The club was abuzz the other day about the number of family outrages players in the NFL have committed or have been accused of committing. The one that most interested us because of its ambiguity was the case of a star birching his son with a switch as a form of discipline. He has been charged with assault.
Published September 24, 2014
Christopher Dalton’s first trip to Mexico sets the wheels in motion for his life Under the Palapa.
Before the autumn of 2010 I had only been to Mexico once, and that was to supervise the production of a movie in 1986 called Remo Williams starring Joel Grey and Fred Ward for Orion Studios.
I spent the entire time either at the studio complex in Mexico City or clinging to the side of a volcano a hundred miles away. I admit that that was not the best or most normal way to be introduced to a country. Furthermore, the movie was a financial disappointment, although it now has an avid following amongst film enthusiasts.
Cut to 2010, when a friend of my wife announced that she had two extra tickets to Puerto Vallarta at an all-inclusive and would we like to go? Once I was assured that I would not have to swim with dolphins or sit on endless boat trips throwing up my lunch, I agreed. My wife and her friend should do all those things while I and the other husband would read our spy novels and watch the inebriated (mostly) Canadians snore by the giant pool.
We arrived and the 10 days flew by with, as advertised, complete relaxation, except the part where the time-share people attacked us at the airport. I have not had so many hands touch me since the army.
Our suite was perfect, and so was the view. However the one thing I found odd about the hotel was that every dinner would be transformed into a different culture with the appropriate food.
For instance the first evening was Hawaiian Night, with some crazed hotel workers trying to dance, followed 24 hours later by Italian Night with the same workers dressed as what seemed to be gyrating prostitutes and gigolos, with an out-of-control motor scooter carrying a petrified priest (the guy from the front desk). Next came Polynesian Night, which, surprisingly, reminded us of the not-so-long-ago Hawaiian Night with the now familiar cast.
Many nations were portrayed but with some, we could not put our finger on who they were exactly. Lots of guesses, though (Latvian?). All our table really wanted was a Mexican Night, but there was never any sign of that.
The French equivalent arrived with more women of the night and sleek escorts, but this time the food (coq vin) took out fully half of the guests. It was a poorly attended breakfast on what was our last day. We drank only tea before making a dash for the airport. I thought I would never return.
Cut to spring 2011 on the set of a movie, Girl in Progress, in Vancouver, where the worst rain on record poured down upon us daily. The U.S. cast and producers were furious at me because I had promised them weather not unlike Los Angeles. I pointed out that I had not exactly said “sunny” weather, but this was met by angry shouts about “filthy Vancouver floods.”
It was also the time of the National Hockey League riot, when hundreds of fans rampaged through the streets after the Vancouver Canucks lost the Stanley Cup final to the Boston Bruins.
Somehow I started looking online for real estate in Puerto Vallarta, that being the last place I had seen the sun. I sat depressed and alone in my trailer (I was the co-producer), scrolling through condos and rentals with beautiful pictures of the sea and sand. I phoned my wife one day and suggested a real-estate romp in PV when the movie was finished.
When she recovered consciousness – she thought I had hit my head or was delirious – I told her I had found a Canadian realtor in PV and he was standing by. “I’ll book the tickets!!!” she roared, and that was that. We were on our way to what was going to be our greatest adventure, buying our dream home in Puerto Vallarta.
Unfortunately I did not ask the realtor, a great fellow by the way, “Will you be having a breakdown while we are there?”
I recommend that for the opening question to any house hunter, because ours did. But I will save that for my next column.
Copyright Christopher Dalton 2014
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Tell us what you think in the comments section below.
Written by: Christopher Dalton
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7 Comments
Kathy O’Brien
September 24, 2014 at 9:11 pm-Reply
Looking very forward to more stories…..and a lot of fun stuff
Allan Prout
September 24, 2014 at 9:01 pm-Reply
Good one Chris, always enjoyable when the writer is a friend and looking forward to many more ……
Marlyse Jones
September 24, 2014 at 4:34 pm-Reply
Can’t wait ….
Mark Carter
September 24, 2014 at 1:35 pm-Reply
I look forward to hearing how the first trip to PV went, and how is the agent now?
Mary Kahn
September 24, 2014 at 11:15 am-Reply
Sounds like good fun ahead.
Sheryl Menzies
Sheryl Menzies
September 24, 2014 at 10:06 am-Reply
Cool!
Crista M Rogers
Crista M Rogers
September 24, 2014 at 9:56 am-Reply
very cute…
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Andrew LeeAndrew Lee says:
Nina Goodhope Thanks for sharing this great artic …Nina GoodhopeNina Goodhope says:
Andrew Lee did you read this?Jim ButchartJim Butchart says:
Many of us ex-pats have learned PV has excellent h …Chris DaltonChris Dalton says:
It is too small a world to not be engaged with it. …Mary Beth Maria OMary Beth Maria O’Connor says:
I will just take a regular ambulance thanks
It cannot be said that we at the Home of Homes, my club, have failed to follow the cut and thrust of the daily news.
This can sometimes lead to harsh language amongst the members, especially when it comes to social changes long assumed to be rock solid. I can recall the battles over women joining our club as full members back in the late 1990s, which brought about almost inconceivable observations concerning weak minds.
Marriage, cruel Nature and the ‘wheel of life’
I was looking forward to my Wednesday queue at the club last week; I take great satisfaction in thinking I have aided more than a few mems to navigate their passage through the treacherous coral reefs of marriage.
Ever since I started my mid-week matrimonial “Agony Aunt” sessions at 10 bells sharp, I have heard things that might raise eyebrows amongst a coterie of Vatican cardinals. However I have never been judgmental, outside of perhaps a bit of shocked blinking on my part, and therefore my little get-togethers are well-attended.
Unfortunately the first chap up was our very own Brigadier, and a more boring man to listen to would be hard to imagine. He is a man obsessed with the fact that his still-fresh marriage to the much younger Constance had resulted, after a honeymoon said to have included several medical emergencies, with her throwing out his multitudinous salt-and- pepper-shaker collection.
He opened with: “She is at it again, by God!”
The Brigadier apparently had managed to hide a few dozen shakers, but they had been found. My mind began to wander in a natural attempt to prevent it from becoming numb, and my searching eyes fell upon a painting on the far wall of lions following a herd. This reminded me of my courting days so long ago, when I was paying panting attention to one Cecelia “Sissy” Cistern.
When I would arrive at the Cistern house to take Sissy to dinner in my chugging Austin, the entire family would be sitting with their TV trays and their TV dinners (Salisbury steak and unnaturally coloured peas) watching Mutual of Omaha’s animal slaughter. I was made to stand, my eyes averted with the dog sniffing my trousers suspiciously, while the bug-eyed family watched as one of the hosts describe in hideous detail a zebra baby dragged away by a lioness. They watched in rapture as the sound of crunching bones filled the air with the awful narrator talking about “the wheel of life.” I ran to the WC in distress, followed by the wretched dog.
When I returned, somewhat dizzy, with the damned dog sniffing me more enthusiastically, Mr. Cistern wondered if I was the sort of boy his daughter should be with, for it was apparent I did not believe in the wheel of life. The dog now had its snout firmly in my groin. The younger sister, a real blister, I can tell you, opined that Wolf the dog did not appear to trust me.
The room was once again assaulted by the grunting noise of a crocodile pulling a small screaming wildebeest into a murky swamp. More bones cracking. More “wheel of life.” I tore for the bathroom, once again chased by the blasted dog.
I returned with the drooling Wolf to a very skeptical audience. I gathered my name and reputation had been dragged through the mud like the baby baboon they were watching struggle. To top it off, the dog was attempting to demonstrate its distrust by wetting my grey flannel trouser cuffs. It was all too much for me, so I legged it to my little car surrounded by shouts of “the wheel of life” and chased by the appalling dog.
I sat in my auto as the dog flung himself against the car door and murderous family faces filled the bay window and wondered if I would ever meet someone who just liked me for me.
I never did. Instead I met Kitty and live in a comfortable state of truce. But at least I don’t have to watch the butchery of small animals with the sound turned up to a dreadful level, nor eat TV dinners.
The Brigadier was still droning on about his mismatched salt shakers and their reduced value, which his current wife cannot seem to grasp. When he took his breath I shouted:
“Next!” and ordered a well-deserved martini.
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