Under the shade of the palapa on a Mexican beach the eyes hide from the tropical sun.  The flora is infused with the colours of sunshine.  With greens.  With magenta. With an iridescence that glows in the shade of a thatched roof.

The water worn stones create the wabi-sabi contrast between the ages and the hours.  It does become a bit like the church steeple in the background.  The Palm leaves ready to weave into a palapa sheltering the steeple from too much heat.  The zocalo below the church is littered (OK occupied by tables spread with) books.  Now these are not indulgences nor are they novels — these are historical and philosophical tomes rescued from some estate perdition and inflicted on the masses.

Back on the beach the sun is setting and we talk about the miles we have moved along the coast.  Miles in a country where oftentimes much is not working.  The experience has been that the bus ride, the food ride, the medical ride and room ride has been blessed with a seasonally adjusted palapa.