Walking around the narrow streets of San Miguel de Allende, I can't help but question the authenticity. The cobblestone; the windowed weathered doors pimpled with iron bolts; The sweet smell of gasoline burnt by cars with low emission standards. But I pass a storefront with an array of coffins, and a small motorbike passes a bit too close, weighted down with tres chicas. I reconsider my cynicism.
Authenticity will be debated well beyond my attention span. Since Ecclesiastes proclaimed there be nothing new under the sun, we have all known to look a little deeper for the motivation (tricks) behind the original, the novel. We doubt and deconstruct, allaying our fears of the unknown, the strange. But here I am: a few thousand miles from where I was this morning. Which is more arrogant? To assume a cultural wall separating me from understanding? Or to accept the ubiquity of patronage, marketing. Has Disneyland spread so far?
Let's back up.
Flying south, well past the US border, it dawns on me my last vacation was almost two years ago. I fear I've been lulled into domestic stagnation by the volatility of my life. Sure, I've been tossed here and there by the winds of fate and farce, but these were all escape from, not to. I changed my job, I changed my love, I changed my home. All this distraction blinded me to the fact I've been working, consistently, foolishly, longer without a break, than ever before. I'm not complaining. I'm justifying my hope that this time away will do me some good; clear out the cobwebs, break down some walls.
The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of the bizarre. Ever since it dawned on me I've been reliving a Groundhog Day the last few months, my attempts to break the cycle of repetition have been met with rebellion, rejection, and random acts of revulsion. Okay. Maybe a few revelations too. I'm glad I realized what was going on before I left, but I really hope this time away will provide more clues on how to productively distance myself from the old habits. The trials and errors of the past weeks have beat down my sense of adventure. I don't know how much more I can take before I dive back into Pucksetawny.
So here I am. The hacienda is charming. Really. Grandma's room (Blanco) is white-on-white everything, bedazzled with sequin within an inch of acceptability. My room, (Grenada) features vaulted brick ceilings, radiating out from a deco chandelier, casting shadow across the corners and setting a mood quite nicely. Both feature epic tubs, plastered walls, and and radiant hearths. I choose to believe the charm authentic and not carefully targeted. Call me a romantic.
After tucking her in (figuratively), I took to the streets in search of cervesas y comidas. I found the cervesas within moments, and contented myself there. I wont pretend my critique is anything more than justification for acting a wallflower. But the futbol on tv, rapid spanish, and intimate crowds did keep me in a corner. The blaring american music cast a spotlight on my fellow countrymen singing along to bands I'm ashamed to name. I had a hard time figuring who I was more embarrassed to approach: the girls singing along who I knew would understand me; or the ones dancing with rythem, who I knew would not. I took the easy way out and spoke to no one. Mostly. Okay. I talked to the americans a bit. Shut up.
Stumbling (slightly) home, the boy watching the night brings me some guacamole
and chips. He's painfully shy and embarrassed by my broken thanks. The perro del casa keeps me company while I show my thanks to the avocado gods. She's some kind of poodle and seems just as surprised as I am that she's there.
I know it's foolish to think that a week away will bring about any change in perspective. I know that such a watched pot never boils. My plan is to play hard-to-get with that kind of clarity and hope it finds me irresistible. Wish me luck.
PS. Do not comment on my spanish. I already know. Leave me alone.
Authenticity will be debated well beyond my attention span. Since Ecclesiastes proclaimed there be nothing new under the sun, we have all known to look a little deeper for the motivation (tricks) behind the original, the novel. We doubt and deconstruct, allaying our fears of the unknown, the strange. But here I am: a few thousand miles from where I was this morning. Which is more arrogant? To assume a cultural wall separating me from understanding? Or to accept the ubiquity of patronage, marketing. Has Disneyland spread so far?
Let's back up.
Flying south, well past the US border, it dawns on me my last vacation was almost two years ago. I fear I've been lulled into domestic stagnation by the volatility of my life. Sure, I've been tossed here and there by the winds of fate and farce, but these were all escape from, not to. I changed my job, I changed my love, I changed my home. All this distraction blinded me to the fact I've been working, consistently, foolishly, longer without a break, than ever before. I'm not complaining. I'm justifying my hope that this time away will do me some good; clear out the cobwebs, break down some walls.
The last few weeks have been a whirlwind of the bizarre. Ever since it dawned on me I've been reliving a Groundhog Day the last few months, my attempts to break the cycle of repetition have been met with rebellion, rejection, and random acts of revulsion. Okay. Maybe a few revelations too. I'm glad I realized what was going on before I left, but I really hope this time away will provide more clues on how to productively distance myself from the old habits. The trials and errors of the past weeks have beat down my sense of adventure. I don't know how much more I can take before I dive back into Pucksetawny.
So here I am. The hacienda is charming. Really. Grandma's room (Blanco) is white-on-white everything, bedazzled with sequin within an inch of acceptability. My room, (Grenada) features vaulted brick ceilings, radiating out from a deco chandelier, casting shadow across the corners and setting a mood quite nicely. Both feature epic tubs, plastered walls, and and radiant hearths. I choose to believe the charm authentic and not carefully targeted. Call me a romantic.
After tucking her in (figuratively), I took to the streets in search of cervesas y comidas. I found the cervesas within moments, and contented myself there. I wont pretend my critique is anything more than justification for acting a wallflower. But the futbol on tv, rapid spanish, and intimate crowds did keep me in a corner. The blaring american music cast a spotlight on my fellow countrymen singing along to bands I'm ashamed to name. I had a hard time figuring who I was more embarrassed to approach: the girls singing along who I knew would understand me; or the ones dancing with rythem, who I knew would not. I took the easy way out and spoke to no one. Mostly. Okay. I talked to the americans a bit. Shut up.
Stumbling (slightly) home, the boy watching the night brings me some guacamole
and chips. He's painfully shy and embarrassed by my broken thanks. The perro del casa keeps me company while I show my thanks to the avocado gods. She's some kind of poodle and seems just as surprised as I am that she's there.
I know it's foolish to think that a week away will bring about any change in perspective. I know that such a watched pot never boils. My plan is to play hard-to-get with that kind of clarity and hope it finds me irresistible. Wish me luck.
PS. Do not comment on my spanish. I already know. Leave me alone.