Lyman from Oregon

What makes my life interesting is finding people that are different, or in some cases a little crazy. My mom says this appreciation is an Irish trait. While in Ireland once, she noticed a celebration of people that were, well, different. If a patron of the neighborhood pub stopped by with his favorite sheep in tow, then so be it. A local celebrity might be born.  

Recently, my wife and I were in Puerto Vallarta for a few weeks and decided to tour the up-and-coming neighborhood of Versailles.  After exploring the gastronomic district, we stopped into a little coffee shop to recharge. While waiting for our order, I see an older gentleman in the far corner. My “character” radar immediately goes off. His long platinum hair and beard, slightly disheveled clothes, and cane by his side told me there was a story here.  I waited for the right moment before starting a conversation from across the room.  We quickly moved to a table next to his to accommodate the café music, crowd, and his difficulty hearing.

Lyman was from Oregon, and had driven down to Puerto Vallrta in his RV, and parks it for months at a time in a nice RV park in the Versailles neighborhood. It turns out he’s made the trip more times than he could count, and he shared stories of trips made further south into South America in said RV.  In his younger years, he and his wife had settled into life in California, and he became an engineer. After a tragedy took the life of his stepson, his wife’s only child, they packed up and went to India.

While there, he said he’d met many people in search of answers to some of life’s bigger questions.  It was his belief that they carried within themselves everything they already needed to know and could access it by looking inward.  The 8000-mile trip was not necessary. I forgot to ask him if he had been one of those people.  

Although he had been drafted for the Vietnam War and trained at Camp Lejeune, he waited there for 15 months without being called up to serve as the war was ending.  He said he felt guilty for not having served in actual combat, knowing how many fellow soldiers died or were injured.

I wanted to lighten the topic, so I went back to the subject of his RV.  I asked if he had a bathroom inside it or if he had to use the bath house in the RV park. His answer made me realize that describing his home on wheels as an “RV” might be a stretch. “I usually use the bath house, but I have a 5-gallon bucket with a toilet seat on it in case of an emergency”.  YIKES. He also doesn’t have a stove of any kind but relies on a grill at the park. Apparently, gas stove put off too many fumes. I would argue that the fumes were probably not coming from the stove, but rather that 5-gallon bucket.  I didn’t want to risk offending Lyman by pointing out that he really has a van and not an RV.

It took him a while, but Lyman met a lady friend after the death of his wife Linda and a yearlong bender.  The girlfriend is also named Linda, which is convenient when you’re 80 and your memory isn’t always spot on. Linda doesn’t like to fly, so he was waiting for her to arrive from Detroit. The route didn’t seem easy to me. Linda would drive from Detroit to Arizona and then take a bus to PV from there.  It must be love when you undertake that sort of journey only to end up in a van with a 5-gallon bucket toilet.

As Rudy and I were getting ready to walk back to our condo, I asked Lyman why he had chosen the local RV park in Versailles.  He said he appreciates the easy access to medical facilities and how inexpensive care is.  At 80 years old, he has kneed and back issues, and he can walk into any clinic and see a doctor within 10 minutes. No appointment required.  An MRI is 1/10 the cost of the same procedure in the U.S., and everyone is friendly there.   As if he was still contemplating friendliness, he added, “I don’t recognize my country anymore. I have always said it’s just nice to be nice”.  

The sun had fully set, and it had started to rain. I offered to walk Lyman to the RV park, and with a big smile he said, “The hell you will. I hate when people think I can’t take care of myself, but, if you want to help me pick up my tab….”

How can I refuse that retort? Done! Lyman’s $6 coffee and carrot cake are settled. I stick out my hand for a parting shake. “I’m a hugger!”, Lyman exclaims.  We group hug and then watch Lyman as he heads down the sidewalk to catch a good night’s sleep in his “RV”.