Zihua

Our morning's bus ride to Zihuatanejo had three objectives: First, seek a few things in the downtown marketplace, including shoe repair service. Second, meander to the Zihua beach to check out the artisan shops there and have a bay-side lunch. Third, visit the Commerciale for a few necessities.

Today marked the introduction of slightly higher bus fares. This coincides with the appearance of better quality, better groomed, vehicles which effectively forestall complaints about fares. If this is not merely a temporary strategic ploy, it may now be time to visit an osteopath for bone re-assembly.

This morning's bus.

Happily the pursuit of our errands ticked along like clockwork. Following a map sketched by a brother at our meeting, we found the reputedly best shoe repair man in town. He occupied a dingy, littered, rectangular cave on a side street. In ten minutes, he fixed Carol's shoe, damaged while dashing over a pedestrian crossing. We would feel far more positive about these crossings if certain ones were not adorned with little shrines.

Wall Art in Zihua

 Fish Market by the Bay (Note the fish-story teller).

Lunch by the bay consisted of quesadillas and the usual complimentary plate of nachos and freshly made, absolutely delicious salsa pictured below.

Dining in a beach restaurant exposes one to a rich variety of business proposals. Passing merchants offer everything from toy bobble-headed insects to net hammocks. Carol succumbed to the temptation of peanut and seed confections.

A novel phenomenon while sitting by the bay is to experience both cool and warm breezes. Generally cooler ones prevail, much to the mid-day relief of northerners like us. But at intervals they are displaced by an oppressively warm gust as though someone opened an oven door.

Following lunch we returned through the marketplace to connect with the bus to Commerciale. Below is a view of a Zihua street. The statue sports a wide smile that seems to suggest she is sitting on booty.

At the Commerciale, not far from the jams, cameras, and door hinges, they sell men's pants. The failure of important seams on an older pair of dress pants forced me into the pants market. There is a saying that when you sally forth in the cause of truth and right you should not wear your best pants. So I brought an older pair. I should have retired them instead.

From Commerciale's pile I retrieved a contender and, to try them on, was directed to a changing stall. It was approximately the size of a telephone booth, for those of you who remember such things. To be snagged and struggling with a pair of half on pants in a cramped booth is way way down my list of preferred pastimes, but I must confess the pants looked fine, were a good fit, 100% cotton, and surprisingly inexpensive.

So now I am freshly armed for meetings and ministry. Or is that freshly legged?

And so it goes.