So we did.
I love traveling with someone who's okay with spontaneity.
"I just need to buy some more socks."
Okay. Someone who's okay with spontaneity so long as he has enough socks.
In my many years living as an American from Colorado, I've observed that the topic of death is somewhat taboo. We treat it gently... with so many reservations and condolences and softeners.
Passed away.
In a better place.
At peace.
At rest.
Death doesn't play a very visible role in our lives. We separate ourselves from those with "one foot in the grave" by sending them to sterile nursing homes and hospitals as they wait to "kick the bucket". Once they're "pushing up the daisies", we try to move on. We remember our loved ones who've gone on to "join the choir invisible" by keeping a photo album on the coffee table or a portrait above the fireplace, but we do our best to compartmentalize.
Living.
Dead.
No in-betweeners allowed. Muchos gracias.
We go so far to separate ourselves from dying and death that we package our meat in a way that makes it look like something that never even participated in life.
It's ground beef.
It's not muscle of cow.
I think this is an enormous problem with much of western culture I've experienced (particularly in the States). We're just so damn linear. "Go west, young man!" commands us to move in one direction. Forward. Forward doesn't take circles into consideration. Forward doesn't permit cycles. Forward doesn't allow for time to heal a system of hidden costs, a land from overproduction or a man from overwork. Consideration of a cyclical life would force us to take more responsibility for our current exploitation of the environment.
Which would be tremendously inconvenient.
So we've adopted the genius strategy of wearing blinders that keep us looking straight ahead. There's no time to reflect on the decisions we've made and we've robbed ourselves of our periphery. There's only the break-neck race to the end of the track. Like speeding to a stop at a red light (god, I hate those people).
There's no bringing back the good ol' days.
And there's certainly no bringing back great-grandma Rose who died on her 99th birthday just about ten years ago. We prefer to think that dead stay dead and if they should happen to make a nuisance out of themselves in the form of haunting their favorite rocking chair or pacing back and forth in front of the stove, wishing they understood how to light the newfangled contraption you installed a few years after they "croaked", we get scared. Disconcerted. Our world of lines is officially rocked.
Mexican culture seems much more cyclical to me (take that with so many grains of salt. I've only been here for a week and a half). They may not be overly concerned with their environmental impact, but they do one day every year wherein their dead loved ones come back and visit them.
(the dead unloved ones can just piss off)
The Day of the Dead (Dia de Muertos) is thus a cheerful celebration. Offerings are made to all those relatives you like so much (and perhaps wish had hung around a bit longer). Their favorite tacos, salsas, tequila -- nothing seems too much to honor the dead who only get one day to halfway walk among the living. Children are involved in the entire celebration and are even taught how to make the "ofrendas" in school.
Aztecs and Mayans had a culture of human sacrifice. This communicates a rather casual view of life and death. Then the Spanish came, wiped out a good half of the local population via swords + smallpox and thrust Catholicism upon them.
The combination of extremely religious Spanish catholics with the uncomplicated ease of the indigenous people created a relaxed, accepting and deeply religious view of death.
There are jokes. Fun is poked. Children's toys are made out of skulls (why not?"). A skeleton Katrina stands at the entrance of your favorite cafe.
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| Eagle with snake on cactus. Mexico City. Churches and mole? Puebla. |
Something I find particularly interesting is that the indigenous people had no understanding of hell until the catholics arrived and told them that that's where they'd be heading. If they didn't shape up soon and get baptized, that is. And help out with the construction of churches. And pay their tithe. And start praying to saints and doing their Hail Marys.
The second museum we visited was the Palacio de Bellas Artes.
Originally built as a theatre in the late 1800s, it was torn down in 1910 and transformed into Mexico's most important cultural center in 1934.
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The artwork and the building itself were both breathtaking.
I might have said five words to Jonas during our entire wander.
And the five words might have been when we accidentally went down the wrong stairs in pursuit of an elusive gallery, and found ourselves facing three policemen rushing out of the building. Weapons drawn.
We ate a lunch of tacos (surprise!) and then went to browse an open-air book market and take a gander at the post office.
I've been wondering why Mexico is so bad at mail. Maybe looking at Mexico City's post office will help me understand what the problem is.
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| I really don't think this fellow ever stops smiling. |
This. This is the post office.
"Well... at least they've sacrificed functionality for prettiness. It would be a shame if my painted duck postcard didn't reach Miguel for some other reason... "
"... such as being too busy with Christmas decorations to bother sending the post."
We spent the evening reading at a bookstore near Chio's apartment. Getting to sit with a cappuccino and a fabulous book for four hours made me exquisitely happy.
Oh man... this is something I wish I could always have in my life. Cappuccino. Book. Time. Happening simultaneously. I probably won't get much of that during my stay in Puerto Escondido or by Lake Atitlan... but I love it so much.
So. Relish it now. That's all you can do.
Your life -- right now -- is about relishing things. Right now.
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