There is an old joke about two explorers who are captured by cannibals. One is a Californian and the other is a New Yorker.
The explorers sit at the bottom of a large vat filled with water. Natives run around collecting firewood and depositing it at the base. It is going to be a big fire. It is going to be a big feast.
The chief of the cannibals stands over the two explorers and admires their pale skins.
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The bifurcated psyche of a world-class athlete who grew up in a literary household.
Now, that has all the makings of a great novel.
Not coincidentally, these are the circumstances that led world-class athlete Ivy Pochoda to become an excellent novelist, with six titles and counting. But getting those two lives – high-powered athlete and high-powered novelist – working together, well that was the topic of a most entertaining talk by Pochoda on Tuesday as the inaugural headliner of the Art of the Story conference.
Pochoda’s life story fits in quite well with the overall theme of San Miguel de Allende’s newest literary festival. That is – if I may interpolate from the list of fascinating workshops and events scheduled – inspiration is all around us, if you know how to look for it.
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We love our mojigangas.
The tall, human-fueled street puppets have been around San Miguel de Allende since 1924. They are of as many varieties as there is of life.
They can be comic, satirical, political, nuptial, magical, tragic, whimsical, mystical, surreal, fantastical, scary, devilish, angelic, familiar, historical, sexy, skeletal, ethnic, gypsies, tramps and thieves, and even, ordinary.
Like those images above from a recent parade in San Miguel.
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Sorry for the Dad Joke. It just came to me in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Turns out, the Cosmos is as corny as I am.
“Hey, shiny new Artificial Intelligence program: Write me a poem about walking through the Scottish Highlands and do it in the style of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”
OK, I didn’t do this. I may still do this — but I didn’t.
Not yet.
Recently, I re-read Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha” for the first time since my childhood.
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He awoke with a sharp grunt. Like someone had kicked him in the balls.
Come to think of it, it hurt down there, too. And he had to pee. Again.
“Driver,” he called to the front of the black town car. “Pull over. I have to piss again.”
“Can you hold it for about 10 minutes, Mr. Trump? This is a pretty bad place to pull over.”
“President. I told you to refer to me as President Trump. I don’t want to say it again.”
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Here is how it all unfolds.
Trump loses. He loses badly. The numbers are so clear and decisive that there is no wiggle room for Trump to claim fraud. The victory is decisive.
Trump does not concede defeat because he and his family are all busy packing.
Trump abdicates his “MAGA throne,” goes into exile in Russia, and sets up a shadow government. The money he has squeezed from the faithful in side scams and the money he has harvested from foreign interests is already safely deposited in Russian vaults and bitcoin portfolios.
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A long hike is never really over.
We finished walking Scotland’s West Highland Way on September 18. It is still very much on my mind and I suspect it will be hanging around.
There were lessons learned. Both about myself and the trail.
That’s really what it is mostly about in the end, isn’t it? Nobody walks – let’s call it 100 miles – and walks away not knowing something new about themselves.
Even if it is only whether or not you love toe socks.
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There are many ways to hike Scotland’s often challenging 96-mile West Highland Way, between Milngavie and Fort William.
You can walk until you tire and pitch a tent. You can stay in posh hotels. You can stay in bunkrooms. You can stay in budget B&Bs. You can carry all your possessions in a backpack. You can have your luggage shipped to the next night’s lodging. You can dine in decent restaurants. You can eat in pubs. You can stock up on Ramen, fruit, and power bars at convenience stores.
One thing everyone has to do is walk the walk.
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Long hikes through Scotland’s Highlands are hardly a new concept.
Why, as far back as 1654, the 1st Marquess of Montrose (James Graham) marched his 1,500 Royalist troops and Irish mercenaries 36 miles south to Inverlochy in 36 hours in knee-deep snow to surprise the larger and better-stationed troops of the 1st Marquess of Argyll (Archibald Campbell).
Montrose quickly routed Argyll’s men in the battle just north of Fort William — the end point of our West Highland Way trek — and chased them down this path to the spot where I am standing, about 7.5 miles south of Fort William. Argyll’s men were slaughtered, not so much in battle, but in retreat. Barely 400 of his 1,900 troops survived. Montrose lost less than a dozen.
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The barmaid in the first pub you reach when you walk into Kinlochleven is keeping busy pulling drafts. Lots and lots of drafts. It is around 1:30 p.m. and the place is filled with hikers who already completed their 9.5 miles from Kingshouse.
There is a celebratory feel to the day’s finish, probably because one and all have conquered the steep switchback challenges of the Devil’s Staircase, the highest point along the entire West Highland Way.
They all have something else in common: Check-in time for lodgings all over Kinlochleven — as if by mandate — is 3 p.m. Hikers who aren’t filling the pub are sunning themselves in the nearby park, lounging on sidewalk benches, picking up supplies at the Co-op, or seeking other pubs and restaurants.
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Musings, Magic, San Miguel and More 
