Pre-Cruise Jiggles

As I prepare for a Southern Caribbean cruise this Sunday, I make note of a few things. 
A) You simply cannot lose 30 pounds in 1 week through diet and exercise alone.
B) Cellulite affects tummy flab. We're talking grapefruit peel here. No more two piece bathing suits. Actually, never did wear them. Flipper is eternally grateful.
C) I once read with horror how Demi Moore had plastic surgery because her knees were sagging. Her knees!!!! As I look south, no longer is it just my boobs heading for my toes. I now have one saggy knee. The left one. And apparently the cellulite from the tummy has taken on the personality of a glacier, creeping into my upper thighs. I think I need to keep my head up.

Post Lipo Suction.

D) When is a size 10 not a size 10? I'm not talking dress size. Went to Marshall's,  my lord, what an assortment of shoes they have. I need a pair of flats for the cruise. I picked up a nice comfy pair to try on in my most Cinderella fashion, and found out I am the ugly step sister. A size 10 M/W would not fit no matter how I tried to stuff my foot in that shoe. I think there may be foot cellulite there too, although it is too far away for me to see. I wonder if they make Spanx for feet?
And that is my little world at the moment.

Salud!

Getting Stuffed and Other Things.

We'll start with the other things.

1. There's No Business Like Snow Business. Well, actually, in Holland, they don't seem to do snow very well. That lovely Schipol Airport is huge, and a destination unto itself. My daughter found it to be a great source of entertainment as she and her beloved watched people stack up, like dogs in a show ring, at the end of the moving walkway. I had time, so I walked the 7.4 miles to my gate, but she tells me the moving sidewalk starts off slowly as you step on to it, then as it progresses, it kind of stretches out and just whizzes you right along, past us walking martyrs, until near the end, where it bunches up and slows right down again, heaping bewildered foreigners into a pile at the step off. 

This would be an ordinary day at Pearson

While I was trekking to my gate, I noticed the few snowflakes that had been caressing the ground en route to the airport were now pounding down with fury, but, I thought, no matter, I have taken off from Toronto with less than stellar conditions, and at such a busy international airport, they would be ready for such petty disturbances as weather.

How wrong I was! We were loaded on to the 747, and BTW, when Toronto built its new terminals, why didn't they build a few double gates like Schipol, to accommodate the behemoth types of jets? Just wondering... Then we sat. And sat some more. After an hour or an hour and a half, the snow had let up. But the airport had closed. I looked out the window. There was snow, but compared to what we are used to in Toronto, it wasn't much. I thought they might just need the time to plough a runway or two, and we would be on our way. Out came nuts and juice. And the kid sitting behind me who continued to beat the back of my seat with his feet. Eventually we tried to leave for the de-icing. I noticed several times the plane seemed to be rocking back and forth, like an impatient concert goer shifting from foot to foot while waiting in line. Finally, we moved away from the gate, only to stop suddenly, and be told that the front landing gear had to be inspected. Why? Because just like we North Americans get caught up in the snow and spin our wheels, and then rock the car back and forth to get out, our close to 800,000 pound loaded aircraft had been stuck in the two inches of snow, spinning its wheels, and that little vehicle that pushes it out while attached to the front landing gear had been the source of that rocking with no one knocking. And possibly damaged the gears. Out came water and cookies. Meanwhile I amused myself with the continued drumming against the back of my seat. And again watching out the window while the dinky toy snow ploughs with soup spoons for shovels tried to round up the drifts. Finally, an all clear, but then for de-icing, like stepping up to the deli counter on the weekend. "Four!" You look at your ticket and see "68". In all, FIVE hours in the soup can with Ricky Ricardo behind me, before we took off. I had something planned that evening back home, I think. Didn't quite land at 1530 like the ticket said.

2. Whitney. A Golden voice silenced, but again here is another person who had a world of opportunity before her, and chose this slow suicide.Can't blame Bobby. She and Mikey are hand in hand up there, and guilty of orphaning their children. That for me is unforgivable. It's too bad she never felt the love in life that was poured out for her in her death. But then, you have to love yourself first. And maybe she never did.

Unlike Ben and Courtney, these birds mate for life.

3. Ben and Courtney. Really, have you ever seen two losers so suited for each other? There must have been a paper bag over his head when the Bachelor execs said "I know! Let's pick Ben!" I mean, is there anyone else in Bachelordom who could at the very least use a bowl and a sharp pair of scissors? He's a whine maker, er, wine maker. He won't be stomping on my grapes anytime soon. And Courtney? How she could ever look at herself in the mirror, well, I guess she couldn't because everyone of them would be cracked by the rush of wind as she stepped up to them. 'Til death do you part, and I'm sure it will be hotter than Puerto Rico where you guys are headed to after that.

Try stuffing him alive.

4. But Stuffing is For Turkeys. Well gobble, gobble. Woke up one morning in Holland with a little difficulty sitting down, which progressed into a huge difficulty sitting down, and no, this isn't Prep H material. So without going into all the gory details, one of my minor nightmares has come true, and since I lack the dexterity of Cirque du Soleil performers (although in a real pinch with a lot of mirrors, I can come close), I now have someone stuffing an area where the sun don't shine. There is no more dignity. The clinic I go to doesn't even supply you with a gown or a towel or even a fig leaf to cover your fruit with. Some nurses step out of the room while you get ready. Others hang in. Some open the rolling curtains just as you are shimmying off your drawers. Major accident at the 401/Hwy 10? That's because they also didn't close the blinds while I was getting ready. Quick! Jupiter has lost one of its moons! Film at eleven!

And that is my little world for now. Up soon - the Golden Girls will be rocking the Southern Caribbean with Princess.  Improv entertainment provided by an as yet unknown member of Cirque du Soleil.

It must have been moon glow....

Salud!

Dutch Treat

I was in Holland for a week walking off the tundra that had made them so itchy at home, and came to love many things.

Amsterdam

1. Schipol Airport. What's not to love about entering a land that doesn't require fiddle-farty forms to be filled out, only to have someone who can't be bothered to read the forms ask you the same questions on the forms? I walked up to the lovely young gentleman at customs, certain that I had missed the tour on the airplane, you know, the handing out of forms. He asked me what I was going to do in Holland. I did not say "Drugs." "Welcome to the Netherlands. Enjoy your stay." A quick stamp, and off I went to retrieve my luggage. Afterwards, to the "Nothing to Declare" exit. Two security agents on either side. Never a question or even a sideways glance as I passed between them into a well signed venue that had me at the designated pick up point pronto. Take that, Miami, the bane of my travel!

2. Small European Cars. Provided me with so much entertainment while I waited for my friend to pick me up. Reminiscent of clown cars, I would watch a teeny tiny little vehicle pull up to the curb to drop off departing loved ones. The driver door would open, and out stretched a leg with a size 15 shoe on the end into the roadway, the leg longer than the car was wide. The knee, flexed at 90 degrees over the foot. A hip would appear, and in the blink of an eye, the knee would straighten, and both the knee and the outward facing foot would swivel to face the car as it relinquished another hip. Another seemingly endless leg and the owner's behind would be saluting the sun, well, if it had been out that day. The torso, head and outstretched arms soon followed, much like a monarch exiting a chrysalis. And then the being stood up. I swear, 3 times the height of the car. And before it was over, that car would give birth to two slightly shorter specimens, from one of the two doors, before sprouting full sized luggage, back packs and other bric a brac. 

And I'll be damned, if I'll be crammed - oops, wrong verse.

3. Bikes. Purple bikes, blue bikes, pink bikes. Bikes for one, two or three, often carrying more people than seats. More bikes than cars in the church parking lot on Sunday. Bikes parked on the street, dedicated bike lanes throughout the country. Why? Because no matter whether they are tall or short, thin, fluffy, shaped like a washboard, apple, pear or tulip bulb, Dutch women are graced with the most amazing gams, and THAT you don't get from sitting in a car all of your life.

Town Hall, Haarlem.

4. Shopping. I like this anyway, but I love it in Holland. If you hate shopping, the Netherlands will work hard to change your mind. Sure they have malls. I'm talking about shopping in Amsterdam, Haarlem and Amersfoort, and probably a whole bunch of other towns that sport storefronts from somewhere in the 1600's, all beautifully renovated, all with old world charm and personality, which we lack here in our sterile box store setups. All punctuated by cafes and restos with tables and chairs outside, even in the cold, there were tables with lit candles and chairs with warm blankets for the hardy souls, beckoning them to stop and linger for a few moments with a latte.
5. Dutch Butter. As in butter cookies in every way, shape and form, destined to butter the hips. Forget the tins we get here at Christmas, they may say Dutch on them, but they are no reasonable facsimiles of the stuff eaten abroad.
6.Poffertjes. Adorable puffy little pancakes eaten with a smattering of oh so sweet syrup. Destined to make a more adorable, puffy, not so little, version of me.

Waiting for the Bitterballen. And beer.

7. Bitterballen. And because butter is only one of the food groups, you have to fit in something savoury, and these deep fried little balls of stew fit the bill nicely. Washed down by a great local brew. Turning me into a Butterballen.
8. Stroopwafels. Thin sandwich plate sized waffles, hot off the press, spread with a thin layer of ooey gooey caramel. I think this might be related to butter as well. Once more 'round the block.
9. Heineken Bock. 'Cause it's never a vacation without a decent national beer.
10. Filet Americain. A ground meat paste akin to steak tartare. The spicy version became my mainstay at breakfast, spread a little more copiously than is likely proper, over good multigrain toast or fresh bread. Or even from the blade of a knife.
 I did not try herring. I have fond memories of my father consuming pickled herring that came in a small, white plastic barrel with a red screw top lid. He would exclaim that I didn't know what I was missing. Judging from the stink, I knew what I was missing all right, and I believe I came out the winner. Jeannette assures me that real Dutch herring in Holland bears no resemblance to the Abomination in a Barrel, even if the Abomination was imported (directly from Fish Hell, I say). I will reserve the tasting and the judgement for another trip. I suspect Jeannette will be right, as she has been all along.

My "Dream Boat" doesn't snore or require legs. Amsterdam.

I had the most solicitous of hosts, my school mate Jeannette, and her hubby, Robin. And a most delightful Golden Retriever named Toby, who made me miss my doggie more, but who gave me the pleasure of his company as well during several walks about town. And what's not to love about a mutt who presents you with your own mitts when you are going out? And all his toys, one by one, when you arrive home because he is so happy to see you?
And that was the week that was. Proost!

Mississauga Musings

1. Loose Lips Sink Ships. Well, at least loose brains did. So now Captain Titanic can be heard saying "they made me do it." I quote loosely here, but that's the essence. Uh huh. Did they make you jump ship too? Oh we had gravity that nicely deposited you in a lifeboat. How about when you were ordered back to the ship to get a handle on things. No? What do you mean, no? I fly a fair amount, and I look to these pilots blindly as my protection. I simply have no choice. The pilot does not want to die, I tell myself each and every time I crawl onto one of those egg beaters. And you know what? In most of those plane crashes, the pilot dies. Each time a plane in the north falls out of the sky, I want to kiss the pilot I am with. I am safe, for now. Then there's the boat. I've been on a few cruises, Costa being one of them. It's not like the Captain is going to see the ground approaching him at a couple hundred miles an hour or more. The Captain isn't likely to die. Captain Titanic just extended his survival rate. And in the end, if someone told you to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you do it? So there he was, the master of thousands of fates. He bowed to pressure. With thousands of people who trusted him to do the right thing. Kudos to those who stayed behind and did just that. I just signed on for a cruise in March. Princess, not Costa. It is highly unlikely that something of this magnitude will happen again in the near future. Just in case, the girls had a very short discussion. Every woman for themselves. Unless a few of us lose weight first, all the better to push/pull/shove the other one over the rail.

But then again, would you want to save them?

2. Loose Lips Sink Ships 2. Did you see the picture of Joan Rivers? Going for her seven hundred and something plastics procedure, because she needs redecorating. Joan, from that picture of you with no make-up, there are a couple of things that come to mind, a) that you are being incredibly ripped off by your surgeon, and b) plaster of Paris would be cheaper. Just saying. The next time, you might find your eyebrows attached to the nape of your neck. Learn to love your wrinkles. Your surgeon already does.
3. Loose Lips Sink Ships 3. And Loosen Zippers. Oh Ashton, Ashton, Ashton. and now you've sunk Demi. You remind me of Captain Titanic. Nothing redeemable about you. Of course, Demi needs to get a life. Children only suit her when she's given birth to them.
4. Driving Under the Influence. Yes siree, that's our Pat Sajak and the lovely Vanna White, behind the Wheel of Fortune, blottoed on Margaritas. "P". "Aw right, hic, lessee where the "D" is, Vanna. Watch your shtep." "Pat, I said 'P,' please." "I heard you the firsht time. Vanna, there you go, shtand up, up, thats gooder, now find the "D." "Pat, I said 'P for 'Pissed,' not 'D' for 'Drunken Sot'. I'd rather solve the puzzle now, if you wouldn't mind getting off the floor now. 'Loose Lips Sink Ships.'" Wish I had a job like that. Off now for an Amsterdam good time. Salud!

Odds and Sods

One wonders what goes through people's minds before they make a trek into the clinic.
Little Old Lady: I don't feel well, I've been sick all day, since early this morning.
Me: Why didn't you come in sooner?
LOL: I didn't want to bother you.
Time: 1:15 AM.
Some folks are quite up front, they see the condition of the waiting room (packed) during the day, so defer the visit until evening when there would be only 1 or 2 nurses seeing a room full of patients, instead of 7 or 8 nurses. At least they've had dinner, hit the store, watched t.v.....
The other ones that get me, and whom I won't take as seriously, are the ones who come in complaining of this horrible stomach pain (usually from too much alcohol or fatty food.). Then they ignore me while they are texting or listening to iPods. You've just earned yourself 2 Tylenol plains with a Maalox chaser. Next!
I flew out last Monday to come home. Ordinarily, I don't find the puddle jumpers are plagued with the same problems as the big airliners, things like over booking and such. Except for the odd plane crash, they have been almost a pleasure to take, save for my fear of flying of course. So Monday, we were told we would have to make an unscheduled stop at Island Lake, about a 1/2 hour toot away. Apparently, their last flight had way too many confirmed passengers, and not enough seats. Their last flight is a Dash 8, it carries around 40 passengers. So another airline practicing overbooking. We arrived, had to refuel , and then this crowd of frozen onions clambered onto the plane. And then it hit our pilot and co-pilot. We didn't have enough seats. Fourteen people, twelve seats. Count again. Fourteen people, twelve seats. Another count, and the numbers miraculously did not change. And they are looking at their sheets, "But it says we have 14 seats!" I don't know about you, but most airline pilots I have gotten to know, know their aircraft inside and out, so needless to say, it did not inspire confidence in me when they still counted a 4th time. And no, the ratio of passengers to seats had not changed. Um, maybe the pilot and co-pilot's seats were in on that number? I asked one of the seatless passengers if she knew how to fly the plane. The pilot was not amused. One passenger volunteered to leave the next morning, then our perplexed pilot had to go back to the sardine tin to figure out that another passenger was on stand by. He got the boot as well, we were on our way, and were over 2 hours late to our destination. Only Air Canada, you say? Bureaucracy and ineptitude know no bounds. But at least they could fly the plane. This time.
Cheers!

Fly Me To The Moon

I may never complain about the duct taped, rivet challenged "Flying Tubes of Death" again.  At least not for awhile. I was called to do an emergency contract in the wilds of Manitoba. The airline that normally services the particular community I was going to does not fly on Saturdays, which seemed a blessing in my mind, as it had been shut down temporarily  because of a  fatal crash in the summer in that same community, due to safety concerns (you think?). The other nurse who was traveling with me and I were heaving a collective sigh of relief. Heaven knows, we didn't want to sit on one of  THOSE planes. Then "Hugo", a burly Man of the North, fetched us from the sardine tin airport to take us to our wings. I liken this to a moment from my visiting nursing days. I finally had an address in the nice section of town, the one with the million dollar (at the time) homes, the manicured lawns, the Bimmers all shiny and spotless in the driveway. What I pulled up to in the midst of my fantasy was the paint flaking, brick decaying abode with the three foot grass lawn,  an old toilet in the driveway. The screen door hanging by the bottom hinge. The interior with the must and the colours that may have one day long ago signified grandeur of sorts. And the old lady and her sister whose dreams had decayed right along with the house.

Would you wanna climb this?

And so my colleague and I were led outside into the cold, slipping on the icy tarmac, past the Dash 8's, past even the Flying Tubes of Death, to the aircraft at the back of the lot. What we encountered looked like something that could have been used to drop propaganda bombs in World War 2. In my childhood, my home backed onto a park that sported those steel drum type garbage cans. Every year, another layer of paint would be added, until eventually  the can was nothing but a shell of 25 layers of green and yellow paint, the steel having long ago disintegrated beneath. The plane was encrusted in green and white. The nose was high in the air, the tail supported by a tire about the size of a dinner plate. As we neared the door in the middle of the plane, we were given a choice as to where we could sit to meet our Maker. One in the rear of the plane, the other up front with the pilot. I elected to ride shotgun. Having just read "How To Land a 747" I figured I was good to go in case the pilot decided to knock off early. So poor Darryl climbed into the plane, and seated himself in the lonely seat pretty much in the tail, just in front of the cargo net that was holding, well, cargo. I was right behind him, ready to work my way to the front of the plane, when the pilot, who was just a young wet behind the ears thing, tapped me on the shoulder and told me I had to get in the other door. What other door? Well (stupid), it was the co-pilot's door on the other side, it looked to be about 20 feet off the ground. How the hell was I getting up there? Where's the portable steps, hell, even the ladder from Mexico would have been helpful.  What I had were little bits of green paint chipping metal about three feet apart up the wheel assembly. I could hear the Friendly Giant's words echoing in my brain, "Look up. Look waaaaaay up!" And I, wanting to save face with my decision, had to haul me arse up there. Swinging my backpack to the pilot, I definitely hauled me arse up there, giving the pilot a nightmare image burned in his mind forever. Wonky knees from volcano slides didn't fail me and I managed to get into the craft without falling and flattening the pilot, who was smiling the whole time. We were ready to go.
I noticed a little ancient sign permanently driven into the dashboard of the plane. It said "It is strictly prohibited to perform acrobatic maneuvers and tails spins in this aircraft." Really? I reminded the pilot of such, and he promised me he would try to restrain himself. All hooked up, we took off, me ready at the drop of a hat to take over piloting responsibilities should something have happened to the youngun' at the helm. In the back, poor Darryl. Poor, poor, Darryl. The only source of heat was in the front of the plane, and the reason why I had to scale Mt. Everest was because there was another cargo net holding more cargo behind me and the pilot. So that even if we did a nose dive crash, and Darryl lived to tell about it as the people in the tail have a better chance of survival, he would have been pancake material due to the impact of flying cargo, once the net disintegrated. As it was, we could barely see that he was turning blue. And the tail swing was not due to turbulence, it was due to Darryl's uncontrolled shivering. Eventually he pulled a Michael Jackson, he had pulled a blankie from the end bowels of the aircraft and covered himself from head to toe. I wasn't sure if we would find a warm body or a popsicle, but in the end, neither of us was Heaven bound.

Would love to be able to soar like this fellow. In Mexico,
where he is from.

I managed to exit the aircraft semi-gracefully, but not until after five minutes of thought had been put into foot placement so as not to topple the pilot waiting below, who eagerly proclaimed "Don't worry, I'll catch you!"
And just as I thought it couldn't get worse, the airline that had been grounded was up and running by the time my contract was finished. A little 8 seater twin engine fishing line bob. A few of the folks on the same flight had obviously been hitting the liquid Ativan before hand, so once in the aircraft with club seating, I was hoping the "fumes" would calm me down. As we careened down the runway (the winds were high), I grabbed the seat back of the guy next to me, the window ledge, and finally the knee of the guy next to me. Once in the air, we were like a rubber duckie passing through Class IV rapids, up and down and all around. I think I was the in flight entertainment. The inebriated young man in front of me, once he finished laughing, started talking to me about all of the issues up North, and I concentrated on his every word, to spare the knee skin of the other guy next to me. Eventually, the air calmed down, he finished talking, and actually thanked me for listening, because sometimes he just needed to get things off his chest. Maybe it was the whiskey baited air I was breathing, or the conversation, but I thanked him for nursing me through this wild little flight, and thanked my lucky stars for the Flying Tubes of Death I am normally transported in.

The Great White North

And that is my little world in the GWN.

News from the South - November 19th

Out of everything bad, some thing good happens. So here's the main event: My best friend, Eunice, had joined me in Guatemala City a couple of days prior to our medical mission in Santa Maria de Jesus. While walking in the historical district, and after using the ATM a few blocks back, Eunice's earrings were lifted right off from her from behind. I had been slightly ahead of her, heard her muffled cry, and  turned to see a young man behind her with his hands over her ears, pulling her head backwards as he was pilfering her earrings. I felt like I was m-m-o-o-v-v-i-i-n-n-g-g so very slowly in delayed reaction. Eunice, bless her heart, was able to grab back an earring, obviously the perp wasn't expecting any kind of fight. And in a twinkle of his eye (he looked back with a somewhat bemused smirk), he loped off towards the street entrance of a little indoor mall that I know well. A younger teenaged boy came up, and wanted us to go with him, he knew where  this young man had gone. And in a city where every storefront seems to be inhabited by men with rifles and handguns, or police, I couldn't find a one. Nada. A little, well dressed Guatemalan man came up, heard my statement about the lack of cops this time out, and said they don't do anything anyway. Remember this part too, there's a story about him later. So now you have the background to all things good. And no, we didn't follow the kid either, we figured it was a set up for more.

1. Bagged Out, Part 1. The previous day had seen Eunice and I on tour with my guide Poiio. We went to the market town of Chichicastenengo, as well as to some ruins just outside of the town, where we were covert witnesses to a short Mayan ceremony prior to the Day of the Dead. Once back in the city, we went out for dinner with Poiio and the driver. I never carry a purse, I usually have my wallet in my back pocket, but this time I decided to carry it in my little purple Ameribag, which I detached from its somewhat hidden position on my backpack. Didn't realize it was missing until after we had been dropped back at the Posada we were staying at. Didn't have Poiio's phone number, but he is a Facebook friend. So you know, Facebook isn't all that bad. I messaged Poiio. On the Friday, the day the earrings were lifted, and before we were to leave to join the other mission folks, Angel Poiio biked over from the university and delivered my bag to the Posada while we were out.

Ruins near Chichi.

2. Bagged Out, Part 2. I love the luxury Central American buses!  They have attendants, and movies and food and drinks (no alcohol) and snacks, all included with your ticket purchase. Pillows and blankies too, and not blow up pillows either as offered by some really cheap airlines. Flying should be so comfortable. Oh, and the seats recline with footrests, and have cup holders and over seat trays to rest your snacks on. The trays I could do without, except for I would be wearing my food. The trays clip on both sides of the seat, and feel like they are resting at the top of your chest. If I wasn't wearing a good support bra, the tray would have done the trick. Just saying...

But I digress. We returned from El Salvador one Friday evening, and were getting off at a different spot closer to the Posada than the original station we had embarked on our El Salvadorean odyssey from. My friend, Florida Tom had my baggage tags, the guy back in San Salvador had handed them to him. The drop off was not a station per se, although it is advertised as one, but the street front of the large Biltmore Hotel in the happening Zona 10 section of town. Which is to say it, it is usually a very busy section of town. Took the bus half an hour to progress the few blocks down the street to get to the hotel. It was also college party night, there were formals and informals going on. We disembarked into the throngs of people, and the bus attendant squished himself into the luggage hold of the bus and proceeded to pass bags out as luggage tags were handed to him. I watched my bag come out into Florida Tom's hands. Eventually we made our way to a clear section of sidewalk, and I bartered with the taxi drivers to take us back to the Posada. ($10.00? No way, I've been here 5 times and it shouldn't cost more than $7.00!!! Got it for $8.00, and Francesca the Posada owner informed me they usually charge $15.00!). And of course, I didn't realize until after we had returned to the Posada that my purple duffle hadn't arrived with us. Poor Francesca, another one of my Guatemalan family and my friend, called to the hotel. The person at the other end of the line spoke English, so I asked him to please send someone outside just to look up the road and see if my bag was still sitting there. Nope, call this number (the main bus station) in the morning at 0530, and see if they had it. The office by this point was closed. Francesca, Rafael (one of my Posada Boys) and I went back to the Biltmore, miraculously found our taxi drivers, and were politely allowed to check the interiors of the trunks as it was had been quite dark outside, but nothing. I was going for a volcano hike the following morning, so being up early was not a problem for the phone call to the bus company. I gave the number to my other Posada Boy, or rather Angel, Nilo. At first he couldn't get through. By this point, I had written off my bag, which had all of my personal clothing in it. I still had the important stuff - the mission clothes had been left at the Posada for laundering between missions, and my hair product had been in the other bag that made it with me. Out the blow dryer, though, but I borrowed one at the Posada so I could look my best huffing and puffing up the volcano. And lo and behold, a knock at the bedroom door, can't remember which one of my angels delivered me the good news, but the bus company had my bag, had discovered it still sitting lonely next to the bus, tags intact. So they just heaved it back on and held onto it until the forgetful owner showed up. I swear I had rolled it with us, but evidently not. And once again, Poiio kindly stopped with me to pick it up on the way to the volcano. 

I was feeling like a dumb cluck after all my losses.

3. What's In Your Wallet? I think for me, should be what's in your head, because brains didn't seem to be taking up much space. I left Guatemala for Cancun on the Sunday. We were a little less than halfway to the airport, cab driver Raul, Nilo from the Posada, and me, when the Posada called Raul and informed him I had left my computer adapter back at the Posada. Graciously Raul returned, Rafael handed me the adapter,and we were once again on our way to the airport. I pulled out a few more quetzales from my wallet for Raul's extra trouble. Proceeded to the American Airlines counter. And realized I had no wallet. No money. No way to get it on time to make my flight. American wouldn't call the Posada for me, they pointed me to the pay phones. I had no change. I was in front of the shoe shine stand, I scrounged an American dollar from the little purple bag, gave it to one of the guys for  a 1 quetzal bill, and .75 quetzales in change. Just so you know, there's about 7.5 quetzales in $1 USD. I tried calling. Unable to get through. Tried again, unable to get through. Tried again, this time the change portion wasn't returned when I couldn't get through. Begged one of the shoe shiners to call for me on his cell. Unable to get through. Tried the phone again. Lost the last of my change, and still unable to get through. I turned around, and just said aloud, "I think I'm going to cry." Perched on the upper tier of the shoe shine station, receiving a spit and a polish, was Guapo Guy. My new super hero. He asked what was wrong, his shoe shine guy explained it all to him in Spanish. Guapo Guy pulled out his wallet and gave me what I needed to get to Mexico with. He is Guatemalan by birth, but now is a fellow Canuck, calling Montreal home. Elated, I thanked him profusely and paid the baggage fee, and was on my way to my flight. I already had my plans in mind how I was going to manage in Mexico. I had a bunch of pesos with me from July's trip, my passport had never been lost, so I would have the Posada, once I got a hold of them, courier my wallet home, and I would hit up my daughter for a Western Union moneygram. Ahead of me at security was Guapo Guy, and he walked with me to the boarding gate, he was on his way home to Canada via the same Miami bound flight as me. He got out his cell, and was able to contact Rafael at the Posada. Rafael was going to contact Mr. Raul and see if my wallet was still in the cab. I  harboured fears of the wallet having fallen off my lap while getting out of the cab, lost forever. In the meantime, Guapo Guy was hungry, and offered to buy me lunch, which I declined, he had been so generous already. He told me he was at least going to buy me a coffee, and went away. About 15 minutes later, just before the pre-boarding announcement, I heard my name on the overhead. I honestly thought for a second, this is not the time for an upgrade. And there they had it. My wallet. Mr. Raul and Nilo got the wallet to the airport, and American got it to me. And Guapo Guy was making his way back. With my coffee, and pizza to share with me. 

4. What's In Your Wallet Now? Not the American Express card, when I left it at Nathan's in Miami when I picked up a sauerkraut hotdog on the way to my Cancun flight. I heard the clipping of little tiny heels, and a little tiny voice behind me as I was racing to the already boarding flight, "Excuse me! Excuse me!" I turned around to a little tiny lady, who told me I had left my credit card back at the counter. Dashed back for the rescue, and I was on my way to Cancun.

5. Now Really, What Is In Your Wallet? Not the Visa card. As communicated to me by Florida Tom via e-mail, once I had made it to my hotel in Playa Del Carmen. After the volcano hike, Poiio and I had gone back to the same Mexican restaurant for dinner that we had eaten at the week before. And look who should be there but Florida Tom and Texas Ron, our (Eunice and me) travel buddies in El Salvador. I paid with my credit card, and left it there. In Central America, they bring you the bill to sign without your credit card, I guess to compare signatures, unlike here in North America, where your card is returned at the same time as you sign your bill. The night I left for Cancun, Florida Tom and Texas Ron returned to Los Cebollines, the  Angel Waiter recognized them, gave them my card and my bill. Yesterday, my card arrived by mail, sent by Angel Tom.

There is nothing so bad that a cerveza with friends
cannot fix..

6. It's a Small World. Guatemala City I believe has about 2.5 million inhabitants. And so imagine my surprise when I thought I recognized the little, well dressed Guatemalan man when Eunice had her earrings lifted. The ATMs I was familiar with in previous years had been moved to the pedestrian mall prior to my visit to Guate last year. I met up with a little, well dressed Guatemalan man who took me to the relocated ATM I was looking for, and eventually took me to couple of sites I hadn't seen near the historical district. He was in the city for a dental appointment in the afternoon, but the bus had dropped him off in the morning, he was from out of town. He walked me back to the Posada, and of course hit me up for some cash so he could buy a meal. I gave it to him, figuring I might have been a little bit had. But, his company had been enjoyable, and I had seen a couple of things I hadn't in previous visits. The next day on my morning walk, we came upon each other again, apparently the appointment had been canceled,  blah blah, blah. I gave him more quetzales, laughing, and told him if I saw him the next day I wasn't giving him anything more. We went for a cerveza, and that was the last I saw of him, my Teacher Mario.

Once I told Eunice that story after her earrings had been taken, I was pretty sure that the little, well dressed Guatemalan man was the same person, we had a little chuckle over it, because the man and I had both eye balled each other, and not said a thing as I guess we both had dusty hamster wheels turning in our heads.

The morning of the day I left Guate, I went to Mass, and Florida Tom and Texas Ron went out to the Central Square market. We met back at the Posada for a farewell cerveza. Florida Tom had come back early, leaving Texas Ron to his own devices. He met up with a little, well dressed Guatemalan man, who took him a couple of places, and whom Texas Ron bought coffee for. And once Ron told him my name during the course of their conversation, he told Texas Ron to tell me that Teacher Mario said "Hello."

And that is why I have Angels on my shoulders, and horseshoes where the sun doesn't shine.