Gratitude is the wine for the soul. Go on. Get drunk! — Rumi
They give me tips on how to live—
Save your money, forgive, forgive.
But I tip my glass to a different creed,
Dancing on edges, chasing need.
In tulip fields where the wild winds ran,
A Dutch girl dreamt without a plan.
Not of walls or rooted ways,
But rolling tides and untamed days.
With jenever gin to light the flame,
She chased a sea that had no name.
“Proost!” she cried with windswept hair—
A gypsy vow to anywhere.
Aboard the TeVega she learned to roam,
A floating school, a wandering home.
Maps were myths, the stars her guide,
She kissed the spray and dared the tide.
With Jäger stowed and sails unfurled,
She taught and sailed around the world.
A fierce first mate, a sea-born bard,
No place too far, no dream too hard.
In Oman, where the heat runs deep,
And dunes like whispered secrets sleep,
She sipped Kahwa, warm and spiced,
A desert life both soft and sliced.
But even stars can’t still her feet—
She followed rhythm, flamenco beat…
To Spain, where voices rise in song,
The gypsy knew she’d not stay long.
Tinto red, the night aglow,
A lover’s laugh, a heel-tap flow.
She danced with fire, then heard the call—
The Alps were waiting, snow to fall.
In Switzerland, crisp mountain air,
She toasted peaks without a care.
Chasselas kissed in alpine light,
Her heart grew full with every night.
“Santé!” rang out from lake to star,
But family dreams called from afar…
“Allons-y,” she sighed, and changed the plan—
Montreal, the next began.
Montreal—where winters bite,
And jazz runs wild through neon light.
Caribou thick, her hands held heat,
She wrapped her soul against the street.
In Alberta’s wide and rolling plain,
The Stampede drums, the dance, the rain.
Two children born, two more embraced,
A Caesar raised, a family traced.
In Myrtle Beach, where the waves roll slow,
She sipped her bourbon, let it flow.
“Cheers y’all!” rang with sweet tea pride,
A beach chair learned the art of tide.
Salt faded into freshwater calm…
Fourteen years there — Haliburton deep,
Lakes held our days, the seasons sweep.
Our children grew through the same school doors,
Boats traced light on familiar shores.
Cold beer in hand, we drifted free
The Tipsy Gypsy— finding me.
Till once again a spark would grow— “I wanna go to Mexico.”
Where mezcal smoke and rhythms blend,
And barefoot nights refuse to end.
Paloma dreams, chelada heat,
Salt-kissed lips and jungle beat.
She drank the sun, her soul set free—
“Salud!” she laughed, a dancing queen.
Through every land, with every taste,
She drank in life—no time to waste.
A tipsy gypsy, fierce and true,
No chains, no rules, no déjà vu.
And somewhere between the pours and places,
I learned what lasts, what time erases.
These are the tips I carried through.
Tip One – Know Your Mood.
Feeling bold? Try whisky neat.
Need a hug? A red wine seat.
A long night calls for something slow—
The best drinks last, as all friends know.
Tip Two – Honor the Land.
Each place pours spirit in its pour—
From Jalisco’s fire to Oman’s lore.
From Dutch delight to alpine kiss,
Let every glass be part of this.
Tip Three – Pair it Right.
Mezcal for fire, wine for soul,
Rum rides waves, beer keeps it cool.
Caribou warms the icy street,
Coffee’s for dawn, champagne for sweet.
Tip Four – Respect the Glass.
A martini’s grace, a pint’s bold blast,
A coupe’s a flirt, a whisper fast.
But raise a shot and hear the cry—
A rebel’s toast to live or die.
Tip Five – Drink the Moment.
Forget the ‘shoulds,’ ignore the frowns,
Pour what sings, forget the nouns.
Let joy decide, let night take wing—
Let the glass be your offering.
So when you raise your glass for me,
Don’t mourn, don’t sigh—just let it be.
Let laughter spill, let music play,
Let stories swirl the night away.
For I am here in every cheer,
In every sip, in every year.
The tipsy gypsy, wild and true,
Drinking life through all of you.
Please toast with me, eternally—
To love, to health, to being free.
Vallarta, One Last Thing
You were never just a place—
you were the moment
I remembered how to speak.
You gave me color
when I had learned to live in gray,
rhythm when my body forgot its joy,
and mirrors that told the truth
without asking me to be smaller.
My first poem here was a beginning.
This last one is a bow.
I don’t leave you behind—
I carry you forward.
Author’s Note
These pieces were written in response to the prompt “Tips” with the Vallarta
Writers Group, and offered here as a closing gesture of gratitude to Puerto
Vallarta—the place where my voice returned. E.K.
