I have returned to Canada, after three and a half months in warm Mexico, now I'm cold. This ought not be news, as Canada is a cold place at this time of year, but what I miss about Mexico is that it is not merely the climate that is warm, but the people also are warm, this is a difference from the cold shoulder many Canadians give each other. The climate is temperate, the people are friendly, and the women beautiful, the water is relatively cool, the food flavorful, and the motorists courteous; ain't Mexico grand.
Here is a description I wrote while I was down there:
I am in a land of teeming beauty, where everything is in constant motion. To remain still is to stagnate, and that does occur, but so rarely as to be worth comment. Even the brackish waters in the canals teem with life.
Here there are birds of every size, and shape, and of every imaginable color. Poetry in motion, but even such a description does it an injustice.
The people are friendly, the women are beautiful, and the climate hospitable. I have already fallen in love with the country, to fall for one of the local women would not be that great a stretch.
This is not a land, or a culture that can be understood if one lacks music in their soul; for this country resonates with a melody all its own. The colors of the rainbow melded into the guitar, the shades of green and blue woven into the voice of the trumpet. The Mariachi are the tongue of this land, and their notes its voice.
The magic of creation lingers long, it fairly sparkles in the air, washes over the hills, and exists in the heart of a song. Though I do not understand all the words, they pluck the harp strings of my heart, and some of their melody sticks to this ink. A land of romance that only a romantic can understand, a land of many colors, of many chords, of many shades , for little here is black and white.
The women here have skin that would be the envy of many in the north. Even the most wrinkled crone has skin smooth as a fine wine.
I find this place intriguing, a riotous assault of the senses, the hustle of the markets, with a thousand different colors. People bargaining in half a dozen different languages, the chatter of the birds, the roar of the vehicles all become a sort of a song, (perhaps the song of commerce). A million different colors, and shades, one might think the paint was bleeding off the canvas, of the painting of life down here.
The indigenous residents are friendly, the children have smiles to light up a room. The locals are also as polite as the average Canuck.
but this is just a thought.