I’m sitting in the bus station, the bright light from  the expansive windows silhouette the  figures sitting in the waiting room. The marble tiles are polished till they gleam and reflect the shadows from the windows.
The automatic door opens and shuts behind me with regular annoyance and as I look round the room I’m pleased to see at least a few gringos. One lady has been doing her exercises…. It’s just a four hour trip honey, what would she do to prepare for a 15 hour trip. !!

I pleasant voice announces an impeding departure or arrival, it’s loud, but I don’t understand a word she says…. of course, I’m in a foreign country… sometimes I forget.

It was rather sad leaving the B&B this morning, the week has flown and I have wonderful memories… There is a friendship amongst quilters that is intense, familiar and comforting.
The ladies from Canada, at the B&B so interesting, so nice…. the resident artist who came in to see my work this morning and complimented me with emotional feeling for the work I do. Then there's Lorraine,  a very special lady, who runs a superb B&B. Esteritas

I think of those quilters who consider themselves only as “Art Quilters”  why do my quilts inspire artists but not “Art Quilters”  What is the definition of an “Art Quilt”, who are the quilt police in Art, who makes the rules.?

An hour later, I’m on a bus that would equal business class in the plane.    
I have Bach playing softly and the rhythm of the bus socializes well with the music.

Rural Mexico is passing as in an interactive movie screen.

                                     Small villages