February
27, 2011
Linda’s
back in Mexico and the sun is shining. All is right with the world, or at least
this little corner of the world.
There
is a routine to our lives here. I get up with the first light (or the first
dogs, roosters) somewhere between 6:00 and 6:30. I layer up (three layers now,
down from four in January), slip on my Keenes, and walk three hundred meters
down the hill to buy the day’s Zirahuén bread (to supplement what I’ve baked or
the twice-a-month loaf of multi-grain from the Aurrera in Pátzcuaro. The bread
seller, a woman maybe in her 60s, has brought a hatful of fresh rolls
in four or five shapes (some of which vary from day to day) to the corner where
our dirt road intersects the adoquinado,
in front of the abarrotes, the
nearest neighborhood grocery store.

From the back of the store she takes out
her equipment. She unfolds her table, places her basket-hat on it and drapes a
cloth over the bread to keep off the flies. She sets up her brazier, stokes it
with firewood, puts a couple of kettles on, and arrays her packets of tea
(herbal, black, and chamomile), Nestlé’s cappuccino envelopes, jar of instant
coffee, plastic bags and Styrofoam cups. Thus established, she dispenses
breakfast and our daily bread to passing workmen in their trucks, on their
horses and donkeys, pushing their firewood dollies or wheelbarrows; housewives
loading up for the kids’ breakfasts; and kids heading off to the early shift at
school on foot or on their bikes. If the odd bearded gringo doesn’t get there by
6:45, she is usually sold out and he has to do without or walk toward the other
end of town looking for one of our bread lady’s colleagues who might still have
a little merchandise left to sell. For everyone involved, this is a seemingly
cherished daily ritual. Except Sundays, of course, which the bread ladies take
off while the odd bearded gringo makes his wife a batch of pancakes.
Back
home, I pour myself a glass of guava or mango juice, chug my morning handful of
pills, squeeze some fresh orange juice for Linda, and make coffee, mixing
Coatepec coffee from the Aurrera with Chiapas custom ground coffee from the
shop under the arcade on the Plaza Grande in Pátzcuaro. While it brews I get my
daily dose of reality from NPR streamed on my computer. That is, I listen on
days when the wifi signal is strong enough to support streaming, about four
days in seven. Otherwise, its bird songs and dogs and wisps of radio from down
the hill. These days the news is mostly Middle Eastern governments tottering
and Wisconsin senators on the lam. The occasional story about Mexico usually
points up drug-related violence. Here in Zirahuén, and everyplace else we’ve
visited, life is on the whole appears to be so tranquil that awareness of the
background struggle rarely intrudes. When it does, it tends to be from the
lurid headlines and photos on the front page of the sensationalist press that
is hawked on every street corner in the cities; or the pickup trucks with
heavily-armed federal policemen or black-hooded narco police speeding past on
the highway; or the billboard-sized wanted posters along the highways offering
millions for information helping to capture some set of narcolords, signs that
are almost always defaced, presumably by employees or supporters of same.
News
or no news, we breakfast and retire to our separate “offices” (Linda in the
living room; me in the second bedroom) to write. We break mid-morning for our
“elevenses,” which usually involve both caffeine and jam. By then we have
removed a layer or two of clothing. From time to time I break for a spot of
guitar practice. At two we stop for lunch. In the afternoon I often hike while
Linda reads or knits scarves, shawls, felted market bags, and in one notable
case, a garage for Abby’s car.
And so on through the waning
afternoon, a light dinner of yoghurt and fruit, a quiet evening by the fire,
and an early bedtime. What a couple of old fogies!
But
—if you are still awake after reading this—, you’ll be comforted to know that
our routines are often interrupted by “events,” many of them self imposed. The
Monday night movie in Pátzcuaro. The occasional day trip or overnight to
someplace nearby and fascinating. Once or twice a week catching up on
kindergarten gossip while I’m picking up garbage around the neighborhood with
Mari Cruz and Karen, the five-year-olds who live across the street behind us.
Parties with friends here or in Pátzcuaro. The occasional forest fire up the
mountain. Watching the young gardener, part of the work crew whom our landlady
Lily supports with her tasks and projects, cut our lawn with a hand clippers.
Newly-born goats and calves just up the street, or newly-hatched
chickens in just about every neighbor’s yard. An imprompteau rodeo at the far
edge of town. A quinceañera
party down at the embarcadero.
Watching our really mediocre local futbol
team trounce a much worse neighboring team on Sunday afternoon and retrieving
for them every missed shot that bounces into the thickets behind the goal while
I’m trying to take pictures.

And
—best of all— periodic visits from out-of-towners with whom we can declare a
moratorium on packing laptops with prose while we join our friends in exploring
some of Michoacán’s extraordinary places: the
yácatas at Tzintzuntzan, the copper artisans in Santa Clara, the
volcano at Angahuan, lake Pátzcuaro, and the colonial splendors of Morelia.
Eating out ain’t so bad either. Steve and Jenny Raulston from Tennessee are
coming in ten days, and we can hardly wait! They’ll be the last for this year,
because we’ll be heading north soon after they leave.
Well, if you missed your chance this year, start thinking about 2012.
David
& Linda