The Tour de France ended today. And unlike past years I didn’t get to see much of it. Being in Maine during part of Le Tour meant being with family who don’t have cable TV. So I saw very little coverage of the tour this year. (I need to remember not to travel in July.)

I’ve watched and followed the Tour de France since I was about 17 (so that’s 23 years). It’s like an old friend now. I can watch coverage in any language and tell you more-or-less what’s going on in the stage just from the way they are covering it, I don’t need to hear it, I can tell if the yellow jersey is under attack or if a breakaway is doomed. But I prefer to watch the tour when Phil Liggett is commentating. He is simply magnificent at bringing home the action of the race and making it real. When I listen to him my legs ache and I can feel the pain the riders are suffering.

I’ve never been much a cyclist myself. Although I currently own 2 bikes. But there’s something about bike racing that I can relate to on a deep level. Maybe I’m the perfect cycling widow.

In the late ’80’s I remember being in New York City, standing on a corner, watching a stage of the Tour de Trump. We could see the pack of riders coming toward us and we picked out Greg LeMond in the middle of the pack. He was talking casually to the rider behind him to the left, and he had his head turned to the left as he navigated a 90° right turn within a tight pack of at least 30 riders. Maybe this doesn’t sound like much of a feat to the uninitiated, but learning to ride in a pack is hard. And being able to navigate a corner you don’t even look at, without crashing, well, I’m still impressed 20 years later.

Anyway, I just wanted to mention the tour because it’s part of my July each year. I will leave you with a link to a great piece of art by Phil Hansen, it’s titled Lance (after cycling great Lance Armstrong). The work was created by dripping paint onto tricycle wheels and riding over canvas. There’s a video to go along with it. It makes me want to get a tricycle.

Last night my favorite vecino borracho (drunken neighbor) dropped in and asked me: “Do you like boxing?” “No, it’s barbaric” I replied. “Then what sport do you like?” he asked. “I like cycling, I like the Tour de France, and I like hockey.” said I, queen bitch of the north. He looked at me grimly.

Despite my unsatisfactory answer to his sporting questions vecino borracho then insisted that we accompany him to “have some drinks” and “watch boxeo (boxing).” I finally agreed to go for a few minutes figuring I could leave and go home easily enough as his house is close enough to mine that I could run an extension cord to it. And besides, I really like his wife, so I’m always happy to see her for a bit.

When I went over there I carried my own drink with me, a Cuba Libre (rum and coke), so I could avoid having him make me a drink with an inferior brand of rum in it. I know I’m a rum snob. But Bacardi is shit. And Appleton is no better. Both of them give me a hangover before I finish one drink. We basically only drink white Havana Club, which is Cuban, and which is one of the few things I will miss when I move from here. I don’t drink very often and so I don’t see why I should lower my standards and drink crappy rum.

Vecino borracho was a little offended that I brought my own drink to his house. And he insisted on tasting it, to see what the fuss was all about. But being as he was muy borracho (very drunk) he soon forgot the offense and turned to playing with the volume knob on his stereo, like he always does.

They had the TV on, tuned to the beloved face-mashing boxeo match. But they also had the stereo playing. And, as usual, vecino borracho went through a pile of CDs, playing a song here and there from each of them, and periodically turning the volume WAY up so that the leaves on the almendro (almond) tree in front of his house would start to shake. I guess he likes his stereo. Or maybe he thinks that the rest of the world loves his music. We decided long ago that we like him despite his music.

Now and again vecino borracho would turn down the music so he could tell us a joke. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard all of his jokes before, but that actually makes it easier to time exactly when to laugh long and hard, which is what he wants.

So we laughed on cue, and relaxed a little, and didn’t watch the abhorrent boxeo but rather played with vecino borracho’s great dog and talked to his family.

And actually, it was just nice to hang out with the neighbors. It’s nice to have physically convenient friends, people so who live so close by that you can run home to answer the phone (well, assuming you could hear it ring above vecino borracho’s music).

A year ago I wrote a post about Isla Blanca. Below are some new photos of the area. My favorite beach around here is in Isla Blanca, it’s just south of Pirata Morgan. It’s big and wide and no one is ever there when I go. According to the owner of Pirata Morgan the beach close to his establishment has been getting BIGGER since Hurricane Wilma which is nice since so many beaches around here seem to be shrinking.

Looking north toward Pirata Morgan. Pirata Morgan has rustic cabañas and a very basic seafood restaurant. It’s a nice place to stop for a cold beer.

This is my favorite beach. Yum.

This is the “restaurant” at Pirata Morgan.

North of my favorite beach is a place where the isthmus narrows and you can easily get to Laguna Chakmochuk. The lagoon has amazingly hot water. We always see lots of tiny fish there as well as lots of birds.

This photo was taken north of Pirata Morgan close to Laguna Chakmochuk.

Here’s Sam at Laguna Chakmochuk.

And another shot of Sam enjoying Laguna Chakmochuk.

My fellow ex-pat blogger and savior of turtles Gary Denness is going to climb Iztaccíhuatl to raise money for Wildcoast, a charity that works to protect sea creatures, including turtles.

Gary has put up a blog on which he will chronicle his fundraising efforts and his adventure, see it here: Climbing Iztaccíhuatl.

Iztaccíhuatl means “white woman” in Nahuatl and it is Mexico’s 3rd tallest mountain after Pico de Orizaba and Popocatépetl. Iztaccíhuatl is 5,230 meters (over 17,000 feet) high. For some perspective, the Peruvian town of La Rinconada, at close to 5,100 meters, is currently the highest permanent habitation in the world. When you reach 5,000 meters there is only half as much oxygen in the air as there is at sea level and proper adjustment to the altitude becomes very important.

Gary’s undertaking is very ambitious and I wish him good altitude acclimatization and lots of big donations! You can support Gary’s efforts by linking to his climbing blog.

Here are some photos from my trip to Maine. The Maine coast reminds me, at times, of the Oregon coast (I think it’s the light), except Maine is nothing but inlets. The area I visited is around Deer Isle, Blue Hill and Penobscot. Hope you enjoy my pix.

The Penobscot River. This photo was taken with my cell phone from underneath the Penobscot Narrows Bridge.

I took this flower shot in the garden of Stonington printmaker Siri Beckman, who is a family friend.

This is a well pump house. I liked the all the wild flowers around it.

This shot is of a pebble beach in Cape Rosier in Brooksville. The tide was just turning when we were there.

This flower shot is from the garden of the Turtle Gallery in Deer Isle. Just after we left the gallery we found a large turtle in the road, my sister picked it up and helped it cross the road.

This is the cemetery where my sister walks her lovely sweet dog. I love walking in old New England cemeteries (just don’t bury me in one).

This is a work by artist Susan Chase, who is the sister of the renowned choreographer Alison Chase (the mother of Pilobolus). Susan has several works being shown at the Turtle Gallery in Deer Isle.

This shot was taken as we were leaving Deer Isle and going back to the mainland. I think it looks southwest at the East Penobscot Bay.

This is another flower shot taken in Siri Beckman’s garden. I love photographing flowers.

This photo was taken along the Stonington waterfront on Deer Isle.

For some reason I saw a whole bunch of funny and interesting signs while I was in Maine. I didn’t always have my camera batteries charged so I didn’t get as many photos as I would have liked. But below are some highlights.

Last I checked dogs couldn’t read, but the sign is cute.

This Exit sign was at Fort Knox in Bucksport, Maine. The fort is pretty much a rabbit warren, so signs are needed to show you how to get out of the building. But we found it confusing that this sign was posted on a garbage can. My sister tried exiting through the can itself, but was sorely disappointed when she found that the can actually had garbage in it.

If I’d been driving this day I would have flown my freak flag and I would have, gasp, “parked ugly”!

This was my favorite sign, I found it in Bar Harbor, Maine.

Among the signs I didn’t get photos of were: a sign posted on top of a hill that simply said “ditch” (there was no ditch) and a sign at Fort Knox saying “don’t climb on walls” (my daughter climbed the wall behind the sign).

Well, I like the weather here. I can say that.

Being in the States for 2 weeks did not fix my attitude. It did make me aware of how small-minded and self-centered the average American is. It did make me painfully aware of how high gas prices are there. It did remind me that cold weather sucks.

But it made me know that I need to go home, back to the States, back to a place where people pick up their fucking garbage!

I’m sorry if this sounds small-minded of me. But if you can’t respect the earth enough to pick up your fricking garbage then I really have trouble respecting you and I strongly suspect that you don’t respect yourself either.

I run. I’ve run 4 times a week for 19 years. I don’t run far, or fast. But I run where ever I am, mostly regardless of weather. So in Maine I marked out some distances for myself so I would know how far I was running.

While staying at Mom’s house I ran on dirt roads with just a few summer houses on them. I saw no garbage on the sides of the road during my runs. One day I saw a squished garter snake that had been run over. And I saw a lot of acorns that had fallen in the road. If I kicked them while I was running they would spin wildly around in the road which was pretty.

While staying at my sister’s house I would run on the “main” road through town. But given how dinky and out of the way her town is, well, this road has only about one car going by every 5 minutes. It’s paved and hilly and largely shaded, so it’s nice running. [I’d forgotten how much I love running uphill…] So one day I decided to count the number of pieces of garbage I saw in the ditches on either side of this road.

The answer is 4. I saw 4 pieces of garbage over a 1½ mile stretch of road. There were 2 soda cans which had clearly been chucked into the bushes. There was an empty brake fluid bottle that might have been tossed deliberately or could have blown from the back of one of the ever-present pick-up trucks that go by there. And the 4th item was a lamp cord in the middle of the road, which obviously just fell from a truck and wasn’t deliberate litter.

So last night, after I got home from the States, husbandito and I went to walk the dog. By the time I had told him my garbage-counting story we had passed more garbage in the street than I could possibly count.

Yuck.

I’m struck by how much extra there is here in the States. There are yard sales all over here (with the Mainer accent they are called “yahd” sales). And each time I see one I’m struck by how much stuff is being sold for next to nothing. People here simply have more than they need. Most of them do not realize this, but it becomes clear when you see what they are getting rid of and how cheaply they are willing to part with it.

This is different from Mexico where lots of people don’t have what they need. My yard sale experience in Mexico is that they come in 2 flavors:
- First you have the normal Mexican yard sale where items are being sold well past their prime, but prices are high. A pair of beat-to-shit old ugly shoes for $10 USD, used DVDs, complete with scratches, for $5 USD, an 8-track tape player for $15 USD, etc. It seems that a yard sale is seen first as a chance to make money. Getting rid of things you don’t need seems to be secondary.

- The second type of yard sale in Mexico is the “ex-pat who didn’t make in Mexico” yard sale. These are usually great sales because the ex-pat came to Mexico thinking they would love it. They buy a new living room set from Liverpool and they fill an apartment with nice new things. They often adopt a pet. And then one day they realize that Cancun is not what they thought it would be. They decide to leave and they liquidate everything as fast a possible and high tail it back to the States or wherever… I love these sales. But each time I hear of an ex-pat who is moving back without taking their pet(s) I get furious (I’ll save that rant for another day).

Here in New England the yard sales are not just full of good cheap stuff, they are full of interesting antiques. I keep seeing nifty chairs and couches that I wish I could buy and fix up. But the last thing I need is more stuff in Mexico that I have to haul back to the U.S. So I’m waiting until we move back to the U.S. to indulge in buying things I don’t need…

I’m here in the U.S. (in Maine) for 2 weeks. We shall see what effect it has on my state of mind. So far it’s been nice to see family. But my husband and I have some very troubling things unfolding in Mexico right now (related to his job), and it’s hard for me to not be there in case things go (more) wrong. So I’m divided, I feel I should be home in Cancun but I need this vacation. I guess what will happen will happen. And I promise to fill you all in on what I’m talking about when the crap has come unstuck from the fan…

My sister took me to a 4th of July party, it was the first time I’d celebrated that holiday in 5 years. The culture here is pretty interesting and as a result the party was full of educated, well-traveled, book-reading, left-leaning, smart people, I had a great time.

People here are suffering and complaining about the heat. Of course I’m cold. I’m walking around in a warm pile jacket that I sometimes wear in the winter in Cancun. And I have to wear socks for most of the day to keep my toes from turning blue and falling off. But apparently fans are selling out quickly here, people are pining for air conditioning, it’s hot and I’m the one who’s crazy…

My daughter is elsewhere in the state at the moment, she’s visiting her dad’s extended family at their summer house. She’ll be heading up to visit us in a few days. So I’m really looking forward to that. She and I have all kinds of plans to hang around and do nothing together. It will be good.

One of my favorite Pearl Jam songs wasn’t even written by them. It was written by Victoria Williams. It’s called Crazy Mary. Pearl Jam’s performances of this song vary wildly, but it’s always clear that they love playing it. And boy do I love singing along to it. Hope you enjoy. Lyrics are below.

Crazy Mary - Performed by Pearl Jam

She lived on a curve in the road, in an old tar-paper shack
On the south side of the town, on the wrong side of the tracks
Sometimes on the way into town we’d say:
“Mama, can we stop and give her a ride?”
Sometimes we did but her hands flew from her side
Wild eyed, crazy Mary

Down a long dirt road, past the Parson’s place
The old blue car we used to race
Little country store with a sign tacked to the side
Said “No L-O-I-T-E-R-I-N-G allowed”
Underneath that sign always congregated quite a crowd

Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around

One night thunder cracked mercy backed outside her windowsill
Dreamed I was flying high above the trees, over the hills
Looked down into the house of Mary
Bare bulb blown, newspaper-covered walls, and Mary rising up above it all

Next morning on the way into town
Saw some skid marks, and followed them around
Over the curve,through the fields, into the house of Mary

That WHAT you fear the most, could meet you halfway
That WHAT you fear the most, could meet you halfway
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around
Take a bottle, drink it down, pass it around