I’m off to Lulu’s this morning to meet up with some foreign friends. A couple of Ukrainians have come down from Mexico City, and an Israeli writer friend is visiting from Guadalajara.
I’ve always loved that Mexico is a country that takes people in; in the early 30s, it was Leon Trotsky settling in Mexico City after being kicked out of Turkey, France, and Norway. The country opened its doors to thousands of Lebanese in 1948, and again to those fleeing Israel’s six-day war. The Mexican communist party helped hundreds of Americans escape the witch-hunts of the House Un-American Activities; the dark ages of smear campaigns, character assassinations, and fake news.
Mexico became a refuge for people with links to the national and international artistic movement, with writers finding their way to Chapala and San Miguel de Allende. Some critics say that D. H. Laurence reinvented himself in Ajijic. Mexico City was a magnet for Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs during the Beatnik days.
Allen Ginsberg, from Janitzio Island in Lake Itzicuaro, wrote what would eventually inspire his poem Howl.
Ukrainians have found their way here to avoid military conscription, much the way that American young men found refuge in Canada during the Vietnam War years. I don’t ask these young men about their immigration status, but I suspect Mexico is generous with asylum. They might be considered political refugees.
And it’s perfect weather for walking. It’s about nine or ten houses up the street from my property to the Boulevard. Miguel de la Madrid, and every one of these homes has a large yard and multiple dogs. I’ve walked the street enough that the dogs know me and are usually quiet.
This was not one of those days. Something set the dogs off this morning; maybe a raccoon or street vendor.
Whatever presented itself as a threat to their territorial imperative did not matter; they were upset and loud. Sofia’s brindles were going off as naturally talented altos, Isidro’s boxers were the new three tenors, the beagles were holding their own as sopranos, and somewhere a teacup Chihuahua was showing off as a perfect pitch castrati. But the unique quality of all this barking was that it was well timed and together. It was as if one of the curs was conducting a slow waltz, and I was tripping down the street three beats to the bar.
Some mornings, I miss the important narrow window of time. Those two hours of cool air you’ll enjoy if you get out and about at first light. It’s the tropics in summer. Some days I get up a little too late. These mornings, I’m more likely to head for the hammock, which I find to be an equally valuable use of my time. Doing nothing.
If you decide on a walk, listen to the music on the street and find your Dithyramb. Try to make it a three-quarter day, and remember life really is just a dance.
