notes and reflections

Just a few short blocks from the house I´m renting and adjacent to the surviving section of the massive stone aquaduct that from 1788 brought water to Morelia, is a delightful small park, the Jardin de Villalongin.  Around the four sides of this block-sized park are evenly-spaced iron benches beneath stout, closely-planted, native trees whose thick green crowns are trimmed identically to exactly resemble immense green cakes.

From this periphery, six stone-paved paths lead inward toward a center fountain, thus dividing the garden into six, low-hedged segments of lush green grass planted with Bougainvillea, roses and other flowers.  The round stone fountain itself dates from colonial days and is perhaps 30 feet in diameter.  In its center, supported by a thick decorated column, then a shallow bowl, stands a maiden amid metal reeds and cattails.  Under her left arm and steadied by her right hand, she holds a tilted vase that continuously pours water into the fountain beneath her, while gouts of skyward thrusting water form a curtain behind her.

This peaceful spot is a favorite photo location for brides and their male attendants.  On a recent weekend as I lingered on the park´s grass for half-an-hour, two groups posed happily.  The first, a bride in traditional shimmering white accompanied by six young men dressed as campesinos in their Sunday best:  black pants, white shirts buttoned to the neck under black vests and flat-topped, wide brimmed black hats;  the second group more flamboyant with the bride in a pale, vibrant, flamingo gown and her six sober young male companions hatless in black suits and white shirts with silk neckties that matched the bride´s gown.

There was no sign of a groom in either group and I found myself wondering if those celebrants were off somewhere else without a photographer as a witness, enjoying their last moments of freedom with their individual entourages of six giggling bridesmaids.