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.

.

Last night we tangoed right here on the patio of our casita. Kevin and Barbara are pros and are so gorgeous together. They are elegant and fierce and smoldering. I’m wondering if somehow tango means tangle because their legs strike and wrap, shoot and entangle. But before their demanded performance, Kevin taught me tango for an hour. And we tangoed. Yippee aye ay. I’ve gotta get way into this. He’s so freaking good, that I can do it, I mean, he’s got it analyzed, and I listen, and I apply, but mostly it’s body intuition on my part. But I’m going to have to find a partner who will dance tango with me.

Morgan was wonderful dancing salsa the other night, but it was really a little more like swing than salsa. So Kevin and I figured that Morgan would dance swango. And, I guess, swalsa.

Sunday, June 29, 2008 The Spanish Language

I spent part of the day in our casita, home alone, studying Spanish. Studying a language requires one to be receptive, to open to the newness. One must relinquish one’s first language to absorb the new one. Those students who hold onto the sound of English and the syntax of English, have a hard time “getting” the new language.

Warren Hardy, based here in San Miguel, has developed an inspired systema, a program for adults, based on the idea that adult brains are no longer wired to learn language. I’m finding that the system is working. I’ve tried many times to learn Spanish in my adult life, mostly on my own with this book and that, or this community class or university intensive, but this is the system that is actually working.

You learn so much about a culture/country/people by studying their language.

You learn so much about your own culture/country/people by studying a foreign language.

Looking at the English versus the Spanish syntax, I cannot help but theorize this:

In English, the order of a simple sentence is generally as follows:

Subject; verb; direct object; object.

Such as: I bought it for her.

In Spanish the order of a simple sentence is generally as follows:

Indirect object; direct object; verb whose ending tells you the subject of the sentence (I, for instance), then a clarifier as to who it was actually for.

Spanish: Se lo compré a ella. [For her, it, bought, I, for her]

So here comes the (completely non-academic and unlearned) cultural theory part.

In Hispanic culture, we start with all the other people, generously, that is, the objects; next comes the action word, the verb; finally, comes the subject, in this case, I and then you clarify who it was for.

In American or western English-speaking cultures, first comes the subject (I); then action (verb), and lastly all those other people or objects.

So the Hispanic is all about other people, okay, some action, and then the subject or, in this case, the self, and lastly a clarifier of who it was for. In American culture, it’s all about I (or some other subject) doing action, moving ahead, and finally, all those other people and actions. A self-motivated workaholic culture. Me, included, I’m sorry to say.

June 29, 2008 San Miguel, Morgan, Patty, Jim, Kevin, and Barbara.

Yesterday, the five of us and Troubles (Jim’s perrito), in Jim’s car, drove to Pozos, home of the defunct and historic oro y plato minas, gold and silver mines.

On the way, we stop at ruinas of haciendas, we figure, of the rich mine owners and managers. The ruins are surrounded by rusted barb wire fences, but we don’t think anyone will mind if we look around. There are a couple other folks in there checking it out. Kind of like Pompei but no lava-entombed people running under the archways. They must have leisurely moved house when the mines emptied of gold and silver. There was an open well, a brick pit, in which you could see a spot of water at the bottom. Dropping a rock, we counted 5 or 6 seconds before we could hear it hit bottom. Kevin couldn’t even look over the edge, it was so frightening. It freaked me out to see Troubles near it. So he got carried away by Jim. I impulsively must look over the edge, but am certain to have nightmares about, having done so. I can’t imagine how many rocks Morgan, Barbara and I threw down the well, counting seconds. How deep was the thing?

When we got to the casita, I e-mailed Mike (my brother) to find out how deep that would be. 460 to 576 feet, he responded. Kevin observed it would be less, for the time it took the sound to return to us. I e-mailed Mike to find out how much less. It would take the sound about ½ second to reach us. So, anyway, it was damn deep. Maybe 450 feet.

At the actual mines, we spoke to the toothless caretaker (el viejo), using our Spanish, as it is. He and I looked into a hole in the ground as he told me that it was 100 meters deep, and ran this way and that way (abajo) running under ground for kilometers. You think about those Indios who were down there chiseling at the walls. This mine was Paloma, this one was Esperanza, and this, Francisco. Of course there was a parrochia (church) among the ruins. The beautiful hacienda over yonder is now the power plant for lights. I walked down a long narrow free-standing corridor with Troubles. Regular slit windows let in just enough light for me to see my way, most of the time. (It was scary, but I was reminded of the Creamery—the deserted factory of my childhood where Karla and I played, and where Monica would bring her boyfriend so Karla and I could hide and scare the living daylights out of them). A low-ceiling tunnel fed into this corridor, and somehow it must have had to do with heating and smelting the precious metal, I think. I gave the man 20 pesos ($2) wondering if he’d be insulted, but he seemed pleased. I think this is how he makes his living. He said he lived up this way, in what, I didn’t see.

We had a lovely lunch in the courtyard of the B&B in town, amidst bougainvillea and roses. The town specializes in indigenous musical instruments, all made and sold by one extended family. I bought a beautiful painted-gourd maraca made by tres hermanas –three sisters (or one of them, I suppose) and Morgan bought a frog ocarina. Jim bought a wooden flute, which its maker played so beautifully, hauntingly. Barbara bought ocarinas too. Then on to Dolores Hildago (because we couldn’t find the route to San Miguel) where we stopped for its world famous ice cream and, yahoo, I had a mango ice and—damn my wheat restrictions—ate the hand-made sugar cone. We stopped into the parrochia where Saturday evening mass was being celebrated.

After making dinner of leftovers, and eating it on our patio, Kevin, Barbara, Morgan, and I went to hear an Andean band at Mama Mia, just beyond el jardin. All great musicians, but the best one played the bass line (and melody) on an Irish harp, as well as playing 12 string guitar, wooden flute, and spoons—las cucharas. Wow, it was so freaking sensual, and beautiful listening and watching him play those spoons. Morgan sent me up 😉 to ask where they’re from. Aqui in San Miguel. And the spoons—one is oval and the other round tablespoons. I’m determined to learn to play the spoons like that.

Salsa didn’t start until doce, midnight. Yikes. We drank the most magnificent mango margaritas in tub-sized cone-shaped glasses rimmed with chile powder. Sublime. Even Morgan danced. And it was fun. Kevin and Barbara dance so beautifully together and I had so much fun dancing with Kevin. Makes me feel confident that I could go out dancing salsa anywhere. If I can stay up past eleven at night. Which is early for salsa.

Then we’re slowly, drunkenly, walking home up the hill on the cobblestone Calle Correo, Morgan and I, the caboose, when I hear, down the hill, a woman yell, Stop it, stop it. I turn around and only a couple blocks from the still VERY active square, el jardin, I see two people struggling and I’m thinking it’s some kind of date rape scuffle. But he knocks her down and is on top of her, so I run down the street yelling, stop it, stop it. The guy runs away down a side street, two Mexican men come up the street and ask if she’s okay and then go away. I ask her, (obviously she’s gringa)  if she’s okay, what happened. The very young guy had her by the throat, she tried to give him her purse. All the time we’re talking, she’s looking for her keys in her purse, and M, B, and K are down with us now. The well-dressed blond woman lives just up the street, she just left her husband with a friend downtown and she’s going home to her rented casita, to her children (the oldest is 14 she assures me). Her sandal is broken. Kevin finds her keys in the street where she’d been assaulted as well as a bent earring. And now a cadre of police in cars, on cycles, on foot, rush up the hill and start asking questions in Spanish. She knows Spanish like Barbara and I know Spanish, but she’s absolutely freaked. So Barbara and I are  answering the policia’s questions. And the officer gives me his notebook to write down the woman’s name, age, and address. Mignon Jones, 45, who lives at #6 Murillo. What a name, huh? So we walk her home, a block away and she probably gets in and has a breakdown. San Miguel is normally SO safe and this really has freaked out the police who are now tearing off in all directions. So I’ll be walking WITH Morgan and or Jim at night.

We stumbled home and went to bed at 2:30 a.m. So unlike us.

So that was our exciting yesterday. Probably more than you wanted to actually hear, but I thought I’d record it for us, as well. 

Morgan wrote, about June, 27, 2008:

Our place sits almost at the top of a steep hill over looking the town which is

filled with colorful adobe houses and numerous churches. The weather is the

same everyday, sunny, cool at night (50’s) and warm in the day (high 70’s, low

80’s). Some days it rains around 3PM for a while then it clears. It is at an

elevation for 6,400 ft. mountains in the distant rising above the town. The

prices here are the about the same as in C/U – nice homes are more expensive.

Car fumes are few and there are no stop signs nor traffic lights. Drivers are very

considerate and always yield to pedestrians. The locals are friendly and helpful.

There is a population of 130,000 including the surrounding area of which 6,000

are USA citizens. There is a workout and pool facility across the street from us.  

Patty swims everyday and I walk around town – up and down the steep hills. The

second day here I walked for four straight hours. Yesterday I was exhausted.

Today I’ll walk again. Jim Lewis and dog Troubles are here for the summer and

another couple,  Barbara and Kevin Maggie, very old friends from U of I and who

live now in Albany, NY are here until Monday. They are staying at this

magnificent complex just a little up the hill from us. The owner, an eccentric  

woman in her 70’s built the complex in 18 years and each separate apartment is

different and beautiful. The grounds have trails and every kind of plant and tree

that will grow down here. Too much to describe.  www.thefulcrum.info

Jim and Patty take Spanish #2 classes three days a

week for 2 1/2 hours a day with lots of home work. Patty is always ahead and

Jim stays a little behind — so far. We have met a couple of interesting people

one of whom built and owns a beautiful small hotel downtown. 

June 26. Barbara and Kevin arrive shortly after above, antier. (2 days ago). They live up the hill at Betsey Streng’s. Wow, gardens, up the hillside, spectacular, designed by her. Very cool. We plan to stay there next time we come. Magical paradisiacal gardens.

We walk up the street alongside rough stone or brick walls, and rougher wooden doors. When one is thrown open, we see paradise villas inside. Pomegranate surprises, you just don’t know what’s going to show up behind the outer tough skin. Surprises you could never have imagined.

There are no traffic signs—no stop signs or stop lights—cars, buses, trucks, their drivers peek around the corner and just take their turns in the miniscule intersections along with the many pedestrians. The ancient stone sidewalks, when they exist, usually allow room to walk single file, or if you’re flexible, room to allow oncomers to pass. It’s all very friendly. You say con permiso, and away you go. Or buenas tarde (o Buenos dias).

The gente (people) are very friendly and let me use my oh-so-meager Spanish. But, wow, I can understand them, even the numbers. Yahoo. As long as there’s a strong context–like in una tienda (store), café, or restaurante.

After dinner and getting drunk on dos (2) margaritas last night (two for the price of one, what could I do?) we all: Morgan and I, Kevin and Barbara, and Jim, went to El Jardin (the central garden) where a Mexican band played, then a mariachi band, afterwards. I was attempting to make conversation with an elegant Mexican woman, who had recently moved to San Miguel, over the sound of the band. She bought me a little nosegay of gardenias. Mama loved gardenias. Was it a sign from my mi mama? Magical realism? Or was it really for Morgan? Nataya, my new friend, said, Bye bye, Morgan when she passed him where he was speaking to the tromboniste in the band.

Today at Casa Engelbrecht, #18 Santo Domingo, June 25, 2008.

Here’s a little travelblog about Morgan and my trip to the 16^th century colonial town of SMA in the mountains of central Mexico. I was supposed to come here for the month of February 2007 to meet Barbara Magee, dancing friend from Troy, NY, but mi mama was diagnosed with bone cancer and I could not/would not leave the Midwest where we live—my parents in Michigan, and we in Illinois. As planned, Barbara visited SMA for two months in 2007 and her husband Kevin, also a dancer, visited for a week. We told Morgan’s great friend Jim Lewis from Tampa about San Miguel and he came here for the summer of 2007. It’s a very seductive place. When Morgan and I planned to come for a month this summer, I invited Barbara to come visit us. She and Kevin just happened to be coming here for the first week of our planned visit. (Got it? That’s all background and now I can just blast off).

We arrived in San Miguel just as the rainy season started. Every afternoon there’s a rainfall. Yesterday on the way home from escuela (Warren Hardy Spanish School), (Morgan had come to meet Jim and me), we were stopped by a squall and ducked under a stone overhang on to a patio. After waiting 20 minutes, the designated time of all SMA rainfalls, it continued to pour, so we went into the restaurant for a snack. Guacamole. There came a deluge which sprayed all the way back to the kitchen. Everyone who’d sought refuge under the colonade rushed into the restaurant and the huge wooden doors were shut. By the time the rain ended, the cobblestone streets had become rivers, no way to cross them without going shin deep. That should take care of the drought.

Yet it’s way green here. The maids sweep the grass here at our casita. Beautiful gardens, lemon, peach, pomegranate trees, bougainvilleas, zinnias.

San Miguel church bells toll all the time, as if they can’t agree on clock-time. There are 23 churches in town, I hear.

In the evening, Jim and I climbed the road up into the rich area, still all cobblestone, passed Puerticita Boutique Hotel overlooking a forested ravine. Wow, reminds me of el Positana in Italy where Morgan and I went to try to salvage our relationship 25 years ago. (I guess it worked. We’re still together and doing very well). Jim preferred the hotel farther up the hill, like a sprawling Hawaiian hotel. On the way back down the hill we stopped at the castillo, a house with a turret, occupied, Jim said, for the first time since he’d gotten here a month ago. A Land Rover with NY plates stood in the gated parkway but within the gates the back door was open. Joan Baez was inside singing “You can hear the whistle blow 100 miles…” Peace music. Just when I said “Joan Baez” a dog came growlingsnarling thrashing to turn the corner to get outside and at us. I grabbed Jim and he me, we jumped into the air, clonked heads, as we tried to bolt. Then laughed, nearly out of control, the next 15 minutes, all the way down the hill, quoting tomorrow’s paper: Gringo turistos collide and collapse before boxer watchdog dismembers them on Calle Santo Domingo.