AT SOME POINT in the 1980s, my last wife and I found ourselves a few miles north of Guanajuato, up near the silver mines, staying in a new hotel just across the way from an old church. We hadn’t been able to find a hotel downtown due to arriving late on a Friday night. Everywhere was booked up with Mexico City people.
It was August, and we’d arrived from Houston or maybe it was New Orleans. I don’t remember, but it doesn’t matter because both are sweat holes in the summertime. The next morning, I walked out of that hotel and was gobsmacked.
It was August and about 50 degrees! A wonderful experience for a fellow who’d spent most of his life in the American southeast, sweating through summers.
And loathing every second of it.
Flash forward to today. It’s raining outside as I write this, Thursday evening. It’s not August but July, but in Houston and New Orleans, there’s no difference. You suffer.
It’s 67 degrees outside, though it feels even cooler.
When I moved over the border two decades back, I brought two pairs of khaki shorts, the sort you might find on Crocodile Dundee. I’ve never worn them, and they live deep in the closet. On second thought, I believe I have worn them a few times, but never at home. I’ve worn them at the beach in Zihuatanejo, just 3.5 hours away.
You’ll die of sweat there in summer, and we always go in summer.
Though the beach is just 3.5 hours away, the weather is not the same due to altitude. The pants I wear here are Rider jeans, every day, no exception. I own lots of them.
Riders feel fine in our cool summers, and they work equally well in winter with thermal long johns beneath. Riders are versatile, all-weather trousers.
During Houston summers, I often wore long pants of khaki to the newsroom, topped off with Hawaiian floral shirts of rayon. My job did not require interaction with the public, so I was often the most colorful fellow in the office.
Reporters sported ties, and so did ambitious editors. But I went Hawaiian.