Margheritas on the rocks with salsa

In the immortal words of Bob Dylan, 'when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose.' This is my attitude about speaking foreign languages -- or any language, really. Gather a few bits and pieces, do your best to cobble them together into semi-coherent statements, and you have about a 50% chance of communicating. Yesterday I had an extensive conversation in Spanish with the woman working at the beauty supply store. Actually understanding each other is always another issue, which is why my hair is now a very strange color.

A more triumphant communication experience this week was the beginning of salsa classes at the Casa de la Cultura. Of course, you don't really have to be able to talk to be able to dance -- a relief. I'm told that the Mexicans who really know how to dance salsa are from Mexico City -- the 'Chilangos,' as they're called around here. The thing about partner dancing -- at least in Latin America -- is that the hombres really need to know what they're doing; it's their job to manage the dance, while the women need to be able to follow along with some rhythm. All this is a way of explaining the irony of a salsa class with 15 or 16 Mexican ladies of all ages, a couple of gringas, a lovely cologned and minty-breathed teacher named Miguel. . . and ONE male student. Come on, guys. . . honestly.

Anyway, Clara and I had a few of our Mexican friends over to the roof deck for margheritas this week. Notice our proximity to the Templo de la Compania -- always nice to keep redemption in sight, even while blaspheming by way of tequilla.

Guicho y Clara

Los sombras y los angelos

Last week I found Jesus in a piece of cake, and this week I found my shadow. What next? It's finally starting to get warm here and I'm planning to initiate some rooftop yoga classes with guests here at Alma del Sol, my home here in Guanajuato, Mexico.

Some of the highlights of everyday are, of course, the culinary offerings of this sensuous culture. Clara -- who has become my gringa partner in crime and who works as a chef in St. Louis -- departed from our usual exotic salsas and moles and served biscuits and gravy for breakfast this morning. Guicho, who I have adopted as my younger brother, looked at the gravy suspiciously and decided to stick to something more familiar. . . something with chiles.

The Downes Method endures, even south of the border. . . I was approached early this week at La Escuela Mexicana, where I'm taking ten hours a week of Spanish language courses, by a couple of the teachers seeking assistance with their New Year's resolution to get in shape. So Almendra -- who is 26, a lawyer, and the only one of her girlfriends who isn't married -- and Juan Carlos -- 20, gay, chubby and adorable -- and I have been making daily pilgrimages to the track, where I run them around and engage them in various death-defying calesthenic exercises. Yesterday, as Juan Carlos and I were finishing our final lap, a guy named Miguel Angel emerged from the shadows and asked me to come teach at the school where he trains martial arts. I think I understood about 70% of what he said, including that he works as a security guard at the prison. Angel walked back into town with us, but disappeared quickly when Juan Carlos and I stopped to watch some older people rocking the Danzon on a make-shift stage in the middle of the street. We'll see if he appears again.

I found Jesus in a piece of cake.

My first day of an extended stay in Mexico, and wouldn't you know it? I found Jesus! Yes, it's true. It is the day of the Epiphany, after all, and I experienced the revelation of God in the form of a small white plastic Jesus figurine while slicing into the traditional King's Day cake. Beginner's luck, I guess. It's not the first time I've contemplated the elevated nature of baked goods, but today was probably the most literal experience of God in cake in the life of this writer.