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Hotel Belmar —– What Belmar?

My first and last visit to Mazatlan

Mazatlan Vieja (Old Mazatlan)

What mahogany? What tile? What swimming pool? What ambiance? Do you mean the broken window? The wire’s hanging out of the ceiling from around the broken fan? The closet doors hanging from their hinges? And no way to lock the door of the room itself.

I was more than disappointed. This was the first time in all of my travels to Mexico that I planned ahead of my trip. Making a reservation in Old Town Mazatlan, unfortunately, I believed the advertisements. Against my better judgment, I made a reservation while still at home. As it turned out, I couldn’t get out of Hotel Belmar fast enough.

Leaving my bag in the room facing the sea, I set off to find a new hotel. I walked and walked until my sandals rubbed red burning blisters into my feet. The sun burned my face. I wanted to cry.

Nicholas, the hotel clerk, was nice. When I said, I wanted to find a new hotel, he said, “Stay, stay”. But I was desperate not to spend my very expensive vacation in the Hotel Belmar. And to top it off, the only beach near the hotel, was a small patch of sand, dark and surrounded by boulders, littered with plastic garbage. It was not even worth exploring.

The malecon swarmed with people. Locals were cooling off in the sweltering heat. Vendors were selling grilled corn on the cob, skewered through on a stick, smothered in butter, and sprinkled with Tajin. Others sold shaved ice, ice cream and soda. Children, covered in wet sand, were squealing. Teenagers were shouting at one another and boom boxes were playing Banda music at top volume.

“I can’t stay there. I chanted inside my head as I walked. What will I do? How will I change hotels? What’s even available? How can I find out? I need water. What am I doing here?” I feared to stay even one night, where the lights flickered in the dark room and the rusty  AC unit ground loudly.

So far I didn’t like what I’d seen of  Mazatlan. A four-lane highway runs between a strip of hotels and the beach. The beach is steep, a thin strip, broken by huge outcroppings of boulders. This isn’t even the hotel district. This is in  Mazatlan Vieja. Right then, I missed my family. What would they say if they saw me now? I was way too hot and my feet were being rubbed raw.

I wished I had picked Acapulco. Acapulco I knew well. I could have gone to Pie de la Cuesta or Zihuatanejo or any number of places that I loved. My dream of buying a small hotel felt crushed, and I certainly wouldn’t be buying anything here.

I hailed a pulmonia. These are small, open-air jeeps with a canopy and music blaring. “Where can I find a cheap hotel?”, I asked the driver in Spanish. These guys get a commission for bringing tourists to particular hotels that they are affiliated with. I also know from experience that when I let them know that I’m fluent in Spanish, they’re going to run into the hotel before me and tell the clerk that I am fluent in Spanish, so there’s no talking among themselves, thinking that I don’t understand what they’re saying.

The driver knows, he says, of a cheap place. It’s called Olas Altas. (High or Big Waves). I’d been traveling in Mexico for a long time, and I knew what hotels go for. But it was peak season, and this is right on the highway with the beach right across those four lanes. Cars were whizzing by and it was quite noisy and dusty. But I was at the point of collapse. Right then I’d pay just about anything.

I wanted to pay $30 a night, but they were insisting on $81. I’ll get a deal, they continued to insist,  if I stay for the whole week. I’m embarrassed to say, I paid over $400. This was unheard of in my experience, but as I said, I thought I might keel over if I didn’t find a place to eat and sleep and soak my damaged feet.

I paid and promised to be back shortly. I hopped on the pulmonia again, back to Hotel Belmar. When I told Nicholas that I was leaving, he was none too happy. He made me pay $100 pesos, for the molestia (for the trouble) I guess for showing me the room. It appeared to me that I would have been their only guest. At this point, I would have paid almost anything. Just get me out of here, I thought. I took one more look at the pool, which was covered with a green slime, and was happy to be gone. I think at one time, this was a very cool and trendy hotel. The bones were still there.

Nicholas kept saying, “Piense bien. Tiene que pensar bien.” You better think it over, he was saying. I said, “I’m sorry, but this is my vacation and my money. Adios.” Did he think that I really could have stayed? So back onto the pulmonia. I hopped on and off I went to Olas Altas.

When I arrived, I instantly dropped my luggage in my room and stripped to the skin. I was as red as a beet, I could hardly walk. I couldn’t wear shoes. I had two or three blisters on each foot with at least one that had burst open and was bleeding… and I’m too hot.

Olas Altas  was just okay. The rooms were new with air conditioning, the beds were comfy. And across the four-lane highway, was the beach and I could see the spectacular sunset.

I also could see the big red signs saying that there would be no swimming because of dangerous currents and the massive waves. I would have to go searching for a good beach for swimming.

I threw on my swimsuit and threw myself into the pool. I floated in the pool until I felt myself calm down. I was in bed by 9:00 pm. I was tired to the bone and had not had a drink of water or anything to eat all day.

I drug myself to a table by the pool. There was a small restaurant in the hotel and I immediately downed two bottles of Pacifico before drinking glasses and glasses of water. I ordered caldo Tlalpaño which was a soup of rice, avocado, and chicken. I believed it was the best soup I’d ever eaten. And then I had a platillo Mexicano, 1 sope, 1 chili rellano 1 tostada, 1 quesadilla, guacamole, and frijoles.

I didn’t stop until I had my fill. I rested my head in my hands and almost fell asleep. It was time for me to go to my room. I fell into bed and as soon as the traffic died down on the highway, I slept like a baby, listening to the giant waves crash on the shore.

Tomorrow I’ll eat breakfast at Pueblo Bonito. They want to sell me this place, but right now. I don’t want to be sold anything ever.

I spent the rest of the week in Mazatlan staying at Olas Altas. Unlike all of the other times that I’ve been in Mexico this was not fun, not comfortable, not interesting, not anything. I never found the beach that I was looking for… someplace to swim.  I did find some good places to eat, which is easy to do in Mexico. But I found that the food in the hotel restaurant was the best food to be found.

I understand that there are people who love Mazatlan. They buy houses and condos and businesses, and vacations and retire there even. But after that experience, I never wanted to go back… to Mazatlan that is.

Hobos and the Cut

Hobos: Men down on their luck

We had a small forested area that ran along the railroad tracks at the end of our street, maybe 3 blocks to the East. The “Cut” we called it.

Trains went (cut) through our neighborhood to cross the train bridge over the Willamette River to the Union Pacific railroad station on the West side.

At night, we could hear the trains chugging by and blowing their whistles. Chug, chug, whoo hoo. It was a mysterious and forelorn sound to me.

Hobos jumped the train as it slowed to cross the narrow bridge. All the boys were allowed to play in the Cut but were instructed to head for home when the train passed, leaving a group of hobos.

It was a pleasant place to camp out, treed with wild grasses sofening the hard ground. They were out of sight because the tracks were cut deep into the terrain, but we all knew that this was ẃhere the hobos jumped off.

They started camp fires to warm mostly cans of beans. My brother told me this because, being a girl, I wasn’t allowed in the Cut. I was too afraid of those worn and tattered fellows, anyway. Dad, who worked for the railroad, always said they were just men who were down on their luck.

My brother and the neighbirhood boys went down into the Cut as soon as the hobos hopped the next train. They were probably secretly dreaming about one day hopping a train outta there.

They were sure they’d find treasure in the cold ashes around the camp.  Something, anything. But mostly, they found cigarette butts and tin cans.

The boys played hobos, tying a kitchen towel or big red or blue handkerchiefs around the end of a long stick fllling it with cans of beans and peanut butter sandwiches pretending to run away from home. They slung that hobo sack over their shoulder, walking down the street as if they were really leaving.

The hobos never caused a bit of trouble, unlike the “hoods.” The hoods were a group of teenage ruffians from school. They drank, smoked and harassed us girls, and fought with each other in small gangs. They never did much damage to the neighborhood or to each other. They were just tough acting. 

They stormed around the neighborhood in souped-up cars, wearing tight t-shirts and narrow leather belts on their Levis. To our parent’s chagrin, we fell in love with the bad boys.

That’s who our parents should have warned us about, not the hobos.

How many of us girls got knocked up by hobos? None.

How many by the boys? Lots.

Women Who Do It Alone

And are happy

I realized this morning that I have lived alone and supported myself for almost 30 years… less if you discount the 3 years that Ramiro and I lived together… not that he offered much in the way of support.

I have lived as an independent woman all that time without the support of a man. I have made all of my own decisions. I have had no financial assistance from a man. I have had no partnership in which the burdens of life have been shared in all that time. I have done it all on my own.

This has not been what I expected of my life, but these are also the consequences and blessings of the choices and decisions that I have made along the way. I guess you could say I am proud that I have been able to do this.

Other than the 9 months that I was confronted with cancer, I haven’t really struggled. I divorced, and I was educated, and I had a career. I had heartache, but through it all, I supported myself. All of my decisions were made independently, without the consideration of a partner.

This is not extraordinary. Many women do it without praise. Women who are married or are lifetime partners are praised for long-term successful relationships… as well they should be. But so should women who had the strength to say “no” to relationships that could have made their lives easier, but would rather live alone than to suffer bad relationships.

I have been happy and am still happy.

I know that there are women who live independent lives and have partners. But that’s a different conversation.

Cancer Transformations Hair: Before, During, After, Now.

Before Cancer 2000
Chemo head 2005
2015
2024
Now 2025

Ancel and electronics… when he was young.

Ancel’s tangle of electronics and cords were gathered up after his visit. My lowly charger must have appeared to be just another USB with a wall plug, so whoosh, into his bag it went.

My prayers to the finding gods had gone unanswered. It hid among its companions until I had a bright idea… it may have come from the finding gods, who knows. I thought to ask Ancel directly. “Ancel! Do you have my phone charger per chance?” With a clear sense of what belongs to him and what doesn’t, he responded, “Oh! Is it a USB with a wall plug?”

“Yes, yes,” I nearly screamed (but didn’t since we were sitting in a public place and I didn’t want to sound accusatory). “It’s in my tech drawer,” he said calmly, not being cognizant of the suffering I had been experiencing. “Your tech drawer? Where is your tech drawer?”

I tried to sound calm but I wanted to run to his “tech drawer” and steal away my charger, charge my phone and once again be connected to my world, but I had to wait. Ancel wasn’t going home quite yet.

At last I had dinner with Jesse, Hannah, and Enora. I was happy for dinner and the great company, but I knew that my charger would be with them, which added to my joy. At the end of the evening, Hannah pulled out a tangle of USBs and a wall plug that had been pulled from the “tech drawer.” We identified mine from the bunch, and now my phone is cooking beside my bed once again, reunited with its lifeline, and I with mine.

His God Will Help

He’s driving a little bit buzzed and fast because he believes he’s above the law.

Got his rocks off with a couple of prostitutes on 82nd and Sandy.

After, while driving home, blue and red lights behind him flashed.

His brown skin alone and that he’s also draped in gold make him immediately suspect.

“Roll down the window”, they shout. Get out of the car, and put your hands above your head. Put your hands behind your head. Spread your legs,” they shout, as they pat him down. Do you have a gun”?

Now, the confidence, the natural bravado drained from his brain and his body. “Yes, I was with a prostitute. Yes, I paid for sex, ” he offers, though they hadn’t asked that question, says he.

They shouted something about red lights and red lights, they keep repeating. His body  shakes. ICE is rounding up immigrants. And what he doesn’t know is that he’s part of a sting. Though he is a naturalized citizen, the news spreads fear… nevertheless.

He doesn’t know how lucky he is. He walked away only the worse for wear. The citation reads: solicitation for prostitution. Nothing about a red light.

He reads it confused and brings it to me. I explained: a class A misdemeanor, up to a year in jail and over a $6400 fine. There’s also a court date.

What he doesn’t know either is that some johns had their cars impounded and were jailed that night. He finds out from friends that his name is published online.

“How many more stupid things are you going to do that I have to help you with,” i hiss through my teeth, over a bowl of phò.

Find a high-powered lawyer. $8500 retainer. Attend classes. Go to court. Maybe go to jail.

Enough money, and his god will help him, he believes. “God did this,” he relentlessly reiterates.

On the stand, he’ll perjer himself. He lies. A big liar. The lawyer will try to keep him off the stand.

Through all of his other petty crimes, he has never had to suffer the consequences. “God helps me,” he says, and he really believes it. I sigh and say, “Money talks.” He doesn’t believe me. He never does.

To Remember

Many, many years ago

I talked to Jack for a long time today. What I love about still being able to be close to him is that our memories are the same and that we share those memories.

My dad, in jest, used to call himself “dirty dog Anderson,” and my brother Steve, when he was in high school, called himself, “Beatleman”. If you saw how he dressed, you would know why.

There’s no one else on earth that would know those things. We have laughed about them now for 60 years. I don’t know if you can possibly know how precious this is to me. If Jack and I were completely estranged, which for a while, I thought we would always be, we wouldn’t be able to share these memories.

My family loved our dog Gypsy so much that when we would see home movies of her, the entire family would be in tears. I found Gypsy, a small, tan, beagle type dog lost in front of our house. Jack and I share this memory. His memory is so sharp that he remembers things in such clear detail that he can fill in areas that I no longer can remember.

He remembered today, exactly the little secondhand shop where he bought me an authentic Navajo ring of carved silver set with a deeply orange/red carnelian stone. I’ve been remembering how much of myself was formed as a young girl from 16 through our entire relationship because of things that Jack said and did. I remember the things that he bought me. He encouraged me to learn and to stay curious.

He bought me art supplies and paid for art classes. He introduced me to music and artists, and literature that I may not have run into on my own so early in life.

He bought me clothes and artwork of all kinds and taught me the value of handmade everything. We shared foreign films on days when we didn’t feel like going to school. Instead, we would spend time in the art museum, in galleries, in cinema houses and the library. We lived in houses with character and historical value. I could go on and on, but I don’t know where we went off the rails.

But off the rails, we did go… some 30 years after we started. We used terrible words with each other, though we knew so many beautiful words. We hurt one another, and yet we held it together for so many years. I’m not sure that we could have salvaged our relationship. I don’t think I could stand it if I thought we could have saved it. It’s easier and less painful for me to think that our parting was necessary for our growth. Just as a plant needs pruning to continue to grow and produce flowers and fruits and vegetables. Sometimes, those plants need to move away from one another and give each more room to grow.

Regardless, I treasure the times now when we do talk, and when we remember. It’s good to know people who have known you through the journey.

And now, as far as my immediate family, there’s just Steve who knew me back when. Maybe it’s our ages, but with these two, Jack and Steve, my life has contiguous meaning.

Fe Dáncio

A night of passion… or not

His long, curly, disorderly salt and pepper hair exposed his age, for his body did not.

Every morning, he sailed his small fishing boat out into the bay of Zihuatanejo and back again in early afternoon.

The rest of the day was spent selling fish and cleaning the boat inside of a small boat house perched over the bay. Fe Dáncio had been a fisherman from childhood and had lived in Zihuatanejo from birth.

While in Zihuatanejo, I spent my days on the beach where the pounding waves pummeled me, where I lay in the sun, where I ate in the small cafés along the beach, where at night I could be found in the small clubs along the beach, dancing.

Tired early, I returned nightly to a small hotel just steps up from the sand. At one time, it had been painted pink with white balustrades with cool orntamental Spanish tiles to walk on. I slept on the balcony in a hammock swinging under palms and flowering plants. I slept soundly. The soft breezes swished through the leaves, murmuring secrets from the past, as did the waves on the sand.

I woke early with the sun and watched the fishing boats bobbing out into the bay. All I wanted to do was the same thing that I did yesterday and the day before and the day before that. For a few dollars, a small cafe next door offered my favorite breakfast of pancakes, papaya, and other fresh fruits and all of the orange juice I could drink… And Nescafe.

Throwing on a swimsuit and a pair of shorts, i would walk into the sea, spending hours doing nothing. The waves were unpredictable. At times, they were gently rolling, and at other times, they came in violently, casting me to the hard sandy bottom. More than once, I hit my head on a rock. My brown skin was often bruised.

From my place in the sand, I could see the fishermen coming in, and as usual, Fe Dáncio drew my attention as he walked from the boathouse. I can’t explain it, but to me, he was muy atractivo. His skin was dark. He was muscular. He was weathered but smooth and shiny, if you could imagine it, and his hair was wild and wind blown. I, of course, noticed that he had an eye for the women.

One day, he approached me. We took up a conversation, and he invited me into the boathouse to see his small fishing boat. Since I am fluent in Spanish, we talked for hours, and he told me about his life. We sat in the sand later, continuing our conversation. He seemed as curious about me as I was about him. We ate some dinner, and then he invited me to his house.

(My acceptance of his invitation was not unusual for me, for I visited many houses belonging to strangers. Remind me to tell you the story of visiting a family on an island in a yellow lagoon in a village that grew coconuts only accessable by flat bottom boats.)

Not Fe Dáncio’s place

We walked to a secluded area of the beach where the locals lived in small houses, surrounded by gardens. He lived in a small board cabin outside of his mother’s house in the soft sand among mango trees and lush plants. His mother offered to feed us, but we declined having just eaten.

It grew dark. We sat in his house and talked into the wee hours of the night. I grew tired. He offered his bed for me to lie down on. As he laid down beside me, he offered me a smoke. We smoked quietly, staring into the darkness of the sky. The candle light was dim, and I began to drift away. I was high like I had never been before. I was mesmerized by his gentle touch.

Once in a while, he would send me to the outdoor shower where soft, cool, and refreshing water woke me once again to a night so pleasant, I didn’t want it to end. I only remember waking to a chicken crowing in a tree outside his front door.

Fe Dáncio had gone fishing. He left me a plate of mango and papaya and a glass of orange juice. I hadn’t heard him wake or leave. I slowly dressed. After a night of such indescribable hallucinations and pleasure, I was surprisingly refreshed. I went to my regular café for breakfast and returned to the beach to swim and to lie in the sun.

I never saw Fe Dáncio again. I did not see his boat return, nor did I see him walking along the beach. Though I spent weeks in Zihuatanejo, I was left only with this memory of him. It is so vivid, yet I wonder if it really ever happened at all.

Already worn…. out.

Shorty Socks

Han found an old skein of yarn at a garage sale in a basket labeled , “Everything, $1.00”.

When she brought it home, she asked for socks. No surprise there. “Of course,” I said. I wasn’t sure it would make a pair, but I was willing to give it a shot. So I made some shorties. This yarn was obviously discontinued, and more was nowhere to be found.

The yarn is Coats and Clark, Red Heart, Knitting Worsted, 100% virgin wool. The colorway is Ancient Gold. It’s actually pretty cool, and I liked working with it, and I love the color.  There’s little black fibers running through it.

This was a nice reprieve from larger projects while my damn arthritic thumb healed from overuse or the pain at least subsided a little.

I’ve already given up needlework, weaving and spinning, and book making. Must I give up knitting, as well?

Say it isn’t so. Guess not. A year later, I’m still knitting.

#knitting
#knittedsocks
#fiberart
#handmade
#textiles
#wool