The streets of San Miguel

Up and down and around on cobble stones. It is a workout for the feet, legs heart, lungs. It is easier to go down than to come up – and it’s not my old age and as long as I can do both, I will. With all this activity, still a few lbs seem to have found my mid-section.

I’ve wandered all over this town on foot, sometimes getting disoriented but all roads eventually gets one back to the center and El Jardin. The streets are very narrow and it’s a close call each time cars pass. If there is a big US pickup on the street, it has to drive up on the side walk to pass. The same is true for the sidewalks which are very narrow and built up above the street by about a foot. When meeting someone, one has to twist the body in order not to collide. When the hard rain comes, water runs down the steep streets with great force but the stones stay put. Buses are used to good advantage here. Recently the city bought new Mercedes buses and doubled the fare to $.40, a good deal for us but not for the workers here. The entrepreneurs here, Mexicans and US citizens tell us that it is a good place to own a business for the wages are very low and profits high.

“She’s a good singer but she’s no fried chicken.” Durwood

One can’t help but observe the beauty of the native people. The young mexican women are particularly attractive. They observe the long tradition of not wearing shorts, but they make up for it with their tops which are most revealing. Someone told of this. Many wear heavy makeup which for me is too much. Not like “Too much man”, but really, TOO MUCH.  They wear beautiful clothes and jewelry. The most beautiful of the women and men for me are the indians, short in stature and with magnificent faces which are deeply wrinkled with a magnificence about them which draws me to them wondering of their history and present life. Unlike others, they are not prone to beg with hand extended, but rather stand near us and when given a couple or five pecos show much gratitude. I feel good donating to their life for obvious reasons.

For reasons unknown to me, there is an abundance (bun dance) of single USA women here – ten for every one USA man. There is this local joke, which is no joke: A woman is sitting on a bench in the park when a man sits down beside her. She asks, “You’re new here. Where are you from?” “Well, I just got out of prison.” Oh”, she responds, “what were you in prison for?” “For killing my wife,” he says. Without hesitation she says, “Oh, then you’re single.”

Jim Lewis and I went to hear a “jazz” concert last night at the local theater of some traveling “Pros” – that means they are not from here. The young drummer came from the rock world, his set was untuned and deserved what it got from the player. The bass player and leader, came on stage with the others and tuned his bass with a tuner, one note at a time. I knew it was going to be a long night. The electric guitar (OUCH!) player did all of the pedal crap that is available. But at least their ensemble was poor. Then there was the older one, the singer. Need I say more? Actually she was by far the best musician and did interesting tunes in unusual ways, .e g. “Lush Life” in a “free” way – like the band asked her what the tune is and she says, “You’ll hear it.” .  After that we met Patty and went to Mama Mia’s and heard this fabulous Andean band. Each of the four musicians played multiple instruments and sang. The ensemble was magnificent and the music flowed beautifully. This was music and I was happy again.

Happy Bastille Day!

I know this is supposed to come early in the story, but I just might be able to help someone out here (this could be for you, Esmé). San Miguel is very casual. I actually did a pretty darn good job of packing for this month-long trip. But that’s almost the same as packing for 2 weeks, I think. In a nutshell, bring one or two of everything. It’s warm in the daytime and can get quite cool some nights. We went through a heavy rainy cold period for about five days. So having a second pair of long pants that were drying out while I wore the other was greatly appreciated.

Underwear, whatever you need, but in my case I need armor (read bra) which I usually neglect in favor of little camisoles, but in this culture, out of respect, I don’t think you want to reveal too much.

2 capri length pants, one dressy, one utilitarian, both neutral colors (black or khaki)

1 long micro fiber pants like Chicos which wad into a ball and still look great

one dancing skirt

one pair cotton knit gaucho pants (unnecessary, but nice for a change)

5 or 6 solid color T-shirts (some of them dressy)

2 pair dancing shoes (I should have settled on one, either the dance sneakers or the heels)

2 pair short socks; 1 pair regular athletic socks

sandal/shoes, the hi-tech waterproof variety that are good for wading thru flooded streets

step-in sandals for at home (you know, to use as slippers)

rain poncho (mine is only rain resistant; rain-proof would be much better)

silk or very light weight sweat pants for lounging

Lotions and cosmetics and toiletries – sample-sized like Clinique gives away

Sunblock; visor or hat; shades. All are essential.

Swimming suit if you plan to swim (and there are pools here). And a swim cap which is required.

Be sure to bring a back pack for day or overnight trips.

And all-important is what you wear on the plane down:

Jeans, long sleeve t-shirt, light indoor jacket, outdoor leather jacket, athletic socks and sneakers.

I also brought books and my iPod; be sure to leave room in your suitcase for purchases made in Mexico. Don’t bother bringing an umbrella, you can buy a cheap one here of the need arises. It’s supposed to rain only an hour each day in the rainy season (now), as it did today and most days. I think that pretty much covers it. We have use of the washing machine here and the clothesline.

If you’re going to check luggage under the plane, be sure you bring a carry-on bag that will supply your family for a couple days, in case the bags are delayed or, god forbid, lost. International travels have gotten more restrictive and this time my laptop counted as my carry on. Oh yeah, I brought my laptop and my current writing project. Haven’t glanced at that project. 

I have other things to say about packing, but I thought I’d start here. San Miguel is nestled in a valley and extends up the steep surrounding hills. The streets are paved with stones, rounded stones, I guess, cobble stones, but there’s nothing regular about them. In the center of town there are narrow flagstone sidewalks on major streets, but as you get away from the center, there are fewer sidewalks and now I’m going to tell you about these and why you needn’t bring your blades or boards. It’s very steep. And the further you get from the center and toward our casita and beyond our casita, it gets steeper.

As you get further from the center and beyond our casita, where it is quite clean and is swept regularly, it becomes…uh, less clean. Between the cobblestones are stones, dust, ash, broken glass, degrading plastic bottles, odd items of unidentifiable clothing. Who says plastic doesn’t degrade? You can see it in all stages on the outskirts of town.

Jim, Morgan, and I climbed up the hill from our casita to the Botanical Gardens on the edge of town. Itwas a bit farther than I anticipated and we, stupidly enough, turned down a taxi drive part way there. The Botanical Garden is a canyon that runs along the edge of town and became a conservation area when they built the dam. Looking into this spectacular canyon, you see waterfalls and descending pools of water below, sprinklings of wildflowers and along the paths are spreads of magnificent cacti. Wait till you seethe photos 😉

Yesterday after going to both downtown downhill markets, Morgan and I climbed up to a vista market. The view of the city, from the opposite hillside is remarkable. And all the callejons or alleys, aim for the parrochia (church) so the views down these streets are inviting, picturesque, shaded with trees overhanging the stone fences and spilling over stone walls. I’d bought enough “jewels” and such in the downtown markets that there was no need to buy anything but cerveza for the evening. But we decided to climb up a callejons stairway even above this vista. It required a few rests along the way, but we met a lovely not-young gringo/Mexican couple who lived up off the stairway so we stopped and chatted with them, and we saw a guy walking his motorcycle down this endless stone alley staircase. At the top was a field where you could see everything. I mean, the apex of it all. So we split a beer, on top of the world, identifying the chimneys of our casita, the jungle of Betse’s hacienda, the arches, a couple of the houses that Jim looked at with his realtor, before heading down.

And on the way down, we see a landfill pit, which we gingerly skirt and find the magical looking stairway that we think will take us directly to our casita, at right angles to the one we climbed. Wheew. At the top, the stairway is landfill trash, I think, that they just filled in with concrete so the shampoo bottles, old shoes, broken glass and disintegrated god-knows-what won’t spill down the hill. Eventually, walking down, taking some curves, picking our way through concreted garbage collage, we get to the stairway that we can view from our street, lined with bougainvillea and looking so magical and at the bottom is our big wooden door, which we unlock and arrive at our cool clean stone and tile stairway, that opens on to our patio/deck which surrounds our landlords courtyard below and we’re home. Jim has fixed dinner on the grill.

warrenhardy.com  The Warren Hardy (obviously a gringo) started his method here in SMA. Besides himself, all his teachers are Mexican native Spanish speakers.

 A few people have asked about this great Spanish language system, which you can do on your own with workbooks and CDs (and flashcards and game cards, which I don’t think are essential) purchased at warrenhardy.com. As I mentioned before, the system is designed for adult minds, which are no longer wired to learn language. There’s loads of repetition and in class you work with a partner. As you learn, you feel successful because you’re building in an inspired manner. Just the right new material is added, at just the right time. (Each session as it is taught in San Miguel is 2 and one half weeks). The system is being introduced at a couple U of TX branch schools. And Warren is now reversing it to teach English to bright impoverished Spanish speaking college age kids from the countryside around San Miguel.

I did Level I at home with the book and CDs on my iPod. I studied Level II, which is considered the trial by fire; I’ll do Level III at home.

Level I – you learn and conjugate 6 “power verbs” in the present tense, which you join with hundreds of different infinitives to make sentences, ask questions, to help you get you around. Very effective. The 6 verbs are:

puder – to be able – (I can…)

necesitar – to need (I need)

le gusta – to like

ir a – to go to (I’m going to…)

querer – I like

tener que – to have to (I have to…)

And then they slip in a few reflexive verb infinitives; ser and estar; when to use por and para, etc.

Level II – you learn the preterite (simple past) tense; direct and indirect objects (which is hellish because the syntax is so different)—with a special emphasis on learning the 12 irregular verbs; the idea being that you learn the past tense (rather than present tense) so you can talk about what happened).

Level III – you learn all other tenses including the present, imperfect, future, conditional, commands, present and past subjunctive, participles, gerunds. And keep adding vocabulary.

Level IV – I don’t know what they teach in level 4

Traditionally one learns the present tense first, but who wants to go around saying, “I go to the store; I run in the street; I play the guitar.” It’s so much more logical to be able to tell about what you did in the past: “I went to the store; yesterday I ran in the park; I played the guitar for 3 hours; We traveled to Guanajuato by bus, had a great time, bought earrings for my sister so we can give them to her on her birthday. ”

So that’s the quick run down. Check it out on line or ask me about it. It’s really working for me. See how well I can write it in English.

July 6 – My birthday in Guanajuato.

It was a lovely day and a difficult day. I can’t report it without saying, I missed my mother, who died only 3 months ago. My tears took me by surprise, but, of course, it makes sense. My mother, who bore me, was completely with me all day and completely not with me. Gone. She, who knew me longer and perhaps better than anyone, is no longer here to love me, but she is still here to be loved. Those who have lost a mother understand, I’m sure—and I supposed many who have not yet lost a mother.

Breakfast at las Poetas was grand—a buffet of chilaquiles, which mi maestro, teacher Rocio, says is great for hangovers. No hangover here, but they weren’t wasted. Crispy tortilla chips en salsa roja. Y huevos, y carne, y we met two lovely mujeres de Nuevo Mexico, Cecilia y Maria, here for a boda (wedding) in the spectacular parrochia (church) with all the chandeliers. Then, Morgan and I took a trolley car/bus tour, all in Spanish, in which I understood only some of it, but I understood that Guanajuato comes from the Indian word for frog which is used in Mexico and I believe is grana, and juato means all around, and somehow there were frogs all around and now there’s a park with frog statues to commemorate the granas, not to mention the town’s name. Frogs are right up my alley, having been the logo for my dance company (mirror images of frogs in arabesque) and the logo for my storytelling (one frog poised in elocution).

We went to the wonderful Museo des Pueblos where we heard a young classical guitarist play a concert, saw exhibits of miniature folk arts (which Morgan photographed extensively) and a modern exhibit of wonderful whimsical pieces by an artist whose name I can’t recall or find on google, but a series called Newsworthy printed on pages from the San Francisco Chronicle.

We drank a beer on Jardin de Union outside of the Teatro Juarez which is built along the lines of the Paris Opera (and more spectacular than any theatre that I performed in with One Plus One, my dance company) (and we performed in perhaps 25 theatres in Central and South America—some of which were pretty spectacular). An audience sat outside on the many concrete steps, flanked by lions such as those that guard the Art Institute of Chicago, to watch a street mime-comedian. We eventually met the performer Jorge, who is very funny, clever and uses the passersby to create his irreverent (but) family show. Later, when he came into the Spanish restaurant where we were eating paella, we speculated that he owned it. Just a fantasy. Still, he looked like a man about town. And who knows?

I believe that was the night that we went back to the Jardin, even though it was raining slightly and sat under the thickly leafed trees at one of the restaurant/hotels to have a margarita, before going back to our lovely hotel (where I cried myself to sleep). We did have a lovely time in spite of my occasional breakdowns. Morgan is very comforting, although he seems surprised at my tears, whenever they come. And I was much better the next morning.

Morgan writes:

Ok, I don’t speak the lingo and it is embarrassing. Was never good with languages and know many musicians for whom it is difficult. Why is that? But it is a beautiful language and not as difficult as some to learn. If I come back,  I’ll give it a go. Just did half of my walk for the day, one hour +. Down to the school with Patty and on to The Instituto and then to Juarez Park and up the hill to our casita. The park is very beautiful with all sorts of plants. On the way there one can eat at a Texan’s barbecue joint. No thanks. 

On the weekends the town becomes crowed with visitors from Mexico City and many other places. Very festive with bands in the park. By the way, Doc Severson of the Tonight show back in the, “Here comes Johnny” (Carson) days lives here and we’re told that he has a wonderful group comprised of trumpet, violin and guitar. We hope to hear them. 

The Mexican people here are warm, kind, gentle, forever ready to return a big open smile and beautiful. And yes, they are slow. Very  civilized like some other cultures like the French for example. Their priorities include an enjoyable life and not part of the “rat race” of cultures like their friends north of the border for example. Of course there are exceptions. Mexico is a beautiful country. I have traveled a good deal of it starting back when I was in college and traveling with bands to El Paso and crossing the border to get cheap brandy, etc. Border towns, as we know, do not represent the country well. My first trip into the interior of this magnificent country was with my first esposa, Jane, together with Jim and Sherry Lewis over forty years ago. We drove the Lewis car and   it was a fabulous trip. We traveled from Brownsville, TX through many beautiful villages and cities all the way to Manzanillo, when it was still a small fishing village on the Pacific coast. We spent about two weeks in Mexico and spent maybe two hundred dollars a couple. A couple of years later Jane and I came with Don and Nik Owens. It was then that we discovered the beautiful city of Guanajuato, high in  the mountains about 40 miles west of San Miguel. It was a crazy drunken trip and also most wonderful. Jane and I took our beautiful young daughters to Monterry sometime after that. On the two prior trips, my mother and father kept the girls in Graham, Texas. I did stop here on the way to Mexico City in the late 70’s when Lucinda and I took a train from Laredo, stopping here in San Miguel for the night. There were no hotel  rooms so we shacked up with some college kids in one big room. It was Christmas time. There hasn’t been train service to here for 20 or more years. We spent new year’s eve in an Italian Restaurant in Mexico City, then flew to Oaxaca, another of my favorite cities in Mexico and from there to Merida and drove to Cancun and took a ferry to Isla Mujeres.

Patty and I traveled  in my father’s old Dodge from Dallas to Laredo to Saltillo in 1982/83 where we were but a fraction away from being slammed into by an oncoming semi truck as the old Dodge slid on wet pavement past an alto sign onto the bypass. Our lives were spared and at about the same moment my father went into a coma in a Graham, Texas hospital. He died on January 1st while we were in San Blas, a Pacific fishing town. Later in the 80’s P and I went to Cozumel, wonderful island, and some time after that to Cabo San Lucas, which we did not care for – both during Christmas vacation times.

After all the trips to Europe over the many years, Mexico is still the dearest to me. 

Morgan and I took the one and a half hour bus ride to Guanajuato via the Primera Plus–$8. The bus was smooth, new, clean, and showed a Korean art movie with Spanish subtitles on the six or so screens distributed throughout the bus. I’d love to know what that movie was, having missed both the beginning and the end of it. A young boy lives with his mute grandmother in a rural wasteland that looks like Mexico (but isn’t), but the 7 year old boy is using a play station (a hint that this is not Mexico, but Korean) in his hut while the grandmother, bent double, hauls a load of sticks. (Ah, so! They’re not speaking Spanish–another hint that this isn’t Mexico :-). [The movie is: The Way Home, I discovered.] So you have the old and the new in Korean culture on the screen, as the super-bus rolls along the road and out the window we see the hilly beshrubbed arid countryside where a man drives a one bottom plow pulled by a horse, a burro is grazing over there, a cow and calf over there. A mix of new and old. Both inside and outside.

We meet two wonderful daring young women, traveling through Mexico and they’re delighted to hear that I hitchhiked through Mexico in the late seventies with a girlfriend. (I wouldn’t do that now). One of these pretty girls is in graduate school doing a poetry degree, and the other just graduated with a double major in Spanish and international relations. A research trip. Yes!

Once in Guanajuato, we find that the bus station is way outside of town so we get a taxi. I ask the driver where there’s a hotel for $50 (500 pesos) or less. He takes it upon himself to not just show us, but takes us inside a dark cave of a hotel, but we say, no, no windows. No problema, he says and takes us to another. This one costs less money–$30. But the taxi driver charges us 100 pesos and wants a tip, of course, for helping us. He wants another 100 pesos, but I give him 50. To get to this second hotel room we pass ladies, at the unmarked entry, selling the bric a brac of cheap jewelry, beads, cosmetic junk and continue through a dark corridor up two flights of not-very-clean stairways and to a room which has a window. It’s a little scary and I wonder if they’re going to harvest our organs just as Lisa Lund would think, but, hey, I used to sleep on floors, on beaches, in cars, I’m not a wimp. So I say yes. (Morgan leaves it up to me, of course). (Do I appreciate that? Not altogether. It’s fine with him. Okay, it’s fine with me.)

Hmmm, no toilet paper. I go downstairs and ask, Hay el papel para el bano? (I have no idea if this is the correct term, but you have to be creative when your grasp of the language is as limited as mine). Then I look under the stained blanket at the sheets. Agh. Wet spots and dark hairs. I return downstairs and complain. Ah, he’ll have the sheets changed, he says.

We leave our backpack there at the hotel, which is in el centro, or so we’re told. We find theMercado Hidalgo, which is a huge medieval covered structure, two stories, which isn’t as Morgan remembers it, but that was 40 years ago. Inside they sell cheap Mexican ceramics and chickens and pigs feet and a load of plastic wrapped Chinese-made Guanajuato souvenirs. The market in SMA is so much more…Mexican. Or Mexican as we think of Mexico. We continue up the street and now it’s getting more attractive, and there’s the Plaza del Paz. And we check out about a half dozen beautiful hotels which cost $150 or so a night. Looking for the Diego Rivera Casa Museum, on  Calle Positos, we find a hostel for $20 for 2 and are thinking this would be better for us. And then we find Meson de los Poetas. It’s a hotel built up a hillside (as is all of Guanajuato), and the lovely man who speaks Spanish slowly (bless him) takes us up winding, spiraling, red-earth tile staircases, past rooms named for Spanish poets—Octavia Paz, Jorge Luis Borges, Juan Ramon Jimenez–the maize of corridors and little stairways occasionally open to the air and water drips down the rock walls and into hidden courtyards. And after much climbing and winding abou, the man shows us the garret apartment which has views of the city on three sides. We HAVE to have Antonio Muchados, (the name of the room and a poet who I don’t know, but I’ll find out.(http://www.greeninteger.com/pipbios_detail.cfm?PIPAuthorID=1089) The room costs $90. Fine. It’s my birthday tomorrow. Morgan suggests we just lose the other and stay here two nights.

But I want our money back. So we go back to fetch our back pack and I politely say to the proprietor, “Quisieras nuestra dinero– 300 pesos. Salimos.” And an argument ensues, but in the end, we get 200 pesos back because he says we were already here for 2 hours and the taxi driver got his cut. Fine. 200 pesos. From here on out Guanajuato is heavenly. 

Walking is a great pleasure in this town with its cobble stone narrow streets, up and down the hills – no level ground here. While looking at houses for sale with Veronica, Jim Lewis’ realtor, and driving down from atop the hill to the east, I said to Jim, “If you walked down and back up this hill everyday of your life, you will be a healthy man.” I know that he was thinking, “If he were to do that, I’d be dead in a week”. But Veronica told us of the 85 year old man who has walking up and down that hill for years.

Houses are beautiful inside and some outside, some with great views. For gringos they range in price from $150,000 unfinished to several million. At the pot luck yesterday at Warren Hardy’s estate, we experienced his–perhaps in the million(s) range. The local gringos are very happy to report that taxes on such a place is just a few hundred dollars a year, low utilities and there is no need for insurance as they are made out of stone, bricks and concrete. And good tequila is cheap. San Miguel, where the living for the rich is easy, where maids, cooks and gardeners make maybe ten bucks a day and we pay $2.50 for taxis for a ride home from the many parties of the white people. I like this place, but could only live here if I were a Mexican or at least lived like one, hmmm $10 a day, that’s a bit less than I make as a musician. Hell, I don’t even speak the language. Jim is trying to learn and knows enough to get around. Patty is doing very well with it. All of this while I walk, practice Jim’s trombone, consider composition and sitting on my ass watching Wimbledon. I doubt that I could ever feel at home here. I see no gringos working for mexicans. I lived in Portugal with my family in 1972-73 for about six months while on my first sabbatical, writing music. A maid came with the house and she scolded us for doing any work in or around the house. It was very awkward for us. Against the advice of all gringos, we treated  Maria as “part of the family” and at the end, she wanted to come home with us and we would have liked that. Her husband was a fisherman who sailed out with the fleet at dusk and returned at dawn, then sat at the cafe drinking espresso and spirits. He slept in the afternoons while Maria worked.

There were many ex-patriots there, mostly from England. I met not one Englishman who had anything good to say about the natives and treated them with much disdain. Perhaps they were still angry because Portugal was never  one of Their colonies, or was it. After Portugal, we went to England and found the English there, wonderful. After that, I thought much about ex-patriots. Perhaps it is because early on mine was a poor ($) family which had few possessions of any kind that I find the ex-patriot, by in large, unappealing if not appalling. —   My friend and colleague Ed London reminds us that Apostle Paul was appealing and Apostle Peale (Norman Vincent) was appalling. — Or perhaps it is because my father and mother, liberal democrats from Texas back when Texans were yellow dog democrats, taught me to closely observe the rich and the poor separately AND alongside each other. It has been a life study for me. Selfishness, which is usually, but certainly not always, associated with the rich and “powerful” is our sorriest trait and generosity our best. I think of the actions which come from that, like the ability to forgive or not, to love or not, and so on. “If you got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose.”

Here the public schools are deplorable because of little or no taxes. The financially well off send their kids to private schools. I can hear it now, “Well, that’s just the way it is and has always been and will always be. C’est la vie. Well, Durwood Cline said, “You’ve got to give half-a-man a chance.” But Durwood, Doesn’t giving a man half a chance require a measure of  generosity from the haves to the have-nots, say nothing of giving them a full chance? And if so, and if we want to give that man even a half a chance, then, “What’s holding up the delay?” as you also said, Durwood.         Ask George W., he can make it uncomplicated for you.

One of the benefits of travel is that one’s contact with a different culture promotes questions and lets one reevaluate ideas. It is said that if you are content and pursue happiness, stay home. If not, get moving. I’ve never known nor heard of a great artist who “stayed home”. What about Emily Dickinson?  Her feet were planted while her mind was on the move. Yep, traveling is not simply a matter of geography. 

Okay, I didn’t know what to title this, I just wanted to say Ay Chihuahua. Let’s say this post is about food and fiesta and I’ll try to stick to those themes.

Mangos. At least one a day. Why eat fruit in Illinois, I often wonder. When I buy a mango at home in Illinois I follow the mediocre experience with dental floss. Not so, here, where the fruit is picked ripe each day.  Purchased at the mercado, the orange, rose, and green skin is marred with a few black dots. Hey, it’s probably organic and is not a candidate for a photo op. Slit it lengthwise, twist the halves apart. With a spoon, scoop out the juicy orange flesh from the pitless half, pry out the pit and just keep going. Then you must gnaw at the pithy pit. All right, I admit, the gnawing part requires that I floss my lower teeth. Morgan from our tiny blue tile kitchen, just declared his mango, out of sight.

Mostly we cook dinner (cenar) at home and eat it on the terrace overlooking the city–Morgan, Jim and I. But yesterday we went to the Warren Hardy school potluck at their otherworldly hacienda. Various whimsically painted little buildings are built upon the hillside, and on a lower level is a blue Mexican-tiled free form pool. Very colorful, very lovely, and all built with cheap Mexican labor. I told Warren I was happy to help fund his paradise, which he graciously appreciated, but I would never be able to live luxuriously amongst the very poor. Many of the guests–students from the school–are rich Americans living in San Miguel. When admiring a dish of pulled chicken in a red sauce, its owner replied, Oh, I didn’t cook it, the maid did. This is a class of people who have maids, many of them. Guess I’m too much of a peasant myself to feel comfortable with servants–working at a wage fit for a slave.

Gotta finish this so we can go to the mercado for café, leche, jalapeños, pepinos, tostados, esparragos, but not before I go up the hill to the club, which is funky and lovely and where I swim—or play in the water–every day. Adios Amigos.

July 1st

The dogs are barking the cocks are cocking but we can weather the storm, da da da da daaa

There is music everywhere here. Dogs near and far – roosters wait till the morn. Even the cars on the cobble stone streets have a wonderful irregular rhythm. Reminds me that every snow flake is unique. It also reminds me, thank you Mr. Cage, that music is everywhere. We humans are not needed for its creation.

But we are here as is the wrinkled old man who walks the streets of San Miguel, short and bent over, shuffling six inches per two steps. He wears a baseball cap turned backwards, workout pants, sneakers, shirt and sweater —- same every day. He shuffles and occasionally sits in the jardin, but, he never stops singing this intense sad song within a confined high register. His expressive phrases are remarkably long and complex. He must have been trained at The University of Texas by Jeanne Sasaki. I can’t let myself move on without absorbing his every sound. Every day he sings the blues, shuffling and singing IS his life as it seems to me. He is in my opinion one of those very few (one in millions) who is one of a kind and typically, everyone ignores him or is amused by him. That’s the way of the “one in millions”, the one of a kind who sings his/her song without expectation. Sing your sad lovely song old man, not for yourself, not for anyone, just sing and let us mere mortals be moved and amazed at a god on earth, where gods can only be.

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