Periodically over the past year, Reed and I have asked ourselves, "Would we ever return to the U.S.?" Our answer has always been an emphatic: "No way!" But understanding why has somehow eluded us. This morning Reed put his finger on it: here in Patzcuaro, we are accepted for who we are, rather than for what we possess -- neither for our "stuff" nor for our professional accomplishments.
Take the lovely visit we had last weekend with new Mexican friends. They're a husband-wife team: El doctor is an orthodontist. La doctora is my talented and much-appreciated periodontist, but that isn’t how I met her. I met her first because in her waiting room she runs Patzcuaro's only bookstore! I have to ask: Where else but in Mexico would your periodontist open a bookstore in her waiting room—and, moreover, it is the only bookstore in town?
The family doesn’t speak English; they are among our growing cadre of Spanish-only friends. I had to laugh one day when mi amiga pulled off her mask to say, “You’re fun to talk to.” We decided then that we could be friends.
So last Saturday we met them at their house here in town and rode with them to the rancho, which is about an hour out in the countryside. Oh, my word, I've never seen anything quite like it. The rancho is owned by el doctor's sister and her husband, who grow avocados for export to the U.S. and leechee fruit for export to China! It was our first taste of leechee: they’re about the size of a small apricot with a seed inside, the skin is pinkish, the pulp is strangely gelatinous with a sweet-tart taste. There must be some kind of divine justice for Mexico to be exporting leechee to China -- rather like carrying coals to Newcastle!
We had our picnic in a fiesta pavilion easily large enough to seat 50, with room for dancing! Mi amiga had prepared a soy ceviche that was absolutely delicious. The soy had a texture like fork-flaked fish. I had trouble realizing it was soy!!! I simply must learn how to cook soy!
Down from the pavilion was a kidney-shaped pool: water for the pool is heated by pipes that run across the roof of the pavilion to capture solar energy before being piped into the pool. Around the pool were banana and palm trees. It was like being in the jungle! At the base of the palm tree was a thriving lantana. The aunt took me for a short walk to the other side of the pool, and we looked upstream along a little river that flows by the pool. To my surprise -- voila! There was a lovely waterfall cascading down over three levels. It could have been a movie set right out of a 1950’s movie – perhaps a musical with Esther Williams!
We didn't go up to the Casa Grande, but from the driveway it was obvious that it is indeed a casa grande, complete with mirador—a unique feature of Mexican architecture. Translated as “small balcony” or “viewpoint,” a mirador is a small room (say, 15’ x 15’) at the top of the house with windows all the way around. So a mirador is a room for looking out over the countryside. I’ve never actually been in one, but mi amiga said they have one in their town house, and she’d like us to see it.
We watched the rain clouds tease us all afternoon: will it / won't it rain? Finally, at about 5:30 pm the skies opened for a torrential downpour. It was a kick running around cleaning up the food and putting chairs on the tables to the accompaniment of Tlaloc's (Aztec God of Rain) gift of rain pounding on the roof. Looking out at the rain, it was as if a curtain had dropped between us and the outside world. And, of course, the tormenta (rainstorm) was mostly over after about 15-20 minutes.
This morning Reed and I were reflecting on what a delightful time we'd had. Our Mexican friends guilelessly ask us very direct questions that always carry an implicit request: “Please tell me who you are.” So mi amiga asked, “Jenny, was your childhood happy?” and el amigo asked Reed, “Is Jenny your first wife? I just wondered because we know that many Americans divorce.”
In the United States both Reed and I have felt like outsiders; we felt we had little in common with most of the people we met. How ironic: here where we are truly foreigners, we feel accepted; but in our own country we have always felt like outsiders!
Reed and I have a young friend, Ina, who studied recently at our language school. She is a delightfully intelligent, culturally curious young woman who has shared her Blog with us. Ina has studied in Bangladesh and traveled to (among other places) India, New Zealand and Mexico. I would like to give the last word on this Post to a Reflexión written by the Program Coordinator for Ina’s stay in Mexico:
“For thousands of years, peoples of this area of the world have been hospitable towards the ‘other’ as a way of being in this world. All their original cosmologies conceive the ‘other’ as the only way to define oneself: the other is not really an alien, a foreigner, but the other part of oneself.
"But for 500 years these peoples have been constantly invaded by inhospitable people. By extending hospitality to the Spaniards, the people were colonized. By hosting other gods, their own gods were destroyed. By hosting ‘development,’ their environment and livelihood were seriously damaged.
"It seems to be a miracle that after all such experiences they could still retain hospitality as a defining trait. They have done so because they know that it is not only a condition for survival, but also the only way to live.” [Emphasis mine] --Gustavo Esteva
My hope echoes Ina's: ...that the peoples of the world may learn that hospitality might be a crucial part of bringing healing to our wounded world.
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