Where is home

We are nomads. North American families get spread out all over the country and sometimes all over the world. My parents live in Portland, my brothers live in Massachusetts and England, I live in New York. Almost all my relatives live near an ocean, but that's about the only geography that unites us.

I left Guanajuato last Friday in a flurry of activity and controlled chaos that is characteristic of Hugo and maybe the whole Anaya family. It was a holiday -- probably the biggest holiday in Guanajuato, the Dia de Los Flores -- Day of the Flowers. By all accounts, the tradition used to be that all the single men and women of the city would meet in the central garden, the Jardin Union, and would form two cocentric circles according to gender. The men would then gift the woman of their choice with flowers. It all sounded very middle school torture-ish to me, but what do I know? I was not voted prom queen, I was voted most likely to lead a revolution.

I woke up Friday morning after very little sleep because the party started Thursday night and there was mayhem in the street until the morning, when people started lining up on the Calle del Sol -- just under my window -- selling tamales and empanadas and a million other things boiled, baked and fried on sidewalk stoves.

My walk through the jardin revealed that it still seems like a tradition for the kids; I felt like I was at a seventh grade semi-formal. All the girls were made up and wearing their best party clothes (at 9am) and the lucky ones were carrying flowers. No cocentric circles, though.

Hugo mentioned his family was coming for brunch -- Hugo has nine siblings, countless nieces and nephews, cousins, and his mother -- the revered gran dame, Clementina. They were supposed to arrive at 10, which in Mexico means 11. They showed up two or three at a time and somehow, miraculously, Hugo pulled off a multiple-course meal for more than 30 people in the space of about one hour. Meanwhile, I juiced oranges, made coffee, set the table, served bread and listened to the music of an expressive Mexican family.

We both ate, disappeared, backed the car down the Calle del Sol -- which was like a parade route by that point -- crossed town to stop at the jewelry studio, and still made it to the airport by 1pm, in time for me to buy a bottle of water I couldn't take on the plane. . . and to lament the end of my time in Mexico.

Champagne and Sabritas

We commemorated my last night in Guanajuato by driving out to Puentecillas, about 20 minutes from the center, to watch the sunset from Hugo's family's country house. We laughed, drank champagne, ate potato chips, opened bottles of wine with a pocket knife, sang Billie Holliday tunes and cast our baggage to the wind..

Watch out, New York. . .

Yes, I'm coming home. But the real news is that Mexico City rivals NYC as the most exciting and vibrant city in the world. Where else can you walk through the ruins of ancient civilizations to the soundtrack of the weekend vendors and their sonorous opera just outside its gates? Where else can you watch scantily clad indigenous men in colorful head dresses blessing matrons with their eyes closed? Where else can you collect dust just by sitting still for five minutes, watch a troup of cousins breakdancing and praising the lord, witness the church of the oppressors literally sinking into the ground it was built upon? And most importantly, where else can you get a bitchin' cafe con leche for less than two dollars? That's right -- Mexico City. . . or D.F. (Districto Federal), as its called by the Mexis.

Spring Cleaning

There are signs of spring: the jacarandas are ablaze with purple blossoms, the equinox has come and gone, Flower Day in Guanajuato is coming. . . Some of my Mexican homegirls and I heralded the spring by sharing in a temazcal ritual. Every culture seems to have its own bathing/sweating tradition, and temazcal is the tradition of Mesoamerica.

Some young boys came to meet us behind Cine Guanajuato and lead us through the winding callejones to the house where the temazcal was located. We sweat by the heat of volcanic rocks, meditated, were blessed with various plants and flowers, covered our bodies in almond olil, aromatic salts, clay and aloe vera, and emerged about three hours later -- reborn and ready for new life.

Tofu Picante, Love and Neurons

Last week, we had six women – two of them recent widows -- and one adorable 76 year-old Japanese man, also a widow, staying at the b+b. Sogo-san is a friend of Naomi, a lovely Japanese woman from Denver who goes to my language school.

Sogo-san was pretty much in heaven, being the only man among a bunch of adorable, artsy, culture-vulture-y over-50 women at the b+b. Hugo and I conspired to design some romantic architecture, sitting him next to one woman in particular who we felt Sogo-san would be well-matched with -- but to no avail.

There is actually a Mexican tea made from an herb called telohuache -- lovers are said to give it to their mates so their mates will never leave them, due to the neurons killed by this extra special herb. No telohuache was served. . . at least not that we know of.

Naomi joined us for breakfast in the mornings during the week that Sogo-san was visiting, and one morning made miso soup for everyone. Guicho and Beto had never experienced miso soup, or tofu in any form, so this was a new and exciting revelation for them both. . . multi-culturalism at its best.

Joaquin and the Maestro will be evaulating Guicho's miso soup in the coming weeks and months.

No Roads to Yelapa

After a day of some classic American cinema enjoyed on the Primera Plus buses, we spent one night in a dumpy hotel on the beach in Puerto Vallarta -- I should have trusted my New York instincts when taking advice from the taxi driver, who I later realized steered us away from what was probably a much nicer joint. But no matter. We saw the ocean, drank a few beers on the beach then went and played pool -- incidentally, I've developed a special talent for winning every game when my opponent scratches while shooting the eight ball. You see? Actual skill is not always required in order to win.

Yelapa can only be reached by boat, and was a welcome relief from the multi-national corporation vibe that has all but destroyed Puerto Vallarta. There are no Hooters or Chili's or Starbucks to be found in this small fishing village, about a 40-minute boat ride from the resort-saturated beaches we left behind. There is, however, a collection of aging gringo hippies from the era when Bob Dylan and Dennis Hopper apparently frequented these tranquil, coarse-sanded shores. It struck me as an excellent location for those running from the law, opening the doors of perception, or matting the dredlocks.

Mexican Breakdancing

How many of you have ever seen someone breakdancing and smoking a cigarette simultaneously? Come on, now -- be honest. . . I watched with awe and fascination on my way to the track on Sunday as a group of Mexi breakdancers worked it out in a little gazebo in the Parke de la Cantador. Contradictions are what make people interesting, I guess.

My birthday was last week. By some miracle of chronology, I am 25, and yet still lived during the '70s. It's strange. I baked two cakes and three dozen cookies and Clara made some delicious appetizers. We all drank margheritas and ate cake on the roof, then headed out into the night to see what Tuesday had to offer in the salsa department. . . as it turned out, not much. So we came back to the roof -- our own little private club -- and had our own dance party.