Saturday, July 14, 2007

The massage

How not to start the day.

I woke up at 10:30 and remember that I had scheduled a massage – my first since arriving here - for 11:00.

Dilemma #1 – Privacy vs Parental duty. I could take my massage in our room but then Celia would be (1) outside and unsupervised or (2) way to close. No brainer – I positioned Celia in a lounge chair where I could hear her playing Elmo’s World on my computer but not be completely distracted. Then I directed the masseur, Zasho, to set up in the shade of the stone cabana off of pool. From there, I could keep an ear on Celia without constant interruption.

Dilemma #2 – Modesty vs Quality Massage. I’m a seasoned, if not spicy, spa-goer and I know from years of experience, the best massages cannot take place with clothing on. Zasha clearly knows this too but merely suggested that no clothing is a good approach while he patted two optional towels left on the massage table before he stepped away to wash his hands. I stood there in turmoil. My options were to take the table butt-naked in a location that lost to parental duty or ensure a terrible, awkward massage by forcing Zasho to work around my bathing suit straps. Operating with consciousness barley 30 minutes old, I opted for the former and climbed onto the table glad that one always begins face down. Five minutes into my massage horror seeps into my feeble morning brain – not because the workmen can see me on when they rise up on their tip-toes, not because the two other couples staying at Casa Bentley might loath my wicked ways (surely, they would feel differently if they had a child to protect!), not for the inevitable therapy expense some day ascribed to Celia’s vague memory of mama’s naked rub by Zasho, the Austrian Yogi. No, I wavered between bliss and gut-wrenching anxiety for a much better reason. My business partner and his wife were still on site! My mind reeled at the thought of the two of them approaching the cabana, stepping into the thick black curtain of shade only to find me naked as the day I was born. I tried to put it out of my mind. I prayed that they were in town doing some last minute shopping before they depart of the airport. But knowing that Mark could walk up at any moment, I willed the time to fly by despite the melting motions of my masseur.

It came time for the dreaded flip and still no sign of Mark. As I orchestrated my flip with all the care and precision of a crane maneuvering a T-bar into place, I was shocked by how bright the day was even in the cabana. Behind my pinched lids, it was easier to believe that I was not readily visible but with my eyes open there was no denying my exposure. I asked Zasho for a towel saying that I’d hate to destroy worker productivity on the job site just beyond the pool wall.

Dilemma #3 – Two regions; one hand towel. There are three unique features of the female frontal landscape that one might wish to conceal. They can be divided into two distinct regions – both of which cannot be simultaneously shielded with a single hand towel. Pressed for time, I opted to cloak the southern territory with the logic that the northern region had already been partially exposed by my bathing suit for the bulk of my 3 weeks in Mexico.

When my 50-minute massage entered into its 90th minute, I had nearly forgotten about Mark. As Zasho lingering for an eternity on my sandal-sore feet and the skin on my northern exposure enjoyed the rare breathy breeze –my luck ran out. From behind the potted palm I heard Mark’s voice. In a strained stage whisper he said, “Jamie, we love you. Thank you. We are leaving now.” I raised an oiled arm and gave a stiff Queen Mum wrist wave so as not to send the ladies into motion. If ever there was a full body blush – certainly I was a perfect specimen at that moment.

When I had been kneaded inert, Zasho lifted his hands from my hide. I hoisted the hand towel over my bits and pranced off to put on my swimsuit. Shrouded in a quarter yard of Lycra confidence, I returned to thank Zasho feeling uncharacteristically bashfully. “Thank you,” I said handing over my 500 pesos and a tip. He tucked the money into his pocket and replied in his light-as-air accent, “Thank you. I found it to be quite inspiring myself.” There was no innuendo in his tone. He wasn’t making a play or even being cheeky. I was flattered and flustered all at once so I did what I always do, I made a joke. “I hope Bob’s new casita reflects the inspiration his workers have been given this morning.” As we turned our eyes in the direction of the new building, four dark-haired heads plunged behind the bougainvillea and the sounds of hammers and drills returned.

Monday, July 9, 2007

Spanish tutor


There’s a cafĂ© – true mainland style – above the surf shop. It has the best sandwiches on fresh French baguettes and, of course, bountiful caffeine supply. I am proud to say that I have only had 2 lattes in 2 weeks. This has to be a new record for me. But, Celia likes the hammock chairs and from their rooftop location, it is like out own private hideout from the bustle of the street below.

We swayed and tapped to the Gypsy Kings waiting for our sandwich and sipping a fresh watermelon slushy, we inventoried our favorite things about Mexico and discussed whether we’d come back to Todos Santos next year. Celia said, “Next year we can make sure the school is open so I can play with someone beside you.”

I shook off the dig because no one would like that better than me. I said, “And I will arrange for a Spanish tutor for me.” Celia looked at me for a moment as if to judge whether I was kidding and then started giggling.

“Maaaaamaaaaa….yuck! Why would you want a Mexican person who farts?”

When I eventually composed myself enough to spell out the distinction between “tooter” and “tutor”, our lunch arrived and I enjoyed my latte in exceptionally good humor.

Sunday, July 8, 2007

Our serenade


Some time around sunset today Todos Santos slid quietly – almost imperceptibly – from ideal to surreal. Celia and I had walked up to the church to watch the sun set over the Pacific. While we took in the slow transition from yellow to orange and finally pink light, we each sketched. I drew the Church’s distinctive bell tower while Celia captured the vista. Not one, but two, people came by to watch us sketch. I felt infinitely silly since I was drawing with fat roll-up crayons. Yet, I had to admit, my sketch wasn’t half bad and Celia has the obvious handicap of being five.

When the sun finally sunk into the trees atop the ridge between us and the ocean, we packed up our Crayolas just as a group came out of the Church. Most went directly into waiting cars or walked off toward home but four men remained on the church steps. Quietly at first I heard the tuning of a guitar and then they began, in perfect harmony to sing the sound track of our evening. Celia curled up in my lap and we sat in the fading twilight listening to our private serenade. Romance hung thick in the jasmine-scented air and in that moment I feel even more in love with my daughter.

Accessories


Friday was buying day. We poked in and out of all the tourist-minded shops in town looking for just the right dress for Celia. I love the traditional ones of gauzelike white cotton trimmed in vibrant colors but Celia wants the sexy one that ties like a halter around her neck and has the Stevie Nicks skirt – you know what I mean. We searched high and low to find one in her size that wasn’t white. I perfected the necessary Spanish for, “Like this one (pointing to the many adult versions) but for my Daughter. No, thank you, she doesn’t want white.” Finally, we found a hot pink one and she skipped gleefully from the store about 15 feet before she stopped in her tracks and said, “Oh no, Mama’ with such anguish I thought we had lost something important – the camera, my phone, what?. Shoulders slumped and with elongated face Celia said, “I don’t have the right shoes for this dress.”