The Blackout

Someone must have made an error, for one afternoon, even though Karl O. has always paid the bills on time, the lights in the apartment flickered, then went out.  O. reluctantly put down his kindle, and climbed down the stairs.  There were no other tenants in the entrance hall, but some of the other apartments had their lights on.  He checked the fuse, which looked fine.  He went back up, called Mr. Pinelo, the landlord, who without expressing sympathy, agreed to call the commission and report the problem.  A few minutes later, he texted what O. assumed was a question from the commission, "Is it the whole building or just you?"  "Just my apartment".   A few more minutes passed and another message arrived,  "Please send me a copy of your electricity bill".  O. complied.  Soon after, another message  "Please go down to the electricity panel, and make sure that the meter is connected well."  O.  considered this a waste of time, but he did not want to upset the landlord nor the commission, and went down again.  He shook the meter in all directions and texted back that the meter is secure.  This time, Mr. Pinelo called back,  "I reported the problem; they said they will come between an hour and ten hours from now, but usually they are prompt."

A couple of hours passed, while O. continued his reading.  As evening was setting in,  He lit a candle which tonight, perhaps affected by the novel's sinister atmosphere, made O. feel depressed rather than cozy.   He  called the commission's customer care center.  The woman on the line offered to help.  O asked her for the cause of the blackout, but she did not have an answer;  "I am sure it is not a error.  It is very rare for the commission to make an error.  In fact, I don't know of any instance when that happened."   As for the repair, her reply was short, "I am sorry, but we cannot tell you when the technicians will come.  We do not have the information at this location."  She did provide him with a 15-digit serial number of his case.  An hour or so later, O. logged on to the customer care website.  After entering his case number, came the automated reply "Your case is in process."   O. extinguished the candle, and went to bed.

He woke up fresh and energized until an unresponsive light-switch reminded him of the situation.  After a cup of coffee, which did not make him feel any better, he called the customer center again.  This time a man answered "Our records indicate that the technician came, but could not enter the premises".  O. agreed that it could happen, as all tenants are advised to lock the front gate at night.  "But why didn't he call me?"  The clerk did not reply.  Instead, he advised O. that he reactivated the case.  "When will they come?".  "Between an hour and 10 hours" was the reply.  O. was getting impatient.  "That is already 20 hours since I heard the same answer"  "I understand, and I am very sorry for the delay."  O.  was getting angry but realized that if he loses his patience, his situation will only get worse.  "Can you be more specific?"   The clerk explained that since they are a national center, they do not have information on the operations of each city.  He advised O. to visit the local commission office.  O held no hope of getting a better response in the local office, but realized that he had no other option.  He dressed and went down.

In the entrance he met Mrs. Gonzales.  "You don't have electricity?"; "Did you pay your bill?"  O.  replied that he did.  "Then you must go to the commission."  she said gravely, and quickly left.  O. checked the fuse once again.  He also looked to see if there are any outstanding bills in his mailbox.  There were none.  While doing so, he felt that he was being observed from inside the other apartments.  He went out. 

The city's commission office was  a small unmarked building in a narrow alley; almost hidden among the various auto repair shops.  A guard, wearing a wrinkled white shirt stood in front of the open door.  The interior was dark, and O. could not see inside.  He  asked for permission to enter.  "Do you have an appointment?"   O.  replied that he did not.  "Then you can not enter now." replied the guard.  "When could I go In?"  asked O.  "Not now", said the guard.  Despite the hot sun, O. stood by the door, determined not to lose his spot.  Some time passed, someone exited the office, and the guard motioned for O.  to enter.  Inside, another guard, wearing a white shirt which fit too tightly around his bulging stomach, directed O towards an empty chair.  Once seated O. looked around the room.  People were seated side by side along the walls, in a line that extended from  O. towards a glass partition, as in a bank.  They sat in silence, some ruffling through documents, others staring at nothing.  A slow moving fly kept buzzing the guard's face, who seemed not to notice and absentmindedly brushed it away.  "Are all the people here without electricity?" O. asked the person next to him.  His neighbor signaled for O.  to lower his voice, "Yes"  he said.   "how long will it take to reach the front of the line?"   "It is impossible to know." replied his neighbor in a whisper.  "I have been here many times, and each time it is different.  Sometimes each applicant takes only a minute or less to conclude his business,  at other times the line drags for ever.  Be careful; don't ask too many questions or you may be asked to leave the room.  Better be quiet..."   He concluded, and fell silent again.  'This office is strange,' thought O., 'but I have to adapt if I want my electricity back.  I should not lose my temper.  If I stay calm and logical, they are bound to see their error.'  Meanwhile, the front applicant presented his documents, and left the room.  He was replaced by the next in line.  Consequently each one of the applicants silently moved one seat to their left.  

As the line progressed, O. could observe the clerk.  She was an attractive woman, and that made O. feel better.  He was good at connecting with women.  However, as the wait dragged on, the oppressive heat in the office began to affect him.  He was sweating profusely, his heart was beating hard, and a headache soon ensued.  Any hope he previously held of a romantic spark, faded away.  When he finally reached the clerk he could hardly think clearly.  "Can I help you?" she asked politely.  O. proceeded to describe the problem.  "May I have your account number?"  O.  provided these details as the clerk, without looking at him, typed into her computer.  "Karl O.?  Your report number, please"  O.  congratulated himself on having brought this information along.   "I see here that our personnel could not enter the premisses." said the clerk as she typed.  O.  explained  the circumstances.  "Please be aware that you are not obligated to keep the gate open.  However, if our personnel cannot enter, we cannot guarantee how soon they will come again."   The stale air in the office in addition to the unbearable heat, made O feel at the point of collapse.  "When should I expect them?"  he asked.  "Soon.  Anytime between 1 hour and 24 hours from now."  O. mentioned, in his most respectful manner, that the main office told him that the local branch could have a more exact estimate of the timing.  The clerk stopped typing and with a reproachful tone  asked O.  "Our personnel is out in the field helping other customers.  Do you expect them to suspend their work just to answer your questions?"   O. was dizzy and weak.  He apologized and stumbled out the room.  Outside, he felt much better.  'That was a good meeting.' he thought.  'I made a good impression.  Surely I will have light at home.' 

Walking back, the street lamps were on, and the entrance hall was also lighted, but his apartment was still dark.  O. lit the candle, and feeling too tired to cook dinner, settled in his couch.  He picked up his kindle,  but the story only made him anxious and paranoid.  'Tomorrow, I will visit the commission again.'  he thought as he climbed to bed.

Mekofef Habananot

He was here last night, I am sure.  How do I know?  Although I did not see him, I can see what he did.  And this is not the first time.  I'll explain.

I like baking bread.  I like the aroma while it's baking in the oven, the dark brown color of the crust, and the tangy taste of sourdough as I bite into the warm slice.  I also enjoy the challenge of using only three ingredients (flour, salt, water) to make a wide variety of flavors and textures.   At this time I am confronting such a challenge.  Adi likes the flavor of whole-wheat flour, so I am gradually increasing its proportion (I am at 80%).  The trouble is that more whole wheat makes the bread more dense, and I, like it fluffy.  Yes, adding more water improves the fluffiness, but with more water it is harder for the loaf to keep its shape while rising.  I forgot to mention that I keep a precise log of my experiments.  Back to the story.

A few mornings ago, I was surprised to find that a highly hydrated loaf rose fully and was nicely shaped.  It stayed that way throughout the bake.  We celebrated at breakfast.  The next day, I tried to repeat the procedure using the exact same measurements, and the result was what Adi calls a bindetok, a pancake.  Life goes on.  I reduced the water, and continued my experiments.  This morning it happened again.  Same recipe as yesterday, but with spectacular results.  The round shape of the risen loaf would have put Buddha's belly to shame.  That's when I realized that it was no accident.  Mekofef Habananot was here.  I don't know what he does to the dough, but it works.

From now on, I'll keep a sharp look out, and when I catch him, he'll have to teach me his trick.  I'll let you know when he does. 

P.S.  Adi asked me how do I know it's a "he".  For the answer, click the link below.

         Mekofef Habananot

P.P.S.  Please share your comments on the blog, rather than an email reply.

The Flu

"Mr. Tee?  Please get up"

T is in a darkened room, there are several people around him.

"Mr. Tee.  Please get up."

'Where am I?  His mind rapidly reconstructs his reality,  'Burgundy light outside, late afternoon, it was noon before, hotel room, after a long flight, must have taken a nap.'  He is back with himself now.  'Who the fuck are these people?'

"Mr. Tee.  Please get up"  She looks tough.  In her thirties, dark pants, dark jacket.  Some logo on the jacket, which T can't read.  She flashes a badge, which he does not inspect.  "You need to come with us."  Two of the men, "help" him sit, and he puts his shoes on.  They are all wearing a similar jacket.  "We will explain later."  she says.  They go out of the room. The corridor is deserted.  They walk in a tight formation, the woman in the lead.  Another agent is guarding the waiting elevator.  No one speaks.  He wants to get to the lobby, he hopes that someone there will be able to explain what is going on.  The front desk is unattended.  A few hotel guests in a side corridor, look on with curiosity, but an agent is blocking them from entering the lobby.  It is eerily quiet as they pass through, and go out of a service door.  T is ushered into a black van, and strapped into the single chair in the cabin.  "For your safety" she explains, and closes the sliding door.  Through a glass partition, he can see her sit by the driver, and pick up a microphone.

"Mr Tee, we have been informed that you are gravely ill.  We are taking you for treatment. We have a long drive ahead, so sit back, and relax"  She puts down the mike and turns away from him.  He senses a musky odor, which he knows is familiar, yet he can't recall from where.  He feels drowsy, and perhaps sleeps.  When the van stops, it is dark outside.  Several figures dressed in white spacesuits, are waiting.  They help him out.  He feels weak and unstable.  'Am I ill?  Drugged?'  One of the space-suited figures points at a gurney. 'I do want to rest', he thinks.  A white outline of a human body is painted on the gurney's pad.  T aligns himself with the markings.  Soft straps emerge from the gurney, and secure his limbs and chest.  Above, he can see stars. To the sides, he sees only a large structure.  It is several stories high, grey colored, and vaguely circular.  The van drives away.  A transparent half-cylinder is placed above him, and clamped to the base of the gurney.  A whisper of a sound, and air moves softly over his face.  'That smell again.  What is it?'  Through the enclosure, he can hear the figures talking in a language he cannot recognize.  One of them maneuvers the gurney towards the structure.  An opening appears, and he is inside.

They move through a long corridor.  Doors on both sides. There are no light fixtures.  Instead, the whole ceiling is glowing a warm white. The attendant beside him, does not seem to be exerting any effort in pushing or guiding the gurney.  It moves smoothly, without any vibration or noise.  In front of them, a door slides open.  Inside, another group of spacesuits. In the center of the room, a large machine with a circular opening. The gurney, or more correctly, his cylinder, slides precisely into that opening, feet first.  He is startled by the whirring sounds of the machine.  The scent becomes stronger.  A tingling sensation at his feet, then slowly moves up his body. It is not unpleasant.  He closes his eyes, and drifts to sleep.  He wakes up in another room.  He is wearing pants and shirt, both pink colored, and made of a thin and stretchy material.  The material is smooth, and feels cool on his skin.  He may be running a fever.  

"Hello, Mr. Tee" 

A spacesuit in the room is talking to him.  T can hear sounds from inside the spacesuit's helmet, but the voice he hears is different.  It is clearly computer-generated, and a bit awkward.  

"The scan says, you are ill.  Maybe we make you healthy" 

T asks some questions, but does not learn much.

"Now we do tests.  Please lie on bed" 

He lies down on a narrow bed, which, adjusts itself to his body contours.  It holds him firmly in place.  The spacesuit, guides several mechanical arms and attaches them to various parts of his body.  Near his left arm, T can see his blood entering a small capsule.  'Strange, didn't feel a needle.'

"Thank you"

The probes detach themselves from his body, the bed relaxes, and he is free to sit up.  The spacesuit shows T the location of the en-suite bathroom, and demonstrates the operation of the room's lighting and video screen, both are controlled by hand gestures.  The spacesuit turns and walks away.  A sliding door opens with a 'swoosh', and he leaves.  Another spacesuit, enters through the sliding door, and places a tray on a table attached to his bed.  The food on the tray is arranged in several compartments, each dish has a distinct color and shape.  He carefully tastes a sample from each compartment.  Some are spicy, some are delicately sweet,  He enjoys the variety.  He is hungry and proceeds to eat most of the tray's contents.  After a while, he climbs into bed, gestures the room to darken, and falls asleep.  He wakes up to a dim light which gradually becomes brighter.  The hydraulic door opens and the first spacesuit enters.  "Good morning.  Time for tests"  As before, the bed conforms to his body, holding him in place, the spacesuit, which T decides must be a doctor, attaches the various probes, and blood is painlessly drawn. T still feels weak and knows he is running a fever.  Someone else brings a tray into the room.  T makes an attempt at a conversation, without success.  'Nurses,' as he decides to call them, 'have no translation devices.'  Just like the previous meal, breakfast is colorful, with unfamiliar texture and taste.  Feeling stronger, he gets out of bed and inspects his room.  There are no windows.  The light comes from the glowing ceiling.  The bed and an armchair are the only furnishing.  A spacious bathroom includes a toilet and a shower.  The sliding door does not open automatically as he approaches it, nor can he discern any buttons or handles.  On the other side of the door, he can see a small room, with its own door on the opposite side.  He presumes it is some sort of an air lock.  He operates the video screen, flips through the channels, but none catch his interest.  The tour exhausts him, and he goes back to bed for a nap.  The rest of his day is uneventful.  At night, he dims the light and watches TV until he falls asleep. 

The next few days are a repeat of the same routine.  He gradually feels better.  'Time to get out of here.'

"Today, you will take another scan "

The floating gurney is wheeled into the room and he climbs into it, the transparent cylinder is placed around him, and he is out of the room, through the air lock, and into the corridor.  T observes the route carefully.  He will needs the information if he attempts an escape.  He is now familiar with the scanner, its harmonic mechanical sounds, the tingling sensations, and that scent.   The next day, he questions the doctor about leaving

"Scan is good, tests are bad.  You stay."

More days.  He adds exercise and meditation to his routine.  He can now place the probes on his own, and the doctor's visits less often.  He discovers that he can move the video display to any spot on the wall, which makes it convenient for reading.  He brings up a Pynchon novel, which he started a long time ago, and quit in frustration.  'This time,' he hopes, 'I will finish.'   He pays more attention to the nurses.  Their loose fitting spacesuit covers them from head to toe.  In addition to the helmet, they also wear googles and mask.  Yet he can now distinguish among them, and note the differences in reaction to his attempts at communication.  With one in particular, he makes a connection.  She lingers after delivering the food, and talks to him kindly.   He learns her name, though he can't pronounce it.  She brings with her the translation device, and they talk in short sentences.  One night, she comes into the room, and hands him a pill.

"What is it?"

"Take it".  He does.  He is outside. A slight breeze, the sun heats his skin, and the warm water laps at his feet.  He needs to cool down, and he walks into the gentle waves.  The water feels good on his skin.  He is chest deep, and she is beside him.  Her long black hair runs wet and shiny over her breasts, barely covering her nipples.  She smiles, and takes his hand.  He touches her face and they embrace.  Her body fits perfectly into his. His whole being is concentrated on the contact of their skins.  His hands caress her smooth back as she presses her breast and pelvis towards him. They kiss, and don't break their kiss even as a wave passes over them.  She lies beside him as they hold tight, cherishing every surface of contact.  She twists and moans as she wraps her thighs around his leg.  His muscles are tense, the whole body aching, he wants her. Now!  Then he is inside her, and he can breathe again.  They look at each other, and gently start moving.  Their bodies, their breath, their thoughts are synchronized.  He knows that her emotions and sensations are exactly as his. Their movements increase in speed and intensity.  His whole being is focused on their points of contact, the surroundings fade.  She gasps then shudders as she reaches climax, his energy rises to an unbearable level, and he explodes.  She is standing by his bed, her hand oh his chest.  Her eyes are smiling.

"You too?" he guesses.

"Yes"

She visits him almost daily, and often with the pill.  Their encounters grow in complexity and intensity.  He talks to her about leaving together.

"I want also, but talk to doctor"

On the next visit he does.

"You cannot!"

"Why?  I feel healthy"

"Tests still bad"

"After tests are good?"

"Impossible"

A bit of linguistic struggle, and he learns that they cannot breathe the same air.  For them, the high oxygen content in his atmosphere is  poisonous.  He stops talking abut the future, and lives one day at a time.  Until one day, "You are healthy.  You can leave"

The departure is as swift and unemotional as his arrival.  A nurse comes in and brings his old clothes. Another, brings the floating gurney and he is inside the hermetic cylinder and guided out.  She is not anywhere in sight.  The familiar odor and drowsiness.  He is in the hotel room.  The date on the clock indicated his flight's arrival date.  The front desk confirms.  This is not an error.

'What happened to me?  Was it a dream?'   Yet, he knows he read all of Gravity's Rainbow. 

Dee's Revenge

Dee and O have been orbiting around each other for years.   O never made a secret of his interest in her, yet throughout this time, Dee remained out of reach.  On the few occasions that they met, she was either tired, preoccupied, or in some other way unavailable.  Until one evening, the stars aligned, and they were finally together.

The long anticipation caused O some anxiety, but gradually, his apprehensions dissipated, and he released himself to the experience.  Tactile and visual sensations flowed through his body creating a symphony of emotions that filled him with joy.  Dee and O shared a night of undulating ecstasy, at times passionate, at times calm, but always connected.  As dawn approached, Dee, reluctantly, was preparing to leave.

"Will I see you again?"  she whispered.

O, still enveloped in a warm cocoon of pleasure, did not reply.  He was not sure.  Noticing the hesitation, Dee's face darkened. 

"You will not forget me" she said with a malevolent look.

I think this is how the curse began.

After she left, O assumed he will fall asleep, but sleep did not come.  At first, he closed his eyes and let the memory of the night flow over him.  Later, he focused on his breathing, a practice that usually led to sleep, but this time to no avail.  He knew it was Dee who was keeping him awake, and decided that it was a small price to pay for such an experience.  Eventually, as day broke, he shuffled to the kitchen.  The coffee helped, but that was all he could take.  He left a buttered toast, unfinished.   He also noticed that his muscles were aching, as if he completed a long swim in the Ocean.  It was a strange contrast.  His body was languid and sore, but he felt happy, and free.
'It will pass'  he thought, but it didn't. 

For the next few days, O went about his regular duties, but Dee was still affecting his body and mind.  Most noticeable to him, besides the muscle-aches and loss of appetite, which were slowly returning to normal,  were his eyes.  Whenever he was not occupied with a task, he would become aware of a peculiar sensation behind his eyelids.  A certain pressure, as if Dee is hiding behind his eyelids, reminding him...  Perversely, despite the discomfort, he started contemplating meeting Dee again.  And then, there were the dreams.

O was riding his motorcycle on a green meadow.  The flat smooth ground let him relax and enjoy the thrill of speed.  Out in the distance, at the edge of a young forest, he saw Dee.  Without any effort he found himself  launched into the air, riding in silent slow motion towards her.  As he reached the apex of  his flight path, he glanced down and his elation were broken.  The jump took him over the edge of a cliff, and now he was descending, still in slow motion, to certain death.   He was high, and perhaps there was time enough to get back to safety.  He leaned his body to the right, and with all his power and all his soul he willed his momentum in that direction.  

'Lean hard!'  Almost contrary to the laws of physics, he was changing direction. 

'Pull more!'  Safety was in sight.
'harder'  His whole body was straining with the effort.

A loud thump, a sharp pain in his shoulder, and he opened his eyes to find himself on the floor, beside the bed.

Still half asleep, O scanned his body for damage.  Some pain in his shoulder, but nothing serious.  Surprisingly, the dull pressure on his eyes was not there.  He felt normal again.
Dee's curse was gone.

The Last Dance

It was a warm Wednesday night in the Zocalo.  An excellent Danzon orchestra was playing 'Nereidas', which is traditionally the last dance of the evening.    I was absorbed in leading Adi with as much grace as I could master, when a new sound slowly emerged into my awareness. It was the bright syncopated chirps of claves, weaving their happy tempo above the measured notes of the orchestra.  The sound emanated from somwhere on the dance floor, and the musician was obscured by the other dancers.

"Could it be Manolo?" I asked Adi.

The sound drew nearer, and Manolo, the two short Mahogany sticks in his hands was standing next to us.  We last saw him more than two years ago, yet here he was, just as I remembered him.  A bit wrinkled, a bit bent, and with the same childish joy in his eyes.  We would have hugged him right then, but interrupting a dance is a serious breach of etiquette.  We continued to dance while Manolo circled around us, smiling and  marking the 2-3 rhythm with his claves.

Manolo was a good friend of Gabriel Domingo, the founder of the "Danzon Wednesday" event.  They both loved this  traditional dance.  Gabriel was the businessman and organizer, while Manolo worked the crowds.  Manolo, striking his cuban-made claves, would circulate among the dancers, and with great enthusiasm encourage the spectators to join in.  Together, they made Oaxaca one of the top Danzon spots in Mexico.  When Gabriel Domingo died, Manolo assumed the role of organizer and  master of ceremonies.  He was in that role when we  first arrived in Oaxaca, fell in love with the dance style, and became Danzoneros.  We, or more accurately, Adi, stood out among the dancers, and Manolo used us to promote the event.

"Danzon is international!" he would exclaim during a break in the music, "Here in the corner", he would continue, pointing at us, "wearing black, is a couple of dancers from South Korea!"

Adi would join her palms, raise her hands to her chest in the traditional Asian gesture, and smilingly bow to the cheering spectators.  Next summer, while we were traveling, Gabriel Domingo's daughter returned to Oaxaca to claim her father's event and the significant government subsidy that came with it.  Manolo was not allowed near the microphone, nor did the daughter give him the small amount that he used to receive from her father.  He stayed for a while, but eventually his spirit was broken.  When we came back to Oaxaca, he was not there.  We were told that he is ill, and staying in his distant home town.

The music ended with a flourish.  As we turned to hug Manolo, he was gone.  We looked around, but he was nowhere in sight.  Strangely, none of the other dancers has seen him.  A few days later, friends told us the sad news.  Despite his deteriorating condition, Manolo left the hospital and disappeared.  He was last seen Wednesday afternoon, walking on the road to Oaxaca.

Karma

The residents of the remote village of Flatgrass, lived in peace and harmony.  When they met, they would greet each other with a smile.

“Good morning Mr. Baker.”  The greeter would say.

“Good morning, Mrs. Blacksmith.  What a nice day.”  would be the equally friendly reply.

The village carpenter was a kind and peaceful man.  After lunch, he would sit on his front porch, greet those passing by, and exchange with them a few words about current events.  One day, he felt slightly dejected.  Maybe the carved cabinet he was working on, was not coming out as well as he expected, and maybe he had a glass of wine too many.  In any case, he was too absorbed in himself when the grocer passed by.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.” the grocer repeated the greeting, in a louder voice and a bigger smile.

“Humph” answered the carpenter, without looking up.

The grocer walked on, but his peace of mind was disturbed.

‘What did I do to deserve that kind of treatment?’ he thought, growing even more indignant as he dwelt on the incident.

‘What makes him think he is superior to me?’ 

He then remembered his childhood.  How even then, the carpenter and his friends would make fun of him for being so clumsy.

It is with this negative frame of mind that the grocer returned home.  Dinner was ready, and his children were waiting for him, but he could only find fault with whatever he saw.  He sat down without a greeting, tasted the food, and scrunched his face.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked his wife harshly.

She didn’t answer, yet he continued,

“Look at this house, it’s filthy.  What do you do all day when I am gone?”

That night, his wife would not share his bed, and the grocer’s mood did not improve.  With time, his negativity worsened, and he would often let his anger out on the children.  After weeks and months of this dark, and sometimes violent, behavior, Mrs. Grocer took the children, and left the village.

Life is hard for a single mother in the city.  She tried to get work, but jobs were hard to find.  There were nights when they went to sleep hungry.  It was hard for her to see the children suffering, and to feed them, she would steal food from the market stalls.  Eventually, she was caught, and sent to prison.  The children were put in custody of the state.

The oldest boy was placed in a foster home under the care of a school teacher and his wife.  The couple believed that only strict discipline would allow the boy to overcome his lowly upbringing.  To escape this harsh environment, the boy would spend all his free time reading the books in the teacher library.  The books, despite the school teacher’s intentions, developed in the boy a hate for the regime, and a love of the “people”.  On his own at last, he gathered around him like-minded friends, and planned the revolution.  The revolutionaries grew in strength and numbers, and after bitter fighting, the old regime collapsed.  The grocer’s son became “Our beloved brother”.  He sent secret agents far and wide to search for counter-revolutionaries.  In Flatgrass, the agent insisted on finding lovers of the old regime.  Eventually he was told that the carpenter’s son was a good friend of the former mayor.  The carpenter’s son was taken away, and was never heard-from again.

The old carpenter still sits on his porch in the afternoon, but these days, the villagers no longer greet each other with a smile.

Pilgrim

I saw him sipping his morning coffee.  A fit, suntanned man, wearing a trimmed white beard, and neatly pressed travel-wear.  Behind him, the dramatic view of Muxia Bay marked the western edge of  the continent.  I picked up a cafe-con-leche at the bar and was about to carry it to my room when I heard him call.
"Would you care to join me?"
His eyes were as blue as the Ocean, and I could not refuse the friendliness in his voice.  I  spent the rest of the day with Jonathan.  This is his story.

You called me Peregrino?
I am not sure I would call myself a pilgrim.  I didn't do it for religious reasons.  I started in [St Jean-]Pied-de-Port, and walked five weeks to reach [Santiago De] Compostela.  I am waiting for my girlfriend to get here.  On the last day, descending to Compostela, my knees went out.  She was going to join me for the last leg, from Compostela to the Ocean.  She decided to do it alone.  I am bored here in Muxia.  Nothing to do.

I can't say that the Camino [The road to Compostela] was hard.  It's all in your mind.  When I started to walk, my mind was in a very bad shape.  I think I am ok now.  I did go to a few Vipassana [meditation] seminars.  It helped, but not enough.   Doing the Camino was the last resort.  Going over the Pyrenees to Pamplona may have been difficult.  It's a steep trail, sharp winds...  I can hardly remember any of it.  I was going crazy thinking about my girlfriend.  Mainly blaming myself for what happened.  We have been together for more than a year.  I love her very much, maybe too much.
You know how it is, when you really need someone?

I couldn't live without her.  I am sure she loves me too.  We had a wonderful relationship.  I didn't understand how she could break it up.  We had a catering business in Milwaukee, until she kicked me out.  It was actually her business, but I thought I was pulling my weight.  She said I hit her.  I don't know, maybe I did.  That night... the police came... it was ugly.  The next day, I collected my stuff, and moved in with my mother in San Diego.
Can you imagine a forty-six year old guy, living with his mother?

I stayed with my mom, because I couldn't function.  I was totally helpless.  I called Josie every night. She was annoyed.  Finally, she called me crazy, and told me not to call again.  I was crazy, I was sick.  Alcoholism is a disease, you know.  I drank a lot, I was dealing too.  I didn't notice as it got worse.

I do remember the Roman bridge at Puente del Reina.  It was early morning, the river was mirror-calm and the sun was just rising.  The round arches formed a perfect reflection in the water.  The two images joined to make the symbol for Infinity.  I realized that it's all a journey, nothing begins and nothing really ends.  I saw the holes the Romans built into the columns.  They allow the water to flow thorough without toppling the bridge.  I decided to make my mind the same way.
You are smiling?

That's ok.  It worked for me.

Over the following days, I gradually stopped obsessing about the past.  Instead, as I crossed the rolling hills and endless vineyards, I was obsessing on how to get Josie back.  Plans can drive you crazy too, but not as bad.

Talking about vineyards.  Did you visit the Irache Monastery?

I think that placing a fountain dispensing free wine, in front of an alcoholic, is a cruel joke.  Just kidding.

The alcohol thing was not easy.  They talk about the camaraderie of fellow travelers?  It develops at the hostels, over a glass of beer, or two.  A few times I almost broke down.  Eventually I learned to stay by myself.  In Burgoss, after visiting the gorgeous Cathedral, I called Josie.  She was calm, and was pleased to hear that I am doing the Camino.  She told me that if I get myself together, get a job, be able to support her, she will come and live with me by the beach.  She hates the cold in Milwaukee.  We decided that she would take a vacation, meet me in Compostela, and we will walk the last leg together.  After that, we'll see.

The road from Burgoss to Leon is flat, yellow, and hot.  Nothing to do or see.  No distractions.  To me it became like walking meditation.  I just focused on my steps.  I stopped obsessing about the past, I stopped worrying about the future.  I just walked.  When I reached the Leon Cathedral I was ready to absorb it.  The whole Cathedral enveloped in stained glass...  I was stunned.  First you feel the colors, than I walked around looking the images.  I sat under the incredibly tall arches, letting it sink in.  I don't know for how long.  At some point, I just knew that high above, there is someone looking after me.  A few days later, I reached the "Iron Cross".  At the start, like everyone else, I picked up a stone  and put it in my backpack.  Following tradition, I guess; nothing more.  Yet, as I tossed that stone on the large pile surrounding the cross, I felt that I got rid of my sickness.  I felt light, I was well.


The climb into Galicia felt easy.  I enjoyed the green hills and little hamlets.  Until that last hill.  My knees were so bad, I could hardly make it to the Cathedral.  I met Josie.  She was a bit formal, cool. I kind of expected it.  She decided to walk alone.  I am sure she is doing a lot of thinking, but I am not worried.  Whatever she decides, I know I will be fine.

I agreed with him.  He will be OK.

David

He stands tall and naked at the end of the long corridor.  Illuminated by the dome high above his head, he radiates confidence and determination.  The tourists, after standing hours in line, audibly gasp at the first sight of his magnificent, though slightly out of proportion body.  As the men among them approach closer, they are relieved to discover that they do not need to feel inferior.  The women, receptive to multiple details, continue to circle, and from behind, they come to the opposite conclusion.  Looking at his eyes, I could swear that his expression has changed in the years since I have last seen him.  What once was a steady gaze, mind focused on the angle and force required for a lethal throw, became a dipleased frown.

Is he annoyed by the swarm of tourists around him, or is he worried about his twin brother, who stands directly in his line of sight, a hundred meters to the South?  There, tourists are not a problem.  Despite the easy accessibility, only a few of them stop to stare and take photos.  However, standing on the square, he is constantly bombarded by marauding pigeons.  I carefully studied his streaked face.  There was no suffering or annoyance, just sympathy.  He too was looking straight South, across the river, towards the hill, where their bronze-cast brother stands.

His green body bears an uncomfortably-placed dark stain.  He looks pleadingly towards his brothers to the North as if saying "Could someone please help me wipe?'

The tourists at the summit sit and embrace on the steps, listening to a street artist doing Cat Stevens.  They watch the setting sun, totally ignoring the suffering David.

Circles

I met Yossi in Barcelona, and he was a Sardana dancer. Yossi, one of the best Israeli folk dancers in the Bay Area, was in the Cathedral square, taking part in the Sunday gathering.  (Click here  for the Wikipedia description of Sardana).  While the other dancers in his circle were serious and concentrated, Yossi smiled as he gracefully performed the intricate steps.  He was the 'Capitan'.  At appropriate times, he shouted out a command, and the circle switched to a new step sequence.  Taller than most, with sunglasses swung over his high forehead, he was aware of everything in his surrounding, especially the admiring women.  He saw me, I waved, and he nodded.

The band took a break.  He was chatting with friends as I approached.
"Hi Yossi,"  I said, "I have a question"
"Ola" he replied "What's up?"
Not wishing to exclude his friends, I continued with the Spanish, "Your group dances very well.  Is it choreographed?"
"No, no!" he answered with a mischievous, slightly arrogant smile, "We are just having fun."
His Spanish sounded strange.  I wondered whether I was hearing the Hebrew accent, or maybe he was speaking in Catalan.  I didn't have time to probe this further.  The band resumed playing, and Yossi entered the circle and joined hands.  They raised their arms in unison, and started dancing.

I wandered between the several circles in the large square.  I was impressed by a spandex-wearing young group, who danced high on their toes, their muscular calves, evidence of their training.  A beret-wearing catalunian standing next to me, explained that these are the current Sardana champions, and this is their practice session for tomorrow's competition.  At the command of their tall and pretty Capitan, their bouncy steps transformed into very high hops.  The jumping evoked a memory of Kobi, whose dance skill used to be on par with Yossi's.  At that time, he was my mentor as I attempted to learn Israeli folk dance.
"Just jump high", he used to say "and you'll be a good dancer."

I walked back to Yossi's group.  I noticed that the circle grew larger and the new members were mostly older.  Now they seemed content to repeat the same sequence throughout the dance.  Several of them were not even on tip-toes.
"You are an Israeli Folk dancer."  I heard Kobi say, "You can handle the Sardana"
I stood behind the circle and watched.  The steps were  similar to the Israeli dance 'She'avtem ma'im', except that the sequence was longer, and more complicated.  I started counting the steps, but when I reached ten, I gave up.
"Stop counting and start moving!", Kobi's voice commanded.
I obeyed.  I meekly parted the circle between two ladies, who though surprised at the sight of a foreigner joining this nationalistic event, extended their arms with a smile.  At the start, I kept my eyes on my neighbors' feet, but soon, my body grasped what my brain could not, and I just let the rhythm move me.
"You've got it", beamed Kobi.
Before I got too tired, the dance ended with a strong stamp of the foot, and a shout of "Viva".  Within a blink of the eye, Yossi was standing at my side.
"Nicely done."  He said raising his thumb in approval, then moved on, to demonstrate a fancy step to someone else.

On the next tune, the two sweet ladies, my dance partners, called me.  I did not hesitate.  With Yossi and Kobi present, it was just like the old days.  This time, probably as a challenge, Yossi called out several sequence changes.  I was able to follow without disrupting the circle too much.  When the sequence involved jumping, I remembered "Jump high!", and it worked.  A few more songs, and the event terminated.  I was proud and elated.  The dancers picked their 'El Corte Ingles' shopping bags from the center of the circle and departed.  I waved Goodbye to Yossi, who left in a hurry, accompanied by a pretty woman.  I didn't get the chance to ask him what was he was doing in Barcelona.

Bodega

A thick coastal cloud covers the town of Bodega turning the midday into evening. Only a few minutes inland from the highway, Bodega inhabits a different universe than Bodega Bay its touristy neighbor on the coast. The one-block main street is almost deserted and the fading buildings make the town look like an old maiden that gave up all hope, and no longer spends any time in front of the mirror. Alfred Hitchcock chose Bodega as the locale for the atmospheric thriller "The Birds", yet apparently fame did not translate into prosperity.

The renovated historic schoolhouse, which featured in the movie, stands in contrast to the dilapidated stores around it. In front of the school house, two middle aged women, wearing tight leotards and white feather hats place a laptop on the pavement. They adjust it until the webcam captures the building, and then they stand in front of the laptop, flapping their arms. Are they dancing or maybe trying to recreate a scene from the movie? I inquire about their activities, but they bluntly disregard me and continue to talk to each other in a language that sounds like a hybrid of Swedish and Dutch.

Across the street, a large man wearing faded denim overalls is watching the feathered women. He is standing besides an old wooden cabin with a barely readable "Antique" plaque in the storefront window. The window is dusty, and is obscured by a faded curtain. He watches intently, but his face shows no emotion. I cross to his side of the street, but he does not avert his eyes. He assumes I am not a costumer. It has been a long while since the last costumer stepped into the store.

Next door a red neon signs reads "Casino". I peer through the narrow window, but it is too dark inside. In the doorway stands a wiry man in boots, jeans, and a leather vest. His grey pony tail is tied tightly by a leather strap. The end of a elaborate tattoo peers out of his collar. I am sure his Harley is somewhere around.

"Is this really a casino?" I ask.

"No," he answers, boulders gurgling in his throat as he speaks, "It's just a name."

He barely moves aside to let me through. I let my eyes adjust to the dark. I am the only costumer.

"Hello Honey," the plump middle age blond welcomes me from behind the bar, "how are we feeling today?"


I sip my beer quickly and go out, past the ponytail, to the street and my pickup parked by the schoolhouse.


OR

I sip my beer quickly, hoping to finish it and get out. However, with each sip, the music is transforming to a pulsating sensual flow, and the waitress is becoming attractive. The side of the bar that until now was in darkness seems to be faintly glowing. There is a door in that wall and when I touch it, it opens into a brightly lit room.

Edgar

Little Edgar was fascinated by the sea. He loved the sound of the waves crashing on shore. After a couple of years, his parents decided that this fascination was not so cute any more.

"The sea is far, far away," they explained patiently. But how do you tell a little boy that their tribe has been living in this desert for generations, thousands of miles from the nearest body of water?

When the rest of the boys played soccer on the arid desert soil, Edgar would wander over to the beach and enjoy the moist and cool ocean breeze.

"How was the beach? " his friends teased him, "Catch any fish?"

He learned not to invite them, and they got used to his absences. He could walk around the whole Island before the rest of the teenagers wrapped up their games and went home for dinner.

"You can't be a sailor" said the tribe elders, "Look at all the land we reclaimed from the desert and turned into green. You need to contribute your share."

Edgar focused on the drip irrigation systems. He would get up early to work under the desert sun, but during the long lunch break, he would wander off to the beach, sit under the palm trees, and longingly look at the hints of other islands on the far horizon.

The young women were intrigued by his handsome looks and mysterious absences, some even became his friends. None walked over to the beach with him, and even those who loved him, eventually decided he was too strange, and left.

He became known as an irrigation expert and was asked to help the other tribes in the desert. Between trips, he would go to his special cove, where he constructed a small wooden sailboat. He trained younger men in the intricacies of the irrigation technology, and spent most of his days sailing. He even reached some of the surrounding islands. At first people marveled at his stories of the far away islands and the strange people that live there.

"What a wonderful imagination," they said, "you should write a book."

However, with time, less and less people wanted to listen to his stories. His friends too avoided him. For the first time in his life, Edgar felt that he did not belong.

One morning, an unusual fog lay low over the water. A tall sailing ship emerged from the fog and glided towards Edgar. There was no one on board. He stood on the deck, and the ship moved silently away from shore. Edgar watched as the land slowly faded into white, then walked to the bow and faced the parting mist.


 

Noche de Rabanos

Hector dreaded the inevitable confrontation with his father. He did not say it in the morning, when they drove to the outskirts of Oaxaca to collect the radishes. Neither could he bring himself to say it when, back at the village, his mother joined them on the patio. A sharp radish smell filled the courtyard as the three of them carved the large red vegetables into the traditional figures. Just like previous years, Hector carved the musicians. He completed the trumpet player and glanced at his parents. Julian was carving buttons on the tall puppet, while Teresa, using a sharpened stick, peeled the skin off a long radish to form the skirt for the female puppet. The "Calenda", a depiction of the popular religious procession, will soon be ready for the "Night of Radishes" competition tomorrow. He could not delay any longer.

He put down his knife, "Father, there is something I would like to tell you. I decided to have my own booth in the competition."

Julian stopped carving without saying a word. He looked at his son; his weathered Indian face remained passive. Hector could sense the flood of disappointment and betrayal sweeping over his father's heart. He felt guilty for causing his father such pain.

"For several years, I have asked you to change the theme of our display." He continued, "You didn't want to do it. I had no choice."

"You had no choice," Julian repeated slowly in a calm voice, "then leave! I don't need your help." He turned away from his son and resumed carving.

Hector, felt the sharp pain of misunderstanding, but he too had his dignity. He stood and walked away. His mother tried to hold him back.

"Stop this foolishness" she implored her husband and son, but Julian kept carving without a response.

On his way out, Hector looked at the faded photograph on the wall. He saw his grandfather, proudly accepting the first prize in the Night of Radishes. That year, his grandfather chose the Calenda as his theme. Every year since then, the Mendez family presented the same scene in the Christmas event. When Hector became old enough to hold a knife, he joined his father to create their entry. He enjoyed the family time together; he also enjoyed the thousands of tourists and locals that flock to Oaxaca's Zocalo to enjoy the lavish radish sculptures.

In a friend's house, Hector set to work, his knife transforming the pile of radishes into the vision he nurtured for so many years. Before him was the figure that will be lying on the altar. With small, careful incisions, a round radish became an anguished face. Using a cactus spine, he connected it to the larger radish forming the body. He was ready to start on the work's centerpiece, the Zapotec Priest. He could clearly imagine the robes, the plumed hat, and the upraised arm holding the dagger.

The next morning, when he arrived at the Zocalo, the display tables were already placed along the edges of the town square. To the outside of the tables stretched an elevated walkway that enclosed the perimeter of the exhibition area. He knew his father was on the other side of the square, and he was glad he could not see him. He assembled the display on the table, his excitement and anticipation growing while the scene was taking form. At four, the show opened and the first visitors appeared on the walkway. He scrutinized their reactions with apprehension. Soon, the delight on their faces made it clear that they liked his display. Some even called out and congratulated him on his work. Satisfied, he relaxed, and sat behind the display, almost invisible. From his vantage point he could quietly enjoy the flashing cameras and admiring exclamations. The official results will come late at night.

After dark, when the stream of viewers became a thick, slow river, Julian could no longer contain his curiosity. He climbed the walkway and, with the rest of the visitors, made his way around the square. As he approached his son's booth, he moved to the back, and peered into the display. He was stunned. He knew Hector was a talented sculptor, but he has never seen figures formed with such an amazing detail. Their faces were full of emotion, and the ceremonial robes were cut with elaborate decorations. He absorbed the dramatic effect of the scene, and he sensed the others around him responding in the same way. A warm feeling welled up inside him. He was amazed that his own son produced this wonderful work of art. He was so proud of his son, and he knew that his own father was now here too, looking from above and smiling. Overcome with emotion, he did not notice that he wound up in the front line, staring at his son's work with wet, blurry eyes.

An inner instinct made Hector look up. He saw his father on the walkway; he read the emotions on his face. He crawled under the display table, emerged in front of his father, and helped him climb down. Without words, Julian put his hands on his son's shoulders, and they stood there, oblivious to the crowd, peering into each other's eyes. It was Hector's turn to shed tears of relief and happiness. His father embraced him tightly.

"It is wonderful, my son."

The clock on the Cathedral tower showed nine. It was time. Together, they entered the old colonial palace, and waited for the prizes to be announced. Teresa sat between husband and son, holding both their hands. The Oaxaca secretary of culture announced the third, then the second prize.

"The first prize," he continued, "a sum of 10,000 pesos, has been awarded to a scene from our pre-Columbian heritage…" his mother's grip tightened around Hector's hand, "…'The Sacrifice,' created by Family Mendez!"

In the roar of applause that followed, Hector observed his father's surprise turn into understanding. Rather than use his own name, he registered the booth to the whole family. Both Hector and Julian pushed Teresa forward to accept the prize.

Hotel Paraiso

On a dark mountain highway, monsoon rain pouring down.
Heavy fog in the headlights, it's too far from town.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a neon light.
My head was heavy and my sight grew dim; I had to stop for the night.
There she stood in the driveway, a towel round her head.
I was thinking to myself, 'This could be great, but probably bad."
Then she opened the garage door, and showed us the way.
As we stared at the pink Jacuzzi, thought I heard her say:

"Welcome to the Hotel Paraiso
Such a lovely place.
Plenty of rooms at the Hotel Paraiso
Anytime of year,
Many couples here."

The room was luxurious, it may be a good bet.
I was so tired, I can skip the internet.
"Others around us, will they be in the way?"
"Some come for an hour, none stay for the day."
So I called up Maria, "Please bring the remote"
She said: "Would you like some Tequila? It will make you so hot"
On TV, just a few channels: One straight, one gay.
Watching young lovers in action, I just had to say:

"Welcome to the Hotel Paraiso
Such a lovely place.
Living it up at the hotel Paraiso
What a nice surprise,
and such a low price."

Mirrors on the ceiling, marble on the floor.
Adi said: Please fill the Jacuzzi with bubbles galore.
In the bedroom mosquitos, gather for the feast
We lighted a repellent coil, filled the room with mist.
Last thing I remember, Adi holding my hand;
She smiled and said "My love, I hope tonight will never end."
"Adios" said Maria, as we shouldered our pack,
"You can check out anytime you like, but I know you'll be back."

Danzon

Oaxaca is not Paris. A tall metal tower does not hover over its squat skyline, a river does not cross its dry, sunny streets, and most importantly, no bridges wait for lovers to embrace and kiss. Nonetheless, Oaxaca generates its own warm romance. On Wednesday nights, when the marimba band plays under the giant laurel tree, magic flows over the Zocalo. If the old tree could speak, it would tell many stories of couples, young and old, that fell under the spell. This is one story.

Claudia did not want to take the midnight flight back home. She enjoyed her week in Oaxaca. In Oaxaca, she was again that Claudia from a long time ago, young, optimistic, and vibrant. She did not look forward to returning to her empty apartment in Buenos Aires, but the thought of the children, her Dance Therapy students made her smile. She decided not spoil the last few hours of her visit with gloomy thoughts. She packed her suitcase, said her goodbyes, and set out to stroll the Zocalo.

By the time she arrived, the sky was already dark, and floodlights illuminated the stone-sculptured saints on the cathedral façade. She was wearing only T- shirt and jeans, and she hoped the air would stay warm a bit longer. She approached a gathering of people near the cathedral. A large band sat under the laurel tree, trumpet players warming up their instruments and marimbas running thorough limbering routines. A smartly dressed audience sat on folding chairs, which were arranged in a U shape, leaving a large empty space in front of the band. Tonight, she realized, was Wednesday Danzon night, a Oaxacan tradition. A special farewell party for me, she happily concluded.

A slim and energetic older man took the microphone and welcomed the audience. The band sounded the first beats, and a few dozen couples stepped unto the dance floor. They were mostly over-fifty, and looked very elegant in their formal dresses and evening gowns.

I am almost the right age, but definitely underdressed, she thought.

Engaging arms, the couples walked majestically to the center of the floor, facing the band. After a few more beats of the music, the women twirled to face their partners and stood in a ballroom embrace. As the music switched into a new rhythm, all couples began dancing in unison. The slow measured rhythm of this Cuban dance, reminded Claudia of the Tango of her native Argentina. This is simpler than Tango, she thought, I could dance that. She moved closer to the dance floor and tried to imitate the steps.

Mike's flight arrived from California earlier this morning, he just concluded his first shift as a volunteer physician at a village clinic, and he was now watching the dancers in the Zocalo. He was not tired. He liked this pace. He came for a week, and he intended to experience Oaxaca fully during this time. A colleague at the clinic, knowing his love of dancing, showed him the Danzon steps and directed him to the Zocalo. At first, Mike observed the dancers from the sidelines. He focused on an older, formally dressed couple that danced simply yet elegantly. His long experience with different dance styles helped him to grasp the steps, and within a few minutes, he was ready to start dancing. Next, he scanned the audience for potential partners. A slim woman in her forties wearing a tight white T-shirt stood out among the aging couples and heavy-set matrons. She stood in the isle, watching her feet, and moving to the music. He liked the way she moved. He watched her intently, willing her to look up.

When Claudia did look up, she saw a pair of dark eyes looking at her. It was an older man, grey hair, medium height, looking athletic and strong. She did not avert her gaze. Neither did he. She saw him smile, and smiled back, unaware that her feet were still moving to the music. The music stopped, and without breaking eye contact, he made his way across the dance floor towards her. She observed him with a professional eye. Confident and well coordinated, she thought, he would make a good dance partner. The introductory notes of the music sounded again. Now facing her, the man extended his hand.

"Hi," he said in English, "Would you like to dance?"

Without replying, she took his hand, and together they walked to the dance floor. Watching the other dancers, they listened for the musical signal, then began to dance. He was a good dancer and her Tango training allowed her to move with the rhythm and comfortably follow his lead. Gradually they grasped the dance sequence and became a team, flowing smoothly with the music.

"You dance beautifully." He said.

He maybe exaggerating a bit, she thought but returned the compliment. "Thanks. You are a much better dancer."

"I am Mike."

"Claudia."

He looked at her, and she felt his hand tighten its hold on hers. They turned their attention back to the dance. The music transitioned to a faster pace, and their movements became livelier. He was clearly more comfortable in this free style, and she liked the way he made her twirl right, left, once and again. This was fun, she concluded, as the music ended with a flourish.

The announcer approached them while they were walking to the sidelines and wanted to know where they are from. In the few minutes that followed, after establishing that her English is better than his Spanish, they quickly exchanged basic biographical information. The announcer that stepped the front, microphone in hand, interrupted the exchange.

"Ladies and Gentlemen! Visitors from all over the world come to the Wednesday Night Danzon," he proclaimed, and pointing as he spoke, he continued, "Here, we have a couples from Mexico city, there, from Canada, over there, in black, a señorita from South Korea, and in the white shirt, a couple from Argentina and California"

The crowd applauded as Claudia and Mike raised their arms and bowed.

The introductory music resumed, and they returned to the dance floor. This time, Claudia was more relaxed, and let her body enjoy the movement. She knew that their embrace was tighter than protocol allowed, but she welcomed the feeling of a man's body so close to her. It has been a while, she thought. She could feel Mike was also enjoying the intimate embrace. The fast music arrived, and they let themselves go free, twisting, circling, and turning in quick succession. The workout made her sweat, and at the end of the song, she accepted Mike's suggestion to get a drink.

They picked a table under the arched walkway surrounding the Zocalo. Around them, tourists and locals alike were drank and ate while watching life on the square. Claudia asked for a beer, and agreed to taste the Mezcal that Mike ordered. They talked, eager to learn more about each other. She saw the disappointment on Mike's face when she told him of her midnight flight.

Mike took her hand, "Why don't you change your flight and stay a few more days?"

"I am sorry, but I can't," she said, placing her hand on his, "I have to be back at work"

"Come to my room, then?"

"This is crazy," she said flushing, "I have never done something like this."

"Come to my room, and then decide," implored Mike, caressing her hair and cheek.

She did not reply, examining her feelings, and then she smiled and nodded.

The short walk to his room, passed as in a dream. They walked side by side, holding each other tightly, stopping every few steps to kiss. She liked his soft lips, and tried not to think about the flight home. In his room, he turned the iPod on, and they danced. She liked the music, and wanted to know the source.

"Enigma," he replied, "my favorites."

They moved slowly to the soft sound. Their embrace tightened as they gave themselves to the music. She felt his hand on her bare back. It was warm and strong. Suddenly she became aware of being alone with a stranger, in a strange house.

"I am not sure I like this," she whispered.

Mike loosened his embrace, "I will walk you home anytime you like," he said, and looking at her eyes he added, "I hope you stay."

She looked at him carefully. He is a good man, she concluded, then closed her eyes, and let her tension dissipate with the music. She felt Mike leading her to the bedroom and his bed. Without opening her eyes, she let herself down on her back. He softly kissed her lips. The kiss was not enough, she wanted to feel his body. She peeled his shirt off, and let him do the same to her T-shirt. She pulled him close to her.

"I like your smell," she whispered.

Mike cupped her breast with his hand and kissed it. He touched her gently at first, then with increasing pressure. She felt an invisible conduit transferring the energy of his kiss from her nipple down to her vagina. Her hips were writhing, seeking his presence. Mike placed himself between her legs and kissed her other breast. Her breath became shallow, and she heard herself whimpering softly. She needed him, now. She felt Mike lifting himself of her, and walking to the dresser. She was relieved to realize that she would not have to remind him to use protection. When Mike came back, he stood next to the bed, caressed her face with one hand, while his other slowly travelled over her body, as if tasting her neck, her breasts, her thighs... He put his hand between her legs and she pushed herself against him. His fingers inside her made her arch her back in desire. When she thought she could no longer stand the anticipation, he took his hand away, and slowly entered her.

He was on top of her, his hands holding her face. She felt his gaze, and looked up. She saw kindness and happiness in his face, and she lifted her head and kissed him. This is right, she thought. She felt love flowing between them. His hips started moving slowly and she responded. Older men are better lovers, she concluded. Now, they were dancing a different kind of dance. She could feel him inside her, caressing her, loving her, and she did the same. They moved faster. "More, more" she cried. "You are beautiful" he responded. She lost awareness of her surrounding. She was floating in a warm darkness. All she could feel was a hot white pressure rising within her, until she could no longer contain herself and with a loud cry, she came.

As they relaxed on the bed, he wiped tears of happiness from her eyes. She could not remember feeling so good before.

"You are wonderful," he said.

She nodded in silent agreement. I want to stay like this forever, she thought, but said, "I have to go".

They knew that outside would be cold, and she wore Mike's sweater for the walk back to her room. They walked side, holding hands. In the Zocalo, the Danzon was over, the crowds were thinner, and street musicians entertained the café clients.

"Are you hungry?" asked Mike.

Claudia realized that she was. They walked over to a street stall and ordered corn on the cob.

"Con todo?" the vendor inquired with a smile.

She agreed, and took a corn covered with mayonnaise, coconut chips, chili powder, and a twist of lemon. Never did a corn taste better. Life was good. She was ready to go home.

Gratitude

When Maria and her sisters got off the bus, the sidewalks were already overflowing with people. It was the Day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and entire families were on their way to Morelia's historic center, to visit the Santuario de Guadalupe. The girls and women were brightly decorated. They wore wide blue skirts and white blouses embroidered with colorful patterns. They tied their long hair in a bun, and decorated it with flowers. The men, less colorful, displayed their fancy boots and best sombrero. The little boys were all dressed as the saint Juan Diego. They wore the traditional indigenous white pants, and had a black mustache painted on their face. On their back, they carried a small leather pack, and in their hand, they held a red rose. One day, thought Maria, I will be going to church with a cute Juan Diego of my own. Today however, she was not in the mood for people watching. She had a tough mission to perform. She prepared for it at home by wearing old sweat pants, tying her hair in a loose ponytail, and applying minimal makeup. Today, she will crawl to the church on her knees. Maria was not the athletic type; she disliked exercise as much as she liked to eat; yet despite her supple dimensions (she preferred to think of herself as feminine) this was a pledge she was determined to complete. Maria remained unusually quiet as she and her sisters moved slowly with the festive crowds.

Finally, the three sisters arrived at the entrance to the Calzada de San Miguel, the pedestrian alley leading to the church. It is about half a kilometer long, and paved with cobblestones. Trees line both sides of the alley and join above it in a green arc that keeps the alley cool and pleasant. At this afternoon hour, the alley was almost dark. They paused as they entered the shade. Maria looked for the church ahead, but could not see it. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people filled the narrow alley, blocking her view. She knew that interspersed within the dense crowd, would be dozens of believers making their way on their knees, just like she intends to do. The knowledge that she is not alone, gave her comfort. "Are you ready Gordita?" asked her older sister, using Maria's nickname in an attempt to cheer her up. Maria saw the love and concern on her sister's face, but just nodded in reply. Her sisters spread the first of the two blankets they planned to continuously place under Maria's knees to soften her ordeal, but Maria reconsidered, and in spite of her sisters' protestations, she had them remove the blanket. She slowly placed one knee on the bare stone, and then the second. The stones felt cold and hard. She closed her eyes, put her hands together, and prayed for strength. When she was done, she crossed herself, and took the first step.

Initially her movements felt awkward, but after a while, her body became accustomed to the new mode of locomotion. She moved slowly and calmly. The crowd passed by, avoiding her and forming around her a circle of quiet and respect. Many turned to stare, but she did not mind. She was proud of her devotion. Maria kept moving on as the afternoon was turning into night. To the left of the line of trees, she could see the paved walkway and its multitude of food stalls. The smell of barbecued meats was the most dominant, behind it, she could smell the potatoes frying in the deep oil pans, and fainter still she discerned the smell of barbecued corn. What she could not smell she could imagine: The sugar cane, the cotton candy, the ice cream, and the many other delicacies that she loved. There were just as many people snacking in the brightly lit walkway, as there were walking the more serene alley. Maria almost asked her sisters for a hot dog from her favorite stand, but decided to resist the urge. As if to test her will, some people carried the food from the stalls and consumed it while walking in the alley. From time to time, she had to deviate around disgusting salsa-covered litter. Maybe it was the annoyance with the litter, which eventually allowed her craving to subside. She kept moving, and slowly became absorbed in her thoughts and memories. The distracting surroundings faded, and she imagined her dear mother, sitting at home, waiting for her daughters to return. It was only last year that her mother started loosing her strength and vitality. Neither the curandero, nor the village doctor succeeded in making her mother well. Maria's daily prayers became longer and more intense, but her mother got weaker and weaker. One day, Maria took the bus to Morelia, went to the Santuario de Guadalupe, lit a candle, and asked the beloved Virgin to cure her mother. Maria pledged that if the Lady would do that, she would prove her gratitude by returning to the church on her knees. Miraculously, over the next few months, her mother's health improved, and now she is keeping her promise. Maria kept moving, focused inward, noticing neither time, nor pain.

The shrill sound of screaming children jerked her back to the present. She realized that she arrived at the amusement park, constructed for the holidays, just next to the food stalls. "More than halfway to the church." she thought, as she moved on. Amusement parks never held much of an attraction for her. However, gaining her sense of place, she also became aware of her body. Each time she lifted her leg, she felt a dull pain in her hips, which was followed by sharp pain, as her knees met the hard irregular stones. It was more than she could bear. She stopped, tears forming in her eyes. Her sisters rushed to her side and offered to hold her arms while she crawled. The option of relief reassured her, and renewed her resolve. She thanked her sisters and unassisted, moved on. More time passed. Her face turned red, and her body was drenched in sweat. She was tired, and she was in pain, but she had a debt to pay, and she will pay it in full.

The crowd thinned as the trio emerged from the alley into the plaza. They reached the large wooden doors, and her sisters lifted Maria over the threshold. Inside, the beauty of the church filled her with emotion, just as it did on her first visit. The whole interior glowed in dreamy pink. The bright gold on the walls filled her eyes and saturated her sensations. The walls were finely carved in intricate detail, and rose high over her head to reach the stained glass ceiling. From every facet of the carvings, glass gems reflected the candlelight in bright primary colors. This is what heaven must be like, she thought. The center isle was empty except for other pilgrims like Maria, making their way on their knees. The marble floor was cool and silky smooth. It comforted her knees, and made her feel as if she was effortlessly gliding forward. From the many paintings hanging on the walls, the Holy Virgin looked on, lovingly following her progress. She reached the priest standing at the altar and accepted the communion and his blessing. Now she allowed herself to cry. These were tears of joy and gratitude. She looked up at the beautiful dark woman behind the altar. Through her tears, she could see the Lady of Guadalupe warmly smiling at her. "Thank You" murmured Maria. She felt her Lady's hand gently caressing her cheek. "I love you my daughter" she heard her whisper softly.

Maria crossed herself and turned to leave. Her sisters rushed from the side aisle, and helped her to her feet. They hugged each other silently, rested for a while on a bench, and went out. The cool air outside brought with it the sounds, sights, and smells of the celebration. Maria turned to her sisters, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Now, I would very much like a hot dog."