Monday, August 25, 2003
Back in the First World
So now I'm back. Back in the land of familiarity. Oh Texas, my Texas. I'm back in the land of Heat with a capital "H". Where we are so fearful of the heat outside, we overcompensate by turning our air conditioners to well below 50, so we must wear wool sweaters over bikinis to survive at either temperature. This makes it especially difficult to dress for work. I'm back in the land of Big. Big cars fly down big freeways driven by big pink-skinned people eating big greasy hamburgers while talking into their tiny cell phones in flat, annoyingly comprehendible English. Where speaking is too easy, words and sentences no longer like little tightly wrapped presents opened by my slowly increasing understanding of the Spanish language. Back in the land of commercials and billboards and long stretching strip malls. You have to admire it all a little. You have to appreciate the efficiency, the organization, the self-importance of this country.
But mostly I'm just annoyed. I'm annoyed with all the little petty things that disappear when you are traveling. Like working 8 hours a day in front of a computer. I don't get to leave at 1 anymore, to frolic with the butterflies at El Charco del Ingenio, or float fetus-like in the hot springs. Only eight hours? Shouldn't I feel lucky I don't have to work 10 even 12 hour days? No, I shouldn't. I'm annoyed that I should feel lucky. I'm annoyed with the culture obsessed with working and buying and buying and working.
Enough with the ranting. Enough of the "Oh woe is me. I'm so cultured after my month in Mexico, how can I deign to live in a country filled with such cultureless whiteys." Perhaps because I might be a cultureless whitey myself, I will admit there were things that I joyfully re-embraced on my return to the U.S. (Besides sweet Ponyboy of course.) It is difficult to describe the wonder I felt the first time I watched the toilet paper flush DOWN the toilet without spitting it back out. Yes! The toilet paper goes in the toilet and it takes it far far away from you. Forever! It's difficult to describe the awe I felt when I held my trembling toothbrush below the faucet and turned ON the water without fear of parasites leaping down and burrowing into my toothpaste. Now I don't have to daily crunch TUMS and swallow Acidophilus for fear of some sort of intestinal attack. Powerful toilets and somewhat drinkable water are the few things that make me thankful to be an American. It is strange, yet not surprising that the patriotism I do have centers around bathroom activities.
In this limbo state of annoyance and thankfulness, I thought it was best to fully immerse myself in American culture. But how do you truly get a full immersion experience in the U.S.? Well, my idea was to mimic our great president's isolationist policies by isolating myself from all the riff raff for a weekend in a fancy pants hotel where extravagance means never having to leave your room for any want or need. Where you can watch last year's blockbusters and order room service in your king-sized multi-pillowed bed. Did Ponyboy and I pay for this weekend in a fancy pants hotel? Oh no, although we spend thousands on movie rental late fees, we're not the type to splurge on rich people hotels. No, this weekend stay at the Renaissance hotel was a gift given to us by friends.
But don't worry. Our weekend with the rich hasn't changed us. We haven't forgotten our upper-lower middle class roots. To misquote J. Lo, I'm still, yes, I'm still Megan from the block. We took that fancy pants place and we made it our own. We called ahead to make sure we could bring our dog, Sayla, a sweet but large pitbull. They said sure! We prayed she wouldn't pee in the marble-floored, chandeliered lobby. She didn't. She was on her best behavior and waited until she got to the room to show her excitement. As soon as we opened the door she started to gallop rapid low-to-the-ground laps around the room, faster and faster until she was a tawny Warner Brothers blur. She seemed to sense we were visitors to this plush decadent world and was fully prepared to indulge herself in her short time here. We ordered room service simply because we had never done it before, but were at a loss at what to do with our dirty dishes. Do we call somebody? Just drop them off of our balcony? Should I just go ahead and wash them in the bathroom sink?
During the days, Ponyboy and I played and splashed like otters for hours in the outdoor swimming pool, while the other guests lounged in deck chairs and read Danielle Steele like adults. There is something about pool water that turns us into six-year olds. Actually I'm the one that turns into a six-year old; Ponyboy just seems to play along. Maybe it is the aqua snow pop color of the water, maybe it is the effects of chlorine on our brains. Look! Look, I can do a handstand! Now a flip! Look a backwards flip! Ha! You have been dunked! Ha ha! Now you are the one who has been dunked! Time for a tea party! Our antics were watched solemnly by an actual six-year old from the edge of the pool. His chubby legs dangled in the water as he built and destroyed mini-kingdoms out of little red and blue cups. Our waves to him were met by guarded interest, as if he recognized our games, but had never seen such large children before, and besides he had kingdoms to build and destroy, time was of the essence. After the pool, I showed Ponyboy the sauna, but after 2 minutes of sitting in the stifling hot, dry little wooden box, Ponyboy rebelled, "Why the hell would someone want to sit in one of these? This is awful! I live in Texas, I don't need to sit in a fricking sauna!" After a few attempts of explaining, "It's good for your skin, or maybe it helps you lose weight, or something, I can't remember," I agreed with Ponyboy, it was awful in there. Why not go sit on a metal bench in the middle of downtown Austin at noon in August to get the same effect? And who the hell wants to do that?
During the evenings, Ponyboy and I headed down to the hotel bar, the heavily neoned and heavily air conditioned Tangerines. Ponyboy said it smelled like a porn shop. We're not going to ask how he knows what a porn shop smells like. There was a dress code at this bar. All men were required to wear collars and ball caps were not allowed in any shape or color. I didn't understand the importance placed on clothing. Everyone was drunk beyond belief. Lights in the shape of cheese graters flashed down on the dance floor populated by what looked to be the entire city of Austin's HR employees dancing to top 40 hits. It was strange, but turned out to be a good place for people watching. There was the guy who was so into his own moves he seemed to be dancing by himself, while his girlfriend bopped along self consciously next to him. Occassionally she would try to grab his attention by rubbing her butt on his leg. Most of the time it didn't work. There was the drunk slightly-overweight middle aged lady who kept asking the cute boy to dance. He always gamely complied. There was the Electric Slide. There were alot of fake boobs, according to Ponyboy. It was a grand old time, but I couldn't seem to drag Ponyboy out on the dance floor. It would take another night and several more shots before I could get Ponyboy to dance to any song that hasn't been made in the last forty years. And it was only because it was Al Green.
In the mornings, we woke up late, hungover and disoriented. Our curtains so heavy and thick it was impossible to tell what time of day it is when they were closed. We woke up in an enormous king-sized bed, where the three of us, Sayla, Ponyboy and I could sleep comfortably. On the first morning, I blearily put on my skirt and nice top from the night before and stumbled out to the elevator to find some food in the lobby. I hadn't brushed my hair, teeth or even checked for pillow wrinkles before the elevator doors opened to what looked like three generations of the WASP family. A distinguished silver haired gentleman, his corporate-looking son and a small boy stared at me from inside the elevator. The two men were wearing suits and ties on a Saturday morning. I felt uncomfortable and then angry for feeling uncomfortable. Could they tell I didn't pay to stay? Was there a sign on my hungover forehead? Those classist corporate bastardos. It was only until later I found out there was a modeling convention going on at the hotel. In my skirt and nice shoes, they were probably staring because they were thinking, "That is one sorry-ass beat-down looking model. I hope she's not applying for anything besides Sears or Walmart."
Our last night, we sacrificed showers in order to fill our bathtub with ice, Shiners, and Lonestars. But couldn't possibly drink all of them. We fell asleep after another night at Tangerines, bottles in hand, cable tv on, feeling fat and decadent. When we left, we rolled out suitcases clinking with beer bottles. I think we made a good impression.
I feel more relaxed, more accepting of life back in the U.S. after my weekend at the Renaissance. Maybe you need to be pampered before you can truly be comfortable being an American. And that is just so sad.
Tuesday, August 19, 2003
San Miguel de Allende - Final Fleeting Moments
Quick, Baby Birdie, write them all down. Write down the memories that didn't fit into your previous stories. Write them down before they slip away. So here they are, in no particular order, most without any particular connection. Random moments that simply needed to be pinned down like butterflies before they disappear.
1. Our first friend at La Cuca. His name was Simba. He came up to our table, already three sheets to the wind, with a big smile on his face and arms open wide. "Hello! Hello! Who are you? Where are you from?" Upon learning we were from Texas, his smile fell and his drunken brow furrowed. "Texas? You're not racist are you? Do you hate me?" he pleaded with us, "You don't hate me, do you?" After much convincing that we were NOT racist, that we weren't even really from Texas, his face broke into a smile and he sat joyfully down to drink with us.
2. Our second friend at La Cuca. His name was Clarence. And although he was an African-American painter from Kentucky, Simba introduced him as his grandfather. In spite this unlikely blood tie, or maybe because of it, they didn't seem to like each other very much. Whatever one said was met by the disdain of the other. They both confided in me that the other was crazy. It was like conversing with a drunken Tweedle Dum and a slightly insane Tweedle Dee. Clarence wasn't drinking, but once he sat down he never stopped talking. For hours and hours, Ponyboy and I watched him hold an unlit cigarette, always about to light it, but always distracted by another topic to discuss. And every time our eyes were about to roll back in our heads with boredom, Clarence would say something surprising and beautiful. "You have to be passionate about something. You have to be a part of something. We are all musicians, we are all part of the symphony of LIFE!" Ponyboy and I would be taken aback. As the night progressed, his stories grew wilder, his epiphanies less impressive, and we left soon thereafter.
3. The tiny, ancient abuelita with a bag of sweet breads on her bent back, who crept, ever-so-slowly up my steep mountain of a street. Who tottered on the edge of the sidewalk, about to step into traffic, and in my mind, into certain death. "Necesita ayudar?" Do you need help? Can I help you cross the street? I asked her in my heavily accented Spanish. She waved me on with a look of friendly disgust on her crumpled brown face. Oh god. I probably said it wrong. I probably asked her if she could help me cross the street. "Me, help you? Look at me! I'm an old woman. Cross the street your own damn self!" That's probably what she was thinking. Ah, the daily humiliations of speaking in another language.
4. Our tour guide, Cesar, on my Saturday venture to the neighboring towns of Queretaro and Bernal. Cesar, like Clarence, could talk for hours, and did so, as soon as he sat down in our tour van. But unlike Clarence, Cesar's stories were rooted in fact. They were rooted in the history of Mexico. I learned more about Mexico's history in that 2-hour trip to Queretaro than I learned in my 4 weeks in San Miguel. He jumped from year to year, from the Revolution to the pre-Hispanic era of the Aztecs. He was a fountain of information. But I was glad I wasn't sitting in the backseat with him and the other passengers. I was glad I was sitting in the front seat with the quiet driver. I don't know if I could have sat beneath the unblinking glare of his endless fact-filled monologue for two hours like my poor nodding traveling companions. I was happy to sit out-of-range, to doze off and dream of Mexican history. My dreams intertwined with his stories and the lives of the important historical figures of Mexico. In my dreams, I took my place along side them. I dreamt I was the old rich man who fell in love with the famous pretty nun of Queretaro, who brazenly showed her face through the convent windows. I dreamt I convinced her to marry me, but before she would agree I must build the aquaduct for the people of Queretaro, I must build the most beautiful house in all the land for her to live in. The house that was never completed before my death, before I could marry my pretty-faced nun. I dreamt I stood next to Maximilian in his final moments before Benito Juarez' firing squad. I dreamt I raised my fist next to his, crying "Viva Mexico!!" as bullets rained into our chests. I dreamt of Mexico's tumultuous past.
5. Santo Domingo Day. The day San Miguel de Allende celebrated St. Domingo. I also happen to live on Santo Domingo Street. What does this mean? This means at 6AM on this day, rocket fireworks are set off every 15 minutes in honor of the saint. They are set off right outside my door. Yes, at 6AM. Maybe he is the saint of perpetual fireworks. I don't know. The fireworks were so loud they sounded like they were going off in my chest. Every time they went off I jumped in surprise, cursed loudly, and checked to see if my heart was still beating. If I ever run into this St. Domingo guy, he and I are going to have some words. It ain't gonna be pretty.
6. The little Mexican boys and girls who took swimming lessons at my gym. They splashed and dove for marbles while yelling in rapid Spanish. It is disconcerting when you come to realize that children of the age of six speak better Spanish then you do. Even after you've been studying it for 4 hours a day for 4 weeks. I had just recently come to comprehend the direct and indirect pronouns and the vast tangles of verb tenses. And here was this little squirt that is able to squash all of my lessons into one sentence! "Damelo! Damelo!" Give it to me! she demanded of her amiga. Oh well. I felt a little better after I saw their flailing attempts at the butterfly stroke. HA! At least I'm a better swimmer than you! Sort of.
7. The gringo tourists. There are a lot of them in San Miguel. But not as many as there could be. The lack of a beach or a nearby airport keeps the Ugly American population at bay. There are a lot of Mexican tourists too. I'm not sure why that makes me feel better, but it does. All of the gringo tourists dress the same. They all wear light flapping linen and brightly-colored embroidered shirts. As if they all went as a group to Old Navy and scoured the racks for something colorful, something more Mexican. Do you have anything, you know, more Frida-esque? Oh wait. That's what I did. Damnit. It should be noted that the Mexicans, for the most part, wore jeans and t-shirts, and um, stuff we gringos wear at home. Yeah. So in our effort to look more "native" we just ended up all looking like each other.
8. The enormous Texas-plated SUV grill I opened my apartment door to one morning. I thought for one confused moment that they were trying to drive into the lobby. And then I saw the frustrated red-faced Texan man behind the wheel, inching his enormous vehicle back and forth on the narrow Mexican street while his blonde wife stood by, making little squeaks of disapproval every time the bumper got too close to the wall. I realized he was trying to turn his car around. He must have had 2 inches of room in either direction. The job looked like it might take hours. "Why did you bring that huge THING down here?" I wanted to ask them. "What were you thinking? SUVs may be fine for Texas freeways, but good luck trying to find a parking space down here. Most of the Mexican locals drive cars that could maybe fit 1.5 people inside." I left them to their frustrations without comment.
9. My many walks through the cobblestone streets of San Miguel. After a month of living here, the town feels familiar. But sometimes it still hits me. In a flash all of it, the strangeness, the foreignness of this place. I'm not simply walking down to the gym, I'm walking down the streets of some olden pueblo where people call to friends in a foreign tongue. And this realization is followed by conflicting feelings. On one side, "Wow. I am so lucky to be here in this beautiful place so far from home." and on the other, "What the hell am I doing here? Me, Baby Birdie, in my Chico State running shorts and Jingle Bell 5K t-shirt. I'm out of place. I don't belong to this ancient town." I used to have similar flashes when I first moved to Austin from Portland. When the flat land, the heat and the y'alls still felt new. Now Austin just feels like home. But sometimes, if I squint hard enough, I can see Austin through the eyes of a fresh-off-the-boat Oregonian. I can still capture that feeling of a stranger in a strange land.
10. The homesickness that blind-sided me on my third week in San Miguel. I wasn't expecting this. I've lived in foreign countries for longer periods of time. Perhaps it was just Ponyboysickness. A month is an odd amount of time. More than a vacation and not enough days to really settle in. I left a day early, not because I didn't love San Miguel, but because it was simply time to go. I didn't feel I needed to stay the full month to the day, or to prove I can live in Mexico for exactly four weeks. But I'll be back. It's easy and cheap to get to Mexico from Texas. I'll be back. Goodbye San Miguel de Allende. You were good to me.
Monday, August 11, 2003
Queen Baby Birdie On Her Own
It has quieted down some. I am on my own more often now. Sometimes I relish my in solitude. Sometimes it feels strange and cold. But I still enjoy my time here. I still enjoy learning Spanish and the friendly folk of 14-18 year olds in my class. The age difference isn't as obvious anymore. I only wince a little at one girl's story of a really old movie she saw with a really young Johnny Depp , have I heard of it? It's called Benny and June? Yeah. And I bite my tongue at one boy's blinking ignorance of the time Michael Jackson burned himself in that Pepsi commercial. Do you remember that? Of course you do, everyone does. Everyone except these young whippersnappers.
I still enjoy our fumbling attempts at the Spanish language in class. "Did I just say 'love pie'? I meant to say I love to walk!" One girl constantly confuses the verb "to request" with the verb of a bodily function. Instead of saying "I asked him", she says "I farted on him". This never fails to put our Spanish teacher into hysterics.
I still chat with acquaintances on the street, and make plans with neighbors and new friends. But it feels quieter. My neighbors in my orange apartment building are disappearing. Lovely, giggly Krista left last Wednesday. Molly with the multiple Mexican boyfriends left over a week ago. And the boy from Mexico City, who told me stories of a quiet, taxiless, gringoless San Miguel of 15 years ago is gone as well. And of course there's Ponyboy/Chucho, it feels like he has been gone for weeks. The only one left is a new girl named Kay, who is crying of homesickness every time I see her. I feel a little like a ghost who has chosen to stay behind, to slip past darkened windows on the way to my own locked door.
But in my time alone, my thoughts are sharp, unmuddled by other people's emotions or needs. I realize I'm rarely by myself in Austin. Even in my own home, I am followed around by our dog, Sayla, whose thoughts are more readable than most people I know. "Feed me. Take me outside. For the LOVE of everything good and decent, PET ME!!!" Here I become intensely aware of what is going on inside of me. Without distraction, sometimes my head feels clear and light. But sometimes it feels a little too loud.
Maybe because of this clarity, (I call it clarity, you may call it going crazy) I have come to the conclusion that I will add San Miguel to my list. To the list of towns that I own. This may sound selfish and maybe a little misguided. It is true that Mexico won its independence years ago. But I ask very little of the towns I own. I do not ask to be treated like a queen, or for any loyalty at all. I do not plant a flag in the center of town and claim it in the name of Baby Birdie. These aren't towns that I have simply visited. These are towns that have meaning for me. All of my towns are unaware of my ownership. I suspect they would be indifferent if they did know. I ask only for a silent reign, where I can watch my town's happenings from afar. Where I can smile inward, proud of my town's quirks and accomplishments.
It is a short list. Portland, town of my childhood; Austin, town of my choice; San Miguel de Allende, town of some colorful fever dream. Derry, Northern Ireland is also on this list, but it has been so long since my last visit, I fear my reign must be faded. If I had planted a flag in Derry, by now ruddy-faced Irish boys would have yanked it out and ran down the street, waving its tattered remains past murals of long dead IRA hunger strikers.
The invisible thread of my ownership connects all of these towns. A thin thread attached by surprising moments of recognition. Moments of familiarity that stay with me after I have left. The breezy chimes of my parents' back porch, as I lie on the couch cozy and safe, curled into a nap and the warm weight of a Wadi blanket. The high-note yodel and twanging guitar of sausage-fingered portly Red Volkaert, as Ponyboy and I dip and twirl on the dance floor of a smoky honky tonk in Austin. An early morning walk through El Jardin, where an argument between two old Mexican men ends in laughter as they slap each other in the face with folded-up newspapers. And while the moments are different, my reaction is always the same. "Ah yes. This is what I was looking for. This strange shard of home."
Familiarity tricks me. Logically I know San Miguel is hundreds of miles from Austin, Portland thousands of miles from Derry. But it doesn't feel that way. In my mind, when a town has been added to my list, I have plucked it out by the roots and placed it neatly next to the other towns. They sit there in a tidy little row, separated only by little walls of time. Walls of airplanes, buses, and long car rides. Walls as crossable as the walls of narrow English backyards, where British housewives lean chapped elbows on the cool stone to gossip with neighboring housewives hanging their washing.
Perhaps this is why I don't mind traveling long distances. Perhaps this is why I don't heed to my parents' concerns over living on the other side of the country. Don't worry, I want to say. I only have to climb the wall. It's not high. I'll see you on the other side.
And so it has been decided. I take out the crumbling roll of paper and slip off the blue ribbon. I dip my feathered pen in ink and in a loopy cursive script, I add to my list.
Queen Baby Birdie's Royal List
1. Portland, Oregon
2. Austin, Texas
3. Derry, Northern Ireland (Note: Must check in to see if my flag is still standing.)
4. San Miguel de Allende, GTO, Mexico
5. ....? (Note: Always wanted to see Cuba.)
Monday, August 04, 2003
San Miguel - One Week Later...
One week later we are confident San Miguelites, or San Migueleans, or whatever. We navigate the winding streets with ease. "I speet on your map!" Strange faces are now familiar. I see the mulleted man from La Cuca working at the door of a buffet restaurant from time to time. "Hello, old fashioned layddeeeee!" he calls to me. The street perros are now familiar as well. There's the German Shephard who trots the streets down by my school, the skinny terrier who one day stood outside our door shivering in the rain, and the white dirty poodle who sits down by the Parroquia. We become more and more daring in the food we eat. First the fresh vegetables, then the ice cubes in our drinks and finally the luciously greasy hamburgeasas at the corner taqueria. And with no consequences. We have managed to escape Montezuma's revenge, to avoid the dreaded buttwater. Acidopholus is the key. That and not eating off of the streets, no matter how enticing the food may smell. We have come to terms with the traumatizing parasite commerical. It no longer frightens us. It has even become a form of greeting for Ponyboy and I. "How are your parasites doing today?" "Not too bad, not too itchy. Y tu?"
One week later Ponyboy and I discover we are incredibly compatible travelling companians. Our inner clocks seem to be set to the same time. Must eat NOW. Must nap NOW. Must drink tequila NOW. We give each other new nicknames in Mexico. Ponyboy is now Don Chucho. Baby Birdie is now Palomita. "Chucho" is a character from my Spanish grammar studybook. The name makes me laugh and Ponyboy makes me laugh, it seemed appropriate. Paloma is my favorite mariachi song, and "Palomita" also very roughly translates to Baby Birdie.
One week later I have found ways to train for my marathon in this small, hilly town. I have joined a gym across the street from our apartment. All of the rooms at the gym have fogged sliding glass doors that open up to a view of green hills and the colorful large houses of the rich. While swimming laps in the pool, each breath gives me a glimpse of the mountains. I lift weights while looking out at dripping purple bourganvilla flowers. At sunset, I take spinning classes taught entirely in Spanish. "Los piernas son FUERTES!" I run my tempo lap runs in the city park where boys play basketball and where my constant lapping must annoy the couples holding each other in the darkened corners of the trail. I run my long runs in the Charco del Ingenio, the Botanical Gardens, a sharp climb above the city. I run on rocky trails winding through Mexican desert flora and cacti with angry round red toes. I disturb mounds of brightly-colored butterflies and for a moment find myself engulfed in tiny yellow flapping tornados. Brown and black striped lizards dart across my path. Occassionally I hear something larger in the brush. This encourages me to run faster. I get curious looks from the Mexican families strolling through the park. Curious but not hostile. "If the gringa wants to run past all this beauty, that is her business." The children trail behind, they stare at me openly. Large black eyes beneath dark fringes of hair, fingers sucking smiling mouths. I run towards the panoramic cliffs where Chucho had hopped from boulder to boulder, like a billygoat, looking greedily down at the cliffs bottom. "Want to climb these! How can I get down there to CLIMB these cliffs?" while I hung back, fearful of heights. I run past the cliffs, where after one heart-stopping trip near the edge, I have learned to turn in, away from the edge. I run up, where the trail grows narrow and the heather brushes my thighs and shins up to the Plaza de los Cuatro Vientos, Plaza of the Four Winds. I allow myself a break at this beautiful lonely spot, where multi-colored stones have been placed to form images of each of the winds. To the left is an tall alter made out of palm leaves, bent and folded to form a cross, a sacred heart, and is that a beer bottle I see tied to the top? On some runs I see bowls of food stuck into the rocks below the alter. Are these offerings, food for the dead, remnants from some wild party? I do not know. It is usually just me, the winds, and the view of San Miguel stretching below, where I allow myself to stop, to breathe, sip on my water, and then continue on.
One week later, Ponyboy and I have made good friends with two local artists, Joaquin the painter and Valeria the sculptor. We have explored the bars with Joaquin and Valeria, drinking heavily while our conversations become louder and more animated. I have comforted Valeria as she cried over an argument with a boy at La Cuca, convinced Chucho to dance to boom-chicka music, nearly backed-up Joaquin in a fight against the boy who made Valeria cry, "Come on Megan, let's get him.", been invited to visit them in Mexico City, Acapulco, and a small beach town where you sleep in a hammock and drink hard alcohol out of buckets, invited them to our wedding, and finally promised Joaquin to introduce him to tall, blonde Merritt should he come to visit. Most of this happened in one long night.
One week later is Ponyboy's last night. It turned out to be just as magical and surreal as our first day. We ate at an "expensive" Argentinian restaurant, where appetizers, wine, beer, a filet mignon and chicken came out to be less than 20 dollars. We left the restaurant fat and happy, to saunter down to the Jardin and sit on one of the metal benches among the cylinder trimmed trees. A member of the mariachi band asked us if we would like to pay for a song. "No gracias, no gracias," I said. But Chucho said, "Si!" So they played. It was incredible. 10 men surrounded us with guitarras, trumpets and violins, and they played loud! The guitarrist had a beautiful tenor and a crowd gathered behind them. Drunken teenagers joined in the chorus, raising their styrofoam cups. It is one of those times that happens when travelling. Where each moment is so beautiful, is so strange and so foreign, that it seems to slip away, to become a memory before you can even experience it.
One week later Ponyboy has left for the Estados Unidos for work. And for my Don Chucho, I now tune my guitarra, I know gather my mariachis around me, I clear my throat I sing a mariachi song for my Ponyboy. ahem. strum strum.
Ooooh, Don Chuchooo, Chico de Cabaaallo
Amigo de los perros y asesino de las moscas
Bandito de me cooorazooon!
Coo cah roo cah coooooh! You soy tu Palomiiiiitaaaah!
Pelon de mucho grasa y estomago de mucho gas
Bandito de me cooorazooon!
Coo cah roo cah coooooh! Yo soy tu Palomiiiitaaaah!
Thank you. You must pay me 100 pesos now.
One week later I sit on the roof of our orange apartment in a green plastic lawn chair and write in my Spanish/writing journal. I watch the sun go down over San Miguel. I watch the mountains darken and the town light up, building by pink and tan building. I sip my purified water and breathe, as branches heavy with avocados sway above me. This week is now complete.
