| You hoped your
click would find it - the answer to that private longing.
Here in the land of
“work hard, live clean, and life will provide,” there is little room
for longing, and certainly no room for magic.
But in Mexico - well
that’s another story. In Mexico, they have a way with longing and magic.
They drink it like water, breathe it like air, and hardly notice, because
longing is as much a part of life south of the border as
“not-enough-hours-in-the-day” is in the U.S.
And where longing thrives,
magic happens.
Now don’t expect to see
spells and miracles. What you will find, though, is everyday magic - the kind
you have to slow down to see. But when Americans head to Mexico, bringing their
odd combination of skepticism and longing with them, magic is exactly what
happens.
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|
We are
in a Mexican clothing store, a tourist shop, with life-sized Día de los
Muertos skeletons adorning the outside. A kitten is sleeping in a display of
scarves, and the shopkeeper explains:
Mama
cat crept into the store, hid in the closet, and had her babies there
overnight. After a few days, Mama left, abandoning the kittens to the shop
owner, who fed them milk from an eye-dropper. Her sister, visiting from
Phoenix, took the kittens back as a gift for her kids.
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We are in a
Mexican clothing store, a tourist shop, with life-sized Día de los
Muertos skeletons adorning the outside. |
Another week passed, and Mama Cat reappeared. She wandered through the store,
screaming for her babies. It lasted all day. The next day, too. And so the shop
owner drove to Phoenix, fetched the babies, and presented them to Mama, who
finally, after all those days, quieted her calls.
Would a shopkeeper really drive 4 ½ hours to soothe the
longing of a stray mama cat? In Mexico, there is no question.
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Look at their language.
Language tells so much about a people. And longing, wishing, hoping are built
right into the very bones of Spanish.
In Spanish, an entire verb
tense is dedicated to longing. There’s the present tense, the past tense,
the future tense, and then the tense for wishing it were so.
Watch this:
"I hope he will call me
tonight."
What is "he will call
me"? It's not really the "future" because it's not certain, as in "he is
going to call me." It is not conditional, as in "if such-and-such
happened, he would call me." Maybe it’s some kind of clause, or
some other of those grammar names we've all forgotten.
Nope. "He will call
me" is simply what I wish for, what I long for, what I want. And in
Spanish, it has a special part of grammar all its own.
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We are
back again, visiting Puerto Peñasco after a long time away. We have
cooked a huge meal, to introduce new friends to old friends. After dinner, we
are drinking beer under the full moon, enjoying the ocean breeze on the front
porch of our rental house.
Inspired by some bit of conversation, Bobby begins reciting "Trouble in River
City" from the Music Man. He has had a bit to drink. Once he gets going, he
will not stop.
"Right here, I say, trouble right here in River
City. Why sure I'm a billiard player, certainly mighty proud to
say..."
On and
on, not missing a word, not missing a beat. At first it's fun, but after two
and three minutes, Bobby and the monologue are still going. With no end in
sight and clearly knowing what he is capable of, his wife, Debbie, is getting
embarrassed. "Bobby," she nudges. "Bobby that's enough." But Bobby continues,
on and on,
"You got one, two, three, four, five, six pockets in
a table. Pockets that mark the difference between a gentleman and a
bum..."
Debbie
moves from embarrassed to mortified. Bobby continues until finally, he must
take a breath, sip his beer. And before Debbie can thank God,
from across the table,
Rick,
a man Bobby has never met before tonight,
picks up the monologue just where Bobby left off,
not missing a word,
as if in Bobby's own voice,
"I say your young men will be fritterin'. Fritterin' away
their noon time, supper time, chore time too...."
Our
mouths drop open.
And
then we are laughing, eyes wide, jaws still dropped, tears rolling, from the
unlikely scenario that there are, in our midst, not one fan of this 45 year old
musical, but two, two who until an hour before had never met, and who complete
this 5 minute monologue as if they had rehearsed together for years, arms
linked in the special camaraderie reserved for young men who have spent hours
in front of the bathroom mirror reciting "Trouble in River City,"
waiting for this very audience to tell their tale.
Photos by
Hildy Gottlieb Copyright 2000 © |
| And then we are
laughing, eyes wide, jaws still dropped, tears rolling, from the unlikely
scenario that there are, in our midst, not one fan of this 45 year old musical,
but two. |
|
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Debbie's embarrassment turns to shock, and then to joy. The rest of the party
has suddenly quieted and gathered around, watching these two strangers perform
in unison. They finish, and the whole party applauds in front of the full moon,
there on our porch. Debbie throws her arms around her husband and giggles. She
has never been more proud to love him.
Is it
really magic? Debbie thinks it is.
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Wherever we turn, the magic
appears, rubbing off on us visiting Americans, changing us. Pore by pore, cell
by cell, the longer we are in Mexico, the more we begin to see.
When my daughter was younger,
we read a series of books about a princess who, sick of having to live like a
princess, heads off to live with the dragons. The king of this land knows there
is magic all around, but only he can see it. Magic hangs in strands, in
mid-air, all over the kingdom. When the king needs magic, he simply reaches up
and grabs a strand.
When everything down to the
bones of your language tells you that magic exists, you simply tug on a strand,
and it appears. Mama Cat finds her kittens and strangers perform together in
the moonlight.
When the bones of your
existence tell you there is no magic, aren't those strands still
there?
Wanting to believe the rabbit
will come out of the hat, or that Houdini will be pulled from the chest alive.
Wanting to believe that somewhere on this planet there is a fellow traveler who
knows your songs and knows your heart.
In the States, we secretly
long for all of it. In Mexico, little magical surprises are part of everyday
life. The strands are simply everywhere.
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|
We are
at the produce market. The tv is showing the telenovelas that put U.S. soap
operas to shame, and the young female cashier has her eyes glued to the
drama.
Outside, baskets and shelves are filled with chiles, squash, tomatoes. A dog is
asleep next to a bushel of onions the size of softballs. Wandering and
photographing this overflowing abundance, a little girl appears, not more than
5, in her plaid school uniform. She twirls and poses, her little plaid skirt
flying round and round. "Take my picture," she commands in her tiny voice,
posing next to the dog.
"What
is your name?" I ask her.
Her
tiny voice squeaks, "María
Elena Quintana Robles."
"My
name is Hildy," I tell her. "I don't have a grand name like yours." And I
extend my hand to shake hers, adding "Mucho gusto." Pleased to meet
you.
She
smiles. "Mucho gusto."
I
explain to María Elena Quintana Robles that I can't take her picture
without first asking her mother. I head inside, where her mother the cashier
agrees, telling us her daughter longs to be a star on the telenovelas, that she
poses in front of the mirror all the time, dreaming of being a star.
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| Outside, baskets and
shelves are filled with chiles, squash, tomatoes. A dog is asleep next to a
bushel of onions the size of softballs. |
|
Photos by Hildy Gottlieb Copyright
2000 © |
Back
outside, María is gone. The dog is gone, too. We buy some squash and an
onion and wonder if it really happened, that we really met such a little girl
with such a big name and even bigger dreams, and that she twirled and posed and
hoped we were the ones.
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So if Valentine's Day has you
thinking that life isn't what you were promised, you're right. We were promised
that hard work and clean living would get us what we want. Valentine's Day
reminds us, once a year, that that may not be entirely so.
Because when what you want
comes from the heart, it's not enough to work hard. What is required is a warm
breeze blowing from the south, the breeze that pulls your longing out of hiding
and prescribes the cure - a daily dose of everyday Mexican magic.
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