Discrimination is a good thing

Many corporations above the border and elsewhere are drawing attention to themselves, and not in a good way, for knuckling under to leftwing nonsense. Southwest Airlines was one when just recently it said unvaccinated employees would be fired.

And then Delta Airlines, to its credit, said it would not buckle under to the same White House diktat. When that happened, Southwest had a change of heart. Delta was always one of my favorite carriers, back when I went to airports.

And then there are corporations that sincerely promote leftist imbecility. One is AirBnB, which is headquartered in … drum roll, please … San Francisco, California!

Our Downtown Casita is listed on AirBnB. I’ve tried to switch to other services, such as VRBO, but it’s stunningly complicated and demanding. AirBnB is far easier, so I stick with it.

AirBnB embraces political correctness and woke-ness with a vengeance. Here are two laughable, imbecilic examples. For the hosts — people who offer their properties — we used to get photos of those requesting reservations. And as the saying goes, a picture is worth a thousand words. Lots of truth in that.

No way.

I like to see who wants to stay in our Downtown Casita, what they look like. If the person resembles either Manson, Charles or Marilyn, I will refuse the reservation based totally on appearance, and I see nothing wrong with that. I have refused one request due to the photo of the fellow requesting it. Just one time.

Well, that’s out the window. A couple of years ago, AirBnB made it impossible for hosts to see what the guest looks like before accepting the reservation. This is, of course, to block discrimination!

In truth, it’s discrimination against the hosts.

But I favor discrimination. Being a discriminating person once was a compliment, and I still view it so. I bitched about this new rule to AirBnb, but it accomplished nothing, of course.


No Gringos!

We have tenants coming this weekend for two weeks, the first rental in about two years, mostly due to the pandemic. It’s a nice-looking couple in their early 60s who live in Dallas. I got to see them after accepting the reservation. Yesterday, we were exchanging information via AirBnB’s messaging, and I used the word Gringo.

Oh, dear me!

Before sending my message to the tenant, I received a pop-up from AirBnB advising me that Gringo was “offensive”! But I was given the option of sending the message anyway, which I did.

Let us look at this word Gringo. All Mexicans use it when referring to Americans. The only time they don’t is when there’s a Gringo they do not know who’s within earshot. And almost all Gringos who live in Mexico use the word too. Maybe some leftist PC dimwits don’t, and we have quite a few of them down here, sadly.

There is nothing wrong with the word, and almost 100% of our rentals over the past decade have been to Gringos. My child bride prefers them. She has more trust in Gringos than in her own paisanos.

She is a discriminating woman, which is why she married me.

Gussied up for Christmas


OUR TOWN IS decked out for Christmas.

I found these two photos on Facebook. The top one was shot by Jorge Villegas. The bottom was shot by Miguel Angel Garcia. I can take no credit.

This is our principal plaza. It’s very big.

The huge Christmas tree goes up every year. Till about four or five years ago, a flammable material was used, but not anymore. I was, by pure chance, walking on the plaza that fateful afternoon when a little kid tossed a match onto the tree.

I watched it all burn to the ground. Happened fast. They managed to rebuild it before the 25th, and it’s been made of fireproof material ever since.

You can say what you want about Mexico, but some parts are very pretty.

It’s not Kansas, Toto.

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Sunday drive in October

Strawberry Lanes these days.

BACK IN TEXAS it was a delight to drive the state’s mid-section in Springtime and see the seas of wildflowers, the bluebonnets, Indian paintbrushes and so on.

We get something similar here, but not in Springtime, in October. In Springtime here, everything is dry as the proverbial bone.

So we took a drive on Sunday, heading to the tiny town of Tupátaro. First, we ate in a restaurant there which served some excellent Sopa Tarasca, a regional specialty, and some dreadful pollo en mole. We won’t return to that restaurant.

On departing the restaurant, we walked a block farther to visit the church again, something we hadn’t done in a couple of years. It’s one of the most spectacular churches in the state. It’s not large, but it’s old, the 1700s, and what makes it special is the wooden ceiling that is painstakingly painted. The link above will give you a view.

Taking photos is prohibited inside the church because, you know, the flash will do harm, a common belief in these parts which is pure nonsense.

But here are two photos I snapped outside.

First, in one direction.

And then in the other direction. A minibus is passing.

Later, nearer home, we stopped at an ice cream joint and lapped up lemon ice, which is a good way to end a day driving in the pink-flowered countryside.

And walking in ancient churches.


Another waning day

A waning day makes nice light.

TWENTY-FOUR hours after the last post, I was walking to the Honda again. But this time I was returning from the Basilica.

I had gone there with my child bride, her sister and the nephew we once called The Little Vaquero. But he’s not so little anymore at age 15.

Once a year, the local luminaries pull our version of the Virgin Mary from her high perch in the Basilica and parade her around town upon shoulders. People take this very seriously. Being neither Catholic nor Christian, I view it less as a religious event and more as a tourist attraction.

It was supposed to start at a civilized hour but being Mexicans we got off to a tardy beginning. So tardy that I wearied of waiting and left, which is when I walked down the hill and shot these pretty photos.

The rest of my crew hung around, but an hour later they too tossed up their hands, figuratively speaking, and left. I’m sure the Virgin managed to make her annual trek through the cobblestone streets of our mountaintop town, but none of us bore witness to the sacred event.

Anyway, if you’ve seen it once, and I have, you’ve seen it sufficiently.

A friend of ours, a fellow who went by the nickname of Don Chino, used to manage this event, but he died last year. When Don Chino was in charge, the Virgin headed out the Basilica door with a spring in her step.

Now she has fallen into bad Mexican habits.

R.I.P., Don Chino. We miss you.

This is not the Basilica. It’s a big church just one block from the Basilica.