Down here, south of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, where there are iguanas on the rooftops and butterflies in the house, where flowers and rubber trees grow from rock walls and rain gutters and cobblestone streets, where that chirping call you hear from the trees at night is not birds but geckos, where moths are the size of your hand and walls transitory, time takes on a drowsy quality and you get into the rhythm of the tropics and the realities that entails. Some of those realities, like the lush beauty and balmy waters, are lovely. Some, like the mosquitos, are not.
Baja from 30,000 feet
The last time I contemplated myself as meal on this blog was a post I did from Lake Tahoe reflecting on the Donner party. But after our first night of our now annual fall trip to Casa Tres Coronitas in which I received some 15 to 20 bites inside the mosquito netting that surrounded our bed (while my daughter, outside the netting, got that many on her face alone), I find myself considering it again. More
skinny girls & mayonnaise 