Last night the rains presented with sufficient force to
require that I depart my sleeping platform and shut the bedroom, living room
and bathroom windows. I return to my chamber, slide under the covers and
endeavor to rejoin the Sleep Express from which I was ejected earlier. At 7:30
a.m. five electronic beeps signal the readiness of my carafe of coffee. A moist
nose signals Nikki’s readiness for breakfast and a break. The realization is
reaffirmed that I am not, and probably have not been for an extended period, in
control of my own destiny. It is Sunday; I shalt not dwell.
I tend to Nikki’s needs and fill a mug with brown,
steaming liquid. The cup and contents join me as I ease into a chair. The
vista before me is spectacular; as if each leaf in the jungle is wiped fresh,
all roofs are swept and polished and every boulder glistens free from accumulated
dust. The bay reflects an emerald green imparted by the skies which overhang.
It is a jaw dropping morning.
As my return readers understand, Sunday means birria at
Ray’s Place. For those of you not familiar with this tradition, please refer to
an earlier blog entry “Rituals” posted on 10/21/12. While this event was
addressed at his prior location, it is a ritual which has happily followed him.
I arrive this morning perhaps fifteen minutes later than usual. The restaurant
is packed. Out of the thirty or so Corona chairs which await the traveler, not
one is empty, not one! I walk inside, same situation exists; I spy an empty
stool at the end of the bar. It is not intended for long term occupancy; I nod
to Ray and he grants his approval. My beverage of choice, bloody Maria, slides
within my reach.
The visual which unfolds before me is Yelapa at its best. Ray
and Yuko, the waiters, continuously dart from group to group retrieving drink
and birria orders. Martina, Caro and Alexa flash through the rooms delivering to
each table the required condiments (salt, lime, chopped onion and cilantro,
salsa verde and salsa roja). Their return trips bear empty plates, cups and
beverage bottles. Violeta, the queen of the kitchen is in absolute control.
When the three ladies return to their ready stations, Violeta pivots to issue a
flurry of hand signals, all which appear to have meaning, and off fly the three
servers again. Ray and Yuko continuously crisscross paths with beverage
refills, bowls and plates laden with precious birria. It is a symphony of organized
chaos.
There is yet another quiet, but observable, dynamic in
process. I have touched briefly on the fact that husbands and wives do not
typically eat together. On Sunday morning, many of the menfolk are either out
fishing or perhaps are unable to venture out at the required hour. There are
certain two-legged sharks who capitalize on such situations. They smile and
chat with the women, pinch little girls’ cheeks, and even avail themselves to
an empty chair for closer engagement. Their smiles are never ending, their
laughs are recognizable and collectively they are convinced of the necessary
service they provide, or at least offer.
There is a brief break in the activity level. At least
five people are heard to make audible sighs. The event ends for me as it began:
a nod to Ray. With a belly full of sustenance and the warmth of yet another human
experience, I return to share my Yelapa.
****************************************************
I have just learned that a good friend and great human
being, Francisco Brindis Samos (Pancho) died last night in Puerto Vallarta.
Apparently, he experienced a spike in his blood pressure which ruptured or
aggravated an existing aneurism in his brain. He gave selflessly to all,
volunteered time and his dental skills to the village of Pizota. He established
a much needed pharmacy here in Yelapa so that those who could not travel to
Vallarta could have necessary medication. He was 53 years of age. Dianne, Nikki
and I will miss him. RIP Amigo.
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