First Morning Back” The sights and sounds of a return to

By Neil McKinnon

One recent morning a pleasant lady in uniform patted the clothing in my

suitcase, wished me welcome and showed me the way into Mexico by pointing to the door at the far end of the immigration area. A few minutes later, taxi ticket in hand, I stood outside inspecting the muted artistry of daybreak reflected in the windows of buildings surrounding the Guadalajara airport.

The cab headed south toward the ancient mountains that surround Lake Chapala. Filtered through a cloudy horizon the morning sun softened the worn peaks so they look like the abbreviated breasts of a lounging woman and the long shadows cast by the stunted vegetation reminded me of blackened logs left in the aftermath of a B.C. forest fire. As the sun topped the horizon it turned the approaching pavement to silver while behind us the road died away into the early glare.

Eventually I arrived in San Antonio, unlocked my door, showered and, too worn out to sleep, ventured down the dirt path to the village to find some breakfast. The carretera had been painted spotless by the rainy season and was lined by gorgeous bouquets of orange flowers lifted into the sky by gigantic Tulip trees.

I ventured west, navigating by memory so that my path led by the doors of any number of restaurants each of which displayed a darkened interior and a closed sign in the window. An observer would have thought me disoriented and I confess that as I tried one door after another, I began to feel like a sailor who triangulates correctly but passes through the horizon only to discover more ocean rather than the friendly coastline he was expecting.

For a moment I felt alone. Few citizens were about: a couple of walkers, a few cyclists and a lone jogger, all moving along the bike path and all looking like they knew their roles in today’s performance—while I had forgotten my lines.

I did not wish to display my ignorance, so I wandered until enough time had passed and then the delicious smells of early morning cooking led me to Salvadores. I went in and ordered pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon and steaming coffee.

When I again ventured outside the village had come alive. A mustached man held a ladder vertical on the street corner and gazed at the sky as if contemplating a climb with no destination. A young mother sputtered by on a motor scooter, laughing along with her infant daughter whose chubby legs straddled the gas tank. An old lady sat at a table topped by a blue and yellow and red umbrella. She was selling all manner of delicious looking things that I had no interest in now that I had eaten. A boy in a yellow t-shirt threw potato chips at his sister while they waited for a bus. A young woman sauntered by, all belly and ass, in tight low-slung jeans. A man with scars on his arms tinkered under the hood of his ancient yellow truck and furtively watched the undulations in the girl’s pants as he smoked a cigarette. He caught me staring and we both grinned—an unspoken lecherous conspiracy.

A gringo in a white hat aimed himself in the direction indicated by the arrow on the faded green and grey and white modern sculpture on the corner of Paseo del Lago. Filled with purpose he used plenty of space as he walked swiftly trying to undo, in a few minutes on a sidewalk, the years of indulgence at a table.

Flowers bloomed in boxes fronting El Castillo de la Floresta, and early morning cooking smells were replaced by the enticing aroma of pies, tarts, cakes and other dietary unmentionables as I walked past Miky’s. Ajijic’s houses are multi-hued so that a kaleidoscope of changing shapes and colors massaged my eyes as I proceeded.

A breeze emerged from a side street and I noticed the sky had darkened. At the same time I felt the first drops of the last gasp of the wet season on my face. I picked up my pace but in moments the dark rain clouds dissolved into a blue sky.

Ajijic is home to a host of holidays and fiestas as well as to people who joyfully celebrate everyone, so it should be no surprise that church bells tolled and fireworks distracted me as I turned up the dirt path toward the mountains. I climbed far enough so that, when I looked back, I saw red tiled roofs framing egg-shaped cupolas each of which had light squeezing from tiny windows—a fitting foreground to the green expanse of lirio bobbing on a ruffled lake.

Seven times on that short walk someone smiled and wished me good morning, an action I found unsettling having just come from Vancouver which is, arguably, one of the least friendly cities on the planet.

The unkempt goatherd who lives by the path flashed smile number eight and whispered a soft, “bienvenido.” I walked up the steps and opened the door gently so as not to awaken Judy. Then I found a pen and sat at a table to write these words, whereupon I promptly fell asleep.

Neil McKinnon

By Tom Nussbaum

Dear Facebook,

Your posts on my Facebook page were, at first, just a few and I thought nothing of it. They seemed harmless. They, however, have become more frequent, now bordering on constant, and could cause an angrier, more volatile individual than myself to become irritated and a bit unhinged. Granted, you always introduced them with “Suggested for you” and I thank you for thinking of me and suggesting websites in which I might have an interest. I am certain you offer these unsolicited suggestions because you care for me as an individual and have my best interests in mind, not for any hidden motives, like profit or data gathering.

What I don’t understand is who makes the suggestions? Do they come from Facebook itself, based on browsing histories or past posts?

Or do they come from my 7,536 Facebook Friends? You know, I have 7,536 now. Well, of course, you know that. You’re Facebook. Anyway, I share close relationships with each of them and I share a lot of personal information with them. So, a suggestion from any of them should be based on their thorough knowledge of my tastes.

If they do come from FB friends, that might explain why I received a “Suggested for you” for the IHOP website after a childhood neighbor’s cousin, whose name is Darlene or Marleen, possibly Carleen, posted a lovely picture of a Chicken Fried Steak meal there. I, however, am not allowed in any IHOP since the alleged public exposure incident at one of their popular-withteenagers locations. Come to think of it, that Chicken Fried Steak post was a long time ago; I haven’t heard from Charlene in forever.

If the source is FB itself, did my asking Google last year “Who is the musician The Weeknd and why does he spell his name wrong?” trigger the suggestion that I might be interested in “Weekend Getaways in the Oklahoma Panhandle?” Let me say Oklahoma has no allure for me; I have no interest in seeing Oklahoma. Well, maybe the musical.

That leads me to ask, is it possible FB might misinterpret some links and connections? For example, you recently posted a “Suggested for you” about the CBS drama NCIS. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. But why did you do that? I once Googled the National Coalition of Incarcerated Schizophrenics. But I have no interest in the television program NCIS; I’ve never watched it. In fact, I don’t watch CBS. I hate it. The entire network. I’ve hated it ever since they let that hot Mary Tyler Moore go.

You may be wondering how I amassed 7,536 Facebook Friends. After all, I am not a movie star, professional athlete, or social media influenza, whatever they are. Well, some of my FB Friends are people with whom I attended elementary school but lost contact with when my family moved across the country so Dad could undergo mental health treatments.

Other Facebook Friends are connected to those elementary school buddies of mine, perhaps as cousins, inlaws, neighbors, co-workers, and bowling league teammates. A large number of my FB Friends are people I met during my two most recent prison stays. I met many others in therapy. But, by far, the largest number of my FB Friends are people with whom I have had sexual relations. You’d be surprised how many clergymen and politicians utilize Facebook.

In the event the suggestions come from well-meaning FB friends, they all know my dietary preferences because we all, like I said, are very close. So, why would one tell FB that I was interested in “Blue Foods of Borneo?” For the record, I don’t like blue. In fact, I hate the color. Sometimes, I want to smack upside the head people wearing blue shirts, dresses, or jockstraps. I just hate blue, all shades. Especially if they are in foods. Correction. Blueberries are OK, I guess. If you dye them red.

One of the first “Suggested for you” posts I received was for a pro hockey team, the Anaheim Ducks. Why would FB think I was interested—Is it because I Googled “eider-down-filled comforters” in 2012?

While you are researching the sources of my “Suggested for you” posts, Facebook, could you—Hey, I’m curious. Mr. Zuckerberg, are you actually reading this? If so, may I take the opportunity to tell you how hot I think your wife is?—could you find out why my 7,536 friends don’t respond to my “likes,” comments, or Messenger messages? I thought I disabled the “Unfollow” option correctly.

I received a suggestion from you a while back for a recipe-sharing website. The picture of the Spam-Coco-PuffsSoy Sauce Casserole looked lovely. However, I don’t cook. I don’t need recipes. So, why did you suggest that? Because I once Googled “popular cereals” when doing a crossword puzzle?

You suggested a cat-themed website. I started sneezing immediately. Dander allergies. So, you see, I am not a cat-person. That’s partially due to the allergies, but more because I simply hate cats. Actually, I hate all animals. All of them. So don’t suggest any more animal sites, please. Oh. I take that back. I do like skunks. Because my high school’s mascot was a skunk. But I hate everyone I went to school with.

So, dear Facebook, I await your response. Meanwhile I shall return to my futile scrolling through Facebook. And being puzzled and angered by your “Suggested for you” posts. And wondering why I never see any posts from my 7,536 Facebook Friends. You, it seems, dear Facebook, are the only one who communicates with me nowadays. So, maybe I shouldn’t be complaining and should appreciate the posts more.

Sincerely,

Your Facebook Friend, Jerem…

Oh, I’m not gonna tell you my name. You already know. You’re Facebook.

Tom Nussbaum