If you can speak three languages you’re trilingual. If you can speak two languages you’re bilingual. If you can speak only one language you’re an American.
I had one post titled Launch in my mind. In it I was going to write about the sheet-metal platform on the Bridge to Mega that was finally repaired. The sheet that was replaced had reached the point where it buckled so that when you stepped off it, you felt as if you were launched to the next level. They haven’t replaced other sheets, but they did nab the worst offender.
That was going to be paragraph 1; paragraph 2 was going to be about the bus ride where I stood on the rear platform with a clear view of my feet and the street surface as the back door didn’t seem capable of closing with all the passengers aboard. It was almost a launch of another sort.
Then there’s been my Wednesday lunches and readings with F, who at 97 is as good an arm-twister as they come. His powers of reasoning and his sense of humor intact, he can lay a guilt trip as well as any Jewish mother. We are about half-way through a biography of Sylvia Plath and it’s a little scary how I associate with so many parts of her life.
The past month included the feast of St. Michael, the patron saint of San Miguel. It might be the biggest celebration that’s held here. My friend D.B. claims she saw hundreds of horses parade past La Parroquia, many bowing as they stepped past. That created the largest traffic jam that I’ve seen here; there were cars attempting to drive up blocked off streets and their drivers unable to back down and out the side street, began blowing horns. Pedestrians couldn’t get across the parade of horses, either. There were corridas (bullfights) and music and fireworks and musical performances. And storm showers, of course.
Some days, though, deep in the afternoon, certain streets have been deserted, so much so that I could hear music coming from far beyond the thick walls that separate street from courtyard. On those afternoons the sun was strong, the air warm, and it was easy for me to imagine it was long ago.
I had the French film night and we watched Entre Nous. There might be another, although for some reason my enthusiasm isn’t as strong as it was before.
I’ve managed to work on the screenplay, and thought I had it finished, but the parts that nag at me nag at me still and so I’m putzing around a while longer; some of its weaknesses revealed themselves when I started to write a treatment of it. There are also some scenes that I love that I’ve excised and I want to find a way to get them back into it. I’m a sucker for humor, and the two scenes – while not critical to the plot – are critical to my need to laugh.
My son and family have made it to Portland, OR and I hope it’s a good place for them. I think it could be.
I’ve backed away from the UU scene – the remnants of my talk still cause me to shy from further involvement there. Some say that I’m too sensitive and try to dismiss my feelings; that further reinforces my reluctance to return.
One other post I had written in my head was titled Arrogance, but I’ll just do the thumbnail instead. There was a robbery and murder of an American retiree here; I ended my subscription to the Civil List, the electronic bulletin board here, and so I don’t know what debate and outrage was expressed there, but the ex-pat community ended up asking for a public safety meeting. Several people there – again this is hearsay – demanded the police have more English-speaking staff and that there be a dedicated telephone line for Anglos to call. I’m sorry, but we live in Mexico. What’s wrong with learning Spanish?