Kinship With the Sailor

Is it naiveté that suggests to me that I share a kinship with the sailor? I know nothing of boats or tides, bows, sterns, port or starboard, but somehow a part of me is convinced that the sailor and I bear a likeness. This sentiment is not altogether ungrounded. I am a son of the prairie. We're not the covered wagons, used when white men first traversed this land, called prairie schooners? Did not Laura Ingalls Wilder remark in her Little House series about the similarities between the wind-blown prairie grass and the rolling swells of the sea? Cannot both prairie and sea leave one with the sense of having departed altogether from the rest of humanity? Is not the ocean, like the prairie, a vast and flat expanse disappearing into an unending horizon? Did I not, while studying in the tree-strewn, suffocating crush of Mississippi River Valley bluffs and cities, find solace looking across the enormous flat openness of Lake Superior?

These comparisons, however, are weak metaphors. They express similarity, but at the cost of revealing deeper dissimilarity. My kinship with the sailor rests not in what lies below us, but rather on that which graces the sky above. Only on the sea or on the prairie has one ever really seen the moon, and the stars.

By way of habit, I always scan the night sky, looking to find the Big Dipper. There it hangs, always visible, always in the north. When I know where north is, I also know where home is. Only when I visited Australia could I not find the Big Dipper. It was disconcerting. Though I have never been required to navigate across unknown distances guided only by the stars, these nautical road signs have guided me in other ways. As an undergraduate, the movements of Orion told me when it was time to go to bed. If he had disappeared from view, I was up too late. In moments of doubt, to look at the stars and from them be able to look toward home gave me courage. In times of loneliness, to know that my family could step outside and see the same stars as I saw gave me comfort. The stars ground; they tell me where I am, and where I come from. They remind me who I am.

I think think this must be true for sailors as well. Modern navigational equipment aside, I think they must all know that when worse comes to worst, the stars can guide them home. There is something holy about such knowledge. God Himself, after all, led the Magi by a star. Is it so strange that he should use them to lead me as well, to remind me who I am and in so doing, remind me whose I am?

Untroubled By the Snow

Sitting in my overstuffed chair watching the snow fall more than halfway through April is hardly the stuff of serenity for me, and yet somehow this evening I find that I bear no resentment toward the snow even after she nearly killed me on I90 trying to get to my priest fraternity gathering. I made it as far as Sturgis before contemplating abandoning my plans, but the couple of miles between Sturgis and the National Cemetery were enough to convince me. A wasted 36 miles on slippery roads? Oh well. It is wet, and wet is what this dry old land needs.

This serenity that I experience has little to do with the weather. Rather, I am a man in love. Having nearly accomplished a year in my current assignment, I find that I am deeply content. These are my people. I am their priest. They trust me. I trust them. If we were a couple, we would be approaching the stage where we could freely flatuate in the presence of the other.

In a word, I am content. I've learned a great deal about loving in the last few years. I think I'm getting the hang of it. I wonder if that means they will have to move me again.

Confirmation 2013

It was my privilege to once again serve as a Confirmation Sponsor for a young man at the Cathedral Parish.  I am also spiritual director for another young woman.  This letter accompanied their gift.

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It was Shakespeare’s Juliet Capulet who immortalized the question “What’s in a name?”  Indeed, for her, it was only a name that created the barrier between her and the freedom to love as she wished.  All too glibly, however, did she and the overwrought fans of star-crossed lovers ignore the profundity of the question Juliet poses.  What is in a name?  To my mind, it is much more than an appellation to which we are conditioned to respond from our infancy.   There is a great deal in a name.

Many ancient cultures were of the opinion that to know the name of another gave one power over that person.  To speak their true name was to control them.  In a certain way this makes sense, I suppose.  One has but to call my name in a crowded room, and I immediately respond to their beckoning.  Likewise, sundry old ghost stories and childhood dares pivot upon the act of repeating the grotesque name of some ghoulish specter.  Perhaps more to point, God Himself uttered His name only to Moses, and from then on the Hebrew people held his name in great reverence, never presuming to speak it, and punishing as blasphemers those who did.  Moreover, by commanding that the cripple be healed in the name of Jesus, Peter restored him to full bodily integrity.  To use God’s name gives one power and authority.  Aside from His own name, in the Scriptures, God seems to emphasize the importance of the names of His own people.  Abram and Sarai become Abraham and Sarah upon entering into a covenant with the Lord.  Jacob becomes Israel.  Simon becomes Peter.  Saul becomes Paul.  In each instance, this name change accompanied a new relationship with the Lord in which the new relationship became the defining characteristic of the person’s life.  Names are powerful.   In a way, it could be said that a name becomes the shorthand expression of the very essence of who a person is.  To use a name is to make present the depth and breadth of a person.  A name is more than a name; it is who a person is.

If what I propose is true, a rather startling question begins to emerge.  If, when my name is uttered or when it is set to paper in my signature, it calls to mind the very depths of who I am, should I not be able to provide some more thoroughgoing articulation of that reality?  In other words, do I know who I am?  It is toward that end that I direct the remainder of my observations.  

There are, with all people, those things which make them unique.  So it is with you.  Your family of origin, your humor, your hobbies, your interests, and your intellect are all tied up in what it is to be you.  These things are important, and they are part of what I admire and find fascinating about you.  They are not, however, at their core, the most important things.  You are much more than these.

First and foremost, you are the beloved son of the Father.  This, more than all else, defines you.  He made an irrevocable claim upon you in your baptism, and He has loved you with a love beyond our ability to express in words from then until eternity.  He has loved you at your best, and He has loved you at your worst.  He rejoices in your triumphs, He stands by you in your miseries, and He never changes his mind about you.  No sin you have committed, no sin you can commit will ever prompt him to love you less.  You are His.  Forever.  He will never abandon you.  So must you never abandon Him.

Because the Father loves you, you are good.  I love my priesthood, and I cannot imagine another life for myself, but this calling has not been without its moments of suffering.  Most poignant, however, have been those moments when I have seen the goodness within you even as you struggled to recognize it in yourself.  Thus, I cannot reiterate emphatically enough that you are good.  You are not perfect.  You are prone to sin.  As with all of us, you are still working out your salvation.  This, however, does nothing to detract from your goodness.  You are good because God has decided that you are good.  In those moments when your goodness seems far from you, when sin seems to overwhelm you, and when you feel most wretched, please remember that I have never doubted your goodness, and if I can see it, dull-witted though I am, surely God who made you can see it all the more.

Because God has chosen you, and because you are good, you also, in a particular way through the sacraments you have received, are an image of Christ in the world.  You bear His mark.  You carry Him in the world.  You are not like other people, you are like Him.  This too, defines you.  Already you have begun to experience the difficulties of choosing to live in a manner contrary to that of your peers.  These challenges will continue.  It will be easier to be like other people.  Resist this temptation.  Do not be like them.  You are made for glory.  Pursue it always.

Fountain Pens and Stationary

All of these things and more are implied whenever someone pronounces your name.  This reality becomes even more prominent when you set your name to paper.  In applying your signature, you attest to the truth of some claim or you vow to keep some promise, and you offer the very depths of who you are as guarantor.  As I have established, who you are is no small thing.  It is a weighty matter to speak your name, and even weightier to write it.  As such, one should have a means by which to apply one’s signature the dignity of which corresponds with the task it is meant to accomplish.  Toward that end, please accept the gift that accompanies this letter.

Yours paternally in Christ,

Fr. Tyler Dennis     

The Greatest of These is Love

The following is more or less the homily I delivered a week or two ago.  I was asked to write it down, so here it is: 

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"In the end, only three things remain."

In his epic poem, The Iliad, the Greek Poet, Homer, tells the tale of the beautiful woman Helen, and how she abandons her Greek husband to flee to the island state of Troy to be the bride of the Paris, a prince of that city.  In the story, the two principle heroes are Achilles, a Greek warrior, and Hector, the older brother of Paris.  For both men, in all that they do, the strive after honor.  To their minds, and in the minds of all ancient Greeks, this was a virtue beyond all others, because in achieving honor by means of heroism in battle or by some other means, they could provide for themselves some sort of immortality.  They would live forever in the memories of their people.  That I speak of them here suggests that they were right.

The Iliad provides helpful context in understanding St. Paul's First Letter to the Corinthians.  Corinth was, at its inception, a Greek city imbued with Greek culture and ideas.  Later, after Rome captured Palestine and the surrounding areas, Corinth would become a Roman city influenced by Roman culture, but it would retain mush of its original cultural identity.  Corinth was an important city, sitting at the crossroads of a variety of trade routes, and it was widely acknowledged as a city of opulence, wealth.  People tended to be somewhat better educated than other places in the world.  Corinth was also a city filled with houses of ill repute and the sort of businesses that attracted vagabonds, sailors, and traders far from home.  In a way, it was a bit like the ancient version of Las Vegas.  It was in this city, steeped in the culture and traditions of the ancient Greeks, that St. Paul established a Christian Community.  Having gotten that community on its feet, Paul continued on his missionary journey, leaving the community in the capable hands of a bishop he had appointed.  There were troubles, however, and Paul was forced to write a letter to the community trying to correct their errors.

It is from this letter and about these troubles that we receive St. Paul's teaching in 1 Corinthians about the body of Christ.  The Christians of that community had been experiencing all varieties of spiritual gifts: prophecy, words of wisdom, speaking in tongues, and the interpretation of tongues.  And they argued about which of these spiritual gifts bestowed the greatest honor upon its recipient.  For this reason, Paul reminded them that as Christians, each of them had a role to play, just as in the body, each part must play its role, lest the body fail to function.  If a foot wants to be a mouth, the body will not work right.  If a hand wants to be the stomach, the body will not work right.  Likewise, in the Church, there are no roles of greater of lesser glory and honor.  Everyone has a part to play, and if he fails to do so, Christ's Body becomes ineffective in its mission.  

Paul ends his analogy of the body by reminding the Christians of Corinth that regardless of the gift they had been given and the degree to which they had been given it, their exercise of that gift would be meaningless if the failed to exercise it for the sake of love.   He begins his excursis, "I shall show you now a still better way," and then goes on to describe the qualities of love, finally finishing by insisting that the ability to prophecy would come to an end, that the ability to speak and interpret tongues would come to an end, and that all would disappear, except three things: "faith, hope, and love; and the greatest of these is love."  God, he was telling them, would care little about which of the gifts they had received or how often they had received them.  In the end, none of these things would matter.  All that remained would be faith, and hope, and love.  Did they exercise these gifts for the sake of these virtues?  Most especially, did they use the gifts that they had been given for the sake of love?

This passage has profound and immediate practical implications for all of us today, because it means that just as the Corinthians were expected to exercise the gifts they ad been given for the sake of love, so must we.  It means that rather than doing what I must out of a sense of obligation or for the sake of recognition, I do it for love and for God's Greater Glory.  I cook breakfast for my family not because I am obliged to, for the sake of love.  I fry eggs in the morning for God's greater glory.  I drive icy roads to a job I don't particularly enjoy for the sake of love, as a way of giving out of myself and my resources.  I wash and fold clothes and place them on my child's bed so that he can sleep on them for the sake of love.  I wash dishes for the sake of love.  I change the oil, pay the bills, change a tire for the sake of love.  I go to school and study and do my homework always attempting to achieve my highest potential because it is a way of loving.  I scrub toilets for the sake of love.  In each thing that I do, I do it not because I am forced to, not because circumstances have bound me to doing it, but because it is a way in which I can love another, it is a way in which I make an offering of myself.  And this is important!  It is exceedingly important, because at the end of time, God is going to care little how many miles we drove, the particular grades we received, or how many times the toilet was scrubbed.  He is going to care, however, if we did each of those things for the sake of love.  because, in the end, only three things are going to remain: Faith, and Hope, and Love.  And the greatest of these is love.

Hemingway Loved Cats

I learned tonight that Hemingway loved cats, which prompted me to some armchair literary criticism.

I have been a fan of Ernest Hemingway for many years.  I read The Old Man and the Sea and I was hooked.  I had no idea what it was about, I just knew that there was something more that he wanted to say with that piece that floated beneath the surface of the novella.  While working in the Hole in the Wall Bookstore at Wall Drug on a boring summer day, I happened across a copy of his, The Dangerous Summer.  It was odd to find fiction of this sort in a store devoted to literature about the Western Portion of the USA.  With wanton disregard for the strict policy against reading the merchandise, I began browsing the introduction to the text, and learned of Hemingway's suicide.  I think I decided then that he was a tortured man.  It would be many years before I finally read Hemingway in a college course and began to understand his writing in its historical context.  For me, Hemingway has always smacked of sadness, disappointment, and broken dreams.  Even at its most positive, his writing is wistful, never satisfied, full of longing.  That, to my mind, is part of his allure.

As a result of my own reading, I was a little taken aback to find that Hemingway lore is surrounded with an aura of machismo.  To my mind, the idea of a passionate yet haunted cat-loving man is not incompatible with the idea of a mountain-climbing, lion-shooting, fisherman.  I am not sure why it comes as a shock to many to learn that Hemingway was a cat lover.  Dog owners, unless the dogs are of the lion-tracking variety, are not well-suited to leave on safari.  Someone has to care for the dogs.  Cats, on the other hand, tend to care for themselves.  They can be left alone for weeks and hardly notice the absence of their owners.  All of the cat and dog debate aside, however, that Hemingway loved his cats simply reiterates to me something that I have always assumed of Hemingway as a result of his writing.

Ernest Hemingway was the instantiation of the idea that the entirety of human life is to be experienced in the passing of a limited number of days, and should those days be marked by pain, he who lives them has been cheated.  For him, it seems to me, life was mostly bitter, punctuated by episodes of pleasure that served principally to momentarily anesthetize one to the bitterness and exacerbate the experience once the pleasure had passed.  And I love his writing because he is so gloriously yet tragically wrong.  Life is good, though punctuated by evil, and is worth living principally because good and evil alike serve to reflect the goodness of life as yet unseen, and intensify one's desire for beatitude yet to come.

Hemingway's cats, "purr factories" and "love sponges," as he called them, made something miserable more pleasant, even bearable.  For me, Hemingway's cats serve to prove that in a world created solely to make me happy, I can hope to be even happier when it ends.  Here's to hoping that Hemingway found in death what he could not seem to bring himself to believe in life.  Rest in peace, Ernest.                

The Beer Fairy

 
Arriving at my thirty-second year was a lot easier than arriving at my thirtieth year.  It had none of the trauma of realizing that I had left childhood altogether behind.  Rather, as one of my priest brothers reminded me, at thirty-two I have only one year left before I arrive at the age of the crucifixion.  Indeed.  That means that during the coming year, I will perform miracles and everyone will come to recognize me as the Messiah.

I spent my thirty-second birthday in the company of my Caritas brothers.  These three other priests constitute my fraternity group which gathers once per month to pray and share the happenings of our lives together with the goal of recognizing more acutely God's presence and direction in our ministry..  This time one of us was absent, so our group was three.  It was a really a refreshing time.  Rather than spend the evening, as we usually do, watching a movie, we decided that each of us would read the book we had brought with us.  No talking.

I enjoy these little gathering, but I have come to really appreciate the fact that at every gathering, we are visited by the Beer Fairy.

I am not a big drinker.  I never really have been.  I do, however, really enjoy a beer from time to time.  I tend not to buy beer as Msgr. Woster doesn't drink it much, and I avoid drinking alone.  So, it was too my great delight when, while at a Caritas gathering one morning, I stepped outside and discovered a six pack of Grain Belt Premium cooling on the deck of the cabin in Silver City.  No one seemed to know from whence it had come.  We were left to conclude that the Beer Fairy had visited us and left us a gift in our hour of need.  From that time, she has been very good about ensuring that we have beer at every gathering.  She even flew her beer cart alongside Fr. Spark's pick-up one evening to deliver her wares to him as he was on his way to our gathering.  She is most generous.  She never brings too much or too little.  It is always just what we need.  I wonder if she is as generous to all the other priest fraternity groups.    

Wrapping up

Much to my own astonishment, I am packed and ready to catch my taxi at 6:30 AM. Jake is packing as we speak. Both of us have commented that it feels like we've been here forever and for no time at all. But I'm ready to come home. I knew it was time when, while sitting in line to go to confession at the Cathedral, I had to resist the urge to tell everyone that I was a priest and begin hearing confessions right there while I waited. It has been magnificently warm and sunny, and I don't relish returning to the cold, but I miss my people and my work. It's time to go home.

Jake and I spent our last day viewing the templo mayor. It is the remains of the great Aztec temple of sacrifice buried beneath the city center. While the sophistication of that ancient culture is quite amazing, I find myself constantly returning to the fact that these people ATE OTHER PEOPLE. Cannibalism pretty much overrides the positive factors within any culture by my estimation. This element of ancient belief was largely overlooked in the museum exhibits. It's hard to pursue an agenda about wicked colonial oppressors when the people they supposedly oppressed ATE OTHER PEOPLE. I am really not ok with this.

The day was hot. We stopped for a cold coke on the steps of the Cathedral when two girls came to interview us about our thoughts on Mexico. Overlooking the history of cannibalism, I rather like it here. Jake was disappointed that they had pegged us as tourists. I chuckled at that. We are wildly conspicuous We both stand about a head taller than most Mexicans, and I am huge compared to them. I never harbored any suspicion whatsoever that we went about unnoticed. I was just trying to be as little noticed as possible.

A nap, tacos, and an ice cream cone later, I am thinking about going to bed. Tomorrow we fly, and I'm back in the saddle on Thursday. I may have further adventures to report when we arrive stateside. Until then.

Homecoming

Today may have been the best day of our Mexican Adventure to date. Last night was a bit tense. Jake's ATM card was inexplicably not working, I couldn't figure out how to call my Dad to wish him happy birthday (I was finally forced to send a Facebook message), and we needed to get an early start today. I'm not especially good at early starts, so when the hotel room cleaner yelled something incomprehensible as we tried to get moving I was less than amused. Things improved as headed south on the metro toward the city's southern bus terminal. Today's destination: Cuernavaca.

When I studied here nearly ten years ago, I lived in Cuernavaca. I stayed with a family who, at that time, had a son and a daughter of eight and thirteen years respectively. When I contacted the school to arrange for a motel in Mexico school, they were elated to learn that I would be coming to visit.

As it turns out, I should probably just have arranged to stay in Cuernavaca. Aside from becoming horrifically lost when we first arrived, and a slightly terrifying bus ride, we finally found some landmarks I recognized. Soon I was at the school where I was was laughing and hugging and feeling like I had never left.

From the school we wandered to the house where I stayed and joined most of the family for lunch. The mother and daughter of the host family then accompanied us to the local cathedral and artisans market for a bit of shopping. As the afternoon began to wane we stopped for a cool drink and a long talk.

After ten years, how does one answer the question, "How have you been?" I've been great. I've been miserable. Elated and despairing. Astonished and disgusted. How have I been? And so we talked. My conversational Spanish is weaker than it once was, but we managed to muddle through. It felt so natural, and the city itself so peaceful compared to the madness of Mexico City.

It was time to head back to the city much too early. We made our goodbyes. It was easier this time. I'm convinced I will be back to see them again. In today's visit, I found the remedy to the angst I experienced on Saturday. I came to Mexico for the people, and I found them again today. What a lovely way to spend a day.

Bravo, Toro!

Upon further consideration, I have decided that the bull fight deserves further description.

The sole purpose of a bull fight can be summed up in a single word: bravery. The bull fighting tradition came to Mexico from Spain. Part of the opposition to the practice in Mexico, in fact, arises from the notion that the sport is a cultural imposition from colonial times. Yet, it remains quite popular throughout much of Latin America. It is a sport defined by tradition. For a period before the fight begins, the brass band warms up and then plays to entertain the gathering crowd. This band features the trumpet quite dominantly. Think "cheesy Mexican gun battle movie scene," and you will get the idea.

At precisely 4:30, the band begins a traditional march, and the parade of bull fighters enter the ring. The parade consists of a marshall who leads everyone from atop his horse. Next come the matadors aligned according to seniority. Following them are their cuadrilos, a group of three men with capes who help manage the bull during the various movements of the fight. Behind them come the picadores mounted blindfolded horses covered in thick padding. Second to last comes a team of horses harnessed to a simple doubletree. Finally come the red uniformed men who clean the arena. The parade having ended, the first fighter and his cuadrilo take their places behind blockades in the ring. Gates are flung open and the bull rushes into the light from a dark chute. Until this point, he has been raised as a wild animal. He has been handled as little as possible for his whole life. When he has been handled, he has been encouraged to hate humans. He has been reared from generations of fighting animals. His sole purpose in life is to bravely attack anything in the ring until he kills them or they kill him. This is his moment of glory.

In the ring, the members of the cuadrilo work the bull with large magenta and gold capes as the matador watches seeing habits of the bull - the direction he prefers to turn, the horn with which he most often hooks, his speed, etc . . .

After a few passes, the picador, carrying a lance enters the ring. His job is to stab the bull at the base of the neck, weakening those muscles so that he has to drop his head as he charges. A trumpet call marks the end of this period, and the beginning of the banderilleros. Carrying two short darts about a foot long, these men rush the bull as he rushes them. They must reach over the horns, place their darts, and rush away without getting gored. Three sets of darts are placed. It is now time for the matador to work the bull. He must use his short red cape to provoke the bull, controlling the passes as the bull brings his horns within centimeters of the matador's body. The fight reaches its climax when the matador kills the bull with a sword, inserting it between vertebrae severing the spinal cord and piercing the bull's heart. He doesn't often accomplish this perfectly, but once inserted, the sword quickly kills the animal.

Though brutal, these fights are a thing of grace. They are a show of bravery by bull and fighter alike. Both look death in the face, and without blinking, try to inflict the same on the other. If this were just about killing, it would be cruel, perhaps even a sin. But the killing is not the point. The point is the grace, the elegance of brute force and years of practice. It is a dance, a beautiful dance. Perhaps not for everyone, the bull fights have won me over. I hope to see them again.

Olé

When I was here last time, I watched the bull fights every Sunday on television after Mass. I never had the opportunity to see one live. Today we made up for that. Call them what you will: artful, cruel, graceful, barbaric, they are an amazing experience of Mexico. The plaza de toros seats about 50,000 people. Because of dwindling popularity due to animal rights activists, the arena was quite empty today, but there were still plenty of Mexicans to drink, swear, and cheer the bull and torreros (Olé!). I have photos and video. I will upload videos when I get home.

There Are Places I Remember

I've always been of the opinion that televised sports are a waste of time. While I cannot condone the mass slaying of innocent people, I must admit that I haven given serious thought to which group of people I would systematically exterminate were I to become a ruthless dictator (It is important to note that I am speaking purely hypothetically. All ruthless dictators persecute some group, usually poets, musicians, university professors, and philosophers.). Any variety of people would be worthy of my wrath, but one group really stands head and shoulders above the rest in terms of their sheer vexatious presence in the world. Given the opportunity, sport commentators would go first. They make the already dreary business of television sports watching into a truly painful experience, none more so than football. Thus, I decided to make myself scarce this afternoon as Jake immersed himself in the tedium of the Broncos game which is inexplicably being aired on Mexican television. It is probably best that I begin with the first part of the day, though.

This morning, after a late breakfast, Jake and I got lost. Our destination was the Church of the Holy Family where the mortal remains of Blessed Miguel Pro rest. Fr. Pro was a Jesuit priest who zealously ministered to Catholics in Mexico City during the the bloody persecution against the Church by President Plutarco Elias Calles. His despotism prompted the Cristero Wars during which thousands of faithful Catholics shed their blood in witness to their faith. As it was impossible for Pro to minister publicly, he became a master of disguise, moving about the city under the guise of an aristocratic gentleman, a clown, a beggar, and even as a federal soldier. He was ultimately captured and falsely convicted of a plot to bomb the president. Though the true culprit confessed to the crime, Pro was executed by machine gun. Before death, he was given the opportunity to pray. Upon rising, he spread his arms in the form of the cross and loudly proclaimed before the machine guns fired, "Viva Cristo Rey!" "Long live Christ the King!" Bl. Miguel Pro is one of my great heroes. It was deeply important to me to pray at his resting place. The problem was that I didn't know where that place was. Some Internet research and an examination of my maps gave me a pretty fair notion of where to find the Church. A short metro ride brought us within walking distance. But we walked the wrong direction. For a long time. When we finally came to the end of the street we were following, I threw in the towel and hailed a taxi. The driver also didn't know where the Church was, but I was able to give enough information to give him a rough idea. He got us there in no time - about five blocks from where we left the metro. Oh well. We spent a long time praying at Fr. Pro's relics. I touched my rosary to the reliquary. I prayed for all sorts of people, especially those seeking the virtues of courage and trust. I prayed that I would serve my own people so faithfully.

Leaving the Church as a wedding began, we made our way to the metro. Upon disembarking, we stopped in the city center to watch some Aztec dancers, and then wandered our way back to the motel so that Jake could watch his silly football game. I endured this long enough to answer some emails and the like, and then I lit out.

What a terrible afternoon not to carry my camera, but I wanted to travel light, as inconspicuously as possible, and without anything worth stealing on my person. Mexico City comes alive on weekends. The work week having ended, it is time for pachango. Octavio Paz, a rather significant Mexican author, talks about pachango "partying" as one of the odd dichotomies within the Mexican psyche. Mexicans do not share a healthy fear of death like their neighbors to the north. They live dangerously, they drive dangerously, they eat dangerously. One need look no further than the bull fights for evidence. For them, death is an inevitability of life, and it is likely coming sooner rather than later. It is a a terrible reality, but a universal one, thus giving many Mexicans a rather macabre sense of humor. Death, as an ever immanent threat, inspires within the people of this country, then, the inspiration to live life while one still has life to live. As a result, any reason (a Saturday in January for instance) is a good enough reason to celebrate. Today the streets around the motel are crowded with people and with other people trying to make a living entertaining them. The bars are packed. The restaurants are packed, and in any location big enough to permit it, musicians and other performers have set up shop collecting donations for the amusement they provide. Wandering around, I found a small band playing classic Mexican songs. As they passed, older couples would pause, smile, and kiss for a while. Some would dance. A crown gathered to watch. Further down the street, a team of male jump ropers did amazing acts of acrobatics all while hopping the rope. My favorite, however, was a guitar player equipped with a microphone and speakers. He seemed to specialize in American hits from the 60s and 70s. "Stairway to Heaven," "Dust in the Wind," "Hound Dog", and George Harrison's "My Sweet Lord (Hare Krishna)" were among the songs he played and sang. With a great voice and tremendous playing skill, I could have listened to him all afternoon, but somehow it was clear that I needed to move on after he sang "In My Life" by the Beatles:

"There are places I remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all."

I am truly loving my time here, but in a sense it is a goodbye tour. When last I was here, I was younger, afraid, a little radical in my worldview, and desperately in need of an experience capable permitting me to prove that I could do it. Mexico did that. In a way, I conquered her just by surviving for ten weeks without anyone to take care of me. Coming back, Mexico is full of memories, and I feel in some ways like I fit here as a hand in a glove. I am still moved by the charm and the magic of this place and its people. But, my reasons for being here are different. I am using her this time around. I came because she is warm and far from home. Last time, I came not knowing what to expect. This time I have all sorts of expectations. I am, as a result, a stranger here as I was not when I came last time. Mexico, I find, has become a part of me, a part that helped me grow into a man. By returning and expecting her to be equally meaningful simply as a place of recreation, detracts from what happened here the first time. So, tomorrow and in the days that follow, I think I will have fewer expectations. I will walk more. I will linger more where I find people congregating. I will let Mexico be new to me again.

Don't Buy It Here. It's Cheaper on the Bus

Mexico is a land of revolutionaries. Pancho Villa, Emeliano Zapata, and Benito Juarez are just a few of the notable names inscribed in the revolutionary history of Mexico. Something of that same revolutionary spirit lives on in the hearts of Mexicans today. On the one hand, they are a long suffering people who endure unbelievable suffering at the hands of a corrupt municipal, state, and federal government. On the other hand, they are not wont to take injustice laying down. They react. As a result, Mexico City has a nearly constant parade of protesters marching down one street or another. These manifestaciónes, as they are called here, do not often attract a large crowd. Thus, yesterday, after publishing the last post, a small manifestación passed beneath our window. It was over before it began, really.

We passed last evening quietly. Dinner at a nearby restaurant that caters to the tourist crowd and some American TV managed to occupy us for several hours. I did a little research planning for today's outing to Teotihuacan.

Teotihuacan is an ancient city whose foundation dates to about 500 years before the birth of Christ. Around the time Islam was arriving on the scene in Arabia, the city had become a geopolitical center of the region, and as Spain was being invaded by the Moors, Teotihuacan had become one of the five largest cities in the world. Then, about a century and a half later, the city was abandoned. No one knows why, and little, aside from what I have described, is known of its occupants. The Aztecs would later give the city it's current name, and develop legends about the city. Many revered it as the city of the god, Quetzlcoatl, who was driven from Mexico, but who promised to return one day. That promise was eventually fulfilled in the person of Hernan Cortez who initiated the conquest of the Aztec Empire.

Today Teotihuacan remains the most complete set of ancient ruins in the New World. With pyramids dedicated to the sun, the moon, and a temple to Quetzlcoatl, it sits upon a vast park of about twelve square miles. Tourists generally access the site by bus, which is exactly what Jake and I did. To get to the bus, however, required a subway trip.

Mexico City's metro system should be classified as one of the wonders of the world. As I noted yesterday, the city is sinking. As a result, the metro system must be light enough to avoid sinking as well. It must be heavy enough, though, so as to avoid buoyancy and rising up into the city's streets and such. It is a wonder of physics that the system works and that the tracks do not shift. Even more wondrous is the fact the the system is incredibly fast, safe, easy to navigate, and scandalously cheap. Two pesos (less than twenty cents) will take a rider nearly any location in the city. The system handles around five million passengers each day. In other words, it does about a million dollars worth of work each day.

The only problem with the metro is that it can be very crowded, and lots of vendors get on a peddle their wares in the cars as one travels. Most typically they sell music, which means they blast sample songs from enormous speakers they carry around in backpacks. What a way to make a living...

Mexico is terribly poor, but I was a little taken aback today as I considered the fact that one can do nearly anything to make money here. In America a man with a guitar, aside from the precious few who be one famous, has a hobby, not an occupation. The same is not true here. With little regulation enforcement in most industries, people make a living in All sorts of unorthodox ways. Some sell fruit to people in cars are red lights. Some paint decals on the same cars (its pretty cool to watch this process). Others do on board entertainment for bus passengers. Having survived the subway, we finally found ourselves aboard a bus bound for Teotihuacan. The driver stopped at various points along the route to let peddlers aboard so that they could sell water, Coke, peanuts and sundry other foodstuffs. The best of these stops, however, produced a guitarist who played and sang at some length. I have video of him which I will put on Facebook since my phone will not allow me to add videos to the blog. We were treated to such classics as "Mi Árbol y Yo," and "I Just Called to Say I Love you."

The ruins themselves were astonishing. We spent several hours walking and climbing, and avoiding yet more peddlers of souvenirs. The Temple of the Sun nearly killed me (I have no love for stairs to begin with. I especially have no love for 2500 year old stairs with flimsy hand rails, and which are occupied by lovers from all continents climbing up so that they can make out on top of an ancient holy site), so I remained below when Jake climbed the temple of the moon. Following his descent, I finally broke and purchased a blanket to replace one that has inexplicably disappeared since my last trip. the vendor and I argued about the price at some length, and I still think he got more than he deserved, but I guess I do not have to make a living selling the things.

The rest of the day was spent making our way home. Dinner this evening was at a nearby restaurant featuring local food of a more sophisticated variety. I don't know about Jake, but I could have done without it. Give me beans and tacos.

Tomorrow will be a resting day. We plan to see the tomb of Blessed Miguel Pro, and then Jake HAS to watch the Broncos game. I expect I will go watch people in the Zocalo while he does that. Anyway, for now, enjoy these pictures.

Oh, by the way, it was hot today. I got a sunburn. So did Jake.