THE FIRST VIDEO shows pre-Hispanic, indigenous ruins that remain near where I now live. It’s about a 20-minute drive away.
The second is the nearby state capital. The park where the video takes off is about a five-minute walk from where I lived my first eight months in Mexico, from January to September of 2000.
I often sat alone on a bench in that small park with an ice cream cone and wondered what the devil I had done to myself.
But it all ended well.
SUNDAY MORNINGS my child bride slows down for a few moments. Idleness is contrary to her nature.
After bagels and Philly cheese at 8, we often take our cafecitos into the living room and plop atop the scarlet sofa.
That’s where I get an earful about her relatives. Since I have no idea what my relatives (just two alive now, above the Rio Bravo) are doing, I cannot reciprocate.
The son of a nephew here in town turned 6 yesterday. There was a fiesta with hot dogs. She went. I did not.
I noticed the far wall, which was lit by sunshine coming through the large dining room window to the left.
The camera was nearby, so I shot this photo.
The artwork we purchased some years ago from a fellow who walked into a downtown restaurant carrying it. He was the artist, and he was looking to sell. It’s a local scene.
It shows our lake, our beautiful mountains, and that’s how the indigenous women hereabouts dress.
The parrot, which is papier-mâché, was also purchased locally, but in a nearby village. The bird is large, and he keeps a vigilant eye on the living room 24/7.*
These Sunday morning sessions can vary in length. Today’s was relatively brief but — as always — nice.
* * * *
* I like to sound hip now and then. Does anyone even say hip anymore? Having to ask lowers my hip status, I guess.
THE BEST-LAID plans often fly awry. Our plan yesterday of doing lunch on the shore of a nearby, high-mountain, lake was thwarted by a huge traffic jam caused, it appeared, by the balloon festival downtown.
So we went in the other direction.
We ended up in a restaurant just past a village with the cute name of Tzintzuntzan where we had fish and chicken and mole and guacamole and sopa Tarasca.
Instead of returning directly home after dining, we continued all the way around our local high-mountain lake, a jaunt of just under an hour, depending.
This route is a rural two-laner with spectacular views of mountains and lake. One passes wandering burros and indigenous women toting this, that and the other.
During the ride, I snapped the above photo of a cemetery gate. The photo might have been better had I not forgotten that I’d put the camera on video mode earlier.
It was on video mode because just as we were leaving for lunch, it started pouring rain. I stood on the veranda and used the video of my Canon camera for the first time.
The rain ended quickly, and we had a great afternoon. At times, the other direction is the best route.
It’s a good Rule of Life.