Trouble In Paradise

Even as I awoke I could feel the clock ticking. Not the clock that read a merciful 8:43 AM but the clock that taps just behind my eyes telling me that my hours are limited before I and my five-year-old, lovely in her serene morning sleep, will pit iron wills against one another. There is no telling what might set it off but it is a known eventuality. It has been three days since we left home, all the while we have been over stimulated, out of our element and fully confined to one another’s company. Truly Celia has been exceptional but I can see the storm clouds on our horizon even as I gaze into her still sleepy eyes. Our first conversation goes something like this…
“Mama I had a bad dream,” Celia began.
“Really? What happened?” I inquired.
“Nicolas and Zoey and I were playing but there was a snake that was trying to bite us,” she began.
“Wow, where were you?” I said trying to sound interested though my eyeshade was still on so I hadn’t officially accepted the day just yet.
“Zoey and Nicolas ran away but the snake had arms and it grabbed me,” she continued.
“That is scary!” I said with all the emphasis I could muster, “Were you able to…”
Celia interrupted with the sort of sensationalism reserved for San Diego news casters, “The snake wouldn’t let go and I had to shake it loose,” Celia reported.
“Where did Nicolas and Zoey…” I began but was again cut off.
“The snake was as long as the bed and it could move really fast…” Celia paused a moment then shoved my arm and said, “Mama, are you listening? Did you hear me? I had a bad dream.”
The eyeshades came off and I stared into Celia’s face, our foreheads nearly touching, and said, “Yes, didn’t you hear me? I’ve been …” but was cut short by Celia placing her then seemingly eighty-year-old hand to her left year and shouting, “Huh?”

Yes, on day four of our month-long vacation my daughter had gone functionally deaf from the mini ponds of pool water sloshing about in her hears. The storm clouds grow ever more ominous. In the best of times I hate to repeat myself. Celia listens well but, let’s face it, she’s FIVE. I must say her name 30 time a day just to get her attention. As I ponder the ramifications of this latest twist, Celia begins to sing a song at a volume meant only for Broadway musicals due to her sub aquatic insensibility. Rationalizing that I am concerned for the neighbors beyond the 10 inch thick stone wall, I shush her.
“Huh?” she yells.
There is no escaping it. I am on a collision course with trouble. No choice but to ride this one out.

Yesterday we attempted to walk to the beach using only verbal guidance provided by Beatrice, Bob’s lovely sidekick. We set out on our 4 mile hike shortly after 1PM in the height of the mid-day heat. As we walked past people obscured by the shade of their porches and dogs hardly visible under parked cars, it occurred to me that wandering the dirt roads of Baja with a small child in the middle of the day might be considered endangerment until a car flew past with a family of 12 protruding from the windows. Engulfed in their dirt wake, I take comfort in relativity. On the grounds that what happens in Mexico stays in Mexico, we wander onward past local cinder block homes, crowing roosters and heat-dazed canines until I am quite certain that we are gaining no ground on the ocean. (An arial view at this moment would be quiet comical as we actually stood less than ½ mile from the beach). Temporarily admitting defeat, Celia groaned with equal parts relief and anguish but the promise of the pool kept her in motion.

Today, we consult a map and combining the new intelligence with Beatrice’s narrative, we again set out for the beach - this time at 9AM. Remarkably cooler (go figure), Celia is in great spirits despite the fact that her mother will not listen to her, a.k.a., respond to her every comment. In fact, I am responding, and starting conversations, and asking questions, but it all falls on Celia’s deaf ears. We are on our 10th spat due to a conversational impass when we realize that we have found the true path to the beach.

Just as Beatrice had described, the road winds up and over a hillside at which point we are able to see the entirety of Todos Santos, the mountains beyond and the pacific ocean in all its great blue splendor. The view freshens Celia’s waning energy and we press on toward the beach. Beatrice’s words echo in my ear as our road narrows to a path and then a single file trail along a rocky crag. I can hear the roar of the ocean drowning out my intuition crying, “Go back, for the love of god, go back!” When we came to a point that required crossing barbed wire, I threw in the towel. We turned around and began the 2 mile death march back to town as the sun began to hit its mid-day stride. Still, we managed to stay jovial, albeit it at a happy holler.

Things began to turn dark as we came upon a video store. Partly to escape the sun we darted in to see if renting is an option for turistas. I thought I might have to produce a driver’s license, possess a local phone number, something to be entrusted with a Dora the Explorer DVD but, no, the teen behind the counter deeply engrossed in a Mexican soap opera simply passed me a written sales slip showing that I owed 35 pesos and that was that. Though I couldn’t begin to guess the contractual enforcement methods of the 15-year-old to collect on our Dora DVD, I asked Celia to ask him how long we could keep the movie. She looked at me but couldn’t hear me. I stammer out a “por una dia?” and he replied “no, dos.”

We hit the street blinded by the sun and I empathized momentarily for the blind deaf child beside me though I couldn’t find the compassion to be her Helen Keller. I shout at her about how we need to pool our language resources in situations like the video store. She whines something about being tired and hot. Miffed, I don’t notice the thunderhead gathering directly over us.

We turn the corner to see the Coca Cola park complete with state-of-the-art play structure and refreshment pavilion serving, what else? I ask Celia – twice - if she’d like an ice cream. With each exchange we sound more and more like Al and Peg Bundy throwing accusations of intentional miscommunincation. In the steamy hot shop we peer into the ice cream case as the shopkeeper hovers over me. “What do you want Celia?” Silence. “Pick something Celia.” Barely audible mumbling sounding faintly like fresas wafts from my child. I ask her to ask the gentleman, now entirely too close to me, how much the strawberry popsicle costs. Silence. “Will you tell me how to ask?” Butterfly wings make more sound than the words that came from the child who, until that moment hadn’t spoken below a shout all day. “Speak up Celia. I can’t hear you (and the man is almost touching me!) Flutter, flutter. Utterly frustrated, I shoved my hand forward to distance myself from the encroaching merchant with 15 pesos. He took 10 and I thanked him before hauling Celia by her shoulder, a little too roughly, out of the pavilion toward the playground.

If I lead you to believe that this would be the story of a Celia meltdown, I apologize. On the contrary, I lost it. Celia attempted to ignore the fact by reveling in her strawberry distraction. Then the downpour began. Utter childishness rained from my mouth, “I’m not buying another thing for you as long as we are here. You want something, you ask for it. I don’t speak Spanish – you do! You’re not doing a damn thing to help… point for being here…get on the next plane…” and so on until we were both drenched - Celia in tears and me in strawberry popsicle.

Within minutes the clouds parted, I regained a semblance of maturity and Celia – sensing the shift, took to the play structure. I drank a liter of water and watched the children play and the teenagers in their catholic school uniforms execute carefully choreographed public displays of affection.

The rest of the day was lovely. We swam, I worked, Celia sketched with pastels, Bob drove us to the same beach that we so nearly reached earlier in the day (FYI – we should have pushed on past the barbed wire. So much for intuition!) and we prepared and devoured dinner al fresco. Without doubting the many, many disapproving statues of Mary that witnessed my tantrum in the park, I can tell you that Todos Santos’ has at least two saint in current residence. As I washed the dishes from dinner, Ted and Laurie, the couple next door, invited me to their patio for a little conversation with Don Julio. Celia, meanwhile, retired to our room where she artistically expressed herself for two solid, blissfully quiet hours while I talked to adults who heard every word I said the first time.

The night sky was crystal clear – not a cloud in sight.