An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 9

Posted on July 1, 2004 by admin

Dancing Down The Aisle
By Cherie Magnus

I would believe only in a God that knows how to dance. ~Friedrich Nietzsche

I dance down the aisle of Saint Pauls Anglican Church in San Miguel twice a month, carrying my cross. Like most people, Ive always had a cross to bear, except for that brief perfect time of my marriage. And now I have a literal one. Im a Crucifer.

The cross I carry is very beautiful, made of stained glass and Tiffany jewels. And I do dance with it, the processional step-pause of a wedding, and always in time to the hymn being sung. I wear a white alb, usually my San Miguel cocktail huaraches and a small ruby and silver cross made by a local jeweler.

It is such a blessing for me to serve in this way. I feel proud and humble and thankful. The Mexican people are accustomed to physically participating in their religion on a daily basis, unlike the Protestant gringo and Northern European. Ive felt so envious of all the processions and the full-blown, emotional festivals Ive witnessed here, longing to be a part of them. In my own quiet gringa way Ive built altars in my apartment, and lately in the business offices of my busy Mexican friends. Im always in the streets for the processions on feast days, I walked all night the 17 kilometers from Atotonilco at Easter time, and Ive gone alone late at midnight to the Panteon on Day of the Dead, wishing I could join a family celebration on the grave of a loved one.

What an exquisite and moving tradition to have a special day to honor ones dead with remembrances and fiestas. It is so healthy for the living to remember their loved ones and to contemplate their own mortality in a personal way. My husbands grave in France is a plot leased for only twenty more years, my mother is buried in an old graveyard in downtown Los Angeles, my fathers burial place is in the Valley with my grandfathers, and my grandmothers ashes were scattered at sea before she allowed me or my children to be notified of her death. No one visits, and certainly no one parties on their graves, bringing their favorite foods and drink and flowers to lure their spirits back for that night, unless its a Mexican familys overflow. But now Ive learned how to lure their spirits back to me once a year.

Here in Mexico religion is everywhere, and I am thankful I have one too. Maybe Im not a Catholic, but it doesnt matter. I understand the sufferings of Jesus, and his mother, Our Lady of Sorrows. I pray to the same God, and the complicated legends and stories that Mexicans grow up with now enrich my faith too. Im moved to touch the old beloved images the people kiss and adore even though it is not in my culture as a Lutheran, but I am blessed just the same. All the thousands of saints and the Hosts of Heaven and the Orishas of Cuba look after me too, and Im thankful I at last found out about them.

Last Easter season I made the midnight pilgrimage from Atononilco, a beautiful old church (called the Sistine Chapel of Mexico) in a village 17 km from San Miguel., an annual tradition for over 250 years–carrying a sacred image to San Miguel for the Easter season. About 6,000 people walk along in silence behind El Senor de la Columna in the light of torches, with rockets going off at the head of the procession to announce our arrival. Then at six on Sunday morning, when we entered San Miguel on Independencia, thousands more people lined the decorated streets in welcome, offering the pilgrims hot food and drink. We stopped there to unveil the images, and then continued on to the church of San Juan de Dios, walking through the mint and manzanilla and elaborate designs in colored sawdust covering the cobblestones, our footsteps scattering in an instant the beautiful patterns incorporating Catholic and indigenous designs that took all the previous day and night to make.

My personal cross has been heavy at times, with all the illness, death and loss of the past decade. But Ive always had help in carrying it, and now to lead the procession to worship in a beautiful little church in Mexico is my blessing and reward.

About this author: With degrees in English, Dance, and Library Science from UCLA, Cherie has published many articles in professional journals and magazines. Her solo travels to Europe and Latin America have inspired several pieces published in Skirt!, PassionFruit, Moxie, JourneyWoman, Dancing USA, GoNomad, Open Spaces, Porthole, The Cusco Weekly, the-vu, and various online magazines. She was the dance critic for the Cerritos News in Orange County, California before moving to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. She is currently at work on a novel situated in France, when she’s not out dancing. Follow her blog at http://tangocherie.blogspot.com/

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 8

Posted on May 5, 2003 by admin

Corpus Christi in San Miguel
By Cherie Magnus

My first day back in San Miguel de Allende after three weeks, I ran around doing errands, unpacking, organizing, but I wasnt too busy to notice the hanging of red and gold satin and velvet banners from balconies along the main streets. Thinking a weekend fiesta was in the making, I went about my business. I was tired and almost ate a quesadilla standing at the stove, which is my usual dinner fare. But I decided to go out for a margarita instead and see if I could find any of my friends, since I already was missing my Los Angeles people.

Noticing that the streets were covered in fragrant herbs like a lawn, I stood and stared at the cobblestones for a while as if the green were a mirage in the dusk. My eyes just couldnt process what they were seeing. Then I noticed large bouquets of crimson and gold flowers placed on the sidewalks outside several grand colonial doorways, openings that ordinarily are entrances to apartment buildings, shops, and restaurants.

Peering inside one such doorway, and not wishing to disturb the silent worshippers there, I saw a glorious altar, all in red, gold and white, with God the Father reaching down from a cloud. In another doorway-turned-chapel, was a tiny girl dressed as an angel sitting on a white satin stool in front of the altar. As my eyes got used to what to look for, I saw many altars, all different, in the center of town.

Soon, naturally, a procession began to wend its way from the Parroquia and down the mint-and-flower-strewn streets. Stopping at every altar, the men carrying the litter with the Sacraments kneel, a priest takes it inside, and a prayer is read for that family, amplified by the speaker one man carries over his shoulder. The people on the street often kneel too and make the sign of the cross and the men remove their hats. And then a rocket is shot off into the sky and explodes, either to scare away evil spirits or to alert God of whats going on here in San Miguel de Allende.

The procession moves slowly forward along the proscribed route of crimson banners while a choir sings behind the accompanist who plays a Casio keyboard carried by four boys. Fresh bread rolls, flowers, and herbs are given to the people at every altar. Sometimes the rocket frightens the roosting pigeons, which scatter, fluttering, as if they were released for effect on cue.

The small official procession is enlarged with hundreds of the faithful following behind, who respond to the liturgy with attentive Amens. The air is perfumed with incense and the streets become the church, the Body of Christ is literarlly brought to the people. Corpus Christi is more than a town in Texas, it is a holy festival day nowhere more celebrated than in Mexico.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 7

Posted on April 1, 2003 by admin

The Field Trip
By Cherie Magnus

Early on Saturday morning, I climbed into the minivan, found the last seat, and introduced myself to the seven women and one man filling the cramped interior. Buenos dias! Wont it be fun to see another state, archeological ruins, a lake? All of us on the tour to Michoacan were language students at the Academia and had little opportunity to get out of San Miguel de Allende. But we really didnt know each other, besides seeing each other in classes.

Arent you in the Modern Indigenous Peoples class with Sergio? I leaned across my seatmate to ask a hulking man in shorts squashed up against the window of the van. My name is Cherie, or Cherry in Spanish. I didnt get yours? I stuck out my hand.

Ignoring my hand, he mumbled, Dr. Larry. Two girls in the front seat turned around. Oh, wow, what kind of doctor?

Im on vacation, was the rude and gruff answer, as Dr Larry continued to stare out the window at the traffic. OK, we other nine people in the van looked at each other and shrugged, some tittered uncomfortably, there were a few pointed comments about manners.

Being excited about the excursion and because I knew the driver/guide Jaime, I started chatting in my best Spanish about the trip with him as we ascended the highway out of town. So are we going to Tzinzuntzan to see the pyramids, and can we go to the island in Lake Patzcuaro, and will there be time to shop for copper in Santa Clara del Cobre, and Immediately came a voice from the back, Please dont talk to the driver; its too dangerous, and I cant find my seatbelt.

Instead of hearing Jaime explain about the ruined chapels, the crumbling haciendas, the bull ranches, and the gorgeous countryside of ancient volcanoes and twisted cactus, the group (and me, Jaime too, I suppose) was sufficiently chastised and remained silent for most of the three-hour drive to Morelia, the state capital of Michoacan.

Once there we visited the superb cathedral, the Museum of Masks, the candy market, the House of Handicrafts in the cloister of the Ex-Convento de San Francisco, the magnificient ancient aquaduct of 253 arches, and werent bothered by Dr. Terry as he wandered off by himself.

Since this trip was designed to be Spanish only and the level of skill varied with each person, it was generally only the good speakers who had anything to say. Or it would have been better that way. Sure, I was intimidated; I understood almost everything but didnt speak that well. But the three most talkative people made glaring grammatical mistakes, their bad accents were even worse, and without a teacher on board, there were no corrections and no one to slow them down. The only Mexican and fluent Spanish speaker was Jaime, who had been ordered not to talk while driving. Anyway it was enough, I thought, that he was driving and guiding us. I didnt envy him.

At lunch, which was provided in a charming sidewalk café, Jaime recommended Victoria Beer, and so Judy from Seattle, sitting across from me, ordered one in between highpitched giggles that never seemed to have a cause. I had a sangria, which is half red wine and half lemonade here in Mexico. She tasted my sangria and decided shed rather have that, but when the sangria arrived, she pushed it away, asking for coffee and bottled water. When it came time to settle up for the drinks, she tossed aside her cuenta and trilled, Oh, I have no money. So guess who paid?

Nevertheless this womanbrand new middleaged blond divorcee in low slung jeans revealing her belly buttonbought bubbles which she blew at men across the street, cigarettes, a museum poster. Whenever the group paused, she was found crosslegged on the ground playing with her bubbles or cigarettes and giggling her ear-piercing silly laugh.

A group of teachers from Texas were traveling together on our trip. They were all proud of the permanent eyeliner they had just had tattooed a couple of days previously. One was an eighty-year-old woman who looked sixty and could keep up with everybody, even trampling over the ruined pyramids in Tzinzuntzan. Her daughter Stephanie was over six feet tall with a deep loud voice, huge shoulders and hands, and probably used to be a man. Another of these ladies had had a terrible reaction to the tattooing and her eyes were almost swollen shut, but she maintained a cheerful good humor. She and the mother were first-class sports.

One of the most militant in the group regarding the necessity to speak Spanish 100% of the time at all costs, spoke well but so quietly we were always asking, Mande? whenever she said anything. Back in the States she was a psychiatrist (who didnt insist on being addressed as Doctor, thankfully) and she looked like a nun.

Mina was the most difficult to take, thoughand after all, this was a two day trip. Between passing around a photo album of her wedding and pictures of her son, she flirted like crazy with the guide. A fairly good Spanish accent, nevertheless her voice was like the scrape of a fingernail on a blackboard.

The woman who was afraid for the driver to converse while he drove the roads hes driven a million times in the past, was also afraid of everything else. While not carrying these things herself, she constantly attempted to borrow sunscreen, chemical hand sterilyzer gel, tissue, a sun hat, and her conversation consisted of travelers tales of woe. Jaime almost had to take her hand to cross the street in busy Morelia.

There was a tall woman dressed in a tank top and short shorts next to me in the van, and I couldnt help inquiring if she had brought some other clothes in which to visit the churches and convents. She looked at me like I was crazy and boldly sashayed right past all of the signs posted at church entrances requesting, Por favor, please respect our faith. No shorts. Gracias.

Out of all these people, Saturday night in Patzcuaro only three went to see the performance of Los Viejitos, a wildly popular and well-known indigenous dance of the Purepecha indians, in which young people, often children, wear the masks, native clothing and posture of old people. Bent over and supporting themselves on canes, they nevertheless did a lively, footstomping, humorous dance accompanied by their musicians in equally colorful outfits. Some say they are making fun of the Spaniards, but others say they dance to honor the old folks and their wisdom.

But two of our little group went to Mass instead, and the rest stayed in their rooms ironically studying Spanish from their textbooks. Here was Mexican culture in full bloom all around them, with lots of correct and colorful Spanish in the air, and they were closeted with their books, each other, and their gringo accents in hotel rooms with moldy bathrooms. Go figure.

The best thing about our outing besides the sites themselves, was the surprise stop on the highway on the way home. Jaime had planned a tailgate margarita party out there with the cows and a view of green fields, exotic cactus, ancient distant craggy mountains.

The bubbleblower stood next to the truckers and blew bubbles at truckdrivers, the flirt did her best to monopolize Jaime as usual with personal questions, the Doctor wandered off on his own and made us all wait in the van while he took some more photos, the four teachers clustered tightly together discussing which is the best spa in San Miguel, the scared one put on more sunscreen even though it was going to rain any second, and I enjoyed my margarita.

The postscript to this weekend is that once back in San Miguel, the group went to a very fine Italian restaurant as part of the tour package. It had stopped raining and we all sat on the roof enjoying the beautiful sky and a nice glass of Italian red, and I started to relax and remember the wondrous things I had seen in the past 36 hours.

Suddenly from nowhere the wind whipped up and the pool of rainwater collected on the canvas roof an hour earlier swept over our table and drowned us, our wine, and our tasty Italian bread. I knew when enough was enough, and I walked home, planning in my head as I navigated the dark cobblestoned streets. I didnt know when or how I was going back to Michoacan, but I knew I would go alone.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 5

Posted on May 1, 2002 by admin

Not All Mariachis and Margaritas
By Cherie Magnus

Many people come to San Miguel de Allende for a vacation and end up buying a house. Folks fall in love with this place, ardently, illogically, hopelessly. Its that kind of town.

I decided to move to San Miguel, a colonial city of 50,000 in the heart of Mexico, with my head and not my heart, and maybe thats why Im often reminded that life for me here isnt quite the paradise I had hoped for, or thought to find. From the mundane and profane to the urbane, its not exactly what I expected.

I came south where the living was supposed to be easier, cheaper, and more romantically beautiful. But after four months I have to say, maybe, maybe not. Easy things are more difficult, prices are about the same as in the States (at least here, the costliest town in Mexico), but it sure is more romantic, sometimes unbearably so. (People with plenty of money, of course, only have to worry about finding the romance.)

So as petty as it may sound, the little annoyances of daily life can add up to maddening frustration for those of us who cant hire things done. Errands take an inordinate amount of time and trudging about the steep stony streets under the hot sun, schlepping laundry, groceries, shoes to be repaired, packages and mail. Everyone is carrying something in San Miguel, and the gringos are also carrying cash.

All bills must be paid in person with cash. There is the regular need to change dollars into pesos and so constant attention to the handwritten exchange rate posted at the Cambios is a part of life.

Because fresh fruits and vegetables must be disinfected before using and gringos have to be extra careful about water, shopping and food preparation is more complicated. Few convenience foods and pre-prepared items are available, and absolutely no frozen entrees or TV dinners. Whats in the frozen section of the supermarket? Ice cream, bags of vegetables, shrimp, and ice.

Its also harder to stay clean and well-groomed. There are no self-service laundromats, but lots of fluff n fold type establishments, which, after a few times through their machines, tend to gray and dinge your clothes.

On the sidewalk, large birds and cascades from roof runoff pipes assault you from above. If the dog poop and water puddles dont get you from below, smoke-belching vehicles splash your white pants or bare legs while they foul the air of the narrow streets.

The constant dust gets all over your clothes, skin, hair and in your nose, lungs and pores. Almost no one has a bathtub or enough hot water to fill one, and showers are always short. The huge U.S. selection of beauty aids and products just isnt available here, and so one makes do with generics.

Walking the streets can be dangerous as well. If you dont watch your feet instead of the local color and the historic buildings, you can easily slip or trip on the undulating, uneven sidewalks of slippery stones. Gringas soon learn to wear only shoes with rubber treads, or they easily fall. Newcomers with scabs and ankle bandages abound.

If you dont watch your head, especially if you are tall like I am, you can bang it into a protruding stone windowsill with iron bars, or a bus or trucks side-view mirrors can take you out.

In Mexico it isnt respectable for women to wander around alone in the dark, which makes it difficult to go anywhere in the evening without an escort, and especially to return. Taxis are not easy to find at night, and sometimes the drivers come on to women unaccompanied by a man. In a macho country, every woman by herself is assumed to be looking for a man – isnt it only natural? This can be daunting for independent women used to going solo wherever they wish.

Its also almost impossible to get in or out of town, which has a lot of charm in a Brigadoon sort of way. Its tough to get here, and hard to leave. Leaving the country includes many taxis, buses, and planes (no trains), and its not so great for people like me who travel frequently.

As someone who enjoys the passion in the culture of latin countries such as France, Cuba, Argentina, I dont see the same joie de vivre in Mexico. Joy here is not a moving, pulsing force, but something to relax in. Good food, fun and peppy music, lots of beer and tequila, family togetherness and church. The only ecstasy I witness is in the many fervent religious activities. I miss the zest and energy on the street and in the music that I have found so compelling elsewhere. Or maybe I just havent found it yet in Mexico.

And dance, well Ive tried everything dance-wise in San Miguel with no satisfaction. Ive searched it out in studios, schools, clubs, theaters, parties, and discos. Ive tried Sweat Your Prayers on Sunday mornings, folk dance at the Bellas Artes, contact improvisation, Mexican folklorico, salsa in classes and clubs, and gone as far as Mexico City in search of Argentine Tango. Who knew?

I can live without much hot water, a car, or a telephone. But I cant live without dancing.

San Miguel is famous for its many fiestas, but in lieu of dancing in the streets, there are fireworks and church bells at all hours of the night, and related non-stop barking of the ubiquitous roofdogs. The many roosters crow all day and all night.

In addition to this festival of sound is the incessant noise of construction going on six days a week next door to no matter where you live: the chink chink pound pound sounds of one- and two-man teams of workers laboriously either tearing down or building up.

In every country where there is tremendous poverty, tourists are looked upon as rich. The attitude in San Miguel is perhaps even more so due to the large percentage of gringos whose presence has inflated the local economy. And so sometimes foreigners are taken advantage of, shortchanged, pickpocketed, and objects often just seem to disappear. San Miguel de Allende is very safe with little violent crime, but the small stuff is constant and usually unreported. Well maybe I really didnt have as much money as I thought. Or its possible I left my watch at home. Or didnt bring those pretty gold earrings after all.

There are two very distinct cultures in San Miguel: the Mexican and the gringo. For that reason many norteamericanos find it easier to live here than in perhaps more Mexican towns. Most businesses with services and products appealing to gringos speak English, the tourist restaurants serve disinfected food, the lectures and movies at the library are in English or have English subtitles, and the plays at the Teatro Angela Peralta are in English. There are norteamericanos who have lived here for thirty years and dont speak Spanish; they dont have to.

However all of this convenience comes at a price.

There is even a kind of gringo ghetto, the Jardin, where the tall pale visitors in shorts and jogging suits sit in front of the Parroquia and meet their friends in the bright sunlight. The Mexicans sit on the opposite side of the Jardin, in front of the police station and in the shade.

Despite the myths, living in Mexico isnt much cheaper than in Los Angeles, except for apartment rentals and food shopping, which are somewhat less. When planning on moving to Mexico, many people such as I dont think about hidden costs like computer/internet access, storage fees in the hometown, transportation costs (all those taxis and buses), medical/dental care without insurance, high telephone bills, Spanish classes. Just like at home, there are cover charges to listen to music, and you wont hear any mariachis unless someone is paying them $6.00 per song.

If you dont want to be a part of the ghettoized, and are not fluent in Spanish, you might also feel a bit on the fringe. Being a small town, anything you do is noticed in San Miguel, any visitor you receive, every companion on a bench in the Jardin. But because the population is so transitory, when you do meet people you like and want to be friends with, they often leave.

And if someone doesnt happen to have a romantic partner, it can be painful to live in one of the most romantically beautiful places on earth. As there are thirteen women to every man in San Miguel, probably many women are home alone tonight as Im writing this, looking out their windows with longing at the gorgeous sky and the lights of the Churrigueresque skyline of San Miguel de Allende twinkling below.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 4

Posted on April 4, 2002 by admin

Semana Santa in San Miguel
By Cherie Magnus

I can’t think of a better place for a practicing Christian to be for Holy Week than San Miguel de Allende–except maybe for Rome, but I’ve never been there, and here I am in Mexico. (Who knew?)
Even for those not Christian or Catholic, the cultural expressions of this, the holiest of times on the Christian calendar, is an amazing experience in San Miguel.

The week is so packed with things, that it actually starts on the preceding weekend, one week prior to Palm Sunday when there is an all-night procession from the church at Atontonilco to San Miguel (17 k), carrying the celebrated, venerated and beloved El Senor de la Columna.

Made out of corn meal, orchids, and other exotic materials rather than carved from wood, so it’s not so heavy and looks more lifelike. In the Mexican bloody tradition, this statue of Christ after being whipped, is pretty graphic. But Mexicans really get into the Passion, and maybe the violent reality of their religious art help them to feel their religion more.

Then the Friday before Palm Sunday is the Day of Our Lady of Sorrows, and families and communities work all night creating beautiful altars in their homes and windows, and in the many neighborhood fountains scattered around town.

I was lucky in that the family owning the building in which I live created the most beautiful one I saw right in my own entryway. There are certain symbolic requirements to these altars, and the one made by Jorge and Sandra had everything: purple pots of growing wheat, white lilies, statues of Mary weeping at the foot of the Cross, bitter oranges, purple and white flags, tons of fresh chamomile, white candles, and then most amazing, a purple carpet made of sawdust with different designs stenciled in natural sawdust.

The whole family, friends, tenants, and maids worked for hours creating this altar in the entranceway and on the sidewalk in front of our building. Then at night people visit the various altars and are given frozen fruit ices and hot rice pudding. And the next day they were all gone, taken down as quickly as they were put up.

The jacaranda trees here cooperate and bloom in perfect purple timing with the color of Lent, unlike the trees in Los Angeles where I am from, which get dressed in May. In San Miguel it seems divinely coordinated with the holy season.

The next night happened to be my birthday, and in a weak moment I had invited lots of people to a party. I heard the best tamales were made by the cloistered nuns in the convent, but when I went to order some in the church at the little curtained window, the sister told me that because of Santa Semana they were not cooking. My friends and I partied up on the and ate the tamales I had bought from the tamale lady in front of the Oratorio, and drank cerveza and generally had a fine time. Unfortunately the only dancing was by me and Adrian, a young Mexican artist who had spent some salsa time in L.A. But the music was great (my CDs from Cuba), and the gringos and Mexicans all mixed together in both languages and so I became 39, again.

Palm Sunday at St. Paul’s Anglican Church, which I attend, was very nice, and also very familiar, since the liturgy is so similar to the Lutheran. However I couldn’t help but feel the Mexicans were doing it up so much better. In front of every Catholic Church (and believe me, there are a lot in this town!) and on the Jardin were artisans who had woven elaborate designs out of fresh palm fronds–flower baskets holding purple flowers, shields, angels, crosses, bouquets–as many designs as there were designers. The palm art were all about 14″ or so high, cost 5 pesos (50 cents), and many people took them home as bouquets after the service.

By contrast, at St. Paul’s we were given dinky little skinny palm leaves about an inch wide that felt quite lacking as we processed into the church. Why not make a deal next year with the Mexican artisans to sell their designs in front of the gringo church too?

The Blood of Christ and Blood and Sand

Wednesday in the late afternoon a crowd gathered in front of the baroque Oratorio. The sun was setting, colors streaked the sky and turned the acolytes white garments rose as they waited patiently with their incense, tall candlesticks and golden crosses at the top of the church stairs. Behind them were a hundred women of all ages in formal black, from cocktail dresses and sequins to simple cotton, some carrying their shoes as well as symbols of the crucifixion.

Two little girls yanked on my sleeve and we started a conversation, and I took their pictures. Sisters there with their father, we admired each others clothing and exchanged names and ages (they were 7 and 8). Oh if only my Spanish were better!

Way up high in the tower were more teenaged boys in white, fooling around while waiting for the time to peal the huge bells.

Finally the traffic was stopped and the procession began, with angels and Roman soldiers and solemn drummers and THEN when the beloved statues were hand carried on flower bedecked litters out of the church, I couldnt help but catch my breath. Men in crisp white shirts and formal black slacks carried Christ with his cross, but it was WOMEN who carried the othersMary, Magdalene, John, Veronicatiny women all in black, most barefoot, with the heavy wooden stretchers over their shoulders. There wasnt a cleric in sight. This was a peoples procession.

So when the crowd fell in behind the procession as it wended its way up the hill and on to the Stations of the Cross, I cut out and ran over to the Bibliotecas theater where Jesus Christ Superstar was just beginning. Afterwards I found myself drawn back at the Oratorio, just in time to see the procession return to the church. There had been a downpour during the movie, I had heard it on the roof. Now two hours later the procession was damp, weary, still proud. Even more of the ladies in black were barefoot, but the teenagers wore their high platforms with pride after hours of walking the rough streets of San Miguel. The little girls in white still held forth their bread, the prom-queen angel still held out her full tulle skirts, but everyone looked tired. Then up the hill in the distance appeared the moving lanterns, candlelight progressing slowly in the dark, lighting the way for the venerated statues. By the time the last of the procession entered the church, I was emotionally exhausted, and I turned to the picnicking families, the candy and tamale vendors, the balloon men with relief.

Holy Thursday I attended a gringo lecture on Rabbits, Eggs, and The Blood of Christ And then I visited the churches, which were all open as is traditional this night. One is supposed to visit seven, but in San Miguel the churches are so many and so close together I actually did eight in short order. People file quietly in, pray, touch the statues, receive manzanilla flowers, a roll of bread, a purple palm cross for a donation at the many tables set up by teenagers in the sanctuaries. There is a great suspense in all the churches, altars are covered, people are awaiting the Eucharist, the bread and wine.

The town was jumping, packed with tourists and residents, no one was home. Some shops were open, singing poured out of the cantinas swinging doors, there was no place to sit in the Jardin. Vendors were selling everything everywhere. A friend from Canada invited me to join her group at Mama Mias for drinks, but I just wanted to go home alone. I did flick on the tube, though, and almost every channel had Bible movies or film of Holy Week parades and appearances of the Pope.

But all of this pales in comparison with Good Friday. There were three processions, the last one in the evening consisting of hundreds and hundreds of participants, including two choirs and a real orchestra with accordions, violins, and lots of dark brass, carrying their music stands. All of the women litter bearers wore black with white gloves and black lace mantillas, the men all in black suits, white shirts, and black ties. A real funeral cortege, men wearing hats along the sidewalks were asked to remove them, and the crowd watched the procession with respectful silence, even the children. Right before the arrival of the glass coffin with the body of Jesus, little girls spread manzanilla over the cobblestones, and the air was fragrant with perfume as the flowers were trod upon.

Nothing mechanical or electronic, no Animatronic giant moving floats, only people power, and it was powerful. This was the church brought out into the streets and into the lives of the people.

Saturday, instead of the Blood of Christ, there was blood and sand at the bullfight arena in the center of town. A charity event to raise money for the orphanage, it seemed somehow a fitting activity for Holy Week. Though averting my eyes on occasion, I had to appreciate the color, courage, and grace of men and beasts in the ring. At night the churches held candlelit Easter Vigils, but I went dancing at la Cava de la Princessa with a group of crazy artists from Calgary.

Easter Sunday is the day that life-sized effigies of Judas, other bad characters, and politicians are strung up in front of the government buildings along the Jardin, and blown to bits one by one at noon after church services. Its a great catharsis and a fitting end to an intense week of passion, emotion, blood and death, and resurrection.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 3

Posted on April 3, 2002 by admin

Auto Mexico
By Cherie Magnus

After a mind-expanding long day with ghosts, pyramids, and mysterious ancient art in Teotihuacan, our little tour group cruise along the Autopista with just two hours to go before hitting San Miguel de Allende and home.

Gene, an archeologist from the University of Texas, Jaime, our Mexican guide/driver, and me, a transplant from Los Angeles, are basking in the afterglow of history and art when the ´95 Oldsmobile’s engine suddenly quits as we tool along in the fast lane. Luckily we are coasting down hill, and Jaime gets it started after repeated tries, and the three of us breathe sighs of relief as the car chugs forward.

Then the engine quits again, and with skillful maneuvering through the trucks and rush hour traffic, Jaime is able to get us on the right shoulder where we roll to a stop.

When the car starts once more , we exit at the next off-ramp and inch into a tiny town that seems to have nothing more than a little tienda, a big cemetery, and, thank goodness, a garage. It’s dark by now, and the mechanic rigs up a light to check under the hood. Three other men and a boy playing with valeros (those 2 clacking balls on a string)–and Jaime, of course–watch him do it. Gene and I observe the animated discussion and gesturing of all six of them through the windshield.

Gene mumbles in the back seat that the problem is a speck of dirt from bad gasoline clogging up the fuel filter, but the committee under the hood thinks it’s the fuel injection. They fiddle with that, the sparkplugs, and the engine–which before had a smooth and quiet idle–now sounds like a threshing machine. When they give up on the front, they jack up the rear and change the filter. Gene and I are still in the car as it lurches upward. The street is totally black but for the light bulb on a cord dangling from one man’s hand.

I have to go to the bathroom. Gene says that he doesn’t want to sound like a chauvinist, but I am the only woman here, so I shouldn’t get out of the car. I have no fear, but I can’t imagine any toilet anywhere near. So I stay put.

Gene had forgone a fabulous lunch at the La Gruta Restaurant in order to see more of the Teotihuacan pyramids, and even though I had been plying him with snacks from my bag, I worry about him. He seems to have low blood sugar or something. I thought there was nothing left, but I find a tangerine from the previous night’s Posada. He gives me back half and I give half of that to Jaime out the window. Jaime retains an air of cheerfulness and confidence. Because I had taken a previous tour with him, and because of our wonderful day today, Im not at all worried about how we would get back to San Miguel. Jaime will take care of us. Hes young, but smart and inspires confidence. At least in me.

Not so with Gene. He frets about the different mechanical possibilities of the car trouble, and tries to figure out plans B and C if we are indeed stuck. He has good reason to worry as he is scheduled to leave tomorrow for Texas at 6 a.m.

Finally the car won’t even start, it is now after nine, and all six surrounding the car agree no more can be done tonight. Gene and I confer that we think there are too many cooks under the hood. Jaime talks to a tow-truck guy who is flat bedding a car to Queretero, half way home for us. But we would have to sit inside the car on the truck. Gene and I don’t like it, but we say what the heck and get out of the Oldsmobile, stiff after so many hours of sitting there. But the driver reneges, it seems it is illegal to do that. One of the kibbitzers then agrees to take us up to the Autopista toll booth. By this time, Gene and I don’t ask any questions, we just get in the car with Jaime.

Up at the toll gate, Jaime talks to the policeman parked in his unit, I guess he was explaining why we were up there. Then along comes a bus marked “San Miguel de Allende.” Jaime flags it down, and–a miracle–the bus stops. We run, and climb on board. Incredulously sinking into seats, we can’t believe our luck: very few buses to SMA at all, and we got one! We flagged down a bus on the autoroute and it stopped! Gene and I laugh, only in Mexico!

At Queretero, everyone but us three and a snoring guy across the aisle get off, and a woman carrying a decorated snack tray gets on. Jaime hops up and takes orders from us, water for me, Coke for Gene (the sugar thing, I think), and Coke and chips for Jaime. We all debate about telling the sleeper we are at Queretero in case it is his destination, but no one does. Almost immediately on the road again, Jaime asks me for a plastic bag, which he uses in the back of the dark bus as a urinal, and then tosses out the window. The cars behind the bus must think its raining. My problem isn’t so handily solved and I try not to think about it.

When we drag off the bus at last in San Miguel, Jaime finds us one taxi and he takes another. Kisses all around, handshaking, muchas gracias. adios.

Gene and I agree as we part at his hotel that the pyramids were incredible, but our car trouble was a fascinating Mexican experience of its own.

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 2

Posted on April 2, 2002 by admin

Heart of Fire
By Cherie Magnus

Dear Ones Back Home,

When I searched the Internet last summer for a San Miguel apartment, I only had five requirements–reasonable price, quiet, accepts Phoebe the Cat, no more than a fifteen minute walk into town, and a wood-burning fireplace. I soon found one which had everything on my list (well ok, not the inexpensive rent part.) God bless the Internet.

Some landlords in my search told me via email that it´s not P.C. to burn wood here because there is so little of it and so their fireplaces are gas or they don’t have them at all, only electric heaters. But I rationalize that a few logs from dead trees burned to help me keep my sanity is less damaging to the S.M. environment than a big American car driving around El Centro and I had left mine in L.A. Or a gringa run amok!

A fireplace is important because I live alone (except for Phoebe) and I know from past experience that a real fire is a living presence and company on lonely nights. I stare into it, adjust the logs, watch the color of the flames, smell the soul of the burning wood. Gas logs just don´t cut it for emotional warmth. So I reserved the apartment for the winter, and enjoy the occasional log fire those nights when I read or study Spanish. But in the middle of January the cold snap hit, with two days of icy rain. Hey, I´m from L.A., I know what it´s like to be cold in the house during the winter.

But one small fireplace to heat a whole apartment on several levels when the temperature is below 35? Sure, I know people have lived here for thousands of years without heat, but they perhaps became acclimatized. After only a couple of weeks in Mexico, I wasn´t.

When I asked my landlady for a small electric heater to use in the bedroom and the bath, she refused on the basis of the electric bill, and had the gardener bring in more wood, lots more. At the same time, the gas ran out and I had no hot water or cooking facilities. So now as I write this I am sitting (with Phoebe on my lap, she who never saw fire until we moved here), my feet on the hearth, and am enjoying the flames and embers for more than aesthetic and emotional reasons. More in touch with the reality of what is primarily important. I need the fire to warm my cold body–as well as my soul.

And another of my requirements, the one about the 15 minute walk to town? I got that too, but didn’t know it is 15 minutes straight up! Which now is OK, too, because my body is in better shape and I can eat all those enchiladas and guacamole with impunity! And the hike keeps me warm.

Warmly yours (at least for the moment)

An American Diary from Mexico – Episode 1

Posted on April 1, 2002 by admin

Mexico, Christmas Milagros, and Me
By Cherie Magnus

Well I made it! After leaving work and selling my furniture as so many have done before me, Phoebe the Cat and I arrived in San Miguel de Allende to begin a new life.

It had been a difficult time these past three months, having garage sales, getting rid of my collections on eBay, packing and storing, saying goodbye to Los Angeles where I had been born, raised and lived all my life, saying farewell to my job, friends, and the tiny family I still had since my husband died a few years before.

A Mexican Xmas Tree

However, my carryon bags never made it out of the Leon Airport in Mexico. You know, the bags where I put everything too important to be checked– camera, address book, eyeglasses, jewelry, medication, computer cables, software, family photos, business papers and bills, Phoebes favorite toy rat, my tango shoes? I don´t know exactly what happened, you cant relax your vigilance for one second in life. I turned my attention to Phoebe, and poof, everything changed. And the timing couldnt have been more poignant–it was right before Christmas!

After getting Phoebe organized in our new place and searching endlessly through my two remaining bags, I couldnt sleep. I only tossed and turned with worry about the loss of my irreplaceable belongings. I pictured someone picking up the bags, searching them for things to sell (my jewelry items only, probably), and tossing the rest out the window of a pickup truck on some dusty Mexican road. The image of my family photos blowing through the cactus just made me sick.

The next day my new landlady called the airport for me because as yet I had no Spanish. But the news was bad: no found purple bags. She counseled me to forget it and move on. Easy for her to say in the middle of her Texas mansion plunked down in a garden in a beautiful, small central highland town in Colonial Mexico. Not only did she own her huge hacienda and my apartment, she also had built and rented out a casa and a casita all constructed in the same walled compound. And of course all four dwellings were full of her things. I only had a cat and four suitcases, and now the two most important bags were missing.

This new loss after so many recent losses in my life caused me to mourn for days. I went to lovely St Paul´s, the gringo Protestant church, and prayed to accept the inevitable. The day of Christmas Eve, the town was full of people carrying baby Jesuses hurriedly through the streets on their way to all the Nativities where the Holy Child would later appear. That night I went to a party given by a friend of a friend, and like seems to happen so often in San Miguel, in talking about a problem, help happens. I am learning that serendipity is the way here.

At the party I met someone who was leaving the next day for New York from Leon, and she offered to inquire at the airport for me about my bags. I hadnt gone back myself because of the transportation difficultyone hour, forty-five minute taxi ride and $70– and my lack of hope in finding them.

These past few days since my arrival I had been really lonely and depressed. I had taken the bus up to the supermercado on the hill and bought some new underwear and a little bit of makeup, although all of the shades were too dark for me. I wore the same pair of earrings every day, but had purchased a beaded bracelet and necklace from an indigenous woman hawking them over her arm in a restaurant next to the Jardin.

Thank goodness at least I had Phoebe. I certainly would not have traded her for the missing bags, or anything else I didnt have. After five days, acceptance was growing. I figured this was just another lesson in how we dont need things, how we are here not to accumulate but to live and do. Looking at the poverty around me of the Mexican and indigenous peoples gave me a new perspective. I didnt really need so many pairs of earrings, how often did I look at those photos anyway, and if my friends wanted to contact me they had my address, even if I didnt have theirs. It would all work out, and I would be a better person for it.

Recently I had lost my husband, our family home and furniture, my mother, my job, and my own physical health. I was sick and tired of loss, but wasnt this just another lesson in how to live on my own? We come with nothing, we leave with nothing; we cant take it with us, possessions are just a burden, etc. All the helpful cliches spun around in my head actually making me feel better.

Early Christmas morning the phone rang: “Cherie, your bags are here!” It was the lady from the party, calling from the airport on her way to New York.

I immediately called Vicente the taxi driver who had originally picked me up and brought me to San Miguel, and woke him too. “I´ll be right there!” He felt terrible and unnecessarily guilty about the loss of my luggage. It was my responsibility, my job, he moaned in Spanish.

Twenty minutes later we were tearing along the empty Christmas morning road to Leon. At the airport we searched through the lost luggage and my bags weren´t there, although there was a similar purple one and I thought probably that was the one my new friend saw. But Vicente also wanted to check in Customs up by the gate. And when we approached, we saw my orphaned bags behind locked doors. There they sat, both of them, like my oldest friends in the world. Traveling unlocked with me on the plane, now they sported plastic security seals.

I offered a tip, but the officials waved it away, smiling at the tearful reunion of a gringa and her stuff. Gracias, muchas gracias, Feliz Navidad! I called, walking through the airport hugging my luggage. Vicente and I laughed all the way back to San Miguel where, after cutting off the plastic locks, I found everything completely untouched. I was thrilled to see my jewelrysome of it last gifts from my husband, and inherited pieces from my mothermy medications, my family photos, my precious address book which was my connection to my old life.

Getting my things back was a true milagro and the best Christmas present I ever received. But those five days without the security blanket of the cherished contents of my bags gave me perspective. I could have managed without them, I had been managing. And it had not been the end of the world. I had even learned something about myself.

Nevertheless because of the kindness of strangers and a miracle of good luck, I had a very Feliz Navidad in my new home town, and an incredible Bienvenidos a Mexico. And Vicente invited me to his extended family´s Christmas celebration that night. But that is another story of milagros, magical realism, and me in Mexico.

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