Segunda, downtown,
there was a
movie theater there
que ahora se va
convertir
convert
a tienda
to department store.
Cruzar la calle
pedestrian
peaton
cross the street
para ver la
caverna
to look into hollow
iluminada
shining cave,
worklights gleaming
por unos obreros
on late morning
workers moving
atras de
behind
guardia
security guard
charlando en banqueta
chatting on the sidewalk
con un
with a
taxista .
Also does a superb job wrapping gifts -- Mexicans love a well-presented present. The people all know that much of the pleasure in presenting a present comes from how well it's presented, nicely prepared to be presently unwrapped. Good presentation represents the giver's affection as much as the gift itself.
I remember how I met Luis: last December when I had just moved downtown from the beaches, my new landlord Agustin took me on a drive with his then-boyfriend to stop by Luis' shop, where all their dozens of gifts to family members had been each wrapped by the master.
Since January, they haven't seen much of each other. After getting to know Agustin's temper and conceit I'm beginning to understand why. For my part I found I liked Luis, and went by every week or so through springtime to chat and smoke cigarettes in between customers. He always asked me for news of my landlord. Approved heartily when Agustin finally broke up with the Christmas boyfriend, "You know he was just a filthy rich quack doctor ('charlatan'), right? Giving people coffee enemas at his partner's clinic?"
Sometimes when Luis closed after evening rush we would go drink endless cups of coffee at Sanborn's on Revolution by Third, "Oye, Daniel, don't tell Agustin we came to this one, he hates it."
Luis doesn't speak much English, unlike my landlord, so it's good for me to talk with him. Part of my immersion process, no? Si. When I make a mistake he just corrects me, politely. Unlike Agustin who will insult me (which, in fairness I must tell you he does everyone) and then tell me I'm stupid and should have learned a lot more by now. Luis, on the other hand, will just try not to laugh. Not speaking English is actually a form of protest for him, but not for political reasons. You see, a generation ago part of his family moved across the line to a suburb of San Diego and now he has cousins who refuse to speak Spanish at all. I wonder if they have any idea at all how much they've lost. Yeah, they probably know better than I do. I'm still the outsider, looking in.
Luis freely admits his disappointment with his cousins is why he refuses to learn English, even though it might help him with his business. And, his uncle doesn't exactly help things....
-- Fijate, Miguel, last month, while you were busy partying on the other side with your gabacho family and paisanos, por el cuarto de julio, verdad?-- He laughs, claps me affectionately on the arm, then frowns, -- Last month my uncle came to Tijuana with papers of ownership he has for our grandparents' graves. You know the main cemetery above downtown, on the hill, yes, that's right, the one that's all watered and green with good stones and tombs and all, yes, that one. He comes over from the other side and has the grandparents exhumed and cremated, because, he says, he wants the grave plots for himself. Won't even live here, but he wants the graves.
I wonder briefly what tangents and trajectory variables the transcultural sociologists would use to analyze this event. Those classes at the Humanities Center are reshaping my thought patterns. I look at my friend. He is waiting for my response. -- That's strange,-- I venture.
-- Yes, and he insisted that some of us still here in Tijuana witness this. So my brother and I went. What I had forgotten was that this uncle's first wife, my aunt, was also buried there, after she died when they'd only been married a year.
-- No?
-- Yes. Right on top of her mother. That was thirty years ago, when I was only a child, but ay, Miguel, she still looks as beautiful now as she did then.
-- What did your uncle do with...?
-- With my aunt? Oh, he had her cremated, too.
Silence. Blink.
-- How could he...?
-- You mean how, legally?
-- Yes.
-- Well, my grandmother left ownership of the plot to her daughter, and then, when she died, he, as her marido, inherited it.
-- Oh.