14 July 2008

Today James and I rolled into Monterrey. It marked the first time I have returned to an international destination. It didn’t hit me until I dropped James off at the hotel where Helen and the missionary folks are living. I flagged a cab ride into the “macroplaza” downtown and (after having possibly my best Spanish conversation to date) hopped out into an absolutely gorgeous Monterrey night. As I walked the length of the macro, I was delighted—delighted at the feel of a cool breeze brushing away any hint of mugginess, delighted at the sight of so many families and amantes and contemplative viejos all soaking in the same tranquil night. But most of all I was delighted that I knew the city. In March, I had spent hours simply walking around el centro and getting to know the lay of downtown. Now I was making a quiet but triumphal return.

I don’t know what made it so enjoyable—maybe it was the fact that nothing had changed, maybe it was because I recognized some people I’d seen before (like the crazed-looking astronomer with tangled Robert Plant hair and a dark, intricate mustache offering glances at the moon through his telescope. ). I think there must be something about returning to an out of the way place that grants you a degree of ownership, even if you’re the only one who knows about it. I sat down next to my backpack on one of Monterrey’s green park benches, packed a bowl of whiskey flavored tobacco in my pipe , and took my shoes off. For the better part of an hour I thought and prayed and watched as the groundskeeper for the park managed the legion of sprinklers and hoses feeding water to the many green things in the plaza. Perhaps I inhaled a bit too much smoke, but this nightly upkeep ritual was more beautiful than poetry to me. The woman, dressed appropriately in all green, walked an unhurried circuit around the park conducting a visual orchestra of flying and flowing water with a pair of large vice-grip pliers. The ensemble even broke into the tactile realm for passers-by. A young father playing with his son, both acting like kids while the lady of the family looked on and smiled contentedly. Two elderly lovers who were at first startled by the water but soon gave in to the feeling of a good mist and stood in an embrace in the path of the sprinkler.

Eventually, the bowl was finished and, after the profound ritual of cleaning the pipe, I retrieved my guitar from its case. The strings (brand new, they were) sounded wonderful and rich out there in the plaza and that drove me to play for some time. It was wonderful, recalling old songs I thought I had forgotten, easily picking out some that I had never played but which seemed to fit the moment. A couple whose age I could not tell was approaching and, hearing the sound of a few notes being picked, stopped to listen through one of the garden master’s streams of water. I kept playing and they stayed—at times sitting on a bench, at times standing and dancing in the slow, awkward, beautiful manner of those lacking the skill or energy to do anything else.

I left utterly pleased with the prospect of spending so many more nights in Mexico.