Las Parejas y Las Palomas

People over 60 in Guanajuato can often be found dancing after sunset in public places. They move slowly but deliberately, like tightrope walkers or trapeeze artists. Tonight they gathered in the Plaza de San Fernando -- one of my favorite plazas for its seclusion and for the elegant veil of trees that soars above it.

I have a favorite couple, too -- I've seen them four or five times now. The woman is taller, owing to the heels on her shoes. She has calves like a mountain climber. Tonight she wore black nylons and lovely white wedges with ankle straps. Her partner's ears are always carefully plugged to protect from the indelicacies of the sound system. His pants sit high above his waist.

I like the way they move together -- they have a kind of symbiosis that can only come from years of watching and listening to each other. There's also another couple I admire. The man, who must be pushing 80, has more movement in his hips than the Cuisinart in the tomatillo sauce we ate for breakfast this morning. I just hope I'm that sassy when I'm old.

Enjoyed three days in Hugo's studio in Piletas, a neighborhood up a very steep and narrow hill from the house where I live. We made monotype prints and ate luxurious lunches in the garden.

Scorpion in the dining room

Cuba Mia, Cuba Libre

I spent a couple evenings at the local salsa joint -- well, actually, there are two. Cuba Mia is the newer and trendier one, and is populated by a whole cast of hot young dancers who, I can only assume, are there every night choreographing their moves.

Went with a couple of my Mexican homeboys from school, along with a few other gringas. The Mexis promptly ordered bottles of Coke and Bacardi, which is the popular thing to drink when hanging out in a club. Lucky for me, I don't really like rum and Coke, so I didn't suffer from excessive dizziness while being spun around the dance floor.

Friday night's dancing escapade was followed up (after a few hours of sleep) by a salsa lesson on the roof of the house where I live. I think I may be getting closer to fulfilling my dream of being a "Solid Gold" competition dancer. . . or maybe a Fly Girl. Move over, J. Lo. I may have an Italian accent while speaking Spanish, but there's no oregano in my salsa.

After that, I took the bus to Irapuato -- a more industrial city about an hour from here. My friend Almendra invited me to meet her friends and go to a couple of parties with her. One woman at the birthday party, where we passed the afternoon and evening, had a cast on her nose and various black and blue marks on her face. I hesitated to ask because I wondered if she'd suffered some domestic abuse or some horrible accident. Fortunately, no -- she was just recovering from a nose job.

Baking in High Altitudes

Hugo and I drove up into the mountains last week in search of a sink for one of the new rooms that Joaquin and El Maestro are building on the first floor. Two of the most famous ceramicists in the area are brothers, whose names are Capelo and La Cruz, and they have houses right next to each other -- just beyond the hillside town of Valenciana. Along with sinks, both studios offer expansive vistas of the surrounding mountains and the city below. . . and in each house, we were greeted by a man with his fly wide open. Still formulating hypotheses about the significance of this startling phenomenon.

I've been enjoying having the time and mental space for nurturing my inner June Cleaver here in Mexico, and decided to do some baking last week for the printmakers who were visiting from Seattle and working in Hugo's studio. I made some cranberry-orange white chocolate cookies, but was disappointed when they came out flat and crispy rather than dense and profoundly delicious. After consulting both Hugo and my pastry chef homegirl in Portland, Oregon, I learned that one must a) reduce liquid and increase flour and b) use more baking powder and less baking soda when engaged in sweet endeavors above sea level. I also learned that the flour is softer here in Mexico. That explains a lot. . .

A travel writer for Frommer's visiting from Austin earlier passed through last week, as well. Really cool guy. He studied anthropology and did his thesis on psychadelic drugs. He was interesting and jovial and didn't seem to be any worse for the research he had done -- spoke perfect Spanish and was a wealth of information about travelling in Mexico.

Veronique, the sassy French bohemian who owns my favorite lunch spot, El Midi, hosted an evening of belly dancing and Moroccan music last week in commemoration of the Dia de San Valentin -- it came in stark contrast to the red, pink and chocolate spilling out of every plaza and street corner in town. . . U.S. imperialism reared its helium-filled head.

Loco Febrero

Guicho grew up in the country. If we need a weather forecast, we ask him and he goes outside, looks at the sky, and comes back with a report. After four or five days of dramatic storming interspersed with intense sunshine and blue skies last week and weekend, Guicho explained that this is 'Loco Febrero,' the month of rapidly alternating extremes. It only seems appropriate, given that this month is also the month of Valentine's day; perhaps the February weather here in Guanajuato reflects the heart and its predictably unpredictable vicissitudes.

Although I did notice the shelves at Mega stocked with Valentine's Day candy, a more noteworthy February holiday (at least to this gringa) was Candelaria -- the 40th day after Christmas. Remember when I found Jesus in the cake several weeks ago? Feb. 2nd was the appointed day that I was supposed to throw a party. I made a cake, and had some help with the rest of the food. According to the story, it was the day Christ was presented by his parents at the temple. I found this information online, by the way -- I sat at a whole table of Mexican people eating carnitas (gloriously fatty pork and tortillas), but none of them could explain the meaning of the holiday, or why we saw people in the streets carrying around Christ dolls swaddled in blankets. Religion is strange.

Met some wonderful people who stayed here at the b+b for a couple of nights -- Franz and Helga. Both German but have lived in the U.S. and abroad for the last 30 years. It's liberating to be some place where I don't have history with anyone (except Hugo), and yet where there are kindred spirits to be found. Franz and Helga have been married for 41 years, speak eight or nine languages between them, and have lived and travelled all over the world. Good role models.

Guicho and Clara and I had a marathon night of food, drink, billiards, karaoke and dancing. . .and on a Tuesday, no less. Clara and Guicho lost to a Mexican couple four or five times; I chose creation over competition.

Paradise is all right

If I needed more inspiration to take an early retirement, it was the last few days on the Costa Careyes in Jalisco state (home of tequila and of mariachi music). I stared out bus windows through the winding roads of the Sierra Madre Occidental, enduring endless hours of every movie ever made by Steven Segal -- who, incidentally, is better dubbed in Spanish. Some twelve hours, two buses and two taxi rides later, I arrived in a surreally beautiful, tranquil villa above the ocean, where I met an assortment of intrepid yoga practitioners from New York City -- including my friends David and Lya, who were the leaders and organizers.

The most fun I ever had while being vegetarian. . .

After a few days of morning and evening yoga and meditation, being served three colorful and sumptuous vegetarian meals every day by Don Manuel and his lovely ladies, swimming, snorkeling, reading and lazing around in perfect 80 degree weather, we were happy to continue doing more of the same. Among other things, we also got schooled by Lya about how to make delicious food from all raw ingredients. She seduced us with some kind of crazy spiced milk made from almonds and a chocolate mousse made with avocado. I was skeptical, but she totally pulled it off. Lya is sassy with raw foods.

La Boca de Cielo

Following Don Manuel's directions, we walked down a winding dirt road, past a ranch and some tennis courts and finally arrived at our own little piece of "Y Tu Mama Tambien," the boca de cielo -- a perfectly deserted beach with sparkling blue warm water and its own bar, staffed by a Japanese-looking Mexican dude with tatoos and a lip ring and the look of one familiar with the pleasures of hashish: our friend, June. June brought us some margheritas while we tested the hammock and contemplated the ways in which the business might stay afloat with so few customers. Hmm. . .