WHEN I GROW UP I WANNA BE A CANTANTE

My Spanish and singing classes have been going on now for almost six weeks, and they've hugely expanded my horizons. Life in our air-conditioned cocoon, had shrunk down to work, reading, sleeping, cleaning and boredom. My self-taught Spanish was going nowhere and I hadn't sung a note in months. No wonder I was depressed.

I met my maestra, Lolita, at a party given by our landlord. Gringo musicians would have called it a jam. Almost everyone in the room performed at least one song before the evening was over, and while the Capt was videotaping the proceedings, Lolita invited me to sit with her and her daughter, Lolita Jr. at their table. Both are English and music teachers, so we had a lot to talk about (mostly in English, which made it easy for me). I said I was looking for a Spanish teacher, she said she was looking for someone to sing with. A perfect match!

These days she's busy with the church choir she directs, but for 30 years she taught English in the schools, and privately taught classical music. Some of her students went on to become opera performers. She knows four languages and sings in Italian and French. Someday she might teach me some Edith Piaf songs; then I could be a chanteuse, too! In my dreams...

So I go to Lolita's house, across from her hotel, on Mondays and Wednesdays. We spend an hour on Spanish and then an hour on music. She starts me off with an exercise to strengthen my throat and lungs, which seems to be working. I'm able to take deeper breaths and my voice is getting stronger.

Since then, I've begun singing almost every day, and not a word of it in English. I dug up all the Latin tunes I'm familiar with but didn't know the lyrics, brought them to Lolita and she translated them for me. So much easier to sing a song when you know what you're saying. We're harmonizing on a few of them and starting to sound not too bad. Lolita has a sweet soprano and I'm more comfortable on alto so we blend well.

On iTunes I found recordings of each song, performed by popular cantantes, for practice. Sometimes it seems there are too many words for the number of beats in a measure, but once you learn how to fit them together, no problema! Then I can concentrate on rolling my R's.

In the process of listening to these talented divas, I've gained new appreciation for their vocal styles, their phrasing, how they convey emotion. They're not all Latin: Linda Ronstadt did a couple of albums, "Canciones de Mi Padre," with her brother and they're every bit as authentic as anything produced in Mexico. Lisa Ono is Japanese, partly raised in Brazil and known for popularizing bossa nova in Japan. Actress/singer Arielle Dombasle is French, but grew up in Mexico, and sounds like she's from the Thirties, very retro. Eva Mattes is German, but her voice is most like mine, and any key she's in, I can do too. Yolanda Martinez is an Apache from New Mexico who makes drums and wins bodybuilding contests as well as nominations and awards for her singing.

Lolita and I have never talked about performing, and I don't care if I ever have an audience again. We're just enjoying the process of making music. I asked her if she ever gets a rush when the music is just right, and she responded with a big smile that she knows just what I mean. Endorphins, she said.

These are my favorite songs (so far) and the recordings I'm working with. Some are more familiar to gringos by their English titles.
Amor Amor, Arielle Dombasle
Aquellos Ojos Verdes (Green Eyes), Quien Sera (Sway) and Volver a Empezar (Begin the Beguine), Lisa Ono
Besame Mucho, Eva Mattes
La Barca de Guaymas and Hay Unos Ojos, Linda Ronstadt
Solamente una Vez, Las Senoras De La Habana
Quizas, Quizas, Quizas (Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps), Sandra Echeverria
Sabor a Mi, Yolanda Martinez

PINK CACTUS AND WINDOW ROCKS

Is it just me, or is everyone fascinated by pink cactus? It's easy to spot in Southern AZ, not so common down here, but the bluff at Chinchoe anchorage was covered with it. This one grew next to a barrel cactus, another of my favorites.


The Capt and I scaled down our sailing plans, choosing to make an overnight trip across San Carlos Bay instead of crossing the Sea of Cortez to Santa Rosalia. Too much on our plates right now to be taking off for a week. But our little excursion to Chinchoe turned out to be just right.

There was enough wind that once we cleared the rocks at the mouth of the San Carlos anchorage, we sailed all the way across. And the next morning, the Capt. put up the main when we were ready to leave, and we were able to sail from the moment we hoisted anchor.

As soon as we boarded the boat we began enjoying cool breezes off the bay, and the next 24 hours we barely broke a sweat. In fact, the Capt. was bundled up in a quilt all night. Despite being a Sunday, and despite our proximity to Miramar, a fair-to-middling size town on the outskirts of Guaymas, only three boats passed by and we had the anchorage to ourselves.

Two fishermen waited patiently along the rocks, their lines in the water

Early in the morning we saw fishermen balancing precariously on the rocks, fishing with lines, no poles. I haven't seen a Mexican with a fishing pole since I've been here. They loop the line with one hand, twirl the hook end like a lasso (I noticed they spread out along the rocks) and flip it out into the water. Almost immediately, they pull it back in. I never saw them catch anything, but they were very patient.

I'm fascinated by window rocks, too. This one, just outside Chinchoe, has a porthole.

People plan all year and spend big money to come down here, get on a boat and play around on San Carlos Bay. And all we have to do is pack up some snacks, drive down to the marina, climb aboard and sail away. A dream come true.

San Carlos's trademark Tetas tower over the Caracol, as seen from the Bay

MORE ABOUT SUMMER IN SAN CARLOS

Jinx Schwartz, whose mystery novels I blogged on last month, recently emailed her new blog address for my links. Monday she wrote about living on a boat without air conditioning in the Sea of Cortez in summer.

She reports she and her mate Mad Dog will be back aboard HiJinx in July. But they'll be in a marina, with air conditioning. Their mamas didn't raise no fools.

There are a few foo...uh, folks still on boats now, as June comes to a close, but almost everyone has gone back to the States or found an air-conditioned house or apartment to rent until October. I can remember from a blessedly few experiences what it's like to try to sleep on a boat this time of year: like slowly simmering in your own broth. When it gets to the point that you can't bear the body heat of your own beloved, roughing it isn't fun anymore.

Here in the house, we sleep with the AC on low, switch it off before dawn and later turn on the living room unit to cool the rest of the house for a couple of hours. Then two big fans seem to be sufficient until late afternoon. So far, anyway.

And now I've put it off long enough, time to finish up my Spanish homework.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

Thinking of you today, Daddy.
John Henry Buys, 1901-1965

FOR THOSE WHO WANT TO KNOW WHAT SUMMER'S LIKE IN SAN CARLOS

Isabel stopped by to grind some coffeebeans and get acquainted. She's from France, and will be here for the summer, doing boat maintenance for absent cruisers

Suddenly it's summer in San Carlos. I'm sitting here, just out of the shower, sweat rolling down my face, into my eyes. The heat has clamped down on us like a lid on a simmering pot. Temps are breaking 100 and edging toward 110.

The upside to this heat is how lovely the slightest breeze feels on the skin. Oh, joy!

The folks from "Anum Cara," the sailboat moored next to us in the anchorage, are now also our neighbors in the duplex. They moved in yesterday and were happily unpacking in air-conditioned luxury last night. Their cat, who has never lived on land before, was wandering around in befuddlement, wondering why the floor didn't move.

The crew of "Arigato Jack," who had been sleeping on the beach since the heat in the boatyard became unbearable, borrowed our spare AC yesterday, and had a good night's kip after they got it installed in the V-berth. They're painting the hull now, madly competing with a nearby Aussie boat to see who launches first. The prize: not having to pay the soaring workyard rental next month. Our money's on AG.

Isabel, our new acquaintance from Brittany, will soon move off her boat, "Folie Douce" (Sweet Folly) to house-sit a deluxe trailer at the storage yard in the Ranchitos. That's where the local gringos leave their smaller boats, spare vehicles and dogs when they head back to the States. She's doing boat maintenance too, bicycling every day to the boatyard where she checks on batteries and does other regular chores for more than a dozen of the bigger sailboats on the hard. "Folie Douce" will remain moored in the anchorage, and Isabel plans to check on it daily as well, quite a feat considering her dinghy's motorless and she rows the half-mile distance each way. No wonder she's so trim!

A few diehards are still on their boats in the anchorage, getting by with 12-volt fans and sleeping on deck. We're all waiting for the monsoons to start, with their fresh winds, cool rains and dramatic lightning. And ferocious thunder. And mud. Oh, and lest we forget, power outages!

Tomorrow we're going out on a daysail, catch a seabreeze and gunkhole around the Bay.

DIAMONDS AND OTHER WEDDING FOLLIES

June was always a big moneymaker at the little weekly newspaper in Rohnert Park, CA where I put in my time as copy editor so I could get my stories in print. The first issue in June included a supplement loaded with ads for wedding gifts. Since a certain amount of copy had to be supplied for the supplement, we'd fill in with sydicated pieces and I'd get to write a feature. But one year, my feature was turned down, reluctantly, by the editor and I had to hustle to come up with a puff piece. I had written about the gargantuan propaganda perpetuated by the de Beers corporation to establish diamonds as a wedding necessity. "Good piece," agreed my boss, "but you'll have to use it somewhere else. Our advertisers would shut us down."

The movie "Blood Diamond" reminded me of the murky origins of illicit diamonds, and how they have devastated the people of Sierra Leone. One scene in the film was based on a real-life event: the meeting that established the Kimberley Process Certification Scheme (KPCS) which attempts to prevent conflict diamonds from entering the market. KPCS isn't a perfect solution, being self-governed and open to abuse, but it's a start. Even better would be to counter the popularity of diamonds as a necessary element of the marriage process. It's been done with furs, why not diamonds?

In an article in today's Slate Magazine, "Diamonds Are a Girl's Worst Friend...The Trouble With Engagement Rings" Meghan O'Rourke refers to the issue of conflict diamonds only with a link, but it's a good one. It should be shown to anybody planning a engagement-ring-shopping expedition. What kind of bride would want a diamond of dubious origins after seeing a photo of a 17-year-old boy with both hands cut off by rebels who fund their assaults with illicit diamonds? Or how about the images of little boys forcefully conscripted and controlled with drugs, carrying guns off to yet another bloody raid?

O'Rourke's slant is more feminist, examining the significance of accepting a diamond ring, "the site of retrograde fantasies about gender roles." Until de Beers' "blingfest" got on a roll, boosted by national advertising, in the 1930s, engaged couples exchanged other gifts, depending in value on the status of the couple. At one time, it was the custom to give the bride a thimble. But now, if you ask for her hand, you have to decorate it with a diamond, at a cost of an average month's salary $3,200. The bride's salary goes to the gown shop, the florist, the caterer, etc. Put it all on credit cards, and the happy couple has something even more binding than the license when they get back from their honeymoon: a whopper of a bill. In some traditionalist families the parents pay for it all, but one of the characteristics of today's independent youth is that parents are less likely to be involved (which must be a relief).

The Mexicans, at least before being influenced by the norteamericans, were much more practical. Curious about Mexican wedding customs, I found an article describing a fascinating set of Mexican and Spanish courtship and wedding rituals. Parents of the boy, accompanied by his godfather would visit the girl's parents, bringing a sabucan, a gift of rum, cigarettes, chocolate and bread. If the petition was to be considered, the sabucan would be passed around; if not, the visitors took their sabucan and skedaddled.

When an agreement was reached, custom dictated that the bride receive a muhul or marriage gift of a gold chain of two loops, two rings, two hair ribbons, a silk handkerchief, cotton cloth, coins, and more rum, bread, chocolate and cigarettes. This was presented in front of the whole family, plus flowers and candles for the bride's santo, an icon of her saint, the Virgin, or Christ. Still more deliveries of bread, chocolate and wine was expected every Sunday until the wedding. In earlier times, Aztec families had to supply wood and water to the bride's parents for two years after the wedding.

Spanish suitors supplied the trousseau and materials for the wedding dress, all tidily packed in an elaborate dona or wedding chest. In exchange the girl's father contributed another dowry, consisting of an inheritance guarantee, usually livestock, for the husband to manage.

A matron of honor (madrino) and best man (padrino) were selected with care, since their responsibility extended beyond the wedding, to provide counseling in times of trouble. Spanish weddings were often set for September so that any infants conceived during the honeymoon would be born in June, when the crops required minimal tending.

During the wedding ceremony, the groom would offer the bride 13 gold or silver coins to express his commitment to take care of her. But this was only symbolic, as the money went to the church. Rings were provided for the bride and groom, but they were borrowed and had to be returned in three days to the embracer (whoever that is, I could find no translation). Indian couples were bound together at the altar with a pink ribbon, while the Spanish used a long rosary. After breakfast at the bride's home and a banquet at the groom's, the newlyweds, their pockets full of gold coins from the guests, went straight to their new home, never mind pricey honeymoon trips.

See what I mean? Everything was designed to contribute to the couple's future. So sensible!

BILLY COLLINS HAS A NEW FAN

I usually lump poetry in with things like chatting with Jehovah's Witnesses. Hits the spot for some but just makes me squirmy and uncomfortable. The convoluted images give me a headache, but I supposed serious poets considered straight plain talk to be...well, unpoetic. So we literal types (as opposed to literary types) who can't relate are often left out in the cold.

I wasn't paying attention that semester we were supposed to study anapests and dactyls, enjambment and heptameters, and as a result I thought for decades that poetry was out of my sphere, like Tagalog or advanced geometry.

Then a few weeks ago Garrison Keillor had New YorkerBilly Collins on his show, and I was lucky enough to be doing nothing and able to concentrate on Billy's irresistible lines. Now I'm in love. What a treat, like being offered a fruit I've never tried before and wondering where it's been all my life. And he must be a favorite of quite a few others too, since he was chosen 11th Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003.

So today I Googled him and found a website called poemhunter with a large collection of Billy's work. I fired off some choice poems to the Capt's email. No response. Guess he's got his own poetry aversion thing going.

That's OK, we can't all be literary (she sniffed). For those who do want to check him out, my favorites so far are Another Reason Why I Don't Keep A Gun In The House, Flames, Forgetfulness, I Chop Some Parsley While Listening To Art Blakey's Version Of "Three Blind Mice", and Man Listening to Disc, which puts beautifully into words what it feels like to take a walk with your iPod.

What appeals to me about Billy is that he has the ability and willingness to clearly express himself, without sounding like a Hallmark card. He's got my brand of humor. He obviously loves dogs. He's only a year older than I am, and it doesn't hurt at all that he loves jazz. And I like his face. He'd be fun to have an espresso with in a cozy Greenwich Village coffeehouse.

Billy Collins in 2001, when he was interviewed on NPR's "All Things Considered." Photo by Joann Carney.

If you become a serious fan of Billy Collins, you can find quite a few books of his poems, with titles that make you want to crack them open and start reading right there in the bookstore. Such as Monologue of a Dog, The Trouble With Poetry, Sailing Alone Around the Room, and She Was Just Seventeen.

And there's the intriguing paperback, Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes.

Thanks, Garrison, for introducing me. And thanks, Billy Collins, for brightening my day. Makes even me feel like writing poetry. But don't worry, if I do, you can always scroll right by.

DOGBLOGGIN

Let no dog go unblogged is my credo...'specially when he's as cute as the new black lab pup at Casita Dave's. The Casita is where we lived last year before we moved two doors down, into the duplex. To thicken the plot, another Dave is moving into the other side of the duplex. The Daves will be referred to hereafter as Duplex Dave and Casita Dave. Casita Dave is finishing up his new house near the Golf Course, and when he moves in he'll hopefully have a yard for Cisco. Duplex Dave is moving off a boat with his (hugely relieved) wife Joann, as soon as the landlord gets the air conditioning fixed. We'll have next-door neighbors with lots in common, I hope.

SIDESWIPED BY THE BLUES

"Blues" by Jason Martineau. Hope Jason won't mind, but it's a perfect match for my mood of late.

The Capt was gone four (lonely) days, crossing the Sea to Mulege on "(P)Inclination" with a couple of friends and then taking a bus to La Paz and a flight to Mazatlan to pick up my Nissan and bring it home. About 3am Wednesday morning he finally arrived home and woke me up with a sweet kiss while Sophie did her little "welcome home" dance.

Wednesday afternoon was the best session yet with maestra Lolita, working on Spanish and harmonizing on a song. Classes with Lolita have been all I hoped for and more; she is so sweet-tempered and kind. Monday we read the Hermosillo newspaper, Expresso, and talked about the articles. Later we moved to the piano and worked out the two-part harmony on "La Barca de Guaymas," and when we had it right and sang it through I got the little rush I always strive for in singing harmony. That's what singing is all about for me, that thrill when it sounds just right. It's a physical reaction, starts somewhere around my toes and flows up to the roots of my hair. I had to stop myself from asking her, "Was it good for you, too?"

And yesterday the Capt put up the first of two beautifully crafted shelves in the kitchen, where I desperately needed more storage space. They're boat-style shelves with raised edges, so if objects tip over they don't automatically fall off. And they're sturdy enough to hold our ever-growing collection of small appliances. For the trim he used parote, an exotically grained wood, rot- and insect-resistant, that can't be found in the States. A similar pair of shelves now hold my favorite books and family photos next to my computer desk. He's practicing woodwork techniques to get ready for all the work he'll need to do on the new Morgan, and I'm the lucky beneficiary.

With all this good stuff happening, I should be euphoric. But last Saturday's blue moon seems to have cast a blue spell on me. I'm sleeping too much, wandering around in a daze, putting off doing things I know would make me feel better, as though I didn't deserve them. I hate it when that happens.

This was my horoscope today, so spot-on I added it to the Antidote List on my desktop for those times I need a spiritual jump start.

Your thoughts are unusual, even shocking, but if you know they're just thoughts, you can let them go. Sometimes you can't believe that this is you having these feelings, but it is -- you truly contain multitudes.

What else is on the list?

Have a regimen and a routine, a thing you do that always works, so that you can always do it when people fail you. It's something different for everybody. If you don't have anything that always works, find something and perfect it -- a certain drink that never fails, a song that gives you goose bumps, a certain walk on a certain path that always elevates your spirits, a meditation that always calms you, a food you always like to eat. You need somebody you can always call, too, but people will change and even if they stay the same they die, and then they're gone. You can't depend on them. You need more lasting bulwarks. You will find a favorite meeting you always like to go to and then everyone will buy houses and move away. You will find a friend who promises you things and doesn't come through. So a practice that always works must be solitary or of the earth or of the mind; people will change and let you down. You need something older than people.
So live near a river or a mountain or a stream. Live near something you can walk to where you go, Ah.
List these things so you don't forget them. Write them down.You keep going down the list, which you keep in your wallet, until you find a thing you can do that will work: somebody you can always call to cheer you up. So even though it's 2 a.m., you make the call and wake the person up and talk for a while, explaining as you do that the person is on your list of people you can call when nothing else will work.

And, finally:

Life's too short to ruminate on your disappointments.