Rituals

Today is Sunday, right? This day embraces more ritualism globally than any other. Ponder for just a moment. Sunday begins with some type of morning ritual— sleeping in late, physical intimacy- BC (before children), pancakes, waffles, brunch out-BC, consuming the Sunday paper, attending church; some type of afternoon ritual— phone calls to distant family members, meal with the extended family, sports on the TV, physical intimacy- BFB (before football); some type of evening ritual—preparing for work or school, perhaps a return to church, more sports on the TV, or even some type of intellectual engagement on the TV. At some pre-selected hour, we ceremoniously close with the ritual of re-visiting our sleeping platforms.

Yelapa is no less defined by rituals than any other geographic cluster. Allow me to share mine. The morning opens with a full body stretch and a right half-pivot. The overlapping netting separates and I immerge. Within two steps, Nikki is at my side exhibiting a full-bodied “Good Morning.” She is fed, watered and I draw a mug of my favorite Mexican coffee (coincidentally, it is called Memo’s) and adjourn to the couch. My morning unfolds, not with the passage of time, but with the occurrence of events. There is a difference! The shadows overhanging the mountains are chased into the bay; the odd remnant of a cloud escapes from upriver, pangueros ply their morning trade as hand signals of greeting are exchanged. Ah, but today is Sunday, right? That means birria at Ray’s Shambhala.

The seductive tones of Mexican music beckon. I am Odysseus navigating around the Sirens; I investigate. Upon entering, I am greeted by multiple smiles, some from fellow customers, the balance from Ray’s family and staff. Ascending to the Tree House level, I plunk down at my usual table, usual chair. The ritual unfolds. My order is unchanging: three tacos, one consommé, and a Bloody Maria.  Another event ensues. A small spider resembling a leaf fragment powered by tiny legs creeps into focus . It undertakes the ritual of web building. Ambling counter-clockwise, this tiny creature replicates exact angle after angle as it journeys over larger circles, a flawless work-in-progress. I remain mesmerized until jolted by Alexa who ferries my order. Complimenting a plate bearing three double-plied tortillas filled with birria meat are four small bowls. They contain: cut limes, chopped onions and cilantro, a green guacamole- based salsa, and a red jalapena-based salsa. Let the birria ritual begin. My fingers sprinkle onions through each of the individual tacos; the same action is repeated with cilantro. The guacamole salsa is dribbled liberally onto each taco and any remainder is added to the consommé. The red salsa must be surgically distributed as to amount and location. Lastly, four drops of lime juice descend equidistantly into each taco; this is a science folks. The sirens wail; I am seduced. The first taste forces one, sometimes both eyes to roll while a guttural “mmmmmmm” escapes. This ritual repeats with each bite, through each taco.

As I push away from the table, I catch a glimpse of my tiny companion. It appears to reside at the exact point where my gaze left it moments earlier. No doubt, it became as absorbed in my ritual as I had with his?  We bid each other a ritualistic good bye. Que le vaya bien. (That all goes well with you)