“spirtually and passionately alive”
Saturday a brand new friend, whom I met once again in Kaldi, invited me to a typical Mexican breakfast. Of course, I wasn’t going to pass that up!! We spent less than an hour together before he noted, “Laura eres loca (Laura you’re crazy.)” I proudly responded with an enthusiastic ‘Yes. That’s me!’ Followed by a big, wide grin. Though he’s Mexican, he speaks with what seems like a bit of a French accent. He’s also very calming to be around. And, now that I’ve seen how clean his apartment is – simple yet with a flair for decór – I feel French Zen is a good name for him.
During breakfast I tried my first Cafe de Olla. Though it’s apparently quite popular here in Mexico I hadn’t even heard of it until he suggested it. Coffee with piloncillo (a Mexican sweet), anise and cinnamon – muy rico!
We also ate typical Mexican dishes which included:
-Quesadillas de suadero
-Enchilada de Comal
-Enchilades Verdes
And flan for dessert!
I liked French Zen’s easy company so I invited him to join la Bruja and I for our little afternoon escape outside the city. Our plan was to go to San Diego de Acala – natural, sulfur hot springs about an hour’s drive away out in the middle of the Chihuahuense desert. Gentleman that he is, French Zen offered to drive, even thought that was not my motive for inviting him. Speaking of gentlemen, it’s really impressive how nearly all the men I’ve met here have the habit of opening car doors for their women passengers. I really love it when men do that, a simple act, but one that shows a lot of respect.
The electronic music softly played as we cruised along the desert highway. The conversation between the three of us ebbed and flowed naturally as we divided our attention between each other and the bewitching landscape. I’m always a bit perplexed as I watch the low rises of the Sierra Madre slowly pass by outside the car window. I feel like the the sloping hills and jagged crags of the Sierra appear where you wouldn’t expect them. In the same way, the flat, desert plane stretches in places where I expect to see more of the Sierra. It’s as if the land hasn’t decided whether it wants to be a flat plain, rolling hills or a small mountain range, so you end up with a random hodgepodge of all three.
French Zen notes that the wind is surprisingly strong. The Bruja and I can’t really feel it, but the rocking of a nearby freight truck startles me. “Wow. You’re right…” I realized out loud, a bit startled.
In the distance I see a layered relief of jagged crags partially washed out by the bright late-afternoon sun. Storm clouds are gathering, but they’re in mild shades of gray, not the menacing black I’m used to witnessing in the Midwest. One solitary lightning bolt races in zigzags toward the Earth, right on the edge of the barely visible divide of rain and sun. I’m the only one to spot the flash. ‘Kind of strange,’ I muse. ‘I’ve never seen a lighting bolt back lit by sunlight before.’
The music switches from the light but energetic electronica to a suave jazz. The veil of rain in the distance thickens to a white mist…
“I have weird feeling,” I tell the others. “A feeling of something kind of jolting, but, in the end, thrilling. There’s a strange energy in the air.”
“Of what?” They ask.
“I don’t really know. All I know is I feel it.” Shrug.
We slow as we turn onto a dirt road. A black and white sparrow bobs in an invisible stream of air in front of our windshield before banking off and fading out into the solitary desert landscape. We pass over small, dry fords and finally arrive at the hot springs. As we emerge from the car we note the temperature has dropped drastically as the wind whirls around us. We’re stopped at the entrance. The hot springs are just closing due to the oncoming storm. We learn we have to bolt. Apparently, the small, dry fords fill fast, preventing cars from passing.
Disappointed. We get back in the car and head straight back. Soon enough the rain falls, first in small droplets, then bigger splats. We see the water gathering quickly into little streams that wind tracks over the parched land. Then, we notice not rain but small pellets of ice is falling from the sky. “Whoa. Hailing in the desert? Is that normal?” I ask. “Uh no… not at all,” they both respond. “Cool. It’s hailing in the desert!” The pellets start to get bigger. French Zen briefly stops the car to quickly grab a sample. “Look, this one even has a point. Imagine being hit by this little sucker.” We progress only to find the chunks of ice are getting bigger and bigger. Eventually, each loud crack, as fist fulls of hail bounce of the car, makes us flinch and wince. We half expect the windshield to crack, even shatter, at any given moment. French Zen amps up our speed. In about five minutes the hail starts to diminish and turn to rain once again.
Wide-eyed we all look at each other wondering, “So what was THAT all about?” I, myself, was feeling particularly thrilled. “Hey!” I exclaimed. “I told you I had a weird feeling! Hahaha. Something jolting, but thrilling!” Then, I feel kind of weirded-out by my own weird pre-feeling. ‘What does this all mean?’ I wonder. I think to a comment I’ve made to several friends lately, about how I felt as if my feelings were affecting me more strongly, in the physical sense. If something moved me, the tears would come startlingly quickly. If something repelled me, I couldn’t stop the hair-raising shivers. If I felt excited, I could hardly contain myself. ‘I’m definitely feeling more sensitive to, I don’t know, energy I guess,’ I thought to myself.
Back on asphalt, we see that three huge electricity towers have crashed to the ground. “Wow. The wind did that?!” we mutter in disbelief…
French Zen comes up with plan B and invites the Bruja and I to his house for pasta and wine. ‘Not a bad alternative,’ we two women grin at each other.
When I realized the pasta French Zen was whipping up was gnocchi I wagged with as nearly much excitement as French Zen’s big, solid French Mastif (a French Mastif for the French-accented Mexican… fitting no?) “I believe the last time I had gnocchi was two years ago in Thailand,” I mused out loud. “Sounds strange, but it was excellent. From an Italian ex-pat who hadn’t lost a touch of his Italian roots, evident by his exaggerated, sweeping gestures and fine Italian cooking. Imagine! Two years since I’ve had rich, succulent gnocchi!”
When I tasted my first morsel of the rich, creamy pasta, I felt the pleasure wash over me and again I noted my heightened sensitivity to, well, senses. My eyes closed and the fork lingered in my mouth. ‘MMMMmmmmm. Now this is ¡Que Rico!’ I raved. I repeated how delicious I thought the pasta was several times, while also commenting on how the touch of spice in the pasta heightened the various notes of flavor in the wine we were sipping.
“My neighbor is just as crazy as about my gnocchi as you are,” French Zen remarked as he punched a text message into his phone. Shortly after we finished, as I was eying the portion of pasta still left on the stove, FZ’s neighbor popped in… Darn! The rest was for her.
I managed to profess to the sweet-faced neighbor – who’s eyes smiled along with her mouth – that I was “del mundo (from the world)” along with some of my other typical ‘¡Que rico!’ and ‘pura nomada (pure nomad)’ quips before fading off into a light doze as the others continued to chat. When I awoke, the neighbor remarked how she didn’t understand how I could sleep in the midst of others around socializing. “It’s actually something I really enjoy,” I explained. “It’s not the first time I’ve slept during small gatherings, or even parties. I like the feeling, sensing others having a good time, while I sleep. It’s comforting. A ‘buena vibra’ (good vibe) I feel while I sleep.’
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…the other thought has come that man is perhaps not merely a half-rational animal but a child of the gods and destined to immortality.
— , Steppenwolf
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