Zih Goodle Days

I'm curious.
Anyone recall how many pesos to the US or Canadian dollar back in 1964/65?

In those days a U.S. dollar was doce cincuenta pesos (12.50).

When my mother, brother and I lived here in '74 a refresco cost 2 pesos in town, 2.50 out at the tienda owned by the Alemán family at La Ropa where the road ended at the beach. La Ropa Beach had the Sotavento and Catalina hotels that were right next to each other but separate hotels, and the Hotel Calpulli about mid beach just south of where the Villa del Sol now sits.

Our first house was where the Hotel Rossy now is. It was one room with no plumbing, one bare bulb that only worked when there was electricity, no kitchen, no bathroom, with a little porch that faced north towards the coconut grove. I dug us a latrine and built a stove to cook on out of bricks I found laying around leftover from the construction of our new house. Water sometimes came out of the long black hard-plastic hose that was extended from the Hotel Calpulli and we carefully hoarded it in several large barrels. We slept on military-style folding canvas cots with no mattresses and had a couple of kerosene lanterns to see by at night. Surprisingly mosquito coils like we'd used in the Virgin Islands were available at the tienda as well as at the Surtidora in town. Of course, scorpions didn't pay them any attention, and after finding 5 the first night in our little house (2 while visiting Margot at her place a short walk away and 3 more at our place) I quickly learned to spot those suckers, except that one time I was walking in the huerta on a moonless night and one fell on my neck and stung me 3 times on my hand and wrist in the instant it took for me to swipe it off. Finger was numb for 3 months.

Our beautiful blonde afghan hound, Clete, had a rough initiation to Zihuatanejo. He was a good runner, and while we were passing a lazy morning sipping coffee and watching the macaws fly past, all of a sudden he saw some cows standing in the distance on the other side of a shallow algae-covered pond from the rains that looked like solid ground, and in about four or five huge leaps he was off the porch across the road and halfway across that scum-covered pond when he lost his footing and wiped out and rolled several times. He stood up unrecognizable from an instant before, covered in pond scum and mud. As he stood there trying to shake the mess off we noticed some nearby logs were moving towards him. Crocodiles! We called him frantically and he came running back home, panting with his tongue lolling in a big smile like he couldn't be happier, putrid mess that he was. That was the day we cut all his beautiful hair off.

Here's a photo of Clete with my mother when we lived in St. Croix back in '71.