Mexicans eat three meals; desayanyo (breakfast), comida (lunch) and cena (dinner), but lunch is the main meal of the day. Most meals contained the staples: tortillas – patties of pressed corn – and beans.
While eating I stared across the road at the San Francisco church, the dark old stone wall of which goes straight up like the rampart of one of those grim medieval castles that were built expressly to keep out marauders. The wall was a huge stone blob roughly made from rocks with no hand or toe holds on its face, but there were small octagonal windows set into it way up high. These windows and little holes in the stone work close by were inhabited by pigeons. It must have been nesting time because every now and then one determined pigeon, who between times rested in nearby window ledges, kept trying to invade one of the nesting sites. The occupier, equally determined, would repulse his incursion and back he’d go to his ledge to prepare for a fresh assault. Again and again he did this. Talk about a slow learner.
I’d stopped worrying about looking the wrong way when crossing the road. Motorists here were too polite to run you over. The policeman even stopped the sparse traffic for me. Buses seemed improbable in the tiny streets but they managed – it helped that they were quite small. Volkswagen beetles seemed to be the car of choice. Even official cars were old-style VWs.
One morning dawned a day of fiesta – Dias Los Locos, the day of the crazies. The church bells had started at seven the night before. They were followed by cannon shots, then more bells joined in until all three nearby churches were clanging away: San Francisco down on the corner with its lovely big peals, the parroquia in the piazza and the little tinny local church’s bell that could hardly be heard as they all tried to outdo each other. On and on they rang, stopping now and then for a cannon shot or two. It was deafening. And it started again early the next morning.
The day before I had seen a couple of elderly nuns wearing old-fashioned habits preparing for the festival by filling the local church with great bowls massed with beautiful flowers. The hotel staff also deposited roses in bottles covered with silver foil at strategic spots. There were wonderful flowers galore here. Everywhere I went I saw people walking about with armfuls of gladioli, roses or carnations.
In the morning everybody in the town was out. Rows of children had been sitting on the edges of the blocked-off streets for an hour or more. I went for a walk and had to make a wide detour to get back to the hotel; the town centre was so packed you couldn’t move in it. Then, quite unexpectedly during my detour, I finally came upon the no-longer mythical bookshop. But wouldn’t you know, the sign read ‘closed for the holiday’.
The parade, luckily for me, passed under my window, and I stood on my balcony to watch. Men walked in front of the high vehicles holding up the overhead cables with forked sticks so that they could pass underneath without fear of electrocution. Good thinking. Everyone wore a mask. The very popular Bill Clinton mask was most realistic. It had big red kisses all over it, a silly fatuous grin and the head was slightly on one side. It really looked like him. One float demonstrated local anti-American feeling. It portrayed US border guards returning Mexican would-be immigrants across the Rio Grande, illustrating a recent case where two men drowned while trying to swim back. Clowns and costumed dancers threw confetti and sweets to the crowd from the floats. Among all this racket one dear donkey placidly plodded wearing a funny hat and garlands of flowers and pulling a small float.
There seemed to be a contest in Loud. Every truck bore the biggest set of speakers its owners could find. The revellers, dressed up and dancing on the rough cobblestones, looked set to party on all night. The procession took eighty minutes to pass. The next day I wasn’t
While eating I stared across the road at the San Francisco church, the dark old stone wall of which goes straight up like the rampart of one of those grim medieval castles that were built expressly to keep out marauders. The wall was a huge stone blob roughly made from rocks with no hand or toe holds on its face, but there were small octagonal windows set into it way up high. These windows and little holes in the stone work close by were inhabited by pigeons. It must have been nesting time because every now and then one determined pigeon, who between times rested in nearby window ledges, kept trying to invade one of the nesting sites. The occupier, equally determined, would repulse his incursion and back he’d go to his ledge to prepare for a fresh assault. Again and again he did this. Talk about a slow learner.
I’d stopped worrying about looking the wrong way when crossing the road. Motorists here were too polite to run you over. The policeman even stopped the sparse traffic for me. Buses seemed improbable in the tiny streets but they managed – it helped that they were quite small. Volkswagen beetles seemed to be the car of choice. Even official cars were old-style VWs.
One morning dawned a day of fiesta – Dias Los Locos, the day of the crazies. The church bells had started at seven the night before. They were followed by cannon shots, then more bells joined in until all three nearby churches were clanging away: San Francisco down on the corner with its lovely big peals, the parroquia in the piazza and the little tinny local church’s bell that could hardly be heard as they all tried to outdo each other. On and on they rang, stopping now and then for a cannon shot or two. It was deafening. And it started again early the next morning.
The day before I had seen a couple of elderly nuns wearing old-fashioned habits preparing for the festival by filling the local church with great bowls massed with beautiful flowers. The hotel staff also deposited roses in bottles covered with silver foil at strategic spots. There were wonderful flowers galore here. Everywhere I went I saw people walking about with armfuls of gladioli, roses or carnations.
In the morning everybody in the town was out. Rows of children had been sitting on the edges of the blocked-off streets for an hour or more. I went for a walk and had to make a wide detour to get back to the hotel; the town centre was so packed you couldn’t move in it. Then, quite unexpectedly during my detour, I finally came upon the no-longer mythical bookshop. But wouldn’t you know, the sign read ‘closed for the holiday’.
The parade, luckily for me, passed under my window, and I stood on my balcony to watch. Men walked in front of the high vehicles holding up the overhead cables with forked sticks so that they could pass underneath without fear of electrocution. Good thinking. Everyone wore a mask. The very popular Bill Clinton mask was most realistic. It had big red kisses all over it, a silly fatuous grin and the head was slightly on one side. It really looked like him. One float demonstrated local anti-American feeling. It portrayed US border guards returning Mexican would-be immigrants across the Rio Grande, illustrating a recent case where two men drowned while trying to swim back. Clowns and costumed dancers threw confetti and sweets to the crowd from the floats. Among all this racket one dear donkey placidly plodded wearing a funny hat and garlands of flowers and pulling a small float.
There seemed to be a contest in Loud. Every truck bore the biggest set of speakers its owners could find. The revellers, dressed up and dancing on the rough cobblestones, looked set to party on all night. The procession took eighty minutes to pass. The next day I wasn’t
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