notes and reflections

The house lies on a busy street, behind a battered, locked metal fence topped with cheap, worn plywood.  There is a small unlit courtyard that leads directly to a cold sitting-room entry.  Beyond that is a bedroom, to the right a long room that contains a kitchen with old, badly-used appliances and an adjacent dining room.  The walls are stark, white-painted and devoid of any decoration.  The only concession to taste is the furniture in the entry and dining room.  This is heavy wood, uncomfortable, with hand-carved, brightly painted fruit decorations. The simplicity of the home, its lack of personal touches, photos, paintings, wall hangings, speak loudly of the economic state of the owner.

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Some of the bodies are contorted, twisted as though trying to avoid the inevitability of death. Most are naked but a few still have remnants of clothing: a pair of socks, shoes, a gown, one, a French doctor, is nearly completely dressed in leathers.  All are the color of dried plaster of Paris.  All have gaping mouths, open in what appears to be a scream of agony, caused by the shrinkage and retraction of facial skin and muscles.

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For the past several weeks, Morelianos have been building toward December 12, the day that celebrates the appearance in 1531, of the Virgin Mary to a simple Aztec farmer, Juan Diego. According to the legend, La Virgen Morena, the dark virgin, first showed herself to the humble peasant on December 9th, commanding him to approach the local Bishop with the request to build a church on the hill where the encounter took place.  When Juan Diego conveyed the message to the Bishop, he was met with scepticism and asked to provide proof of the vision. Three days later, on December 12th, the Virgin appeared again to Juan Diego, on the same hill, Tepeyac, located to the north of what is now Mexico City.  As proof, the Virgin told Juan Diego to pick the roses that, despite the cold weather, miraculously bloomed on the crest of the hill and take them to the Bishop.  This Juan Diego did, gathering the roses in his cloak.  When he presented them to the Bishop an image of the Virgin was revealed on the inside of his cloak. This cloak, similar to the Shroud of Turin with its image of Christ, is still on display here in Mexico 576 years later. 

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A few weekends ago, just before the Night of the Dead, the 6th annual fair of "Pan Tradicional Michoacan," was held in the plaza adjacent to the Casa de las Artesianos in Morelia's centro district. For three day booths rimming the plaza were enthusiastically thronged by hundreds of lovers of baked goods of every variety from Morelia and nearby towns.

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For those of us without washing machines the neighborhood "Lavandaria" or laundry is an essential part of weekly life. Interestingly enough, it is also somewhat of a crapshoot in that the stuff you take to the laundry is not always exactly what you get back.  So far, on the negative side of the  ledger, I have lost a pillow case and several socks.  On the positive side I have received, but not kept, a very nice hotel  beach towel and a pair of jeans. This morning I took my bundle of soiled garments in for another experiment.  It will be interesting to see what I get back.

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The sprawling public market close to my apartment offers a bewildering array of unfamiliar foods.  In addditon to stall after stall of fresh flowers, vegetables and fruit (some completely unidentifiable), there are venders selling fish whose shapes and sizes I fail to recognize, small stands serving food, bins of unnamed grains, stacks of things bundled in dried corn stalks that I suspect are some sort of tamale, tubs of dried peppers of all variety and beans, beans and more beans, the uses and preparation of which I think you have to born understanding.  I'm sure I could eat like a king if I had only the slightest idea of how to cook this stuff.

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Not many cities can boast of having their very own candy factory but Morelia can.  And not only a factory.  Dulces Morelianos, founded in 1840 and located at 440 Avenida Madero Ote., offers a shop devoted to chocolate desserets, a small cafe, shelf-after-shelf of mouth-watering sweets and a candy museum.

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In the U.S., I have seen lone pedestrians at 2 and 3 in the morning along streets long emptied of traffic, standing patiently on corners waiting for the light to change.  In much of Morelia, such behavior would probably be regarded as proof of insanity.

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If you have an opinon to express or a cause to champion, the time to do so seems to be Sunday morning.  This past weekend there were two groups of paraders along the main street of Morelia.  The first group of over 1,000 was dressed in white and was registering its complaint against abortion. Closely following was the second, an equal number, endorsing a political candidate. This group wore bright red shirts with the letter F on them.  The two groups made an interesting contrast, the first serious, generally quiet and religious although armed with drums and many banners, the second more fun-loving with small girls turning handsprings, stiltwalkers, dancers and young men with bodies and heads painted silver and juggling flaming torches. Two political statements yet two very distinct methods of expression.

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Just a block west and south of the Basilica in Patzcuaro is the large city plaza dedicated to Don Vasco de Quiroga, the savior priest of the city.  There are three fountains in the plaza, with a statue of Don Vasco gracing the center and largest. Across the boundry streets on all sides are arcaded walkways with shops and restaurants where you can sit and enjoy a meal or a much needed piece of chocolate cake and a cup of coffee.  On Saturday and Sunday evenings the walkways and plaza are crowded with couples and families and, as in other plazas around Michoacan, here you can see troops of dancers performing the Baile de los Viejitos, the dance of the little old men.

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