The Wayward Wind

• Starting suddenly and with the sharpness of an unexpected 60 mph slap, the Santa Ana winds are once again blasting through the valley on route from the desert to the Pacific. The trailer across the bottom of the TV screen on the weather channel is issuing a string of warnings: “Stronger winds in and below canyons and passes”, “Sustained winds of 40 mph with gusts exceeding 80 mph” and “Strong winds affect high profile vehicles” (that would include me except I’m not on the road today). At the same time as the Santa Anas carry grit, dust and miscellaneous debris, the winds drive the temperature up. It is 70+ degrees here in Hemet and over 80 in Los Angeles. I’m sure emergency personnel and homeowners alike are once again cringing in fear of fire.
  

• Here in the park, awnings were hurriedly rolled up and secured to avoid them being ripped from the sides of RVs. The wind has tipped bicycles, lawn chairs and garbage cans, and is blowing laundry and assorted tidbits down the street. Flags are flying straight out as if frozen in place and many will have ragged borders as the threads of their hemmed edges give way.
  

• The Santa Anas are also testing the springy resilience of 60-foot palm trees. My poolside lunch was disrupted when the palms, swaying precariously back and forth began relieving themselves of shaggy out-dated fronds and pelting dates toward the ground like rock candy pounding down from a punctured piñata.

• Propelled by the wind at his back and grinning from ear-to-ear, my neighbour Tom went gliding by on his bicycle. He's searching for water aerobics equipment that the wind scooped to neverland after he and Donna mistakenly left it outside on the patio.

• The wind is strong enough to be noticeably rocking my motorhome from side to side and end to end. It is not, however enough to faze a dozen yellow and orange finches who are enjoying a meal courtesy of feeder bags hung by my neighbours in close proximity to my window. The finches’ ability to land precisely on the wildly swinging bags and hold their positions is a tribute to the strength of birds’ toenails.
  

• The only real impact on me is that Happy Hour will today be celebrated indoors.

Down Mexico Way

• The one-day bus trip from Hemet to Mexico was an eye-opener about real poverty.
  

• Crossing the border at Tijuana, it appears the majority of the city’s 3.5 million population lives in slums where housing consists of falling down shacks with broken walls and no windows and in some cases discarded cardboard boxes that formerly housed refrigerators or other large appliances. Tijuana’s ordinary level of poverty is apparently getting worse, impacted by the failing world economy in combination with bad publicity about the violent struggle between drug cartels and the government.
  

• Immediately obvious upon entering Mexico is “The Fence” intended to thwart illegal entry to the US. Behind the menacing old fence that appears to have been cobbled together using sheets of rusty corrugated metal rises its under-construction replacement – looking razor-sharp and likely loaded with electricity.

• South of the city, the rising hills are dotted with a mixture of shacks mixed and incredibly nice houses, most several stories high, brightly painted and surrounded by manicured lawns. In some places on the beach-side the view is completely blocked by high-rise condos and hotels. Some look partially complete, others look abandoned and the finished ones all have ‘for sale’ signs. One complex was draped with a huge picture of Donald Trump inviting investment. Good luck on that one!
  

• The streets of the Puerto Nuevo beach town are usually lined with buses waiting for the tourists who enjoy shopping and meals at any of a dozen lobster-specialty roof-top restaurants. When my tour bus turned into the main street, there were no other buses in sight. Only two restaurants were open; the others and all the leather and souvenir shops were closed because of the economy. The two restaurant owners ran into the street vying for business by lowering their prices on the spot. I opted for a lunch featuring two lobster tails and a margarita for $10.
  

• A rickety staircase led to the restaurant’s rickety roof-top patio; ragged sheets of worn-looking plywood with chipped lime green paint. Feeling the plywood bounce beneath my feet, I heeded the waiter’s warning to step carefully. The view was spectacular – the rolling ocean and pounding waves on a white beach as far as the eye could see! Smartly dressed in grey trousers, white shirts, red ties and navy blazers, a two-man mariachi band lugged their guitars to the rooftop and grinned from ear-to-ear as they belted out a few cheerful Mexican tunes in exchange for $5.
  

• Meandering along the bumpy coastal road, the bus stopped for shopportunities at a few of the endless shack/shops that are almost hidden behind the clutter of their wares. There were bargains to be had on the stacks of orangey-brown adobe pots in all shapes and sizes, grey concrete fountains and garden statues, fire places, racks of shiny Mexican dishes painted with vivid blues, greens and yellows, and bright oil paintings of Mexican scenery, available either on canvas or pieces of broken wooden board.
  

• Arriving back in Tijuana, the view in all directions is rolling hills. Many hilltops are lined with thousands of cheek-to-jowl town houses. Newer houses are all the same colour and older ones are brightly painted; orange with royal blue trim, lime green with purple, bright pink with red - all kinds of combinations. Between the hills are more slums. One hillside looked quite eroded with houses precariously perched and seemingly held in place only by layers of old rubber tires. I presume that sooner or later those houses will just fall down on the shacks below.
  

• Arriving in the heart of the Tijuana tourist area, ours was once again the only tour bus in sight. Street vendors and shop owners gathered like vulchers, all jockeying for position in front of the bus door. Peddling everything from chewing gum to silver jewelry and leather goods, it seemed the merchandise meant nothing to the vendors who unilaterally reduced their prices to a quarter or less of their original asking price just to get their hands on some cash.
  

• Back at the border, there was again a lack of tour buses whereas the car line-ups and walk-across lines were backed up for blocks. One car was getting a “full inspection” from a half-dozen uniformed guards who busily checked the vehicle’s every nook and cranny while another half dozen of their counterparts stood sentinel with machine guns. Like the proverbial head on a stick outside a village, I suspect some of these conspicuous inspections are performed simply to serve as a warning to others.
  

• Passengers had to carry all their personal possessions off the bus – from new purchases to jackets, bag-lunches and water bottles. Passports were checked and possessions placed on a conveyor belt running through an x-ray machine. Outside, the bus was getting a once-over from inspectors. Armed guards were everywhere!

• Needless to say, I was happy to be back onboard the bus and heading north away from the border!

Off to the Races!

• 

I have only been to the racetrack a few times in my life and my interest in horse-racing is limited to an occasional watching of the Kentucky Derby on TV. However, having seen the glitz and glamour of the Santa Anita racetrack as it is immortalized in movies I could not resist the opportunity to go to there.

• Although the grandeur depicted in the movie “Seabiscuit” has faded considerably, Santa Anita remains spectacular. Entering the grandstand through the cavernous but near-empty clubhouse, I was awestruck by the panoramic view of sun-bleached California hills. The muddy track on which Seabiscuit pounded to glory is gone; replaced by a synthetic track made of chopped rubber and other black, chunky, secret ingredients.
  

• The photographer who once captured the noses of horses crossing the finish line has been replaced by a jumbo media screen that simultaneously broadcasts the race, instantly replays it before the official winners are declared, and, I suspect, may be viewable from passing airplanes if not the space station.

• Seventy-one years after Seabiscuit won the so-called ‘race of the 20th Century’; he is still the revered star at Santa Anita. Before every race, the horses are led from the barn to a circular paddock surrounding a statue of Seabiscuit. There, the jockeys are mounted and then ride in a slow ceremonious circle around the sacred statue – undoubtedly muttering desperate pleas and prayers for good luck.

• I chatted with a racetrack staffer named Karen whose uniform is a dark green suit reminiscent of the uniforms stewardesses used to wear. She told me about some of the incredible changes she has witnessed in 21 years working at Santa Anita. Waving her hand toward a guesstimated 20% crowd, Karen said that in the past few years near-empty stands have become more common than not.

• A huge VIP section splits the grandstand at the finish line; secured by locked gates, filled with white-clothed dining tables and attended by waiters in starchy-looking white jackets. Karen said that in the good old days, on any given day, the VIP section would be jammed with champagne-sipping celebrities and the surrounding stands packed with screaming fans. That level attendance in both the celebrity and non-celebrity sections has now dwindled to a few events a year. Of the 10 people I counted in the VIP section, none looked even vaguely familiar.
  

• Below the VIP section, with the finish line in the background, sits the broadcasting booth for TV’s Horse Racing Channel. Downstairs below the stands is a wide, long hallway lined by at least 60 little wickets for placing bets. Only about eight were open. I suppose if a way could be found to run the horse races without the fuss and bother of on-site fans the place might be torn down.
  

• In case of accident, an out-dated ambulance and a truck carrying a veterinarian chase each race round the track. I couldn’t help laughing at – and can’t resist sharing -the thought that the opportunity to ride in an ambulance-chasing truck all day would be a dream-come-true for some lawyer!

• I placed bets on every race, basing my picks-to-win solely on the horse’s names. Won a few, lost a few and was down $34 at the end of the day. A small price for such a good time!

Busy Being Me

• In the past week I have hardly left the resort except to fetch groceries and art supplies. Today I made a special trip to the nearby Target Store to buy an alarm clock with 4-inch bright red numbers and a piercing beep-beep-beep alarm. Having developed a habit of sleeping until almost 7 a.m., I need this technical assistance to ensure my timely arrival at scheduled activities on Monday, Tuesday and Thursday mornings. I don’t need an alarm clock for the Wednesday and Saturday noon-hours when I can be found perched on a stool at the pool-side hamburger counter, bobble-heading along with the live music. For these and other activities, I simply rely on a wristwatch that shows the day of the week.

• Monday and Tuesday mornings, the resident art group takes over the small free-coffee room that looks out onto the frenzied activity of the daily sand volleyball game. In contrast, we artists settle into our projects – some wielding oil paints and others splattering watercolour – and the room becomes so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Occasionally the spell is broken by the comings and goings of the coffee crowd whose interruptions provide opportunities to wander about, look at each others' paintings, share tips and tricks, and offer kindly comments. At noon the art group clears the room in favour of some other group that is always anxious to set up sewing machines or the makings for some other crafty pursuit. Golden Village will be having an art show and sale in mid-February so I am working to produce some show-worthy paintings.

• Thursday mornings I pack myself off to a writers group. Joei Carlton, a professional travel writer shares her time and talent with two writer-wannabes (self included). We each take our turn reading our own work and getting feedback and suggestions. Thursday afternoons are for line-dancing class which provides lots of fun and a good work-out.

• Sunday afternoon, I went to the inaugural meeting of the “Socrates Café”. This group’s goal is to engage in critical thinking and philosophical discussion as an alternative to the usual resort chatter which typically revolves around “where are you from?” and “how big is your rig?” After two hours of discussion about “the right to die”, I concluded that my goal on this trip is to avoid critical thinking and philosophical discussion and focus on learning where people are from and how big is their rig.

• I can hardly believe the good luck that there is a Michael’s art supply store within a 10-minute walk. However, I don’t feel so lucky when I see the high prices in combination with the dropping value of the Canadian dollar! Of course some art supplies are free; namely roadside rocks. As I wander around, my head is usually angled downward, moving slightly from side to side as my eyes search the ground as if I’d lost something incredibly valuable. Here and there, I pick up a small rock or two and roll them over in my hand before tossing some back to the ground and shoving others into my pockets. I suspect some folks who see this routine may wonder if I’m ‘all there’.
  

• The resort has had two small craft fairs. At a table alongside authors, lamp-makers, jam and cookie sellers, and creators of assorted home-made odds and ends, I set out painted rocks for sale. The first sale was poorly attended due to a combination of lousy weather and a disrupted water supply, courtesy of someone who ran their vehicle into the resort's main water pipe. I nearly died of boredom! For the second sale I took along a bag of rocks and my painting supplies. Once I got busy, I felt somewhat annoyed when people interrupted me to chat or buy a rock. I sold 15 rocks in a few hours. Not enough to inspire me to become a full-time rock artist but enough to flatter my artistic sensitivity!

New Years 2009

• I spent New Year’s Eve at the Golden Village clubhouse, sharing a wonderful evening with fellow 55-plussers; dining, dancing and singing-along to tunes from the 60s. It always amazes me when, as if by magic, a musical introduction will spark total recall of the words to so many golden oldies – "Runaway", "California Dreamin'", “Pretty Woman”. Those were the days, my friend, those were the days!
  

• In keeping with my 55+ habits, I left the party well before midnight and rang in the New Year from the cozy comfort of my bed. Despite warm pyjamas and a fluffy quilt, I shivered when thousands of freezing New York party-going faces appeared on my TV screen. In unison with them I counted down the last ten seconds to midnight, loudly calling out "Happy New Year" as the crystal-laden ball completed it's descent into Times Square. Watching fireworks flash across the TV screen and listening to others explode nearby, I contentedly counted my blessings and thought about how happy I am just to be me, doing what I'm doing.

• Although tickets for the New Year’s Day Parade of Roses were long-ago sold-out, I had the good luck to be gifted with a ticket for a bus excursion from Hemet to Pasadena to see the floats on January 2. As I watched the speeding traffic on the freeway between Hemet and Pasadena I imagined that close proximity to the floats would be the ultimate in stopping to smell the roses.

• 

• Twenty-four hours earlier the floats had been brought to life by technology, waving celebrities and the thundering music of high school marching bands. In sharp contrast, they now stood vacant and silent, the heads of the millions of roses drooping ever so slightly.

• Parked along a two-mile route through a residential neighbourhood, whatever smell those flowers otherwise might have had was overpowered by the immediate and irresistible smell of popcorn, mixed with essence of hot-dog, burger, and burrito. The boulevards were lined with make-shift food and tee-shirt stalls from which vendors loudly and enthusiastically flogged their wares.
  

• What fun I had bobbing and weaving through the jostling, carnival-mood crowd! Munching on popcorn I stopped beside each of the 40-odd floats to wonder at the resourceful use of colourful flowers, fruits and vegetables to create castles, garden scenes, and 15-foot high replicas of familiar characters such as the lion, scarecrow and tin man. Happily, I swapped cameras with strangers who also wanted their pictures taken beside the layers of flowers that one was close enough to count, had one been possessed of the necessary patience, time and inclination.
  

• 

• 2009 is off and running! Although in previous years, it sometimes seemed I didn’t have any time for the things I really wanted to do, this year, it simply seems I won’t have enough time to do all the things I want to do.

• Stay tuned…..