Through the Looking Glass

Looking Glass Turns One

That black kitten of my heart is still keeping me curious, even after a year of writing about Mexico, my looking glass house. And within this country of wonderland things, I've discovered other mirrors, sometimes in events, sometimes in people, sometimes in serendipity--even in a deep, stone, square-shaped cistern. They show me my reflection, at times clear, at times blurred, even by my own tears. But the sure thing is that they reflect someone new each time: a me that changes and learns and wonders with new friends, my sweet husband, bites of sugared fig, paid phone bills and countless wild rides on the bus.

This blog, I hope, has been a good mirror, too--a reflection of Mexico as I see it, from where I live. Thanks for looking into it with me, perhaps even stepping through. It will be a Monday-ish blog this year, scaling back to a day a week after having turned one year old. And I know that the mischievous black kitten will keep the looking glass in good form; after all, this blog was it's fault entirely.

¡Gracias for reading!

Circus, Circus

There's always a circus in town here. Maintaining a level of popularity that doesn't appear to wane, circus troupes can be found all over the metropolitan area on any given day. A Texas-flag themed Circo Americano has its tent poking into the horizon by my in-laws' house, and at least three or four a year set up on the Corona grounds near our own place. The enormous Corona distribution center, or as everyone calls it, "La Corona," hosts a parade of functions on its small fair grounds next to the main street in Nicolás Romero, from politician's swearing-in parties to leather shoe extravaganzas from the city of León, in Guanajuato. But the most widely advertised and attended events are those nightly performances at the circus.   

Those of us found at home during the day always know when another circus has arrived. Cars roll their way slowly along every street, making use of perifoneo--megaphone advertising made of the blaring horns affixed to car roofs--streaming announcements from microphones or taped recordings. We've heard "Hoy, en la Corona!" fill the air around our house via car and plane, and it's foretelling of lions and tigers and bears has become code between Patricio and me for anything big happening soon.

And something big did happen on Sunday, though instead of happening in the Corona, it happened in the Carpa Astros, down south in the Distrito Federal. This something was, indeed, a circus. Or might I say, the circus, since its name is synonymous with the business in Mexico. We were graciously invited to the season's final show of Circo Atayde in the city, the oldest circus in the country, founded the year my great-grandmother was born. It was 1888 that the first Atayde brother, who'd run away from home to join the circus, returned to convince his brothers to form a company of their own. The second generation propelled their gymnastic bar act into the Guinness World Records. And 118 years later, Patricio were sitting with an Atayde descendant along the edge of the show's ring.

It had been years since either of us had gone to see a circus, but it only took seconds to realize why they can't help but enchant. Circo Atayde creates a world of the implausible, a fantastical reality that kept our eyes open wide. Natalia's aerial dance, the brothers of Rialcris Trío's acrobatic balancing act, along with hoop dancing, magic, simpatico clowning, and elephants, tigers and horses (oh my!), all pulled us under their spell. The skill involved is extraordinary, like that of my two favorites--the Marinof couple who perform their own type of trapeze work, a graceful choreography of hanging in the air, often by the strength of Mr. Marinof's own teeth. And without so much as a net underneath. Mexico already lends itself to magical realism, and the circus seems tailor made for the tendency.

The ringleader and his mother, both Atayde folks themselves, were in justifiably high spirits after the show. As the tents' dismantling efficiently began, they talked of moving on to Puebla, saying goodbye to some of the performers and animals as new contracts are fulfilled. The circus is an almost constant current of change, with artists' origins spanning the globe, an international showcase of the amazing.

There may always be a circus in town, and some may even bill themselves as "Atayde," but there's only one real Circo Atayde Hermanos, a true Mexican original.

Bengal Lights

We would write our names with sparklers, wishing the light would last long enough to leave a light drawing, the likes of which Picasso might have winked at with a small smile. But we didn't know that much about Picasso in those young years of the Fourth of July, and neither did we know that sparklers might go by any other name, or that our tiny, crackling bright sticks could come in any other size. 

Now we know. In a country where the fascination with fireworks and scant fire codes lead to larger-than-life productions, and a good cherry bomb is a staple for most boys far beyond an Independence Day party, the sparkler exists in a league of its own. Indeed, the word "sparkler" would never fit the the bill; the truth is that by any other name, the object in question really wouldn't be as sweet. Christened here as luces de bengala, or Bengal lights, they bring to mind more than little showers of glimmer. Bengal, exotic and mysterious and powerful, tigers and rains and colors. And seemingly endless incandescence.

Sold at traffic lights and street corners and market stalls, the vendors' fingers can look like those of the tin man, one solid color of lustrous gray. Because luces de bengala aren't a trifling thing, packed into slim boxes for a couple of quarters apiece. (Not that those sparklers should be taken too lightly, either--they burn at a temperature of 2000 degrees). The luces are material for a double take at first sight, some a meter long, like a metallic cattail from pyromania's paradise.

They make their biggest appearance during the Christmas season, used often during posadas and Christmas Eve's tradition of softly caroling a lullaby to the baby Jesus. Without much room in the patio to work with picassoesque flair, Tim kept his luz tame as it glittered the dark alive during the song. I couldn't help but think, though, that it was perfect for writing out a whole "Timothy" in the air, a brief flash of suspension, of identity independent.

Deseos

Beginning with grapes, a lot of wishes are made and sent upward here between New Year's Eve and Epiphany. Twelve seconds before midnight of this new 2007, Patricio and I began stuffing those large purple globes into our mouths, making silent wishes for the twelve months to come, a hope expressed for each of the twelve sweet and seedy grapes. Having gone in for the loveliness of their shape, we'd forgotten to take into account their size; midnight rang out with the explosion of fireworks in the street, and with full mouths, we still had two or three to go. Believing in good luck for ourselves, in spite of our post-midnight bites, we sent our last desires up and out into the air, hopeful and even confident in another year of fine things from the future.

In the week that followed, children's wishes became tangible references, written into letters and sent skyward on the string of a Three Kings balloon. An environmental bugbear of a tradition, it's still a whimsical rite of touching innocence, where desire hasn't quite yet crossed the border to greed. Santa isn't the only fellow to tackle a sudden onslaught of holiday season missives; the Magi also collaborate on judging a little one's year of behavior against a letter that details what they want for being good. In recent decades, Santa has been making deliveries in Mexico, too, but those wise men have been kings of the gifting realm for many more.

In anticipation of their arrival on the eve of January 6, children pour out their hearts on paper to the Tres Reyes Magos--the Three Magi Kings--Gaspar, Melchor and Baltazar*, then tie their letters tight onto that special helium-filled courier service, full of faith in the mysteries of air mail. Knowing that Jesus received nothing less than gold, frankincense and myrrh from those men, it's hard not to trust in the arrival of something wonderful when they wake up early on the Día de los Reyes, the Kings' Day.

Many may have given a preview to their letters' content when meeting the Magi, their chance to stand or sit for a minute with them in front of a camera. Dressed in elaborate costumes of satins, baubles, trimming and beads, their appearance represents more than what Matthew recorded as their origins "from the east." Perhaps because they have been viewed as symbols of Noah's sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth, who tradition holds as having peopled Asia, Africa and Europe, respectively, or perhaps due to the Moorish influence in Spain, the Magi often include a turbaned king of African descent. Always, though, like Santa, they include an aura that makes kids' eyes light up most often with delight--and occasional terror--in their physical presence.

And whether or not their Día de los Reyes wishes fully come true, most will still end the day with a sweet taste on their tongues. Rich, oval rosca de reyes bread, with candied fruits crowning the sugar-glazed top, draws the whole family to the dinner table. Secretly, each one wishes they won't serve themselves a slice with the baby figurine tucked deep inside.

If they do, they'll be bearing the gift of a tamale dinner for everyone come Candlemas on February 2. And I'm sure the tamalero was wishing that plenty of babies made the cut, so to speak. It would make for a sweet way to begin these twelve months of the year, a lot like glutting on those hope-laden grapes.

*For those of you, like me, who enjoy a little irreverence now and then, the Magi's alter egos, otherwise known as the Tres Reyes Vagos are dubbed Malgastar, Malhechor and Vaaasaltar.

(The Three Good-for-Nothing Kings: Waste, Hooligan and He's-Going-to-Mug--a perfect example of humor oh, so lost in translation...)

Maguey's Feast

When we lived in Wichita Falls, my brother was a tiny young mite of a boy with a Gerber Baby face and a penchant for discovery. His curiosity was insatiable, guiding his hands to do things like smashig new piggy banks in the driveway. What better way for a toddler to say "Thank you!" than to let it fall to bits, watching to see what the fabulous thing is made of? Perhaps simply saying "Thanks" might be, but it certainly wasn't for Tim. He refused to believe that what he saw was all there was to get.

And that is what led me to stare at him from the grass in the back yard, as if time had slowed to an eternal few seconds, as he raised a hand to his mouth one afternoon when he was almost two. He had managed to catch a cricket, pinching it between his fingers and contemplating it for awhile. A slow-motion "Nooo" never even left my lips, most likely because I secretly wanted to gauge his inevitable reaction. I watched as he pushed the cricket through his lips, and then bit down, crunching it's black body clean in half.

Perhaps it wasn't his first experience in entomophagy; he was just curious enough to have done the same with other unsuspecting back yard bugs. What I do know is that it wasn't his last, because Patricio and I made sure it wouldn't be while he was here. We took him to try pulque at El Tinacal, perhaps the oldest existing pulquería in Tlalnepantla, lining up tall glasses of its thickness, the kind made sweeter, called curados, with the flavors of the day: pecan, piñon, mango, guava, pineapple, coconut, tomato and strawberry. And then we ordered more to work our jaws around than simple cucumber and carrots with chile and lime. Escamoles were no longer in season, and chapulines didn't make the menu of specialties. But the waiter offered to bring out fried white maguey worms, and that's exactly what we had him do.

Rolling their mostly-hollow bodies into tacos with seasoned corn, salsa and nopales, we ate every last stub-footed one of them: one doesn't have to be two to let curiosity lead to chewing on an insect. Or two.

Double-Edged Shard

Dilemmas have their day in December. Another slice of pie or another size of jeans? A mediocre gift or heart-felt good wishes? Clay pot piñata or rock-hard paper mâché? As if the existential burden of ceaseless basic decision were not enough. It really isn't enough, because this kind of choice can give us more power, more guilt, more gratification, more gastronomic delight. And heightened anxiety, trivial as it may ultimately be, sure does a bang-up job of making us feel more alive. What sums up December more than intensity of life, in awe, criticism, flavor and nascent hopes? Gifts are opened, a year comes to a close. Baby Jesus dolls are lifted out of their February cribs, and salt cod recipes are guarded once again in the kitchen. Looking inward and then trying to live it out.

While my brother was here with us, an unexpected dilemma arose, testing more than just will in the face of Christmas dinner's spread. We went to Tenayuca, the larger if less exquisite of Tlalnepantla's two excavated pyramids, and slowly walked our way around the serpent-lined base, eyes open to the remnants of colored paint and the ragged, map-like traces of stone-smoothing stucco. It was an archaeological Christmas gift of sorts, the unwrapping having already been done.

Yet it was hard to imagine life there, stone steps and altar bases leaving too much space in between sight and understanding. And then we came across a considerable pile of disintegrating sugar bags, the open seams revealing its terra cotta contents: thousands of ceramic shards, numbered by meticulous archaeologist hands, and left in a corner to dilemma us nearly out of our minds. Because when plumed-serpent worship eludes our grasp of the human scope, we still understand dishes, and the fragile handles of an old pot. Their era came to an end, but these small windows into a world had been brought to the surface again, and then discarded, gifts with no place of their own.

It was so tempting to take one, to reach out and pocket the work of a Chichimecan hand. They'd been left to the elements, further crushing each other under their own weight, and the weight of the dilemma bore itself down hard. Wouldn't a little pilfering be doing an actual favor? Is not a pot shard's place of honor on a shelf more noble than a neglected, moldering pile? Wouldn't having a small piece of history at home make our daily lives, somehow, better? If the ground beneath this whole swath of the city is one enormous, unexcavated site, what would really be lost to research if, with a sliver in our pockets, we had a large slice of wonder in personal gain? Wouldn't the possession of past, mysterious life make us feel, as we like, more alive?

In the end, we couldn't do it. We turned and left the dilemma and the fragments' siren singing behind. The fellow on duty said the shards, after much puzzle-piecing, weren't found to be parts of any recoverable whole, and plans to re-bury them near the pyramid were all he'd been told. They'd be put away again like Christmas recipes, waiting for a different day or circumstance to be brought out at another time. They, like the artifacts found daily across this historically wealthy country, will become someone else's dilemma, well past every December, as long as archaeology exists. I'll be thinking of them, glad to settle back in to much simpler choices, involving things like piñatas and their own brittle pots of clay.

   

Red and Green and Grown All Over

The mountain pass to Cuernavaca can make for a beautiful drive. Sloping fields of grain dot this season's landscape with sheaves of harvested stalks, little golden pyramids lashed together at the top. The forested descent into the city along the libre, or toll-free interstate road, also treats eyes attuned to December, with roadside vendors and small, local greenhouses selling a plant native to this particular neck of the woods. Poinsettias, or nochebuenas as they're called here, are big and red and lush in their pots, often more than tempting enough to take home.

Wednesday found us headed in that direction, paying a holiday visit to some friends. We let ourselves indulge in the idea of having nochebuenas as a red carpet rolled out for our arrival, a welcoming of color and an advent for Christmas soon to come. Nochebuena is the word in Spanish for "Christmas Eve," an evening graced with the flower's bright red leaves since the Catholic Church began to spread through conquered Mexico.

Rife with legends, Christian, pre-, and urban, the flower has a life of story, as well. And thanks to a U.S. ambassador to Mexico, the flower has both a name and an existence widely prevalent in the English-speaking world. The poinsettia is a bit of Mexico in the Christmas traditions up north, and like the first samples sent to South Carolina by Joel Poinsett with enthusiasm and hope, I'm sending out greetings in the same spirit of promise, wishing every dear reader a beautiful string of celebratory days: a very Merry Christmas and Happy New Year--Feliz Navidad y Próspero Año Nuevo.

A Good Beating

I once learned the essentials of making a piñata. Layers of wet, gluey newspaper mâché, strategic clips in strips of wrapping tissue, metallic gift wrapping over stiff, fixed cones, and the indispensable hole to the hollow inside, ready for handfuls of sweets. It was experience enough to know that the craft borders closely on art. The result was a star-burst of silver and purple and white, perfect for the birthday when a lucky little one would beat it open with his stick. It was the first and last time a piñata left my amateurish hands; I'm happy to let more experienced ones do the work to better result.

And many of those hands belong to folks who live along stretches of Cuautitlán's roads, which we drove over on the way to Tenopalco for a nephew's cowboy-themed birthday party, the smiting of two piñatas and all. The first was a perfect rendition of Toy Story's Woody, losing his legs and a good deal of his figure before exploding in a candy shower over the roil of kids. It took a good twenty turns for Woody to come to pieces, partly due to a brother-in-law's moving the string around in a frenzy, and in spite of the home run hits that a few of the older ones let fly. And the crowd sung out a vocal version of an hour glass, limiting everyone's turn to the words, "Dale, dale, dale. No pierdas el tino, porque si lo pierdes, pierdes el camino. Ya le diste uno, ya le diste dos, ya le diste tres y ¡su tiempo se acabó!" ("Hit it, hit it, hit it (or Go, go, go). Don't lose your aim, because if you lose it, you'll lose your way. Now you've hit it once, now you've hit it twice, now you've hit three times and your time is up!")

The second piñata was of a more traditional bent, like the Cuautitlán beauty pictured below, boasting seven shiny points that symbolize the seven deadly sins. Brought to Mexico by the proselytizing Spanish (via a Chinese-inspired Italian tradition, according to some), it is also said that their use stemmed from an existing Mayan game of blindfolding players who would swing a stick at a chocolate-filled clay pot hanging from a string. Evangelistic efforts capitalized on the tradition, adding their own signature to the style. Conventionally made of a terra cotta pot and covered in vibrantly-colored paper, that basic cast served as Satan's symbol, of the loveliness temptation often acquires. The seven conical points are those seven cardinal sins, soon broken by the symbolic virtue of the stick, held in the hand of the blindfolded party, a "blind faith" leading her on. When the evil is broken, the symbol of God's love rains out, this time in the form of fruit or sweet confections. I doubt many people give much thought to all that symbolism nowadays, at least not at a precocious four-year-old's big bash of a birthday party.

But perhaps some do during a posada, one of the evening celebrations that take place between December 16 and Christmas. A reenactment of Mary and Joseph's search for a place to stay in Bethlehem, it often involves moving from house to house in an antiphonal chorus to pedir posada, or ask for an inn in which to stay. Still organized among neighbors in many parts, it can now also be a strictly friend or family affair. This Friday, we'll be going to one that seems a mix of the two, at cousin Blanca's house in an eastern suburb, where we'll sing to a few neighbors along the length of their street. Returning to her place, we'll be invited in, finally being granted our posada, or place to stay. Copious amounts of food will be served, along with that all-important piñata.

Las Posadas and Christmas were the piñata's original setting, and though the religious sense may be lost or irrelevant to many, the centuries of it's tradition still weigh in with a heavy and binding distinction, like those thick, wet layers of sticky paper mâché.

Three to See

Film buffs can be valuable friends. They're the ones who manage to cull through the endless list of titles released, past and present, recommending films off the tops of their heads that you likely won't consider a waste of your two hours' time. And they know directors, those folks whose names we hear much less often than those of the actors who work for them. There are directors out there whose names are certainly worth throwing around, too, whose vision is the reason we continue to love a good night at the movies so much.

I'm not anyone's film buff friend, and before I went to Middlebury, I would have been hard pressed to name more than four or five directors from anywhere in the world, much less a single Mexican director; the task would have been definitively futile. I didn't know a single one, and had perhaps seen a total of Mexican films that I could tick off on the fingers of one hand.

And then Amores Perros was released in the States, and I realized all that would have to change. Alejandro González Iñárritu would become, in my estimation, one of a powerhouse triumvirate of Mexican directors, accompanied in his place of honor by Alfonso Cuarón and Guillermo del Toro. Equally comfortable directing in both Spanish and English, they have the gift of drawing out award-worthy (and often award-winning) performances from the actors who tell their films' stories. And they've all widely released films here in their home country over the last couple of months, all of which merit the applause the directors have received in the past.

Our favorite of the three is del Toro's latest creation, a darkly violent and eerily beautiful fantasy of a tale set in Spain's early post-Civil War era. El Laberinto del Fauno will be released in the U.S. at the end of this month as Pan's Labyrinth, offering a retreat into del Toro's rich imagination and a return to the horror that lies behind the old, archetypal fairy tale. It is a masterpiece of a movie, one of the best we've seen all year.

The films of Iñárritu and Cuarón didn't disappoint, either. Though Iñárritu's Babel-- the third and final film in his portmanteau-style trilogy that includes Amores Perros and 21 Grams--doesn't quite deliver the visceral, leave-you-marked-for-life punch that Amores Perros swung out, the acting is without fault, and the stories it weaves together are both tragically intense and relevant. And Cuarón's adaptation of P.D. Jame's novel of the same title, Children of Men, also set for its U.S. release in a matter of weeks, spares nothing in the way of exploring hypothetical global infertility of the human race. A couple of supporting performances throughout the film serve to make painfully poignant, in all the word's definitions, the value of human contribution.

These three films have also meant a happy contribution from Patricio's wallet into the cash boxes of Cinemex Theaters, and though I wouldn't dare say I'm a film buff kind of friend, I'll volunteer these suggestions in the spirit of an enthusiast's goodwill, and with all the brimming enthusiasm Mexico has the privilege of enjoying on behalf of its excellent film-making minds.

A Rum Bunch

Bus stop adds all over the city have recently popped up red. A silver disco ball hangs in the corner with mistletoe-looking greens, like a funked-up tree ornament of a globe, nestling behind greeting card wishes for the city's die-hard partiers and enthusiasts of la conbebencia (read: play on the word convivencia).

"Feliz Guadalupe Reyes!" it reads.

And the sentiments are brought to us by Antillano rum, the brand that's been marketing to the urban, alternative pop-cultured twenty-something crowd with billboards featuring scruffy guys (and a few femmes) caught with picaresque looks on their faces and quoted with witty irreverences like "A man's best friend is a cow," (the equivalent in English of a kitty, or pitch-in's), "I'm waiting for the girl of my dreams; she's bringing the ice," and "Every woman has something of beauty, even if it's a distant cousin."

You get the idea. And the catch phrase for them all is "Soy antillano y que?" I'm Antillano, so what? It's a pretty successful campaign, that's what. The company's PR department has managed to tap into an enormous marketing target, sponsoring six concerts in December alone at two of the most popular clubs in the city, with acts coming straight off the play list of the huge alternative radio station, Reactor 105.

And now they're wishing everyone not a Merry Christmas or a Happy New Year, but a Happy Guadalupe Reyes, the holiday that's really a season, and the name of legendary drinking marathon that begins with the festivities of December 12 (Feast of the Virgin of Guadalupe), and stretching on to January 6 (Día de Reyes, or Three Kings Day). It's the "Let's see if I'm really invincible" version of the long holiday season Mexico luxuriates in, a season that encompasses both Christmas and the New Year within its wide limits. If ever there were an excuse for a good liver-pickling, Guadalupe Reyes must surely be it.

And if you find yourself inclined to celebrate the season with a glass in hand, Antillano sure wishes you a happy one. Just let me know if you're as successful as their add campaign.