Carmen on the Veranda

Our new friend Carmen is retiring this week. Though we were only in Mazatlan for a short time, I  became accustomed to chatting with Carmen on my several daily visits to the hotel snack shop. She is grandmotherly in a young, smooth skinned way, always smiling, always asking after my daughters if they weren't with me.

For long shifts each day, for I don't know how many years, Carmen has worked the snack shop. My limited experience leads me to believe she chats with everyone, leaves a lasting impression on all the midday grazers who cross her path. She points out cheaper brands of water, offers up suggestions about saving money on wifi (I was a bit too ashamed to tell her my secret, which involved skulking around like a cat burglar with my laptop lid open waiting for the little red dots on the "network diagnostics" screen to turn green), and even gives restaurant recommendations. We passed on her last one, which was described, in an enthusiastic and overwhelmingly positive review on Google, as a Mexican Denny's. We enjoy slumming it, but we have our limits. When Carmen retires, she told us, her first official celebratory act will be a trip to the Dairy Queen in town for a blizzard. Now that (and I say this without a hint of irony) is something I can understand.

When we dragged our suitcases by the little store on our last day, I could not bear to say goodbye to Carmen. My guess is my daughters felt the same way; I watched them cast surreptitious glances over their shoulders as we passed the glass doors, quickening their steps to avoid attracting Carmen's attention. Somehow, it was less painful to say goodbye to the other friendly staffers, none of whom we will likely see again, despite our cheerful cries of "hasta el ano proximo!" (which, I pray, does not mean "see you next to my anus!")  Leaving Carmen just seemed too permanent, and "goodbye" would mean goodbye, pure and simple, even on the off chance we return to Mazatlan some time in the future. I do, however, take some comfort in knowing exactly where the Dairy Queen is, just in case.

Our hotel was far from fancy, though it was certainly comfortable. I laughed at myself when I realized how annoyed I was the afternoon our maid had not left us fresh bath towels. Like everyone who worked at the hotel, she was polite, always smiling, and seemed to work her fingers to the bone. And I'm willing to bet nobody ever brought her freshly laundered, warm bath towels. Yet I truly don't believe she, or any of the others who waited on us hand and foot, would trade places with the pale faced folks from up north who descend like vultures for a week at a time and are often too busy complaining to notice the simple beauty of life. Why would anyone give up days on end of dramatic sunrises over the mountains, sunsets in spectacular kaleidoscopes of color at dusk over the ocean, virtually cloudless blue skies cooled to perfection by gentle sea breezes?

As I do every year, I bought a large handful of useless silver trinkets from a beach vendor, paying way too much but still far less than was asked. It's a win-win. The vendor goes home with enough cash lining his threadbare pockets to feed his family for at least a week, and we go home imagining the incomparable aroma of those freshly made tortillas, practically tasting the homemade delicacies that no Mexican restaurant here can possibly replicate. A "feel good" for all the senses that persists long after the silver begins to tarnish.

Tonight I am planning a trip to Dairy Queen, not an entirely selfless tribute to Carmen but, again, a win-win proposition. I will toast her and all the friendly folks we have met along the way on vacations south of the border as I enjoy, as a lot of them know how to far better than we do, one of the simplest pleasures of life.