Mazatlan, spend a month in El Cid, and never experience the zocolo, see the cow carcasses hanging from the rafters of a carneceria or browse through a fabric warehouse. Even the décor feels more like a Disneyland interpretation of ancient Mexico then anything you would find in the villages, towns, and incredibly busy cities of the real country.
One of the more surreal aspects of fake Mexico are the licensed street vendors selling tchotkies and mementos along the water front. If you spend any time in real Mexico, a quick browse of the wares at the hotels reveals both their very low quality and premium pricing. Real Mexican markets involve haggling, competition, and cacophony. Contrasted with sun burnt visitors quietly picking over the goods of one or two sellers, it feels as though all the energy and vitality has been bled out of the system leaving only a pale, hollow echo.
I want to shout at these travelers, “Get out of the hotel! Go to town!” A 5 peso bus ride and 20 minutes will put you in the heart of Manzanillo, Mazatlan, or Zihuatanejo. The goods you see here are pathetic, limited, and expensive. In town, you'll find literally hundreds of shops and vendors, the streets so full of commerce and a spirit of entrepreneurial energy, the money will just leap out of your pocket in exchange for incredibly fresh fruit, large glasses of cold jugo, vibrant shirts, plates, and rugs.
But despite our scorn for fake Mexico, sometimes we flee into it as a vacation from our cruising life. Real Mexico is dirty, hot, and hard work. The streets are cobblestone or dirt, graffiti covers the walls, and it's hard to make ourselves understood. It's loud and smoky, busy and crowded, and it often smells. Probably most significantly, all the marinas are in fake Mexico. So if we want to dock up for water, provisioning, or simply a night of not moving, we have to step out of reality. We're forced to compromise, spend the money for a tie up, and slip into the creations of Singlar and Fontanur.
Terrible compromise that is... sometimes we just have to swim up to the bar if we want a beer.
Fake Mexico is a relief after months on the hook in Zihuatanejo and traveling for over a week through remote parts of real Mexico. What fake Mexico means to the girls is swimming pools, air conditioning, and white, slightly pouchy, North American kids on winter break with their parents. What it means to DrC and I is unlimited fresh water to wash the boat in the morning followed by drinks at a swhttp://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=38495401im up bar in the afternoon. Fake Mexico has green lawns, obsequious waiters who quietly tolerate obnoxious drunks, and no graffiti. The groceries stores go by names like C.C.C. (pronounced say-say-say) and Sorianas, and they all look precisely like WalMart. In fact, the stores are so familiar they even go by names all would recognize such as... yes... WalMart. And Costco, Domino's Pizza, and Burger King.
There are many reasons we do not spend a great deal of time in fake Mexico, though I'll admit that probably the most important is financial. Fake Mexico costs about the same as Real United States. We had heard about this phenomena even before leaving. Apparently, fake Mexico used to be considerably cheaper but – perhaps because of NAFTA, perhaps because the Mexicans have just figured it all out – goods in fake Mexico are basically the same price as your average bar, mall or hotel up North. Now if you are one of those folks who can afford to live at a hotel 24/7, then pricing in fake Mexico won't pose a problem. Cruisers on a budget, however, need to be more frugal with the cruising kitty and so spend more time in real Mexico where the food and fuel budget drop by at least half.
Another problem with fake Mexico is that it misses the entire point of traveling aboard. You can't really tell the difference between a bar in fake Mexico and one in San Diego or Miami. I say those cities deliberately because I sometimes think more Spanish is spoken in Miami or San Diego than in Nuevo Vallarta or Las Hadas. You could spend a week in Ixtapa and never go to a taco stand or mercado. You can pull up to the dock in Mazatlan, spend a month in El Cid, and never experience the zocolo, see the cow carcasses hanging from the rafters of a carneceria or browse through a fabric warehouse. Even the décor feels more like a Disneyland interpretation of ancient Mexico then anything you would find in the villages, towns, and incredibly busy cities of the real country.
One of the more surreal aspects of fake Mexico are the licensed street vendors selling tchotkies and mementos along the water front. If you spend any time in real Mexico, a quick browse of the wares at the hotels reveals both their very low quality and premium pricing. Real Mexican markets involve haggling, competition, and cacophony. Contrasted with sun burnt visitors quietly picking over the goods of one or two sellers, it feels as though all the energy and vitality has been bled out of the system leaving only a pale, hollow echo.
I want to shout at these travelers, “Get out of the hotel! Go to town!” A 5 peso bus ride and 20 minutes will put you in the heart of Manzanillo, Mazatlan, or Zihuatanejo. The goods you see here are pathetic, limited, and expensive. In town, you'll find literally hundreds of shops and vendors, the streets so full of commerce and a spirit of entrepreneurial energy, the money will just leap out of your pocket in exchange for incredibly fresh fruit, large glasses of cold jugo, vibrant shirts, plates, and rugs.
But despite our scorn for fake Mexico, sometimes we flee into it as a vacation from our cruising life. Real Mexico is dirty, hot, and hard work. The streets are cobblestone or dirt, graffiti covers the walls, and it's hard to make ourselves understood. It's loud and smoky, busy and crowded, and it often smells. Probably most significantly, all the marinas are in fake Mexico. So if we want to dock up for water, provisioning, or simply a night of not moving, we have to step out of reality. We're forced to compromise, spend the money for a tie up, and slip into the creations of Singlar and Fontanur.
Terrible compromise that is... sometimes we just have to swim up to the bar if we want a beer.
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