My pal Mike flew back to Canada yesterday. He had been here the whole time that I was, providing moral support during my midlife crisis. A better dog poop spotter, you will not find. Together, we learned the proper time to order fruit salad, why scuba dude graffiti is everywhere, and that geo-caching is stupid. Mike didn't have the foresight to sell his house in a divorce before coming down here, so looming financial constraints meant it was time to leave. His apartment is paid for until February third, though, and he left me the keys so I could keep using the swimming pool.
To give him a proper sendoff, we had a pool party on Monday. There ended up being twelve people, which was appropriate for a Last Supper (assuming that Jesus was there in spirit). It had threatened to rain all day, but the weather cooperated long enough for us to enjoy a steak dinner and some Spenglish conversation. Of course, some idiot had to do a cannonball into the pool at the end of the night, but luckily I remembered to take the camera out of my pocket first. ¡Salud, Mike!
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