I’m in the shower on Tuesday afternoon on my third shampoo to wash gobs of flour out of my scalp and prevent my hair from drying out with a coat of engrudo, that homemade paste used to make anything out of papier-mâché.

Yup, I am just back from Ajijic’s madcap Mardi Gras parade. Not my first Martes de Carnaval rodeo, by a long shot, so I know the clean-up routine by heart. That includes a major dusting of the cell phone, camera equipment and everything else carried to the yearly Pueblo blowout. Plus sweeping up of confetti droppings spread all over the house.

So I am chuckling as I rinse out the suds. Recalling a quick exchange with Karina Sánchez as we were walking away from the plaza. “Como Ajijic no hay dos,” we comment cheerfully in unison. Ajijic is like no other.

I have known her since she was a kid growing up in a bicultural household when I came to live here in the early 1970s. I figure, if you add it up, we have been here for almost the exact number of years. We are on the same wavelength. Speak the same language.

The point is, it is on occasions like Carnaval that I most deeply feel how much I frigging love this town. It is my happy place.

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