Original Prince of Wales Social Aid and Pleasure Club

Honey Swamp, I'm home...

Honey swamp, I’m home.

Café du Monde at 8am. The place is already packed with tourists and some locals whom you can usually spot as the manner of dress here is unique. I’m especially fond of the older gents who sport straw hats, dressy linen jackets and shorts with sandals. I’m on a pilgrimage, once again taking in everything I find wonderful about this place. I short cut through Pirates Alley , where Jean Lafitte's’ brother had a blacksmith shop and cross Jackson Square to get my cup of chicory coffee and fresh beignets

I’m Gonna Let It Shine

The walk over is a doo wop of sounds: a small village and living museum waking for the day. Shop keepers opening shutters and throwing out buckets of swill water. Street musicians are setting up shop. Already the sounds of alto jax and horn in the air. In the air also is the smell of river mud, crawfish and funk. Centuries old urine and sewage systems stressed with the shock of all of us. But no matter, all great old cities wear this perfume. Bars are opening and preparing to get busy. Mist hangs in the air like smoke on Old Man River. Tourists are talking about their problems and who they said what to and how much they paid for their hotels and their tours. The locals quiet but acknowledging each other with nods and “how ya’ doin’”s. . There is still a chill in the air.

I’m staying in the Quarter on Dauphine between Toulouse and St. Peter's. My hosts are still sleeping. Robiere is the French sax player that I met in Johnny White’s on Bourbon St. last year. We became fast friends and I was lucky to receive such a quick entree into the city's music and cultural history through him and his wife Holly who gives leads historical tours through the city. They are both scholars and music aficionados. I owe a good chunk of my NOLA education to them. Within hours of landing we were watching vintage Count Basie 'soundies' from the 40’s in their loft. They are late sleepers as they keep musician’s hours. I’ve been living with no electricity in the jungles of Quintana Roo. I rise and fall with the chickens and the sun, so in spite of long travel day, I’m up and anxious to see my city.

New Orleans is pulsing with its usual energies and then some, still coming down from the high of the Saints win. Everyone tells me about what it meant to this city and how it has helped to change the world's view of them. Tourism is back. New Orleans is not lost but standing proud, full of hope for the its future with its newly elected mayor, Mitch Landrieu, the city's first white mayor since 1978. New Orleanian's were so tired of the failings of Ray Nagin that Landrieu won by a landslide, even capturing the black vote by 78%

But the work and struggle goes on here, as I was reminded within minutes of landing. While waiting to claim my luggage I heard my first story. A chauffeur sitting waiting for his ride told me of how his wife now lives in Chicago with the kids as in the time it has taken to rebuild their life here, she has built a new life elsewhere. He now visits her when he can. Versions of this story abound. Later, making my way into the city, I was dropped at Johnny Whites, the famous local’s bar that has never closed its doors, even during Katrina. The man sitting next to me starts to tell the tale of his return to Mississippi and the search for his house on a street that its self had been blasted into nothingness by the ferocity of those winds. The same stories that gripped me last year of what happened to these people and this culture during and after Katrina, are unfolding . They come pouring out, with no prompting, stories of loss and shock and courage. They both break your heart and inspire you , not told in self-pity but from an unrecognized need for catharsis.

I reach Cafe du Monde

I get my favorite corner table by the main entrance and cover myself in powdered sugar while " Down By The Riverside" and old jazz hits favored by the tourists are belted out.. I'm looking across to Jackson Square and the grand St. Louis cathedral, the oldest cathedral in north America. Flanking St. Lou are the Pontalba apartments, purportedly America's first apartment complex, built in the 1840's. My friend Donna grew up in them. One of the cooler thing about New Orleans is how personal all this history quickly becomes. It's not book dry and abstract, but up close and personal, you can feel it, smell it and run your fingers through its long tangled hair.

I went on a pilgrimage to see old friends and places. First taking the street car down Canal, arguably the widest street in the country, to Mid City to see my friends Mayla and Dianna. They had kindly left me their double shotgun camel-back for 3 months last summer. Their only condition fro this generous gift was that if a hurricane came, I would not let the truck drown as it had during Katrina. They are vegetarian and I arrived just in time for lunch. For once I got my ten servings of vegetables for the day. Something that is often lacking but seldom missed in my diet here. Good to eat green when you can.

That evening went to the new bar The Maison on Frenchmen for a free crawfish boil. The secret in the pot seems to be oranges. I lifted the lid and looked in. The chef told me with some anxiety that he was not giving away his secrets. Naw uh. I scored with two plates of crawfish, as my friend Donna is a vegetarian, bless her. Then we crossed the street and entered the latest revival of The Spotted Cat to catch my friend Robiere sit in with the a local band. The lead singer doing a sincere imitation of Billy Holiday, complete with white gardenia behind her right ear.

Swimming in Turquoise, laying on gold, staring at blue

Mexico March 15 -April 7 2010

"I've always liked going to the heart of things and while I can understand the desire to see the whole world, how can you, in one lifetime? The heart takes its time".

Puerto Morelos:
Is this the time of the female nomad? I meet them everywhere. I'm one myself. One of the tenets of nomad-ism is that you go where the life takes you. So here I am still in Pt. Morelos at the end of my sojourn, about to hop a flight back to New Orleans, right from where I started three weeks ago.

I came intending to do some hard travel, to Belize and Guatemala as well as into the heart of the Yucatan, but instead I stayed put. I got to know and love this place, make friends, learn new things, have adventures, live cheap and be of service to this community, and hopefully, grow spiritually. This is all I ask of my intentional life-style.

Places seen...
The Pyramids of Chichen Itza and Coba:
So many pyramids, so little time.
Chichen Itza, which I was eerily blessed to visit, purely by chance, on the Vernal Equinox, when the serpent 'runs' down the steps of the central pyramid. People from all over the world plan years ahead to come to this event , . I stumbled, blinking, into it. Right place at the right time again. "Thank you Quetzalcoatl" might be appropriate here.
Lost all pics of Coba; my camera skills are seriously lacking.

The Cenote of Ik Kil:
The Yucatan has one of the largest underground bodies of water in the world. The land is loaded with limestone which the Mayans used to build their pyramids. It is porous and filters the water so that it is alkaline and silky and aquamarine. The limestone often collapses, exposing large underground lakes to the land above: the cenotes. Swimming in them is a visual, sensual, and historic experience. They were sacred to the Mayans who often performed their human sacrifice here. They were also the practical reason for the building of their large cities near them, as they were and are an endless source of water.

The town of Pt. Morelos:

"If the beauty of the physical world is a drug, I need a meeting."

Still a small fishing village in spite of the press of tourism from the rest of the Mayan Riviera. Except for Semana Santa which just passed, the extraordinarily beaches are empty. White gold powder embraces sea running turquoise to jade, under the crush of blue. Sleepy town of fine, friendly people and somewhat exotic expats, not as wild as the ones I met in southern Ecuador. I'm finding that the harder it is to get to a place the greater the 'strange factor' is in the population.
Today, too many tourists. I'm currently sitting at the bar at Posada Amor, my in town home, and a bunch of American tourists have invaded. They are so noisy! And they tell you every thing, they ask no questions. They are instant authorities on everything and in such sharp contrast to the quiet and humble Mexican population here. I'm feeling embarrassed for my country and I'm getting an attitude. The loudest of the American started negotiating with the bartender for a better price on the bill, he doesn't know that the bartender works 12 hours a day 6 days a week for only 20% of the gross on a slow bar. Maybe it takes time to know these things but, I start defending him. #@#$%^&*!
Anyway, see the other post, if you like, on how this place has healed and seduced me. In western vernacular I would be 'relaxed' but here I am healed.

The Barrier Reef:
Protecting this area is the second largest barrier reef in the world, second only to Australia's. It is fragile and under great pressure. I went snorkling there last week, gasping at the sea life and trying not to touch anything. When I get to New Orleans I hope to develop the film from my underwater camera. I hope that it captured some of the Avatar-like other worldliness of great reef life.

The People:

Good life requires good friends and interesting people:

David- the bartender, of course, at Posada Amor, has a decent tequila selection and makes a macho Mojito.

Zumbelth and Paolina:
The traveling Basque free-diver with the impossible name and his beautiful girlfriend from Mexico City. They travel the world on their wits, good attitude, sweat and little else. I went with him one night to try sell an impossibly large Grouper fish that he had speared. He had almost killed himself catching it and was then desperate to sell as there was no place to put it on ice. It was an interesting negotiation with the only restaurant still open in Pt. Morelos ,as he really had no choice but to take what they offered. So much work for so little money-welcome to the third world.

Goyo, the expat who has lived here for 30 years.
I stumbled into his organic retreat in the jungle two miles outside of town and didn't leave. At El Temescal there was no electricity and so we rose and fell with the sun, except for evening when we lit the torches and stayed up late for Temescal ceremony in the sweat lodge. We drew water from the well and bathed from a large drum of it. I lived in a palapa in the tree tops, I learned about the ancient Mayan herbs and trees that he grew on the property and baked breads of amaranth and pumpkin seeds in the wood burning oven. In the mornings we would drive the dirt road into town, stopping for fresh grapefruit and beet juices. There was strong coffee at Cafe d'Amancia and a stronger internet connection to work on Goyo's Walk For Peace project. Goyo would go for his six mile morning walk on the water's edge with his dog, Chalupa and I went for my three mile walk below the pelicans. after to my first home Posada Amore to give a quick English lesson to the staff, most often to Patti with the kind eyes, have breakfast and more computer time. She kept my computer while I returned to the beach to swim in jade and lay on gold for another hour until Goyo returned. After, back to the compound for the making of a communal lunch.

Joe: the mystery man with a past. Hiding from the present day in this little corner of Mexico.
Told me stories of his Romanov heritage that were detailed and believable.
Where are you now Joseph?

Mayans are small people with big culture

Mayans are little people; hardy, friendly, patient and enduring. Their last names are not Hernandez or Rodregiez but Puc, Xiu and Cob. Yes, they are still with us. I was surprised as somewhere in my mind I've gathered some misinformation about them being long gone. What is gone is their vast body of knowledge, 99% destroyed by the Spanish and, of course, their religious practices, which in their later periods involved blood sacrifice of mindbogglingly proportions.
Today's Mayans are still minute, especially when compared northern European stock. Interestingly, they have no body hair, mustaches or beards but have exceptional shocks of hair on their heads. This hair never goes gray or white and never thins. They have perfect teeth and eye-sight throughout their lives. I wish I had a some of that.

Sometimes you're just lucky-Chichen Itza.

March 22nd- Puerto Morelos

I spied a sign in town advertising Chichen Itza and decided to look into taking a tour of the famous Mayan ruins. I don't take many tours when I travel unless I can pay locals to take me to their special places. One principle of eco-travel is to spend your dollars in the local community, so I avoid the large hotel chains and the grand tours. I'm also allergic to large crowds and like to find ways around that hassle whenever possible.
But, I was amazed to discover that a trip the next day to Chichen Itza would coincide with the Vernal Equinox and a demonstration of an ancient Mayan show of astronomical and architectural mystery and acumen.
A year ago, purely by chance, I was thrilled to find myself in the Galapagos on Porto Aurora on Darwin's 200 birthday, attending one important and Very funky celebration . So I couldn't help but feel that the universe was nudging me here.

At Chichen Itza on the spring and autumnal equinoxes , the steps of the main temple,which forms a perfect 365 day calendar, are transformed in the fading light into their totem, the serpent, which runs from 'heaven' at the top of the pyramid, down the side of the steps to the base, where it joins the stone head of the snake with fangs barred.
I suppose that it was meant as a message to all the populace to 'get busy', with either spring planting or fall harvesting. How they accomplished this though is still bit of a mind boggle and the phenomenon went unnoticed by archeologists until fewer than thirty years ago.
It is quite impressive, as are the grounds themselves which are vast and imposing, surrounded by multipurpose pyramids that contain a few "how'd they do that?" technical tricks. The serpent somehow hisses and if you stand in the center of the large plaza and clap your hands, the noise reverberates and raises in pitch until it sounds like eagles screaming. Eagles are another totem, they don't exist in this area but their symbol was introduced when the Mayans were conquered by the Toltecs.
Although the serpent runs the steps for three days, most people travel from around the globe to catch that special Mayan energy on the twenty-first of March, the vernal equinox. Approximately 55,000 people share the rapture on that day. I was happy experiencing my Mayan energy one day before, with a reasonable crowd of only 6,000.
The Mayans had extensive libraries written in their Hieroglyphic language which was only cracked by incredible chance just, after WWII.
Thanks to the Spanish priests, who were appalled by the blood sacrifice of Mayan religious practices, and to the Mayans, who could comfortably integrate Catholic expressions of suffering, pain and blood sport into their own cosmology, the religion was doomed. When they melded the two into a really bloody religious expression, the Spanish panicked and destroyed all but four books of their ancient and complex culture. Not defending blood sacrifice here, but we lost the knowledge of a culture that had a calendar that more accurate than our own and that could predict astronomical events 26,000 years in the future. That's a big loss. A lot of over-kill.

Like I said, I don't like crowds ,so I went on the day before and I think that I still felt plenty of that special energy. In fact Spring has always made me feel pretty frisky, serpent or no serpent.

Back in travel mode..sort of.

When you've taken off your shoes, and you are in a bathing suit most of the day, and you've figured out the peso and you've made some friends, your home.

Slowly I'm unwinding here in Puerto Morelos, Quintana Roo and the stress and business of L.A. is falling away. This once sleepy fishing village on the Mayan Riviera is still relatively quiet by Mayan Riviera standards and once here, many people with big travel plans, find themselves reluctant to leave.
Practicing flexibility is one of the joys and also the necessities of happy travel. As Alan Watts used to say (?) " The map is not the territory", and once you see the territory, it can be a whole other enchilada. This is true anyway for those who have the luxury of adjusting game plans, which I'm thankful to say that I do. I've just realized that for the past year when folks have asked me how long I'd be staying, the answer has always been, "I don't know, I'll see". this is usually followed by high-fives all around.
I landed in Cancun one week ago intending to stay only a few days before some serious traveling through the Yucatan and into Belize. But uh-oh, Spring Break was in full swing and my first thought was, "how do I get out of here"? Remembering a tip from a friend about Puerto Morelos, I headed south on the coast about thirty miles.
I arrived intending to stay only a day or two but have already been here one week. Now I have just negotiated a lower rent for the coming week in exchange for teaching English to the staff at this hotel. Within a loosely structured life I have a need to create my own structure and being useful in some way is always part of that. Living simply and spending little is also part of the plan. Hopefully everyone benefits this way.
In Puerto Morelos people still make their living fishing off the reef. Just off the coast is the world's second largest barrier reef. On shore, the colors of blue and jade green water are reflected in the small fishing boats and the details of buildings, which are otherwise painted white. Umbrella trim and gulls wings flutter above me as I lay on powdery, white gold sand. It is good to let go of everything but the moment. Life is grand!
I work on projects in the morning and swim through the mid-day hours. In a few weeks I'll be back in New Orleans and life gets busy again, so I'll take my down-time now.

Happy new year...

I heard on NPR this morning that in certain cultures, there is a belief that whatever you do on New Year's day, you will do for the rest of the year as well. Evidently, being forearmed with this information, the Japanese put a great deal of thought into how, and how not, to spend their day.

It got me thinking. It also made me I wish that I'd had more time to plan my day, and hence, my year. I decided that I would follow most of their guidelines. No bill paying obviously, as you don't want to be anteing up for the rest of the year. That was easy, I can always put off paying bills, and who does that on New Years day anyway? Dress well. I changed my jeans. I even put on make up. No cooking they said. Not unless you want to cook all year. I guess I do. As this indictment did not seem to bother me in the slightest, I decided to sentence myself to long year of plenty of it, and cooked away.

But cooking or not cooking, you, do of course, want to eat very well. Also healthfully. Here I was both prudent and extravagant. For breakfast, an apple- a perfect Fiji. Full of pectin. Followed by fresh goat yogurt with a small taste of honey. How healthy I will be in 2010. Full of pro-biotics and living enzymes. How thin also.

Lunch was a perfectly made miso soup, with white miso, this time, with thin slivers of green onion. Dessert, two perfect large Black cherries in a perfect dark chocolate coat. Loaded with anti-oxidants, anti-inflamitories, and uric acid busting powers. Two only. The perfect restrained amount, can't hurt anything.

But then, just to insure a happy year and to amp up on the resveratrol, I opened and drank a bottle of Margaux, a 2003 Chauteau Desmerail. Sorry Mike and Cathy, I couldn't wait, as I had to insure that I would drink plenty of good wine this year. I'm sure you understand.
I was amused by the odd feeling that I had somehow secured this feast for myself for the rest of the year. Irrational, yes, but doggedly comforting.
Now what?...I think that the wine was talking.

What should I create for the rest of my year? Exercise and adventure, of course. I got those nailed down in one impetuous activity. I rushed over to Cabrillo beach. I parked above and hiked down to meet my fellow San Pedrans thronging towards the waves, for their annual Polar Bear swim. Although, until recently, I'd lived here in San Pedro for 23 years, and had attended a few of these New Year's days festivities, I'd never felt compelled to join in the freezing frolicking fun. Hundred's of people were now paused at the shore. Happily, I knew about half of them; such are the joys of small town living. The day was practically balmy, the water a cold 58 degrees and the comradely delirium of the crowd contagious. In I went with my fellow Polar Bears! I have the photos and a certificate to prove it.

Later that day I suffered a mysterious stomach ache that sent me to bed for five hours. I'm thinking that the cosmic police didn't notice this little part of my New Year's day, as I did spend the whole time most conspicuously writing.

What a wonderful year this should be.