Spun Yarns

One of the great lessons I've learned in my wanderings around Latin America is from my friend Wicho, who is all of 21 years old but seems to hold the key to happiness in the world as we know it. His response to any variety of situations or circumstances is simply 'asì es,' or 'that's just the way it is.' His capacity for acceptance is both foreign and fascinating. I, on the other hand, am plagued with an overly-developed love of justice, or my idea of it. My impulse is to beat my head against whatever walls happen to surround me – sometimes to positive effect but often I just end up with a headache -- which leads me to my yarn metaphor. . .

I carry knitting projects around with me but take my time to finish anything. These projects usually take on an epic level of meaning (real or imagined) – sometimes just by virtue of how many borders they’ve crossed. The last one was some orange socks; many of you have seen them in one state of completion or another. The current project is a delicate lacy scarf – far different from the gigantic plastic needles and rope-like yarn that are normally found in my knitting basket. I feel like I’m not the kind of person who should even own baskets -- or knitting needles, for that matter -- but I do. I guess we all have our contradictions. Anyway, the pattern and needles and yarn were a gift I received for being a bridesmaid in a wedding. The yarn wasn’t quite right for the scarf but I bought some yarn in Salta and started the project on the bus from Mexico City to Guanajuato. Without heeding any rules about the rolling and organizing of the yarn, I set off on my scarf-making extravaganza. I hate rules. I threw caution to the wind. And hence, you can see the several hundred grams of totally entangled chaotic mess that lie between me and a wearable creation. Hugo and I have made progress on it over the last few days – the project has become a metaphor for life: throw caution to the wind as long as you (and your friends) are prepared to spend a lot of time and energy disentangling.

A domestic vibe often reigns when I’m in Guanajuato. I make an occasional appearance at Las Damas de las Camelias, one of the local dens of sin – owned by Hugo’s cousin Chato. Chato is a legend in Guanajuato – a dancer who can supposedly make any woman look and feel like Ginger Rogers or Jennifer Lopez, depending on the song. . . okay, maybe not J.Lo, but someone close. After plying me with too many bottles of beer and regaling me with tales of Chato’s greatness, Hugo gave me the words to invite Chato onto the dance floor. Hugo usually doesn’t let accuracy get in the way of a good story. Chato is one of those ageless fellows who sits behind the bar with his head down as his more youthful employees work the floor. He wears a hat, sends drinks out to family members and chooses his partners selectively.

All that said, I was feeling confident – I’ve been doing my homework – so off I went. Chato accepted my invitation and chose what I thought was not the best song for me to really shine, but ASÌ ES, ASÌ ES. Hear my resounding cry of acceptance! In short, I have to say that I think Chato has lost the love of his art form. Hugo says that I danced well but that I was following the music rather than Chato’s direction. Was he testing me? What the hiz, Chato? I guess I had higher expectations of being transported into a magical world of mambo, but in the end Chato was just an image -- and maybe I was to him, too: Another dumb gringa who watched too many episodes of “Dance Fever” in her youth. I had way more fun with Hugo – dance legend or not.

I will leave you with one last bit of wisdom – something I learned this weekend while making pastry dough and stuffing dates with toasted almonds and goat cheese and wrapping them in strips of bacon: add enough butter or salt to almost anything and it will taste good. Asì es.