The Man in the Linen Blazer

Here is something I wrote a little a while ago about an experience I had while visiting southern California. I thought it was appropriate to re-post, since I'm now back to my roots. :) Enjoy.

The Man in the Linen Blazer

Old Town San Diego is what Mexico wish it were, or so says my mother. It has all the charming knick knacks sold by the street vendors with their carts brimming and their tongues gabbing away. "Pretty shirt for a pretty girl?" But their language isn't broken - their English is fluid and comes naturally; maybe first-generation Americans from a Mexican heritage. And the gutters aren't made of mud - the streets are paved, American streets. The cleanliness of the tourist-y towns in the good ole' U-S-of-A.

But that's just what it is - America. No matter how hard Old Town tries to be the next Little Mexico, it doesn't quite cut it for me. I'm not easily fooled. I admit I like the knick knacks and the hand-embroidered camisetas folded neatly on the shelves of the carts, but Old Town was missing something - and I ached for Mexico.

Growing up for a lot of my life in Arizona made it easy to cross the border, so it became a summer family tradition in my elementary school years. The Southwest and everything associated with it - from the desert landscape to the hot-hot-heat - became a huge part of me. And Mexico was definitely not an exception. I fell in love with the language, the people, and the raw side I saw when we crossed the border of that country.

Walking the streets of Old Town made me want to bite on a coin that was genuine; to get my hands on something more real. Old Town felt like a skeleton of Mexico, and I was tapping on the ribcage - looking through this hollow remainder for the body I only remembered.

Sinking into a wicker chair at the local favorite restaurant let a giant sigh out from my soul that I'd been bottling up all day. I was sitting on a gorgeous outdoor courtyard of an hacienda-styled shopping village, and the restaurant took up the entire patio. The atmosphere was whimsical - perforated parchment lanterns, colorful crepe paper flowers and thick cobblestones below my feet. And nothing but a thick velvet, navy sky salted with stars up above.

A man wandering the patio with a guitar around his neck began serenading a couple across the courtyard. I wondered how his bony frame supported that big-bellied guitar as he strummed tunes and crowed away; I wondered why the man was there. The couple seemed unappreciative and I shook my head in silence at the man, feeling uncomfortable for him.

I bowed my head to my shredded pork tamales, but only for a moment - the old crow had come to our table, and I looked up to find him standing right before me. There was a cream linen blazer on the shoulders of this regal - yet gaunt - bag of bones, and the scant amount of silver hair that he did have left was greased back into a ponytail. His skin was an adobe brown - wrinkled, weathered with age. But this man was genuine; this gentleman was real.

His leathery hands with their tough, split nails began strumming chords that were soft and honeyed, and his simple voice began singing a love ballad. He didn't lose time after he had finished, and immediately began "La Cucaracha" - first in English, and then in Spanish. I only knew it in Spanish but joined as the people in the restaurant looked curiously at our table, at the old Mexican man and his audience. "La cucaracha, la cucaracha - ya no puede caminar... porque no tiene, porque le falta..." His brown sugar eyes flickered in the lantern light and his voice soared.

I tilted my head back and drank in the night, felt the burn of the bonfire against my back and let myself go with this man - in his gaze, in his music. I felt free and at peace, and had finally tasted Mexico again.