The Postscript

After a while, no one wants to look like a tourist.

Experienced travelers will buy a hat in a local store, convinced that having the same head covering will somehow make them less conspicuous. They stray off the main streets and take their meals in the places locals frequent. They leave their fancy backpacks in the hotel and carry only what they need to explore the city. And, most importantly, they don’t take photos.

If the tourists who don’t want to appear to be tourists take photos, they only take a picture of themselves and their traveling partners. If there is something beautiful in sight, it serves as background. The goal is to appear to be anything but a tourist.

I was at a poetry reading the other day. I go to very few poetry readings. Because I write, I have writer friends, and some of them write poetry. So I occasionally go to a poetry reading to support my friends. But I never leave a poetry reading without feeling a little more stupid.

I sit among a group of people, listening to poetry, while consciously thinking to myself, “I have no idea what that means.”

As I puzzle over what it might mean, the poet keeps on reading. Then I realize I have missed the last line. Now I really don’t understand what is being talked about. So I sit back and listen to the words, and at the end, everyone applauds and, of course, I do, too. But all the while I am thinking that I am a much more stupid person than I give myself credit for being.

But at this poetry reading, I heard something that I understood -- although it was not from the poet who was reading, but from another poet. She said, “You know who I’m talking about -- the tourists. The people photographing bougainvillea!”

Everyone around the poet laughed, and I actually knew what she meant -- and I was kind of sorry that I did.

Much of Mexico is filled with bougainvillea, which bloom for most of the year, and San Miguel is no exception. It is stunning, especially blooming against a brightly painted wall. And it seemed to me that a poet -- a poet especially -- should realize this.

Everyone photographs the bougainvillea when they first arrive. Then they realize it is everywhere, and in time, they usually stop noticing it altogether. And this doesn’t seem especially funny to me, even if it’s true. It seems a little sad.

If having more refined tastes means I stop noticing bougainvillea, I’d be happy with the tastes I have, even if I never understand much poetry. Because it seems to me the ability to notice the beautiful in the ordinary is more important than recognizing the unusual.

My friend read her poetry, which I was delighted to discover I not only understood but found very funny. And I left, thinking about her poetry, and poetry in general, and bougainvillea in particular.

It is ordinary beauty that stuns me, time after time.

Seeing something that has no business being so beautiful -- in a setting where no one even notices -- seems like a miracle. Having the luxury to stop and enjoy it -- perhaps even take a picture -- feels to me like an act of worship.

It is not a bad thing to be a tourist. It is not terrible to stop in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking foot traffic, overwhelmed by the beauty of an ordinary thing. In fact, I think I will try to remain a tourist as long as I can.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

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My friend Wally and I have a fractious relationship. This is no secret.

Wally has said he thinks optimistic people like me are self-deluded, always looking for reasons to be happy when there is a lot to worry about and not much to celebrate.

Wally used the metaphor of a tornado. He said that people like me would be down in the storm shelter -- right beside him -- but would ignore the destruction the tornado left behind.

“Do perpetually positive people even hear themselves?” he asked. “How nice that must be! To see the world in ways it might or should be while ignoring how it is. To look for the rainbow while ignoring the flood!”

Wally got me so irritated that I wrote a whole book about a character he inspired. Since I didn’t figure I could ever change Wally’s mind, I wanted to create someone, just like Wally, who believed he had the world’s worst luck and that looking for things to be grateful for was an act of willful ignorance.

I wrote the book, and I shared it with Wally, and -- to his credit and my astonishment -- he wasn’t angry with my depiction of him at all. He was tickled that something he’d said inspired me.

Wally keeps on inspiring me. He has some interesting observations about life and thoughts about how optimism might fall short. It’s taken me much longer than it should have to realize that Wally makes some very good points.

Optimism can be clumsy. It can be ham-fisted. Disappointment and grief and setbacks and bad news and failures are all very real things, and the optimist’s impulse is to sweep them under the rug in record time.

“Where is the upside? What is the lesson? How can I learn from all this?” the optimist asks, and Wally gets a little angry. And maybe he has a right to. Because somewhere, between the time when the tornado strikes and the optimist goes looking for the rainbow, maybe there is a moment that optimists, like me, tend to forget.

We forget to say we’re sorry.

Wally is worried about his future and the future of his children and grandchildren. When I tell him all this worrying isn’t getting much done, he gets angry and, really, I don’t blame him. Because I skipped a step. I skipped the step between the tornado and the rainbow.

Today, for a change, I remembered.

“Oh, Wally,” I said, “You always seem to think I’m scolding you when I try to cheer you and encourage you. I care about you. Do you not get that? I worry about you, and I want you to be happy.”

“Thank you,” Wally said. “Thank you so much.”

And I realized that he really didn’t know this.

I get impatient with Wally’s ruminating and doomsaying and daily dose of gloom. I want to remind him of all the things he has to be grateful for.

But I forget to tell him that I care. I forget to say I’m sorry he is troubled. I don’t acknowledge how he feels. I jump right from the tornado to the rainbow.

I’m pretty sure Wally will regularly irritate me, and I will do the same for him. And yet I don’t think he will ever be out of my life for good.

Because I will continue to remind him that things might not be as bad as he assumes. And Wally will remind me, in my endless quest for sunshine, it’s important to recognize the hurt and fear that come with the tornado.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I had not planned on a party; that was the trouble.

There is something ridiculous about a woman who has collected so many dresses that they barely fit in her adequately sized closet, showing up at her own anniversary party with nothing to wear. But that is the position I was about to find myself in.

Every time I’ve come to Mexico, I’ve brought one especially nice dress. Every time, it has hung in my small closet in Mexico, untouched. The restaurants we go to just don’t require a serious dress. A nice pair of capris or a casual summer dress is much more appropriate for anywhere my husband, Peter, and I go.

But we hadn’t even thought about an anniversary party when we packed to leave for this trip. I distinctly remember looking at a lovely dress that takes up no space at all and thinking, “Is there any point in schlepping this all the way to Mexico?”

No, I decided. Wasted space, I decided. Then, a couple of weeks before our 10th anniversary, I suggested to Peter that maybe we should have a party. It was at night, so Peter was mostly asleep. I have found this is a good time to spring new ideas on Peter.

“A party?”

“Yes! An anniversary party!”

“Hmmm.” This might have sounded as if Peter was thinking it over, but I knew he was falling asleep. However, now that the subject had been broached, I could say the next morning:

“So! What do you think about the party we were talking about last night?”

Perhaps Peter’s subconscious had been at work, because he didn’t seem opposed to the idea in the morning. “No presents!” he said.

“No presents,” I agreed.

“I don’t like it being all about me,” he added.

“I don’t think it will be. We have a lot of friends here now, and a lot of them don’t know each other. I think it could be fun to introduce them. Plus, I think the hotel would enjoy throwing a party.”

This part, Peter knew, was true. Our chef, Daniel, is a very good cook. He loves to try new things out on us. But most days, he’s busy making hamburgers and enchiladas and french fries. Getting a chance to make something a little fancier for an invited party is exactly the kind of thing that gets him excited.

So Peter mentioned the still hypothetical party to a couple of people on his walk that day, and they said they’d love to come, and before we knew it, we had a plan. Then we started a list with everyone we’d like to invite.

“Maybe 16 people,” I told Chef Daniel.

“It could be up to 20,” I said a little later.

“No more than 25.”

“We have 25 confirmed. There might be a couple more. ...”

At that point, the entire indoor part of the restaurant was reserved for us and the menu was planned, and I ordered a very large chocolate cake. It looked as if the party was on.

And I still had nothing to wear.

Peter, who knows I own more dresses than any sensible person should, was not taking this mini clothing crisis seriously. So I decided to follow suit.

I went to the store that sold Indian imports, and I bought a very long, very bright, very unserious skirt. I will wear it with a string of shiny beads, and it will be perfect for the day -- a day that is not especially serious and was not expected, but came together exactly as it should.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION