The appetizers for this traditonal Christmas Eve family gathering also reflect the economics of those assembled: bland, waxy cheeze cubes, sections of hot dogs, potato chips, a bowl of salsa and fruit punch.  The dinner is spartan, Spanish rice and chicken legs in a lightly-spiced mole.  For dessert there is jello.

There are eleven people in attendance ranging in age from their early twenties to one woman in her nineties. It is significant, perhaps, that there is only one man, the boyfriend of one of the middle-aged women.  He speaks little and steps outside from time to time to smoke and perhaps to sip from a flask, since his breath reeks of alchohol. This is a family of women, devout, unmarried or deserted by men, and if the evening's offerings and surroundings are meager, their affection for one another is profoundly obvious, the conversation is rich and warm, at times banal, sometimes serious, sometimes playful.

There is music.  Popular tunes played on a record player probably purchased 50 years previously.  There are solemn prayers, led by the nonegenarian before dinner. At midnight everyone embraces and kisses with wishes for a merry Christmas and there is a brief ceremony in which each in turn, as all sing, holds and rocks, then kisses a tiny plastic baby Jesus.

These are not the carefully preserved and shrouded remains of ancient people but the ghastly, modern earthly remains of some one hundred or more people pulled from their final resting places, strangely mummified by a combination of soil chemicals and dry heat, then put on display in the museum of mummys in Guanajuato, Mexico.  Here rest China Girl, Juan Jaramilto, Doctor LeRoy and others: a drowning victim, a man obviously murdered, the woman in the nightgown, small children, a woman apparently buried alive, possibly a catatonic mistaken for dead.  All victims of a mid-19th century law (since repealed) requiring the payment of a grave tax which, if unpaid by friends or family resulted in the exhumation of the deceased.

This macabre collection of bodies is one of Guanajuato's major tourist attractions, visited by visitors from abroad, gawking families with small children, groups of scouts on holiday, the curious, the insensitive. One passes through the museum wondering how these bodies, if permitted to speak, would respond to the attention.  Perhaps some, the most obscure or the most vain, would welcome the attention, the continuing acknowedgement of their existance. But I would suspect that most would be saddened and outraged that their lives have been reduced to this: to have become mere objects for observation, mere "things" without dignity for the living to profit by.

Today, La Virgen de Guadalupe is adored throughout Mexico and Latin America and her day has been a national holiday since 1859.

Not far from my apartment the Calzada de Guadalupe, a stone walking street several blocks long, leads to the Church of Guadalupe.  All this past week there have been processions of worshipers bearing flowers, icons of the Virgin and candles along the Calzada at the church end of which are brightly lit carnival rides and hundreds of stalls, selling everything from food to CDs and offering games of chance such as a carnival sideshow might offer, a shooting gallery, a ball pitch and others.

Last night I witnessed two processions of worshipers accompanied by bands as they passed along the street and approached the elaborately decorated church.  The somber throngs, the music, the candles, the flowers were all quite beautiful and quite moving.  Today, I saw another group also accompanied by musicians and bearing huge floral displays and a statue of the Virgin as they danced and twirled along Morelia's main street on their way to the calzada and I was again impressed at the profound devotion so many feel toward their special virgin, La Reina de Mexico.

This was no place to worry about gaining a few pounds and no display of mere bread.  Tables overflowed with cupcakes, breadsticks, croissants, custards, maize cakes, flan, soy cookies, sugar cookies, small pop-in-your mouth cookies and cookies as big as pancakes, bread rings, buns, rolls, fruit tarts, pan de muerte, loaves of bread in various shapes and sizes, some as big as throw cushions, and cakes, cakes, and more cakes: sugar-topped, lemon-topped, chocolate topped, cakes covered with sprinkles and cakes too big to carry. On one table were displayed less edible examples of the bakers' art:  baked goods in the shape of skeletons, the aquaduct and the Tarascan fountain.

Everywhere customers weighed down with shopping bags eagerly sampled, oohed, aahed and purchased, as I did.  After a pleasant couple of hours examining all this bounty and indulging in the more than occasional nibble,  I headed for home, my bag filled with fresh loaves, cookies and cakes, secure in the knowledge that, even if I had nothing else to eat in the house, the likelyhood  of immediate starvation was slim to none. 

Today, the 2nd of November, is traditionally the day when many families visit cemeteries, taking flowers, favorite foods and other things to the graves of departed loved ones.  This, to me, seems a wonderful tradition and reveals the emotional depth of the Mexican people. Morelia today is very quiet.  Streets normally crowded with parked cars and bustling traffic are virtually empty.  Many stores and businesses are closed to allow employees to observe the day. In the narrow, romantic alley across from my apartment, the already picturesque fountain is festooned with orange carnations, the official flower of the rememberance.  Just down from the Tarascan fountain, the stone benches lining the length of the walking street that leads to the Morelos Plaza, La Calzada de Guadalupe, are covered with thousands of white paper sacks containing candles that, last night lit the entire avenue. It is a day to remember, much like the American Memorial Day, yet more carefully observed and much more profound.

There is something about automobiles and traffic that is capable of frustrating even the politest of people.  To alleviate this frustration, there is the horn and in any situation here in Morelia where traffic is stacked hopelessly behind some temporarily immovable obstruction, there will inevitably be one or more motorists who honk.  Since it is usually apparent to all those similarly blocked that movement is impossible, this seems not to be an act with any other purpose than to vent one's feelings.  Thus expressing yourself can have consequences however, some of them amusing  The other day I observed one of them: a man, possibly in his 40s, who had just honked at a line of stalled traffic was being beaten with a purse  on the shoulders by a frail, very elderly woman in the back seat who I took to be his mother.  "Your license to drive," she seemed to be rather effectively saying, "doesn't give you license to ignore the good manners I taught you."

The tradition of candy dates back hundreds of years in Mexico and has provided the world with many of the ideas and ingredients used in candy manufacturing everywhere.  Prior to the arrival of the Spanish, indigenous people used honey, fruit, seeds and nuts to make sweets.  Chocolate was introduced by the Mayans when they moved from Guatemala to the Yucatan around 600 AD, and became so sought after that the Aztecs used the beans for money. Ten beans and you could buy a rabbit for dinner. Vanilla was first cultivated by the Totonac people who lived near present-day Vera Cruz and soon began to be combined with chocolate in drinks.

With the Spanish came sugar and eggs and nuns who refined the candy making process using native recipies. The end results are all available at Dulces Morelianos: candies derived from quince, papaya, pear, peach, guava and tamarind; jellied treats similar to those made in Armenia and Cashmere, Washington; bite-size chocolate and vanilla candies; fruit pastes; nut candies and a bottled milk-and-spice based drink called Rompope, that tastes like rich eggnog.

The entire operation is presided over by young clerks dressed in mid-nineteenth century costumes:  the women in demure, floor-length, long-sleeved dresses, the men in period caps and wearing black trousers with vests or suspenders over crisp, white shirts and neckties.

To the rear of the business is the museum where you can watch a short video about the history of Mexican candy, see a cook demonstrating how fruit concentrates are made and taste a small sample.

No, there are no Oompah-loompahs, no Gene Wilder or Johnny Depp wandering the premises or the adjacent souvenir shop but what is there is a feast for the eyes and the palete and well worth a visit.

It is not that Morelia's citizens are scofflaws.  The city is encircled by a major highway and the rights of movement along it and along many of the broad arterials within the city that connect its many parts are generally respected by motorists and pedestrians alike. It is in the smaller neighborhoods served by narrow, one-way streets and in the historic center of the city that a form of mobile and ambulatory anarchy exists.  Few of the small neighborhoods have traffic lights and thus the right to proceed at intersections is frequently determined by which vehicle arrives first or, when two vehicles arrive simultaneously, which one can bluff the other out and scoot across quickly without being t-boned. Pedestrians in these areas cross streets at any place and any time they feel they can affect the voyage without significant bodily injury.

This is true, too, along Madero, the heavily traveled main street of the city's historic center.  Here there are traffic lights, albeit frequently ignored and totally unique.  As these lights change to signal that pedestrians are free to cross intersections, a small animated man appears on the light along with a countdown which represents the amount of time the pedestrian has before he or she is flattened by onrushing traffic.  At first the little man moves leisurely but as the countdown proceeds, he begins to move faster.  During the last 3-to-4 seconds of the countdown he breaks into a run, an amusing but fair warning.  Traffic waits like a snorting bull and anyone caught in a crosswalk at this point would be well advised to at least break into a trot.

Sitting in the spacious lobby of the Hotel Virrey de Mendoso and looking up you see a remarkable ceiling made entirely of stained glass.  I imagine vertical stained glass windows, although fragile, must not be that difficult to install, but this is huge and completely horizontal and it makes you wonder, "How in the world did they do that?"

Mexico is not a wealthy country but that is sometimes difficult to believe as you watch the steady stream of shoppers wheeling their overladen shopping carts out of Costco or Sam's Club on a weekend. Carts overflow with everything from several month's supply of toilet paper, corn flakes, detergent and beer to George Foreman grills, Coleman camp stoves, dinnerware, lawn chairs and mattresses. By mid September the large stores here already had their Christmas decorations on display, right next to  the Halloween masks and costumes. Consumerism  is alive and well.,

Watching a small, smiling girl holding her mother's hand and skipping across a parking lot I wonder what genetic miracle has given little girls this delightful ability.  Little boys seem to run, jump or gallop and occasionally  run into things much like small bulls in china shops and, although little girls can do those things too, they also skip. Viva la diferencia!

The dancers range in age, sometimes including at least one child as young as seven or eight, although I have seen one troop with a child who could not have been more than five.  All of them wear masks representing old men, pink as though flushed with age, with prominent noses and jutting chins, sometimes with white mustaches but generally framed with long white hair and I have been told that these were adopted to mock the Spanish.

Their costumes may vary slightly but envariably consist of a wide-brimmed, flat-topped straw hat festooned with multicolor ribbons, white pantaloons and shirts under a fringed serape, which usually is either red or white with patterns. Each dancer carries a bamboo cane which he leans on,  stiffly bent at the waist like an old man humbled by age and labor when watching the others dance, or which he carries across his back either vertically or horizontally as he dances.  At times the cane assumes other characteristics, serving as a horse or as a link to bind the dancers together.

On their feet all wear flat, hard leather sandals and it is these that make the dances what they are.  As they are accompanied by musicians playing bass, guitars and violins, the performers stamp their feet in alteration much like clog dancers or make small jumps to land on both feet simultaneously to the rhythm of the music, sometimes singly, sometimes as pairs, sometimes as lines facing one another, sometimes in a group moving in exaggerated half time, then transitioning with the music into regular time or suddenly breaking into double time.

As individual dancers the noise produced by their slapping sandals on the stone surfaces of the plazas is like rippling rhythmic firecrackers and can be made doubly so by the fact that the soles of their sandals are hinged, allowing them to  make two distinct sounds as the dance requires. As an ensemble the effect is a rolling, crackling rhythm you can feel down to your toes.

The troops perform a variety of dances and each tells a story as when the dancers move slowly in a circle, each holding onto  the end of a cane offered by another, a moving portrayal of very old men supporting one another, or as when the smallest dancer breaks into a wild, spinning dance, a miniature human top recalling the dancer's youthful exhuberance and energy.

Trying to exactly define what the dance is, is difficult.  In some ways it's like tap.  In others like clog dancing or Riverdance. But it is none of these.  It is distictively unique.  Fascinating.  Mexican.

The effectiveness of this appeal nonetheless, lacks the visceral authenticity, the conviction and the urgency of real bells since these are not the carefully wrought and individual voices of foundry bells but mere recordings that sound quickly and sharply in the day´s still air, lacking the sonorous, echoeing resonance of brutal clapper against cast iron.  They are imitations needing no Quasimoto´s hands to tug the tower ropes.  They are therefore false but nonetheless simultaneously true, simulacrums that reflect the advance of technical efficiency over more laborious albeit more satisfying endeavors.  In this sense they are not unlike the attitudes toward religion itself held by so many, perhaps not so strongly here in a country with such a strong inbred history of religion, where taxi drivers solemnly cross themselves as they careen past churches, but certainly elsewere, an attitude that reflects not a deep, abiding, unquestioning and comfortable faith but one that pretends acceptance with a fervor no deeper than the water in a saucer.

More easily understood, believable and practical in the life of the city than these sanctuary bells is the message of the Bell Man.  These men or older boys walk the neighborhoods of the city constantly ringing a large handbell to remind householders that the garbageman is coming. Their message is sharp yet like those of the churches, somewhat imprecise.  "Yes," it says.  "The garbageman is coming. No, he´s not here yet.  It may be several hours.  But it will happen. Today. Sometime. Probably soon. Trust me.  I´m the Bell Man."

The source of the river and its pure, drinkable water, is an underground spring located just inside the entrance to the park. According to legend, the site for this spring was once a dry, stone-enclosed basin presided over by the devil himself whose main preoccupation at the the time wasn`t to gather souls for hell but to prevent the underground spring from emerging.  Perhaps sensing the lurking power of the river, entreaties were made and a priest came and blessed the spot, causing the river to burst forth and ousting the devil in the process.  As he fled, probably cursing all priests and this one in particular, the devil tripped and skinned his knee on trhe rocky shelf of the basin and hence its name, La Rodilla de Diablo, the devil`s knee.

In case there is any doubt about the veracity of the legend, a small, white arrow is painted on the rocks to indicate exactly where the devil slipped. There is nothing in the legend to indicate anyone offered him a bandaid.

The game was invented by the Olmecs who were the world´s first to discover rubber, some claim about 3,000 years ago. (In fact, their name, "Olmec" in Aztec, means the rubber people.) One report I read said they invented raincoats and I imagine they were hard at work on automobile tires when someone came up with the rubber ball. One can almost imagine the conversation that resulted.  "Hey, look at this thing.  It bounces a little.  I bet we could invent a game kind of like basketball." "Cool."

And so they did. They called the game Tlachtli and it was played by two teams in a walled, sunken court with a stone hoop mounted sideways. The ball could be played off the stone walls of the court but could not touch the ground, nor could it be touched by hands or feet.  This made scoring so extremely hard that the first team to score, won. The ball, too, was hard since it was made of natural rubber and was quite capable of shattering bones if it came off the wall with sufficient velocity. Despite this, the game spread and was adopted by the Mayans, Aztecs, Toltecs, Mixtecs and others, including the Purapechans.  With the Aztecs the game was played exclusively by prisoners of war and the losing side was sacrificed.  (A real incentive to win.)  A different account I read claimed in another more accepting Indian culture, only the losing coach was beheaded, for which the losing players were deeply grateful.  This is a practice apparently studied and adopterd by US football team owners who fire their coaches after a losing season or two.

In addition to the pure fun everyone was having, there were religious significations to the game and it was watched closely by priests for omens probably relating to weather, crops or relations with other Indian groups.  ("Cripes, he missed that one completely.  It may not rain for months!")

The Purapechan population in the present-day state of Michoacan was large and the language is still spoken.  The game, too, continues to exist although much changed and primarily for the benefit of tourists.  The ball is softer and the only thing sacrificed at the end is the reputation of the losing team.

The island is a popular destination for families and tourists, and tour boats, 50´slender motor launches, which leave the docks of Patzcuaro every few minutes for the 25-to-30 minute trip.  Taking advantage of the lake´s reputation for fish, venders sell small nets to children prior to boarding so they can skim the lake surface during the trip in hopes of landing a finny souvenir.  That fish are present is attested to by the scores of white herons standing motionless and hopefully along the shores as the boat passes.

As the launches near the island they slow to a stop as native fishermen in narrow, shallow wooden boats swarm past trolling the water with their picturesque butterfly nets.

Despìte its isolated location, as you discover after disembarking at Janitzio, the island survives comfortably by fishing and the constant stream of tourist-laden launches.  Restauants set back from the quay offer, in addition to staples of beef and chicken, island specialties such as Pescado Blanco (white fish) and Caldo de Pescado (fish broth).  The concrete quay itself supports dozens of stalls selling everything from iced mango cups  to corn on the cob, tacos, souvenir cups and plates, inexpensive silver jewelry, breadsticks shaped like cacti, religious icons and paintings, T-shirts, wallets, key holders, sandals, wooden toys and a multitude of other crafts.

In truth, except for a few items with the Janitzio name on them, nearly everything here can be purchased on the docks of Patzcuaro or at street fairs thoughout the city.  But that´s beside the point of course.  The point is you browse the displays and probably buy something for the same reason you buy the toy lion tamer´s whip and the wand with the twirling, chirping bird at the end and the peanuts and the cotton candy at the circus.  You buy something because you´re here and the trinkets are part of the experience to help you remember a pleasant boat trip and a visit to a store in the middle of a lake. 

As a child of four and five, I remember going to the park a block from my grandparent`s apartment in Helena, Montana, to listen to a brass band whose members dressed proudly in resplendent red and gold uniforms.  The same park was used on Easter for Easter egg hunts and on Sundays, if I grew inattentive as many young children will, I would spend my time rolling like an over-large, undiscovered egg down the grassy slope behind the bandstand.

I´m sure most of those small town bandstands are long gone or have long since ceased to be used but here the tradition continues with free Sunday noon musical programs sponsored by the Secretary of Tourism.  The music performed varies but is always well attended by perhaps as many as two-to-three-hundred people.  Two weeks ago the performance was by a Mariachi band with a male singer dressed like a vaquero, a Mexican Gene Autry complete with wide-brimmed sombrero and a pistol.

This past Sunday´s group was ¨Yesterday,¨ and they performed hits by the Beatles, Buddy Holly, Ben King and the Doors, all in English.  It`s unlikely than many in the crowd completely understood the lyrics of such hits as I`ll Send All My Love to You,¨¨Ëverybody Tries to be My Baby Now,¨ ¨Stand by Me,¨ ¨Light My Fire,¨ Let it Be,¨¨Yesterday¨ and ¨Imagine,¨ but they all seemed to recognize the music, often from the first few chords.

The band played for an hour and a quarter and each song was applauded enthusiastically, proving once again that music is universal and, perhaps most of all, the ageless, singable music of the 60s.   

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.

Since I made my living most of my life by writing, starting this blog was a no brainer.  Hopefully it will give me an outlet to express my opinions about this new place and some of the surrounding areas.

So...stay tuned.  With luck perhaps you and I will both learn something and enjoy the experience.

Michael Matson

Morelia

2007