Living with others

Present in the Moment: Priceless

/ R. Newell Searle / 4 Comments

Mexicans have a phrase: Dónde hay vida hay lucha y dónde hay lucha hay vida (Where there is life there is struggle; where there is struggle there is life.) For many, begging is a part of life and a part of its struggle. In Mexico, beggars are a part of every city’s social fabric and live in a world alien to the one I inhabit.

Even children beg.

Beggars come in many guises and, after living in Oaxaca for several winters, I recognize the small family that claims a spot along a shady wall near Santo Domingo. The man plays the accordion (poorly) and his wife or a child hold up a bowl for coins. Among the open-air café tables, the same woman cruises about seeking hand-outs from tourists year after year. Are their lives so difficult and opportunities so few they must beg? Or do they choose to depend on the kindness of strangers? How should I regard them—if at all?

My Yankee rearing stressed a personal responsibility to support myself and not burden others. It’s a good precept and I try to avoid judging beggars. But the act of begging makes me squeamish because I feel like an unwilling participant in an act of public humiliation. In the moment, my heart and mind pull in contrary directions. I clench up inside when I see listless, old woman, her skin like corn-husks, slumped on the steps of a church. At my approach, she looks down and lifts a cupped hand in silent supplication. This isn’t right, conscience compels me to do something but it seems futile. What good are a few pesos today? What about tomorrow?

I’ve seen affluent tourists and Mexicans walk past the beggars as if they didn’t exist, I’ve seen people cross the street to avoid them or hastily drop a peso in their hand as impersonally as plugging a parking meter. I’ve done those things too but never felt good afterward. Why do I dislike begging? It isn’t the money. Giving money is easy if I think it will do some good. Nothing I do or can ever do will materially change a beggar’s life beyond an hour’s time or the meal 10 or 20 pesos will buy. So why do anything?

Maybe I’m asking the wrong question. Maybe I see it with the American expectation of a visible return on investment, expecting a beggar to lift herself by the bootstraps as a validation of charity. Why should I do anything if there’s no visible return? It’s not my place to reform a beggar’s life or be his savior. How can I change the equation? The answer came one weekend when I went to the mountain town of Huajuapan: I could be fully present to the beggar as one human to another. Well, that looked simple—except it wasn’t.

In Huajuapan, went to the weekly tianguis or regional market for common household goods and groceries. I arrived early, the sun had barely cleared the ridges and the air was still cool. While the vendors erected their stalls and laid out their wares, I ate breakfast at a comedor or informal diner in the company of a couple working men. We chatted over our orders of chicken with mole coloradito, tortillas and café de olla or boiled coffee. Few Americans visit Huajuapan and the men asked why I had come. To see the nearby Zapotec ruins of Cerro de Minas.

I had nearly finished eating when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny woman approaching. The frail anciana shuffled toward me with slow, crab-like steps. Deep furrows seamed her parchment face and her white hair was knotted behind her head. She inched with her cane along the other side of the table. A few steps more and I knew she would slide a hand from beneath the robe and make a begging gesture. Already, I felt my stomach clench at the thought. I didn’t want her to do that. What will happen if I’m truly present to her?

“¿Quiere usted algo de comer?” Do you want something to eat? I asked before she could beg.

She stopped, surprised by my question. Then she blinked and nodded.

“Joven!” I called to the waiter. “Darle lo que ella quiere. Voy a pagar.” Give her whatever she wants, I’ll pay for it,” I said.

The man who owned the comedor stared at me and then smiled as did the waiter. The woman sat sideways on a chair across the table but didn’t look at me so I saw only the side of her face. In a barely audible voice, she ordered a single tamale with chicken and then lapsed into silence while she waited. I sensed she wanted privacy, especially with a foreigner. The tamale arrived and she ate ravenously and wiped the plate with the last morsel. Setting the plate aside, she buried her face in the robe, sniffled and wiped her eyes. Then she whispered “gracias” and shuffled away.

What had I done? I thought a long time about what had happened. Handing her some pesos was the easiest course—a transaction without an interaction. But I invited her to join me, instead. When she accepted it, it was as if we reached across an invisible social barrier. I saw her as a person, not as a beggar. Though I saw tears and heard a sniffle, I don’t know how she felt or what she thought. However, I know it changed how I see and respond to the poor. God knows the woman needed money but I believe she also needed the affirmation of her humanity as much as she needed a meal. Sometimes the smallest things are the most valuable. And being present in the moment is something money can’t buy. It’s priceless.

 

The art of packing—What to leave behind?

/ R. Newell Searle / 1 Comment
One suitcase of possibilities.

One suitcase of possibilities.

It’s deep January. Minnesota is locked in the coldest weather of the winter with the mercury at -21°F with a wind chill nearing -40°F. Snow squeals in protest under foot; darkness still falls too early and sleeps in too late. Upstairs in my study, a reddish suitcase lies open on the floor, half-packed. A  hopeful sign.

Packing  for travel is an art. What I take is less important than what I leave behind.

I’ll be in México for 10 weeks and I want to take only one suitcase, as small as possible. This one weighs only 33 pounds when packed and I’ll take only the things I’m certain to wear or use or use up. Everything must be versatile to meet changing weathers and social circumstances. I start in Puebla at 7,500 feet near the foot of El Popo where it’s cool, then to tropical Cuetzalán and Huehuetla near the Gulf Coast, and then to hotter, semi-arid mountain valleys of Oaxaca State. My packing list is shorter, now; past trips have showed me what I don’t need. No more packing this or that, “just in case.”

My packing list comes from the experience of previous trips—what I wore and didn’t wear, what conformed to the clothing Mexican men wear every day. My wardrobe is simple and chosen so I blend in as much as possible and avoid attracting attention.

Everything is rolled tightly, and packed in plastic bags squeezed empty of air. I start with three chino slacks, four short-sleeved shirts, two long-sleeved shirts, six briefs, four tee-shirts, PJ’s, a sweater, a windbreaker, sandals, walking shoes, two pairs of socks, a pleated guayabera for formal occasions, a bandana, a battered Panama hat, Tylenol, eye drops, six energy bars, a sunblock, shaving kit, deodorant, a washcloth (never saw one in México). My camera, laptop, notebooks, pens, watercolors and Kindle go in my daypack.

I’m leaving behind things that mark me as an obvious foreigner: white athletic shoes, tee-shirts with company logos, charitable causes, favorite sport teams or U.S. national parks; no baggy shorts with cargo pockets or polyester hats with mesh ventilation and floppy brims. How I appear to Mexicans will affect how they interact with me. I want as few barriers or presumptions as possible.

The contents of my suitcase reflect my aspirations. Does yours?

What I take reflects what I want to do, and my ideas of the social reality I expect to encounter. I will visit my Mexican friends but spend most of my days teaching English in a small, indigenous town near Oaxaca. I don’t expect to have the same level of material comfort I enjoy at home and I won’t bring things to compensate for that. My measure of comfort is Mexican , not Minnesotan.  

As I fold and pack my clothes, I am also packing my mind and heart. What aspirations and hopes will I take with me? And what expectations will I leave behind? I want to be emotionally and spiritually present every moment I’m in México, otherwise, why travel? Preparing my heart and mind is even more important than the clothing I choose.

My journeys are as much interior as they are geographical and, in the end I discover myself anew. Being present in the moment is the key.To stay present in the moment, I’m leaving behind my anxieties about two manuscripts awaiting the acceptance or rejection of an agent and an editor. These things are important to me but I can’t control the decisions and judgments of others. As Mexican friends tell me, these are in God’s hands and the results will be as they are meant to be. There is no value fretting about them in México and miss the moment.

Next to my worry and preoccupations, I leave behind the credentials of my public identity in Minnesota: Positions once held, academic degrees earned, publications written, and awards received. They are irrelevant in México. No one cares about them. It’s liberating to leave my credentials behind, it’s like shucking off a shell and finding some new part of me hidden underneath. 

Travel without personal credentials. See if it’s liberating.

For identity (besides a passport), I’ll take photos of my daughters, wife, granddaughter and the extended family. In my heart and soul, I’ll take with curiosity, humor, openness, compassion and, if possible, humility. That will be enough for any encounter.

After a decade of annual trips to México, I’ve learned the art of packing isn’t about what I put into the suitcase; the art comes from knowing what to leave out.

What’s in your suitcase? What are you leaving behind?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Las Posadas – Seeking shelter with María y José

/ R. Newell Searle / Leave a comment

What are your rituals leading up to Christmas? Shop till you drop? Getting ready for family visits? Ringing bells at the Red Kettle? Taking food to shut-ins? Caroling in the neighborhood?

Most of us have sacred or social rituals for the season. We decorate trees, put up manger scenes, and attend services of Lessons and Carols. In the Mexican congregation where I worship, we celebrate the las posadas.

Posada is the Spanish word for inn. During the nine nights leading up to Christmas Eve (la Noche Buena), las posadas in Mexican congregations reenact the journey of María and José to Bethlehem with carols and prayers.

Years ago, in Teotitlan, Oaxaca, Mexico, our family joined the town’s residents in a community posada that began at the church and processed along dark, cobbled streets, singing carols by candle and star light. Figures of María and José rode on a platform carried by four men. A brass band played as we walked. Here and there, the procession paused at a house, asking for shelter only to be refused. Then, when the procession reached the last house, the host admitted the people entered for a celebration with food.

Tonight’s posada in Minnesota won’t have an outside procession. Instead, we will meet in a chapel and the host family will process figures of María and José to the large nacimiento or manger scene before the altar. Then we will sing carols, read the Christmas gospel, and recite the rosary. After that, we will eat.

The posadas speak to hope in a world of hostility – then and now. María and José were strangers in Bethlehem, immigrants if you will. They knew no one, they needed help, and had to rely on the kindness of strangers for shelter. In this season, when we proclaim love and good will to all persons, let’s make our proclamations real by giving comfort to immigrants from all nations, and sheltering them from the flames of bigotry and hate stoked by ambitious public figures seeking their own ends.

The xenophobia of our time is identical to that of King Herod in the days of María and José. The fearful king asked the Magi where Jesus was born, not because he wanted to pay homage but to kill him. Herod slaughtered Hebrew boys in his attempt, and churches observe December 28 as Holy Innocents Day. More innocents will die in our time if we let fearful demagogues exclude refugees who face certain death from many causes. The story of María and José seeking shelter sheds light on what is best and worst in us. Strangers will knock on our doors. Do we have the will to open the door and admit them?

 

 

We’ll always have Puebla

/ R. Newell Searle / Leave a comment

It is Mother’s Day. Since 1911, the Mexican Mother’s Day falls on May 10 regardless of the day of the week. In the United States (and much of the world), Mother’s Day is the second Sunday in May. This second weekend in May is also the opening of fishing season in lake-spangled Minnesota, the land with the most boats per-capita, where many mothers feel abandoned by husbands and sons off pursuing walleyed pike, the state’s fish.

Mother’s Day misa or Mass in the Mexican congregation of Santo Niño Jesús, where I am a member, ends with music and a special blessing. Well-dressed women arrive with husbands and children in tow. Afterward, las madres gather for a group photo in front of the altar and the statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Then all adjourn downstairs for cake before going to their family celebrations.

My mother died 15 years ago but I offer a silent prayer of gratitude. My greetings for this day go to my daughter, who is a mother herself, and my wife, every bit as dedicated to being a grandmother as a mother. My mother, raised in an upper class household outside New York City, cheerfully accepted and surmounted the challenges of life on a small Minnesota farm. She died before I took up Spanish but I know she would have encouraged me. Encouraging others was one of her greatest virtues. She believed in possibilities. Seeing me take up a new language, she might have glimpsed herself at age 13, becoming fluent in French. I wish she were here to see her son’s late in life achievement.

It is 9:30 p.m. Central time, and 7:30 p.m. Pacific time. I punch a Los Angeles area number into my cellphone. A phone rings several times in Anaheim before I hear an unmistakable woman’s voice.

“Lupita!” I say.

“¡Ay! ¿Cómo estás?” she replies, her voice ringing with excitement, as if she has been waiting all day for my call. She recognizes my voice instantly, as I do hers.

We haven’t seen each other since 2012 but we stay in touch. Lupita is the woman whom I have adopted as my madrina or godmother insofar as I have one. Godparents play a formative role in the lives of Mexican children more so than with American children.

Her role as my padrina  began eight years ago when I boarded with her and Julián, (my adopted padrino) during my first Spanish immersion in Puebla, Mexico. She began drilling me in the pronunciation of accented words. Over the course of three years and five immersions, I lived in their home until it became my home away from home, and our relations deepened from acquaintances, to friends, to family.

“¿Cómo está tu nieta hermosa?” Immediately, she wants to know about my lovely granddaughter, a toddler, who has assumed great importance in our conversations. I tell her I just returned from visiting her and she is well and growing fast. Lupita keeps track of my family, asks after my wife, and after my other daughter, the actor in New York. I tell her my wife and I saw our daughter in an off-Broadway play in February. At our ages, (she is 85 and I am 71) our successor generations become important signs we haven’t lived in vain.

She says Julián just turned 90. He and Lupita, married at the ages of 23 and 16, and I remembered they were about to celebrate their 67th anniversary. At some point in their lives, their children took up residence in California and became naturalized U.S. citizens. I have never met their children – now grandparents as well – but I know about them just as Lupita knows about my daughters.

A year after I finished immersion classes, they sold their house in Puebla, and rented a smaller house in nearby Atlixco to spend summers near her sister. I saw them there in 2012 at a reunion she and friends arranged for me, and to meet my wife. Travel and two residences took energy and last winter they gave up the house in Atlixco. Now they travel only for shorter visits with her sisters and friends.

Our charla or conversation rambles on with small talk. Will they return to Mexico this summer, I ask. She says yes, in July. Am I returning to Mexico? I say yes, but not until January. I plan to spend much of the winter teaching English in Oaxaca. Unfortunately, we will miss each other, again.

The cellphone distorts her voice now and then, and I can’t understand everything she says but no importa. It is enough that we reconnect to fan the embers of friendship and rekindle familial connections.

We last talked in November. She called from Atlixco while I waited for a friend outside Oaxaca’s Iglesia Santo Domingo. She had missed me when I was in Puebla, and Atlixco is a six-hour bus ride from Oaxaca. I couldn’t travel there before they return to Anaheim. ¡Qué lástima! What a shame. Our conversation flows on for a while as I pace the sunny plaza in front of the exquisite Baroque church.

Beside board and friendship, I owe much of my cultural education to Lupita and Julián, whose off-hand examples taught me mexicanidad or Mexicaness – the daily courtesies, gestures, and phrases that define Mexicans. It was a labor of love on their part, the work of godparents or padrinos.

As our November conversation ended, she switched to English to say – unmistakably – ‘We love you.’ I replied that I loved them too. Then she said, ‘hasta luego,’ or see you later but never ‘good bye.’ After the call, I stood in the empty plaza feeling blessed and wiped my eyes.

Given our ages, limited opportunities, and the miles between, I doubt we will see each other again (but I’ve made that mistake before). We are both old enough to accept this reality and cherish the memories and limited contact. For that reason, there is no need to talk about it. Love never dies.

Our Mother’s Day call ends, as they always do, with ‘hasta luego, ten cuidado,’ see you later and take care. It is still too soon in life to say ‘good bye.’

The call reminds me how human love, intimacy, and friendship are realities occupying places of their own. No one will ever replace my mother in my memory or usurp my love for her. However, the heart is a great continent with territory enough for others to reside there in a community of affection. Lupita and Julián have acreage in my heart. We may never see each other again but, to rephrase a line from Casablanca, ‘We’ll always have Puebla.’

Memorias – Lugares en el corazón Memories – Places in the heart

/ R. Newell Searle / Leave a comment

[Este es un puesto bilingue – This is a bilingual post. English is below.]

¿Hay un lugar en el mundo, diferente de tu hogar o residencia actual, que ha enraizado en tu corazón? ¿Qué es el lugar y cómo te ha afectado? Creo que todos nosotros llevan en nuestros corazones un lugar especial donde no podemos vivir sino sólo visitar de vez en cuando o tristemente una vez en nuestras vidas. Para mí, lo es Puebla, México. ¿Qué es tuyos?

Cuando era estudiante de español, viví con una familia en un barrio de Puebla. Viví con la misma familia cada vez, una pareja casada de muchos años, llenada con el fuego de vida. Siempre, viví con ellos durante el fin de abril y el principio de mayo. Durante el período de cuatro breves inmersiones en español, me enamoraba con la gente de la ciudad.

Juntos visitamos sus amigos en el campo, compramos vegetales en los abastos, disfrutamos visitas con los vecinos, celebramos Cinco de Mayo y el Día de la Madre. Ellos me introdujeron a sus amigos y vecinos así que, después cuatro años, ellos vinieron a ser mis amigos, también.

Nosotros formamos los lazos de amistades que lo hacían imposible olvidarles. Mientras, ellos me ayudaron aprender español y las costumbres de la cultura. En tiempo, me sentía como un habitante de Puebla.

Puebla es una ciudad de una primavera perpetua igual una chica que no llegar a ser vieja. Los árboles de jacaranda florezcan y sus ramas produzcan las nubes de flores lavandas. Cada día, cuando caminaba yo a lo largo las calles residenciales hacia el Centro histórico, pase los arbustos podan en las formas de conejos, espirales, canastas y – increíblemente – uno como una casa de pájaros

Hay un gran Zocalo – una plaza central – donde comienzan las calles y avenidas principales según al plan de los españoles. Aquí está donde la ciudad – la gente poblana – encontrarse para negocios, conciertos, protestas, entretenimientos, amores y diversiones. Un domingo, con mi familia anfitriona, pasamos una tarde en los sombras de los árboles mirando la escena y leyendo La Reforma. Aquí está donde me siento como poblano.

Al lado el Zocalo está la Catedral de la Concepción Inmaculada, un edificio masivo de piedras grises. La piedra primera estuvo puesto en 1575 y la última en 1690. Los torres de campanas son los más altos en todo de México. A pesar de la apariencia severa, la interior es un espacio de luz – no solo la luz del sol pero un sentido de luz espiritual, también, que afecta cada persona que visita.

Una vez, con un amigo – un sacerdote y estudiante de español – paramos en la catedral para orar en la interior tranquila. Mientras me arrodillé en el banco, mi compañero endecha propensa en el piso en una acción de mucha humildad. Después pocos minutos, una docente me tocó en el hombro.

“¿Está el hombre enfermo?” ella pidió.

“No. Él es un sacerdote y él ora en esta manera,” contesté.

Ella se encogió sus hombros y salió.

Tenía muchas experiencias simples, mundanas pero memorables como esto. Ellas son eventos pequeñísimos, ordinarios y comunes que formaron la fábrica rica de mi cariño para Puebla.

A pesar de los grandes edificios de Puebla, los museos, ruinas e iglesias, en el fin lo es la gente que viva en mi corazón. Ahora, cuando voy a México, mi ruta pasa por Puebla. Es el sueño del viajero tener la libertad sin cualquier obligación y compromiso. Para mí, es difícil sino imposible amar un lugar sin amando primera la gente que viva ahí.

¿Qué es tu experiencia?

Memories – Places in the heart

Is there a place in the world, different from your home or your current residence that has sunk roots in your heart? What is that place and how has it affected you? I think that we all carry in our hearts a special place where we can’t live but can only visit now and then or, sadly, only once in our lives. For me, that place is Puebla, México. Why do you have a special place in your heart? What is it?

When I was a student of Spanish, I lived with a family in a Puebla neighborhood, an older married couple filled with the fire of life. I always lived with them during the end of April and the beginning of May. During four, brief Spanish immersions, I fell in love with the people of the city.

Together we visited their friends in the country, bought vegetables at the huge outdoor market, visited with the neighbors, celebrated Cinco de Mayo and the Mexican Mother’s Day. They introduced me to their friends and neighbors so that, after four years, they came to be my friends, too.

We formed bonds of friendship that make it impossible to forget them. Meanwhile, they helped me learn Spanish and the customs of the culture. In time, I felt like a resident of Puebla.

Puebla is a city of perpetual spring like a girl who never grows old. The jacaranda trees bloom and their branches produce clouds of lavender flowers. Each day, I used to walk along the residential streets toward the historic center, passing bushes pruned into the form of rabbits, spirals, baskets and – incredibly – a birdhouse.

There is a large Zocalo – the central plaza – where the streets begin according to the Spaniards’ plan. Here is where the city – the people of Puebla – meet for business, concerts, protests, entertainment, love affairs, and diversions. One Sunday my host family and I passed the afternoon in the shade of the trees watching the scene and reading La Reforma. Here is where I feel like a poblano – a person of Puebla.

The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is next to the Zocalo, a massive building of gray stones. The first stone was laid in 1575 and the last in 1690. The bell towers are the tallest in all of Mexico. Despite its severe appearance, the interior is a place of light – not only the light of the sun but a feeling of spiritual light, also, that affects every person who visits.

Once, with a friend – a priest and Spanish student – we stopped in the Cathedral to pray in the tranquil interior. While I knelt in the pew, my companion lay prone on the floor in an act of great humility. After a few minutes, a docent tapped me on the shoulder.

“Is the man ill?” she asked.

“No. He is a priest and he prays this way,” I answered.

She shrugged and left.

I had many simple, mundane but memorable experiences like this. They are small, ordinary, and common events that make up the rich fabric of my affection for Puebla.

Despite the great buildings in Puebla, the museums, ruins, and churches, in the end the people stay in my heart. Now, when I go to Mexico, my route of travel passes through Puebla. The traveler’s dream is liberty without any obligations or commitments. For me it is difficult if not impossible to love a place without loving the people who live there.

What is your experience?

¿Hay un lugar en el mundo, diferente de tu hogar o residencia actual, que ha enraizado en tu corazón? ¿Qué es el lugar y cómo te ha afectado? Creo que todos nosotros llevan en nuestros corazones un lugar especial donde no podemos vivir sino sólo visitar de vez en cuando o tristemente una vez en nuestras vidas. Para mí, lo es Puebla, México. ¿Qué es tuyos?

Cuando era estudiante de español, viví con una familia en un barrio de Puebla. Viví con la misma familia cada vez, una pareja casada de muchos años, llenada con el fuego de vida. Siempre, viví con ellos durante el fin de abril y el principio de mayo. Durante el período de cuatro breves inmersiones en español, me enamoraba con la gente de la ciudad.

Juntos visitamos sus amigos en el campo, compramos vegetales en los abastos, disfrutamos visitas con los vecinos, celebramos Cinco de Mayo y el Día de la Madre. Ellos me introdujeron a sus amigos y vecinos así que, después cuatro años, ellos vinieron a ser mis amigos, también.

Nosotros formamos los lazos de amistades que lo hacían imposible olvidarles. Mientras, ellos me ayudaron aprender español y las costumbres de la cultura. En tiempo, me sentía como un habitante de Puebla.

Puebla es una ciudad de una primavera perpetua igual una chica que no llegar a ser vieja. Los árboles de jacaranda florezcan y sus ramas produzcan las nubes de flores lavandas. Cada día, cuando caminaba yo a lo largo las calles residenciales hacia el Centro histórico, pase los arbustos podan en las formas de conejos, espirales, canastas y – increíblemente – uno como una casa de pájaros

Hay un gran Zocalo – una plaza central – donde comienzan las calles y avenidas principales según al plan de los españoles. Aquí está donde la ciudad – la gente poblana – encontrarse para negocios, conciertos, protestas, entretenimientos, amores y diversiones. Un domingo, con mi familia anfitriona, pasamos una tarde en los sombras de los árboles mirando la escena y leyendo La Reforma. Aquí está donde me siento como poblano.

Al lado el Zocalo está la Catedral de la Concepción Inmaculada, un edificio masivo de piedras grises. La piedra primera estuvo puesto en 1575 y la última en 1690. Los torres de campanas son los más altos en todo de México. A pesar de la apariencia severa, la interior es un espacio de luz – no solo la luz del sol pero un sentido de luz espiritual, también, que afecta cada persona que visita.

Una vez, con un amigo – un sacerdote y estudiante de español – paramos en la catedral para orar en la interior tranquila. Mientras me arrodillé en el banco, mi compañero endecha propensa en el piso en una acción de mucha humildad. Después pocos minutos, una docente me tocó en el hombro.

“¿Está el hombre enfermo?” ella pidió.

“No. Él es un sacerdote y él ora en esta manera,” contesté.

Ella se encogió sus hombros y salió.

Tenía muchas experiencias simples, mundanas pero memorables como esto. Ellas son eventos pequeñísimos, ordinarios y comunes que formaron la fábrica rica de mi cariño para Puebla.

A pesar de los grandes edificios de Puebla, los museos, ruinas e iglesias, en el fin lo es la gente que viva en mi corazón. Ahora, cuando voy a México, mi ruta pasa por Puebla. Es el sueño del viajero tener la libertad sin cualquier obligación y compromiso. Para mí, es difícil sino imposible amar un lugar sin amando primera la gente que viva ahí.

¿Qué es tu experiencia?

Memories – Places in the heart

Is there a place in the world, different from your home or your current residence that has sunk roots in your heart? What is that place and how has it affected you? I think that we all carry in our hearts a special place where we can’t live but can only visit now and then or, sadly, only once in our lives. For me, that place is Puebla, México. Why do you have a special place in your heart? What is it?

When I was a student of Spanish, I lived with a family in a Puebla neighborhood, an older married couple filled with the fire of life. I always lived with them during the end of April and the beginning of May. During four, brief Spanish immersions, I fell in love with the people of the city.

Together we visited their friends in the country, bought vegetables at the huge outdoor market, visited with the neighbors, celebrated Cinco de Mayo and the Mexican Mother’s Day. They introduced me to their friends and neighbors so that, after four years, they came to be my friends, too.

We formed bonds of friendship that make it impossible to forget them. Meanwhile, they helped me learn Spanish and the customs of the culture. In time, I felt like a resident of Puebla.

Puebla is a city of perpetual spring like a girl who never grows old. The jacaranda trees bloom and their branches produce clouds of lavender flowers. Each day, I used to walk along the residential streets toward the historic center, passing bushes pruned into the form of rabbits, spirals, baskets and – incredibly – a birdhouse.

There is a large Zocalo – the central plaza – where the streets begin according to the Spaniards’ plan. Here is where the city – the people of Puebla – meet for business, concerts, protests, entertainment, love affairs, and diversions. One Sunday my host family and I passed the afternoon in the shade of the trees watching the scene and reading La Reforma. Here is where I feel like a poblano – a person of Puebla.

The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is next to the Zocalo, a massive building of gray stones. The first stone was laid in 1575 and the last in 1690. The bell towers are the tallest in all of Mexico. Despite its severe appearance, the interior is a place of light – not only the light of the sun but a feeling of spiritual light, also, that affects every person who visits.

Once, with a friend – a priest and Spanish student – we stopped in the Cathedral to pray in the tranquil interior. While I knelt in the pew, my companion lay prone on the floor in an act of great humility. After a few minutes, a docent tapped me on the shoulder.

“Is the man ill?” she asked.

“No. He is a priest and he prays this way,” I answered.

She shrugged and left.

I had many simple, mundane but memorable experiences like this. They are small, ordinary, and common events that make up the rich fabric of my affection for Puebla.

Despite the great buildings in Puebla, the museums, ruins, and churches, in the end the people stay in my heart. Now, when I go to Mexico, my route of travel passes through Puebla. The traveler’s dream is liberty without any obligations or commitments. For me it is difficult if not impossible to love a place without loving the people who live there.

What is your experience?