That was my question to AI this morning. From the balcony of my hotel room, I’d been watching a tall palm tree—its crown full of large, mature coconuts, and clusters of much smaller ones. I wondered: were those little ones baby coconuts? So I asked.

“Coconuts typically take 12 months to fully mature on the tree from the time the flower is pollinated,” AI responded, along with more detail than I needed—but enough to satisfy my curiosity for the morning.

I went to take a shower, and when I came out, I was startled to see a man climbing one of the nearby palms.
It was an astonishing sight. He wore only chanclas (flip-flops), and with a simple rope looped around his back, he used nothing but his hands, feet, and sheer muscle to propel himself up the towering tree.

At the top, he reached three giant bunches of coconuts. He didn’t cut them—he twisted each one off by hand, tied a rope around it, and gently lowered it to the ground, one by one. At one point, he paused to quench his thirst with the milk of a younger nut.

After collecting the coconuts, he began tearing away the older palm fronds—again, just with his hands. It was impressive: raw, efficient, and quietly brave.

I had just gone through palm trimming back home in Oakland before coming to Mexico. There, my crew needed scaffolding higher than my Victorian house—almost three stories tall. Armed with knives and saws, they carefully cut each frond and lowered it down. They did a fine job.

But so did this gentleman—his ingenuity, courage, and connection to the task left me awestruck. Below, I’ve included a series of photos capturing his ascent and descent.

In defense of my Oakland crew: they did want to demonstrate their skills “Latino-style,” but I refused—fearing for their lives!
​
Here in Mexico, it seems you do what you must, with whatever nature and necessity provide.

It’s early Sunday morning here in Puerto Vallarta and I’m sitting on the nice little Terrace of my hotel room looking out over the ocean as the waves gently lap and an occasional swimmer goes out to his boat to set up for the day. The fellows at the restaurants on the beach are sweeping and getting ready for customers but very slowly because it’s still early. 

I have coffee and a little coffee maker here my little kitchenette on the terrace and so I made myself a little pot of coffee and I heated up some wonderful pancakes that I had yesterday at Cuates y Cuetes for breakfast and they came out very well. Just ate one and feel satisfied. 

Yesterday I took a little walk to Cuates y Cuetes on the beach and had those pancakes along with a couple of cups of chamomile tea and then walked on to the market, which has just one more Saturday event, next Saturday,  and then they close for the season. Eduardo Leon , Roberto Falcon and Arron Hernandez were playing some really lovely Gipsy Kings pieces and I sat and listen to them for a while, and then I got myself an agua of orange juice and mango. That was very nice because by this time the sun was out and quite strong. 

I walked on home and realized that it was more walking than I should be doing so for the rest of the day I rested. I really spent it reclining with my foot elevated, icing from time to time, and taking ibuprofen. I read, watched a bit of The Count of Monte Cristo, listened to a book on microbes—over my head but very interesting. 
By evening I felt like Italian food and luckily I have a very good Italian restaurant just a block away from my hotel called La Piazetta so I went there and had a spaghetti alle vongole and a lovely glass of Pinot Grigio from Italy and topped it off with Pistachio gelato and a tiny espresso. They then brought me a special drink such as they serve after an Italian meal, usually it’s Limoncello, but they have their own recipe. It’s quite tasty. I walked the short distance home. 

It was a very, very pleasant day and I think my ankle is feeling better. I was unable to get the massage appointment that I wanted, but I checked AI and got some good advice on some quite simple massage that I can do myself just to get the circulation back. There is too much swelling keeping the fluids down and hence the swelling and pain. 

I have no plans for today. I think it’ll be very similar to yesterday but we’ll just see. Right now I’m sharing my space (or rather they are sharing with me) with a lot of birds, pigeons, some kind of blackbird, little birds, huge pelicans, and those other very beautiful black birds with sharp black wings that I always forget the name of, and the waves. 
​
It’s really nice. Very nice. Thank you Puerto Vallarta.
​

Yesterday I dismantled the last 10 years of my life. Due to unavoidable circumstances I had to close down my apartment in Puerto Vallarta unraveling a dream. It was bittersweet as I gave up the symbols of a life of adventure, music and friendships built around it.

The sorrow wasn’t about things. I know things are not important, but the memories attached to the things, the way I felt about them when I acquired them. Each brought me closer to the Mexican culture. I enjoyed living close to them and the little bits and pieces of history. The paper maché dolls, close friends that sat on top of my closet reminding me of a past I had always much admired. The perfect clay pottery, many pieces older than I, graced my shelves and evoked images of women transporting water from the community fountains or wells. I relished looking at them sometimes filled with replicas of exotic flowers or displaying, beautiful handmade necklaces the colors of Oaxaca. It was a good time, a rich time filled with life and music. But it was time to shut it down and move on. Significantly, it was the 10th anniversary of my residence at Casa Milagro..
​
This was my month of the Lion.

“The Lion spirit is associated with invincibility, self-confidence and bravery. It is the fiercest spirit animal to face all life's adversities and challenges. It has a strong and unique symbolism. Whatever the challenge, the Lion can help you overcome it with nobility and serenity.”

Thank you Mr lion or Ms lioness. It took a lot of your energy to accomplish this transition.

I spent the last two years mostly in fear and dread. This year is different! Even though it started with a debilitating injury, I have come through it with hope and a renewed determination to continue to grow and enjoy the years I have before me.

April is here and my spirit animal is the Otter!
​
Overall, the otter personality type is known for their warmth and sociability. Strengths: Outgoing, optimistic, personable, communicator, dreamer, responsive, warm, friendly, talkative, enthusiastic, compassionate.
I think those are the traits I had shoved into the background in 2024 due to developments beyond my control both personal and societal. Let’s move on says my April Otter self!

I have really grown tired of being dreary. I am only four months into the year and I am already feeling perky and optimistic. 

In 10 days I will join my family in San Pancho for a small vacation. I really look forward to being lazy in the sun watching them frolic in the sea on a lovely expanse of white sandy beach. Evenings will be filled with remarkable food and conversation at my daughter’s beautiful garden airbnb or relaxing with my other daughter on our terrace overlooking the tranquil beach in neighboring Lo de Marcos.

We will begin our trip with an Easter Brunch at the San Pancho Polo Club as we did last year. It is an incredible event with umbrellas and couches along the long Polo field and so much good local food being served in the grassy area above the action. There will be music and families and if like last year, not a mob scene. Very chill. My granddaughter, a great horse lover, will be taking polo lessons during our stay.
​
San Pancho’s beach is a perfect place to hang out in the evening as the sun sets over the blue expanse of water. I can hardly wait.

Then a cruise through town with its throngs of visitors, restaurants and bars is a must and most of all a return to the tranquility of our airbnb accommodations for a rest accompanied by the soft sounds of the surf.

​Heaven! 

​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!