So here I am in Guadalajara, revisiting a
city I first tasted in 1965 with my parents.
It has brought fresh memories of a road trip taken after I graduated
high school. We had a brand new
Oldsmobile – not the car to have brought to Mexico where mechanics knew how to
fix Fords and Chevys but never an Oldsmobile - in 1965 that is. After
Guadalajara, the car simply died in Tampico. It took a mechanic - who spoke no
English, and my father - who spoke no Spanish, to read the English repair
manual to a Mexican translator - who delivered the translated instructions to the mechanic - who finally fixed the
transmission to get the car on the road.
In the intervening several weeks it took to get parts, my mother nearly died,
having eaten a fish that had dined on a toxin.
Through the good will of a prominent rancher, his drop-dead-handsome University
of Texas sons (I'd met the day before the nasty fish episode) and their family doctor she lived to tell the tale. After a midnight distress call from yours truly, the sons delivered mom and their personal physician to a private hospital, forming friendships that changed the
life of a 17 year old girl forever. It
was that trip that prompted mom to jerk me out of my plan to attend a
small Baptist college in north Louisiana (music scholarship) - and command me to attend the University
of Texas, which I did. Fortunately, UT wanted me and/or the money. The friendship with the sons
fizzled, but I stayed in school there and forged a different timeline for my
future. Magically, the inset is the one picture I salvaged from that trip.
It’s always interesting to look back at
life and be able to identify pivotal events that change the course
of one's destiny – and that was certainly one of those. Along the way on this fateful
trip, we would stop at 10 AM and 3 PM everyday whether we were in the desert,
under a tree or on a deserted road and make coffee over a Sterno fire. My love of the coffee ritual and desire to
re-claim my Spanish no doubt have roots and feeders in those moments, seared
into my soul along with images of Saguaro cacti against the backdrop of red, orange sunsets. 
Almost 50 years later, I’m back. Friends' fantasies of my snagging a handsome,
rich Mexican man are greatly exaggerated and so far unrealized. So settle down girls. I have aged
and along with me – Guadalajara. No
longer the quaint, Bougainvillea draped city I remember, it has become a sprawling metropolis. The charm of the Mexican square, often anchored by a church - remains, however - along with couples holding hands at dusk, children squealing with delight and the ubiquitous shoe-shine stands lining the periphery The day I arrived, I set out to explore and found myself in a plaza spilling out in front of an historic cathedral, El Expiatorio. What drew me there was a stream of gorgeous young women and their mothers showing off in full evening finery as they strolled on the arms of their fathers or escorts. The final destination was this cathedral and it was extraordinary. As I arrived, one mass was ending and the voices that came from the cathedral were pure and sweet, resonating in a way that seems unique to those amazing structures.
You know I‘m not a church-person, but this ritual and music stir the soul, so I wandered around soaking it up as vendors arrived with hundreds of bouquets of fresh flowers and balloons to sell after the “big event” finished. It appeared that I’d happened upon some time of graduation mass. Seems the wrong time of year, but it wasn’t a wedding and the hint was the dolls dressed in graduation capes that gave it away.
Young and old were there, dressed in their
finery. A tiny woman probably in her 60s wore a cocktail dress with the heavy
tie shoes. What I loved was that it
didn’t matter. Couples old and young
strolled hand in hand, children played and squealed, Incan- looking craftsmen
and women sold beautiful woven bags and Peruvian looking woollen animalitas. It was the image of the city-squares I had
remembered from childhood, complete with shoeshine man and wheeled sellers
carts offering juices. It was just what
my spirit needed.
I bought a few basic groceries and walked
back feeling like two years of dust and grief – both literal and metaphorical
– had just been washed off and the world had re-emerged in Technicolor. I felt renewed. Sunday, dawned at about 6:30 after
a full night of QUIET. I wandered down
to the hostel kitchen and made wonderful dark roast coffee in my little travel
French press.
A WEEK LATER: I have endured/survived the first week of
TEFL classes and to say that ther were poorly organized and rigid would be an understatement. Still – it’s just the
way it’s done – straight by the book and the pace was draconian. Ten hour days, no time to cook, eat, or do
anything not directly related to prepping for the next day. That would be OK if I knew there was something interesting on the other
end. However, what I have realized is that
there is no way I will EVER – read that as N-E-V-E-R E-V-E-R teach
English as either a first OR a second language.
Very formulaic and linear, my response was visceral - so I opted out. Thank goodness for the freedom to do that.
The good news is that I am able to use the
credit from the TEFL class to take a one month intensive Spanish course and
that was the original purpose of the TEFL anyway – to give me a way to be down
here long enough to at least improve my Spanish. One
month as a time is the plan. From here maybe San Miguel Allende just to see and
then to the Yucatan Peninsula where there are wonderful Mayan ruins and blue
water. Hopefully a way to work or volunteer somewhere will present itself.
Baby steps… Going on instinct and trust.
More later - for now, "Hasta luego!"
More later - for now, "Hasta luego!"
