Of Buildings, Beards, and Books

Our bedroom window on the eleventh floor, with nothing but distant mountains in view, does not imbue one with the feeling to be particular about privacy. A person can get used to dressing with the blind up. On the other hand, Manuel dropping by tends to curtail such nonchalance. We received advance notice he'd be doing work around our window, a gesture we found uncommonly thoughtful and for which, naturally, we were grateful.

As a Montrealer, I was fully prepared to see a swing stage, manned by two workers, descend our exterior wall. Instead it was Manuel, alone, looking a tad like Spiderman, on a tiny wood seat, suspended by a rope. I think he was applying caulk. That's our bedroom window he's working on in the photos. He seemed oblivious to 'l'appel du vide.'

Speaking of the eleventh floor, the following photo I took from our back balcony. It shows Carol and Linda trekking to their appointment at the massage hut. The resolution is low because my only equipment is a cell phone which at such a distance took in a fifth of Mexico. I should have brought my pocket camera with zoom.

At pool side this afternoon I Skyped briefly with Mark Boudreau who captured my image and was more than pleased to email it to me, slightly tweaked.

Carol and I went for a walk this evening. I much enjoy taking in the open style architectural designs possible in a climate like this one. A sample is shown below.

Upon returning Carol looked over the public book shelf sitting in the lobby here. One can take or leave a book at will. Although I have read and enjoyed some novels in my time, my strong preference is for non-fiction. Never having seen non-fiction, or history, on these shelves, my interest so far has been minimal. But this evening I spotted a thick, hard covered tempter entitled, "The Bully Pulpit - Theodore Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, and the Golden Age of Journalism." I trundled it up to the eleventh floor and into our condo.

Quote of the day:
"For what is the present after all but a growth out of the past?"
- Walt Whitman.