Return to Guanajuato…again…(and again?)

Well, here I am again in Guanajuato, and after insisting to anyone who would listen that this was probably my last trip here, I am feeling very happy to be back in this familiar and welcoming city—and all bets are off!

The timing coincides with the publication of the 13th issue of La Presa, the bilingual literary journal published by Embajadoras Press and edited by the amazing Lee Gould. I’m delighted that the following piece appears in that issue. And it’s a coincidental symmetry that it was written just a couple of days after I arrived here last year.  

You can read the full issue of La Presa on the EP website, www.embajadoraspress.com

Fiesta

The person sitting beside me is eating the head of a lamb. I am trying not to watch, but my eyes keep returning to the spectacle. The eye sockets stare vacantly toward my plate, where a small piece of meat from the animal’s lower body is wrapped in a tortilla and sprinkled with salsa. No pica mucho, they said—it’s not very hot—as I reached for the salsa with eyebrows raised, an implicit query from a chili-averse Anglo. 

My mouth burns. I nibble at my beans and take a sip of wine. My table-mate has peeled off the outer meat and uses his fingers to scoop the brain from between the bones of the skull while a mariachi band belts out music and fellow partiers leave their seats to dance. They return with plates re-heaped with tortillas, meat, beans. A cake waits on the sidelines.

I’m in a bit of a stupor. I’ve been in Mexico for less than twenty-four hours and am still recovering from a day of airport delays and confusion. My never-adequate Spanish is even less adequate than usual as conversation floats around me in voices raised to be heard above the blaring music. Some people are singing along. A bottle of tequila makes its way around the table. The man beside me licks his fingers and pours a shot. 

I know this man. He is a family physician, friends with my Mexican family, the man who first suspected Jack was seriously ill. I try to strike up a conversation, but it’s too loud. Thankfully, someone whisks the now-bare skull away.

Across the table, a huge, pink, blow-up number 40 is attached to the wall. Cristina, the eldest daughter in my Mexican family is celebrating a milestone birthday, and a multi-generational group of 20 has gathered. I am no doubt the oldest, although the doctor with the lamb’s head is close. 

Children tear through the carport where the festivities are taking place, occasionally accompanied by a dog that is supposed to be chained. Parents and children dance in threesomes or foursomes, babies in arms. There is no break between songs. Someone shouts for a polka. 

The woman on the other side of me leaps to her feet and rushes toward the band, where she separates the guitarist from his instrument and pulls him onto the dance floor. I think perhaps the guitarist is her husband, but in fact she has never seen him before. Everyone claps and cheers while Marco, Cristina’s husband grabs the guitar and pretends to play. 

I am tapping my feet. If Jack were here, we would dance. I am suddenly lonely. My body sways to the music, and I see Cristina tap Marco and gesture toward me. I will dance after all, and people will clap, and I will forget for a moment that I am jet-lagged and overwhelmed.  

This is a Mexican fiesta. It reminds me that I am not a Mexican—and that, on some level, I wish I were.