​I’ve had to cancel too many plans already in 2025, and I’m hoping that starting in April, I won’t have to cancel anything else. To begin with, I had a wonderful trip planned to Paris on January 21, 2025, to see one of my favorite jazz manouche stars, Biréli Lagrène, and his trio perform with the Orchestre de Bretagne at La Scala. It was going to be a marvelous concert. I was so excited! Then, in December, I arrived in Puerto Vallarta and immediately suffered two fractured vertebrae. I had to return to California, where I’ve been stuck ever since. Although that was disappointing, I’m now focused on gathering my courage and strength and going back to Puerto Vallarta on April 9 to visit both with my family and with my friends there. I hope that the rest of this year will be delightful with no interruptions.

Being home alone with no interruptions, you’d think I could remember everything perfectly. But no—I often find myself walking into a room only to forget why I’m there! That’s when I remind myself: I’m looking for my memory. Luckily, I’ve found a way to manage it: I use notes, all the time. My phone is full of reminders—things to tell Jose, things to do, things not to forget.

I have a project going on at present because I lost a tenant about a month ago and as she’s moved out, there has been a lot of painting and repairing—things that had to be done before the next tenant moves in—so I hired my good friend and great contractor Jose Palacios to come and help me out.  He and his wife Agustina have been really wonderful. Gosh, every time you tackle one thing, another item pops up! Keeping track of a long, scattered list—while making sure the workers don’t miss anything—gets complicated fast. Then you think oh darn now I have to call him back and ask him to do this one tiny thing. So I make a nice little checklist on notes and I actually give it to Jose to help him remember. 

This project has gone so well that I’m regaining confidence in myself. I used to manage things like this effortlessly, but lately, I’d started to doubt whether I still could. Now, I see that I can.

On his last visit, my son did an Animal Spirits reading for me—something our family always has fun with. March was my month of the oyster, meaning I’m supposed to tap into hidden talents I keep inside. Maybe it’s working, because I’ve tackled this project with more confidence than I expected! I’ve managed to get over my anxiety about having to spend a lot of money on this because it is of course my business and I must keep it up. Putting it all into perspective has really helped.

With the project nearly finished and my new tenant moving in soon, I feel a sense of renewal. Maybe this truly is my oyster month—rediscovering my strengths, my independence, and, just maybe, my memory.

This morning began with the news that Mexico’s beloved Paquita la del Barrio had passed away. Paquita was more than a singer—she was a voice for Mexican women, delivering sharp, witty, and fearless lyrics about the realities of machismo. Her song Rata de Dos Patas (Rat with Two Feet) came to mind, and I listened again, appreciating just how clever and biting it is.

Thinking of Paquita led me to another powerhouse: the incredible Spanish singer Rocío Jurado. Back in the ’70s, I heard her perform Ese Hombre Que Ves Ahí, a song where she warns us about a man’s true nature—vain, deceitful, and undoubtedly a heartbreaker. I don’t think I’ve ever heard so many ways to describe a despicable man in a single song! Rocío delivered it with such fire and conviction.

That song, in turn, reminded me of Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain. It wasn’t a love interest that made this song meaningful for me, but rather a former boss—an absurdly handsome yet utterly traicionero man. One Christmas, he had us wrap dozens of presents for his many girlfriends, all of whom believed they were the one. Carly Simon’s lyrics felt like justice set to music, and we all loved the song for it.

One thought led to another, and soon I found myself on my YouTube channel, where I store music I love. I stumbled across a long-saved documentary about Django Reinhardt and decided to watch it again. What a treasure. The film beautifully weaves together Django’s life, Roma culture, and the rich musical world that grew around him. His son, Babik, narrates, and so many talented Roma musicians—some I’ve admired for years, others new to me—play and speak about their craft. Their passion is palpable, and they are accompanied by their wives and children, making the film feel like an intimate gathering rather than just a documentary.

Much of it is set in Samois-sur-Seine, where Django spent his final years. I visited in 2019, and the memory of that place—its natural beauty, its traditions—came rushing back. I’d love to return someday and immerse myself in its quiet magic again.

It was a morning filled with music, nostalgia, and unexpected connections—a perfect way to start the day. And now, I’m enjoying my oatmeal with walnuts, raspberries, banana, and dates. A delicious ending to a morning well spent.

​Yesterday, a Lyft ride to my bone density exam turned into an unexpectedly rich conversation. My driver, a man from Algeria, and I began chatting, and at some point, I mentioned that my knowledge of his country mostly came from L’Étranger by Albert Camus—read long ago but still lingering in memory. He perked up, intrigued. “Oh, my mother is a professor of French literature. She would love to hear that you’ve read Camus and know something about Algeria.”


That gave me an opening to mention The Meursault Investigation, a more recent novel that flips L’Étranger on its head, telling the story from the perspective of the unnamed Arab victim’s family—people who, in Camus’ book, never received so much as an acknowledgment of their loss. My driver lit up with excitement, immediately taking a photo of the cover on my Audible app. Then I laughed and pointed out that the author’s first name, Kamel was the same as his. It was a small but delightful coincidence, and he seemed eager to tell his mother about this unexpected literary discussion with a passenger.


Lately, I’ve felt a bit isolated, not just physically—being mostly homebound with multiple spinal compression fractures—but intellectually, too. I was just telling my son how rare it is to stumble into conversations that interest me. Most casual exchanges seem to revolve around TV shows or social media, and I sometimes feel that my interests—French literature, Latin American fiction, Portuguese writers—don’t make for great small talk. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe, every so often, if I reach out, I’ll find someone equally eager to engage. Yesterday proved that.


On the ride home, another driver, this time from Ethiopia, shared his own story. He had just returned from a visit to his family, and I mentioned a friend of mine who had lived as a child in a remote Ethiopian village in the 1950s when his father was working in literacy training. I wondered aloud how much that small village might have changed over the years.


My driver, Frank, nodded knowingly. He had visited his old neighborhood in Addis Ababa, eager to see his childhood church—the heart of his community when he was growing up. But when he arrived, he couldn’t find it. The little church had been swallowed by the city, buried behind high-rises, banks, and modern businesses. He had to search to locate it. It was still there, and stepping inside brought a sense of familiarity, but the world outside had shifted so dramatically that it no longer felt like the same place.


This resonated deeply with me. I’ve spent a lot of time in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, and when I first moved into my apartment there over a decade ago, I had a lovely little view from my back balcony. I could see the rooftops, the dome of the Basilica, and even another small church peeking through. It felt like a glimpse into the rhythm of the neighborhood—the hills, the life unfolding below. Now, all I see is construction. Eleven- and twelve-story buildings have completely blocked what was once a window into the town I loved. Walking down Basilio Badillo, a street I used to cherish, I hardly recognize it. The small local shops and family-run restaurants have been replaced by sleek, modern businesses catering to tourists. And I find myself wondering—what was it, exactly, that I loved about this place? If I stay long enough, I still find traces of it, but the tranquility I once felt there is harder to come by. Maybe I just have to find a place in my mind for that tranquility instead.


Now, back home in Oakland, mostly confined by my back pain, I spend a lot of time simply looking out at my garden. The bamboo sways gently in the winter wind, and in that quiet moment, I feel a deep sense of peace. The world is changing fast—places, landscapes, conversations—but there is still something to be found in stillness.


So maybe that’s the key: turn down the noise and focus on something beautiful.

Today I am so proud of my friend Darrel McLeod! He just received this tremendous review from a prestigious source of his new novel, A Season in Chezgh’un.

Read the review and beg, borrow or steal the book. You will love it!

By the way, it is also for sale at bookstores across Canada and the US and at Page in the Sun Puerto Vallarta. Amazon anyone?

BEST BOOKS
A Season in Chezgh’un
Darrel J. McLeod. Douglas & McIntyre, $19.95 trade paper (320p) ISBN 978-1-77162-362-9Memoirist McLeod (Mamaskatch) makes his fiction debut with a sublime foray into the complexities of Indigenous life in northern Canada. James, a gay Cree man from northern Alberta, has assimilated in Vancouver and works as a schoolteacher. He lives with a loving partner, with whom he has an open relationship, and has found cultured friends. Still, he still feels out of place after his traditional Cree childhood, even though he lived then in poverty and was beaten and sexually abused by his brother-in-law. When he’s offered the job of principal at an underfunded school on a Dakelh reservation in northern British Columbia, he takes up the challenge to reacclimate yet again (thinking of the salmon who run through rivers into the Pacific and back, he reasons, “If they could migrate and transform themselves like that, with such purpose, why couldn’t he?”). On the reservation, he blends Indigenous skills and language with the standard curriculum. James loves his work, and lives in fear that his anonymous sexual encounters in public places will result in him getting arrested, beaten, or fired. The novel is full of unsparing accounts of the generational trauma inflicted on the Dakelh by Canada’s Catholic-run residential schools, which created a legacy of victims becoming abusers. Despite the adversity faced by James and the Dakelh, however, McLeod writes with great love for the natural world and the strength of its Indigenous people. This is transcendent. (Apr.)

I always knew I had no chance of seeing Django Reinhardt in person because he actually died when I was only 9 years old so that was impossible. However I did dream of seeing the incredible jazz manouche guitarist Birelli La Grene and still do. Covid prevented me from seeing him in a concert I bought tickets for but I keep trying.

I had hoped I could see the extremely talented Sylvain Luc as he was still young but, sadly, he passed away yesterday at only 58 years old as a result of a heart attack. A great friend of Birelli who he often joined in magnificent performances, he will certainly be missed.

​Didier Lockwood, a celebrated violinist of jazz manouche and disciple of Stephane Grappelli also passed away young in 2018, at only 60. Also an unexpected heart attack. I had, again, had hopes of seeing him perform live some day.

​Well, chances Christie, are narrowing…so you better get yourself over to France and see these people you really admire while there is time. And, by the way, do that for all the things that you want to do because you never know. They were only in their 50s and 60s!

So my mind is made up. By hook or by crook, come Hell or high water, I will be in Lisbon this summer to give my best to my poet hero Fernando Pessoa. Perhaps my final farewell, who knows. The moral of the story is never put off what you can do today because tomorrow is just not certain.

​

My daughter brought me here today. It’s a beautiful Sunday morning in Puerto Vallarta, sunny skies after a really cloudy week with rain, and we just decided to jump in her truck and come up to the river to a spot just past Boca de Tomatlan at Juntas y Verano. I wondered if I was going to be able to handle this trip because I’ve had been having some issues with walking and high blood pressure which I’m still working on resolving but I thought the heck with that! Yes, let’s go! So I  actually even put on a bathing suit and a cover-up, and and we jumped in the truck and came. 

We stopped on the way for a breakfast of birria, a dish typical to this region. It was delicious and as we ate Ariel said to me “aren’t you happy to be breathing the smoke of the leña they cook with instead of that diesel from downtown?"  I thought yes, this is absolute heaven! We were visited by the local dogs, who just kind of seem to belong to the neighborhood and would come up to say hello stranger. Not asking for anything, they cross the busy road to see what is new. Maybe they stand in the middle of the highway just surveying. When a huge bus comes along, they move slowly out of the road. The buses seem to know they are going to be there and know to slow down and the dogs know exactly when to move out of the way. Elderly ladies cross as well and don’t seem ruffled by the prospect of traffic. Nature abounds, beautiful semi tropical jungle on the high hills  surround us and birds and butterflies fly by.
It is really lovely.

When we finished our incredible tacos, we went down the road to where we could get to the river and we climbed over rocks down to the river front and sat there for a while, then waded into the rushing water. It was a little cold, but we got used to it and I surprised myself by actually getting wet. I was a little bit unsteady, but I did it slowly and I really enjoyed it. When I came out and with Ariel’s help I got myself situated on a rock, and did some sunbathing and just listened to the silence. 

It was beautiful, roosters crowing in the distance, birds circling overhead, some making their chattering sounds others just silently circling like the hawks who were looking for whatever they could find in the hills there. Anyway it was heavenly.

​I’m so glad that I have a lovely daughter who would invite me for such a marvelous Sunday morning.

​Ahhhh! And of course there was the horse!

I came to the beach today looking for a fresh plate of fruit for breakfast while sitting by the sea near my home in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. I hadn’t realized the time and found my chosen restaurant was now serving only lunch. Surprised to find this on the menu, I ordered a cappuccino and the French onion soup. It was delicious!

Feeling very cosmopolitan with my French breakfast in my Mexican surroundings my experience brought to mind the crossing of cultures and I reflected on one of the excellent books I am currently listening to on Audible.

In his latest novel, Our Migrant Souls, Hector Tobar, a very educated individual from a Guatemalan background, his wife’s family from Mexico, paints a poignant picture of the hurdles and complex issues his people from Latin America and other migrants face in their new life in the USA.

In the first of his book he tells of his interaction with his Latin X students in Los Angeles and their telling descriptions of their experiences attempting to meld their dual identities without loosing a sense of the past, family, and their self image in the present.

I am especially impressed with part two of the book in which he, a lover of maps from childhood, takes off on an extensive trip around “his” American country. He meets and talks with many people of Latin American descent, often in small rural  communities, and kind of randomly interviews them in order to know their thoughts about their lives there. He finds probably to a readers surprise, very interested and cultured people living the simple American life they found as the result of a pressing desire to improve their children’s opportunities and, usually, escape violence and lack of freedom in the country they left behind. As Tobar points out, they often must give up important emotional, family and cultural ties in the process but, like his own family, the people he meets make every effort to introduce their family to the higher level of culture available to them in their new home through education, museums, libraries and travel  while maintaining some contact with their families still in the country they left.

In his book and in his classes he helps migrant youth understand and define their identity in America. It is, as he explains, a very complicated issue. 

In a system that insists on labeling, often limiting options, people have little choice about how they are defined by others. The categories we ascribe to our fellow men carry preconceived notions of who they indeed are which are most often very misleading. In an article in today’s NY Times a writer points out that this practice results in trapping us in boxes that we cannot easily escape and determines the choices we make, often limiting the possibilities life could offer us.

In my friend Darrel McLeod’s new novel, A Season in Chezgh’un, we experience this in the case of his main character’s struggle between his Cree background which he loves and his hard won career as school principal in a mostly white power structure in northwestern Canada. No matter where you are you long for the “other”, and you must always be watchful of how you are being perceived and act accordingly to fit the expectations or demands of each group.

In America, privileged individuals who actually probably make up a minority of the total population control the guidelines and define how they see those they perceive to be “unlike” themselves instead of fearlessly going deeper into who they really are, their history and their needs, their hopes for their and their families' futures. In this way we unfortunately miss out on the unique value they bring to society. 

We must keep an open mind, get to know our neighbors and cherish the differences as well as the dreams. Tobar tells us that good will alone will not solve the problem. It will require initiative from all of us and a restructuring of the way we look at identity and so called race. His book is a good start to help us realize the challenges we all face.

I don’t know what all of this has to do with my onion soup!

A pod of pelicans just flew over. They are so beautiful. They seem to like to travel together and often in formation. They enjoy being in a group and therefore stick together. I often wonder just where they’re going Maybe they just got the news that there’s a school of fish down the beach. Or they’re just out cruising like I do in the morning.

When they dive it is dramatic! Especially if you happen to be swimming and their trajectory seems aimed at your head. But they know what they are doing and I have never witnessed such a misfortune. Being a pelican. I wonder what that is like.

So much life in the sea. An entire world we are hardly aware of. If I were brave like my children, perhaps I would explore those depths. But I am content to watch the sea from my spot on the shore and imagine.

The other day I saw on Instagram videos of the surfers challenging those huge waves at Nazare, Portugal. So dramatic. I hold my breath waiting for someone to emerge from the other side of the giant swell and foamy break! What a thrill for them and what courage it must take to scoot under that towering wall of water.

My children have actually surfed with dolphins. These intelligent mammals were body surfing just a short distance away from them. They apparently love the thrill too.

My daughter has found herself swimming with a giant sea turtle at least as long as she is. The turtle seemed to enjoy the company as did she and they continued traveling together for some distance.

My daughter-in-law found herself joined by a whale while paddling on her surf board. I can’t say she was not a bit concerned by its attention but all went well. The whale must have been curious too.

Here in Puerto Vallarta we have many opportunities to see the sea life up close. Friends and I hire Catamaran Michelle and her very friendly captain various times a season to get out and see the whales and dolphins playing and communicating. It makes for a spectacular day in the bay with a stop for a swim and a catered lunch of ceviche, guacomole and sandwiches. We never fail to spot other sea animals like sea turtles, manta rays, and other exciting finds. It is a great way to share our admiration for the sea with friends.
​
The more I learn about life on and in the sea, the more in awe I am. That leads, of course, to a serious concern about how our human presence and practices undermine this precious community. It is not that we humans are inherently evil, but most of us just don’t think about how our garbage, noise and invasive fishing practices are affecting this under sea world. We are slowly learning to face how our way of living damages the planet especially with regard to climate change, but we have a long way to go and many issues to face. Let’s all get on that train and give more thought to our actions. It is for the good of all, including those we don’t often see on a day to day basis.

A few days ago a friend asked me to give him a rundown of the jazz clubs I frequent in Paris.  I love Paris and I love jazz but that does not make me an expert.  However, when in Paris I have my little haunts.  

Years ago I never went to Paris without spending every night I could in a club called Le Bilboquet.  This sweet little club on the left bank at 13 Rue St. Benoit was originally an old cellar first operated under the name of the Club Saint  Germain. It was frequented by Django Reinhardt and all the jazz performers who were fascinated in those days by the be bop from America. They chose the caves because they were available and cheap and they could play what they wanted without being criticized by the classical jazz fanatics who were suspicious of the new wave of music. They  considered it to be unworthy of the name jazz.  In these clubs young and old gathered to dance and listen and Django loved to play there.

When I first visited Le Bilboquet in that same location, it was a restaurant on the upper levels overlooking the club and the music and a jazz club below. The club was old style with small tables and red velvet stools or red covered couches and was a very friendly place to listen to the bands who played there. I loved the nights they featured the Ahmet Gulbay Trio. Ahmet, on the very hot piano and with a tremendous smile, was of Turkish descent and welcomed friends and visiting musicians to join in the fun.  One night he had invited a young high school student visiting Paris with his parents from Berkeley, California to play with him. It was delightful. 

I met many interesting and friendly people both French and from other countries including Turkey during the time I was a regular. One sad night I showed up to find the club closed forever! I felt absolutely lost.On subsequent visits to Paris I searched for other clubs but never found one quite like Le Bilboquet although they have opened a new club called Le Bilboquet rive doite near the old opera house with a dance floor and featuring Swing, Be Bop and Shuffle which could be worth a try. 

On a trip dedicated to following the footsteps of Django Reinhardt I came across a listing at a website I follow for a club featuring jazz manouche on Thursday nights. That night they were featuring Simba Baumgartner. Recognizing the last name of the first son of Django from a first marriage, Lousson Baumgartner, I learned he was indeed the  great grandson of Django. My daughter and I hurried over to the Taverne de Cluny where the club MONK is located and were blown away by the music and the intimate atmosphere there. Simba was sweet and shy and his music was out of this world. MONK in La Taverne de Cluny (5th arrondissement) is one place I will visit every time I am in Paris, especially on Thursday evenings when they feature jazz manouche.

I wanted to show my daughter some other authentic venues so we visited another “cave” venue called 38 Riv. on Rue de Rivoli (4th arrondissement). It was so cool and the group from Brazil who played that night was great.  The club itself is worth the trip.

The site I use to locate the jazz I want to experience is parisjazzclub.net. They give you a run down of who is playing and where and it is very complete. With their help I visited several clubs including Duc de Lombards in the 1st arrondissement, with a high quality of jazz musicians. I was happy to take in a show by Hugo Lippi, a very talented jazz manouche guitarist who had just released a new album entitled Comfort Zone with the favorite, Manoir de mes rêves. The music was great and the atmosphere oh so French. 

Conveniently, Due de Lombard is surrounded by less formal clubs like Sunside in an adjacent alley-like street filled with jazz clubs and cafes. Some of my all time favorites artists have played outstanding concerts in the intimate space of Sunset. You never know who might be booked!  Bireli LaGrene for example was booked there for three back to back concerts just after I missed a very fancy performance of his at a beautiful site due to Covid issues.

There are numerous clubs all over town so if you are courageous, just try some out. New Morning in the 10th arrondissement,  Baiser Salé in the 1st arrondissement where I see Sylvain Luc, an extremely accomplished jazz manouche player, is booked for January 26, 2024, and Caveau de la Huchette in the 5th arrondisement. That is just to name a few. If you look carefully you will find all kinds of venues in Paris featuring a generous  variety of music.  Just go and have fun!

Simba Baumgartner Trio at MONK Jazz Club located in Tavern de Cluny

Some fun links:  Django at Saint Germain:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=frHLyMHfObo

Ahmet Gulley at Bilboquet:  ​

Today the waves are rich and chocolatey, and the sky is the color of a pewter pot with a small sliver of white clouds above it reminiscent of the foam on a cappuccino. And the sea is still there. The immense Pacific Ocean. And I love it no matter what color it is. The waves and changing tides bring in the rocks at night or carry them away. Some mornings I see them piled up maybe 3-4 feet deep and then the morning after they’re gone. Where did they go? Where did you take them Mother Mar?

This is a place I really love. There is something about the water, a big expanse of water. In Lisbon I have the Tagus River and the Atlantic Ocean and here in Mexico, the Banderas Bay. So beautiful, so restful. It makes me feel like no matter what preoccupations I have at home, it’s all worthwhile. It’s worthwhile just being here where I can feel this energy.

Yesterday I saw an incredible presentation on YouTube. It was about one of my favorite writers Antonio Tabucchi. They were discussing his visit to Mexico 10 years ago. He passed away since then. The tribute was hosted by the renowned Mexican writer, Juan Villoro. I’ve really been impressed with the few things that I’ve read by him. He has wonderful insights, a broad intellect and real feeling for the Mexican people and Mexico City. I loved his book called Horizontal Vertigo about Mexico City. He’s also a great leader for the discussion.

Antonio Tabucchi was really inspired by my favorite poet and thinker, Fernando Pessoa, so that’s how I was introduced to his literature. A novel that blew me away is Requiem, an Hallucination. Tabucchi's mind was fluid. It took him across time and space and even realities. This book is full of meaningful encounters both with people, many no longer living, and foods and places that illuminate the lives of the people involved. It is a treasure.

The excellent panel spent a lot of time on his novel Sostiene Pereira, (Pereira Maintains) one of my favorite novels. The story is very thought-provoking and I won’t go into depth about it now but Guadalupe Nettel, who did go into depth in the discussion, was absolute magic. By the way, there is a very nice film adapted from the book. One of Marcelo Mastroianni’s last films. It is in Spanish and Italian and well worth watching even if you haven’t mastered those languages. It can be seen on YouTube using the link below.

The conference took place in Mexico City and there were several other people who spoke. An Italian writer, Andrea Bajani, who had been inspired by Tabucchi and considered him his mentor had visited his home in Italy after his passing. Tabucchi split his time between Italy and Portugal. Bajani spoke about visiting his old home in Italy which is still in place and can be visited although I don’t think it’s a tourist destination. The writer was trying to get a feeling for where Tabucchi wrote. He had an incredible office with a beautiful desk and all kinds of books and everything that was appropriate for for a famous writer, but Bajani decided that he wrote from the kitchen.

I certainly believe that he wrote in the kitchen because from the things that I have read by Tabucchi, his heart was definitely there around the table, talking with friends, and talking about food and talking about dreams and talking about past lives and every day life. In fact, in Requiem an Hallucination he actually gives recipes for the traditional Portuguese dishes in his novel! He was a very enchanting (or enchanted) person and I’m so glad I got to see this revealing presentation by people who actually knew him.

So now I’m at the beach contemplating my good fortune having these treasures presented to me without even asking.

Thank you universe!

You can see the discussion on YouTube at the site below. It is in Spanish and Italian.
https://www.youtube.com/live/CNLlQlHo-fA?si=ATWuamtSIcdkkP

Sostiene Pereira on YouTube. also in Italian and Spanish. The book is available on Amazon in English under Pereira Maintains.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojApfyDG7Oc

Antonio Tabucchi