I tend to make assumptions that are surely mistakes. For example I believe that all human beings when exposed to them will love the Beatles. I first was exposed to them in my early twenties, surely late in life. I remember this experience perfectly, in spite of my memory not being what it should be.
Back then with my best friend Alejandro who later became my boyfriend and first husband I attended a reading circle that focused mainly on philosophy. We read folks like Engels, Hegel and Marx. Aside from my natural curiosity to learn, all I wanted was to be with Alejandro. All of us were college kids, idealistic and naïve. Maria and her husband were the ones who coordinated the reading circle and we admired them because they were really experienced and knowledgeable.
One day, instead of our usual weekly discussion we decided to have a party. In all sincerity, I felt I didn’t belong there. I was shy, I didn’t know how to socialize nor did I have the valuable social skill of small talk. The only person I felt comfortable with was Alejandro, who had a keen intelligence and was as honest as me. In the name of honesty we said things that now in my maturity I wouldn’t say to anyone; and in the long run probably hurt me more than him.
It was a big party, my only anchor was Alejandro and at some point I lost him in the midst of all those people drinking and laughing and, generally, having a blast. To calm myself down and not give myself away as a lonely, shy and friendless person, I stepped outside and I probably smoked a cigarette trying to make myself go back and join all the young people that had no emotional issues (whatever they were) like me. I was trying to convince myself that I belonged, that I had a right to be there. I finally went back hoping to find Alejandro. As I came into the main room the lights were out and the only light was the one filtering in through the windows. It was early evening, so there was still sunlight. I was surprised to see couples in embrace dancing to music that immediately captivated and struck me still: the song playing loud, was sweet and sad at the same time, it was a song I had never heard in my life. I was transfixed, I realized it was a song perfect for dancing with someone close to you. I wondered, “Who’s singing?” I just remembered a melodious “I'm in love for the first time/ Don't you know it's gonna last/ It's a love that lasts forever/ It's a love that had no past/ (and then the plea) Don’t let me down.”
Later I learned they were the Beatles. And so I made them mine. I discovered that John is my favorite Beatle.
So many years later, it turns out that my second husband Raul is a Beatle freak. The happy thing, at least for me, is that our daughter Valentina loves the Beatles, just like us. And as it should be.
John always touches my heart. Just this week I was listening to Beautiful Boy as he wrote it for his son Sean, and I thought of that boy’s loss and I remember feeling upset, like crying. And I got really resentful against that Chapman fellow. He not only took John’s life, he stole from all of us as he took from John his more productive and artistic years yet to come. Who knows what he had in store for us as he came into himself without the other three and as he was coming into the maturity of his years?
Ultimately, though, the Beatles never let me down.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Friday, January 20, 2012
#3 -- Oh Jane of My Teenage Heart!
My little sister Irma, is younger than me by little less than a year. I think it would be safe to assume that you could infer that we have a lot in common. And yet we don’t. My sister married when she was nineteen years old to her first and only sweetheart Lalo. I married the first time at 26 and the second time, well in my forties. She has three wonderful kids, two already married and she is the grandmother of two precious kids. I, miraculously, became a mother at 38.
My sister Irma is the hardest working woman I know, even now. She seems tireless and undefeatable. She is passionate about her husband and kids. She has survived breast cancer. Most of the time I’m in awe of her. She and my mother are the two toughest broads you’ll ever meet.
As a child, Irma was physical and a free spirit; my spirit was a timid spirit, practically voiceless. Irma fearlessly cycled on the dirt hills across the street from the house we rented in California. Her ambition was to have a ten-speed sports bike, which she got for her fifteenth birthday. I was quiet, had no friends and no interest in the outside world. I lived for my music and my books. My sister was playing “comadritas” with our mother and making her home on each branch of the big tree in our front yard. The higher branch was her kitchen, that one to the left, was the living room and so on. If I ever ventured outside I would quietly walk around the house. Seeing the tree as a tree I was incapable of the magical thinking so typical of children.
As we hit teenagehood, Irma discovered she liked to read too, but that didn’t bring as any closer. While I was captivated by Harriet the Spy and Sara Crewe, my sister discovered Nancy Drew. Later she was into Danielle Steele and everything Harlequin Romance.
I would sometimes borrow her Nancy Drew books or her romance novels. That is how I came upon a book titled Collision Course where Rosie and Luke fall in love, in spite of her initial hatred toward him. I was hooked by this story, so much so that I borrowed another one from Irma, which did nothing for me.
I quickly realized that it was the author who enamored me so. I became addicted to finding as many of her books as I could. Her name was Jane Donnelly. If Jane wasn’t the novelist, all of my sister’s romance novels became worthless for me.
Of course the plot is totally formulaic, ideal for a young girl to imagine and dream about love and the mate she wishes will discover her when she becomes an adult. I too wanted my Luke and my Adam (the hero from A Man Apart). Every story was the same: A cute girl with a kind heart and hard working has reached independence and is probably in a stable relationship that is aiming at marriage when in He comes. Mostly always an outsider, brilliant in his field (writer, archaeologist, etc.), untoppable really, almost a celebrity. A man whose intelligence has not blinded him to ultimately see the value of a girl like Rosie or Abby. There is always some miscommunication or a messy situation that distances them and seems to indicate that the relationship will not make it, but at the end, He can only love her and she was born to be the woman of a man whose intelligence, stature and self-sufficiency she cannot resist.
In my thirties when I moved to San Antonio, my now husband found out about my affinity to Jane Donnelly. Raúl made it a point to go to second–hand stores in San Anto to hunt down any and all of Jane’s titles he could find for me, to the point that I have several of those books from my teenage years. Every now and then, when I have a fit of nostalgia or a desire to remember (relive?) my youth, I will bring them down and read them all again, as voraciously as then.
Oh Jane, my Jane, you knew me well!
My sister Irma is the hardest working woman I know, even now. She seems tireless and undefeatable. She is passionate about her husband and kids. She has survived breast cancer. Most of the time I’m in awe of her. She and my mother are the two toughest broads you’ll ever meet.
As a child, Irma was physical and a free spirit; my spirit was a timid spirit, practically voiceless. Irma fearlessly cycled on the dirt hills across the street from the house we rented in California. Her ambition was to have a ten-speed sports bike, which she got for her fifteenth birthday. I was quiet, had no friends and no interest in the outside world. I lived for my music and my books. My sister was playing “comadritas” with our mother and making her home on each branch of the big tree in our front yard. The higher branch was her kitchen, that one to the left, was the living room and so on. If I ever ventured outside I would quietly walk around the house. Seeing the tree as a tree I was incapable of the magical thinking so typical of children.
As we hit teenagehood, Irma discovered she liked to read too, but that didn’t bring as any closer. While I was captivated by Harriet the Spy and Sara Crewe, my sister discovered Nancy Drew. Later she was into Danielle Steele and everything Harlequin Romance.
I would sometimes borrow her Nancy Drew books or her romance novels. That is how I came upon a book titled Collision Course where Rosie and Luke fall in love, in spite of her initial hatred toward him. I was hooked by this story, so much so that I borrowed another one from Irma, which did nothing for me.
I quickly realized that it was the author who enamored me so. I became addicted to finding as many of her books as I could. Her name was Jane Donnelly. If Jane wasn’t the novelist, all of my sister’s romance novels became worthless for me.
Of course the plot is totally formulaic, ideal for a young girl to imagine and dream about love and the mate she wishes will discover her when she becomes an adult. I too wanted my Luke and my Adam (the hero from A Man Apart). Every story was the same: A cute girl with a kind heart and hard working has reached independence and is probably in a stable relationship that is aiming at marriage when in He comes. Mostly always an outsider, brilliant in his field (writer, archaeologist, etc.), untoppable really, almost a celebrity. A man whose intelligence has not blinded him to ultimately see the value of a girl like Rosie or Abby. There is always some miscommunication or a messy situation that distances them and seems to indicate that the relationship will not make it, but at the end, He can only love her and she was born to be the woman of a man whose intelligence, stature and self-sufficiency she cannot resist.
In my thirties when I moved to San Antonio, my now husband found out about my affinity to Jane Donnelly. Raúl made it a point to go to second–hand stores in San Anto to hunt down any and all of Jane’s titles he could find for me, to the point that I have several of those books from my teenage years. Every now and then, when I have a fit of nostalgia or a desire to remember (relive?) my youth, I will bring them down and read them all again, as voraciously as then.
Oh Jane, my Jane, you knew me well!
Monday, January 16, 2012
#2 - Why I Shut my Mouth
I’m in pain. It’s a pain in my weak left foot. It feels like somebody squeezing a nail into the most tender skin on the outer side of my left sole. It shoots from deep within with an intense and burning pain, making me almost crumble to the floor if I’m standing up. Walking is the most painful misery. If with my cane I’m a slow poke, I cannot describe myself with the nails that shoot from underneath my foot.
That made me think of the Jewish man who was crucified pitilessly with nails to his feet and hands. If I feel I’m about to quit life and cry my pain in high wails, I cannot fathom what it might mean to be victim of people purposefully inserting nails to your feet and hands and then standing around to see you die.
I try to comfort myself thinking of the pain he must have endured and I tell myself that what I’m feeling must be close to nothing compared with the damage that hammer made and the part it played in his death. And I try to make myself strong, but I can’t, I feel the drops of perspiration sliding down, dampening my hair, running down my neck and forehead and I feel like letting myself drop to the floor and weep like a baby.
A kind—hearted young woman helped me today. But I had to ask her for help. I find that to be extremely embarrassing, shaming. It might not be, but I cannot help that feeling. It’s in my genes. She brought me my desk chair with wheels to the hallway a few feet away from my desk, and helped me make it to my desk. A humble thank you, Liz!
Since I do not see how anyone can help me, I try to suffer this pain in my own silent, unobtrusive way, always answering that I’m fine, that it’s nothing. Then I find myself alone and I find myself complaining to God and asking him to help me. I know he knows what I’m feeling, and I know he loves me. Why must I wait for him so long? Then I remember that my time is not his time. And I shut my mouth.
That made me think of the Jewish man who was crucified pitilessly with nails to his feet and hands. If I feel I’m about to quit life and cry my pain in high wails, I cannot fathom what it might mean to be victim of people purposefully inserting nails to your feet and hands and then standing around to see you die.
I try to comfort myself thinking of the pain he must have endured and I tell myself that what I’m feeling must be close to nothing compared with the damage that hammer made and the part it played in his death. And I try to make myself strong, but I can’t, I feel the drops of perspiration sliding down, dampening my hair, running down my neck and forehead and I feel like letting myself drop to the floor and weep like a baby.
A kind—hearted young woman helped me today. But I had to ask her for help. I find that to be extremely embarrassing, shaming. It might not be, but I cannot help that feeling. It’s in my genes. She brought me my desk chair with wheels to the hallway a few feet away from my desk, and helped me make it to my desk. A humble thank you, Liz!
Since I do not see how anyone can help me, I try to suffer this pain in my own silent, unobtrusive way, always answering that I’m fine, that it’s nothing. Then I find myself alone and I find myself complaining to God and asking him to help me. I know he knows what I’m feeling, and I know he loves me. Why must I wait for him so long? Then I remember that my time is not his time. And I shut my mouth.
Friday, January 6, 2012
#1 -- Our Worst Sin
My fist weekly post of 2012.
So it’s a new year and I imagine that you-just as me-are trying hard to keep up your optimism and faith in us, the human race.
It’s not always easy though, isn’t? I just heard about two terrible cases that do very little to prove our worth and value.
I’m talking about that two-year-old little girl in China who was run over by two vehicles and then left there bleeding on the street as 18 other persons walked, drove or pedaled right by her without stopping to help or to call for help.
The other tragedy occurred in Mexico city this week in a Bancomer bank. A 60 or 61 year old man is standing in line with many other customers, all impatient to make it to the cashier to take care of their business. The man suddenly takes his hands to his chest, steps out of line and dies on the floor of a heart attack. Not one single person in the bank, customer or employee, did anything to help this man. Apparently they were worried and did not want to lose their place in line.
How can we explain this? What does it say about us? Is it fear that stops us from acknowledging the pain and suffering in others? Is it selfishness?
Thursday night I was watching a movie with Helen Mirren as the philosopher and writer Ayn Rand. Well, if I trust Rand’s philosophy, it would have been okay to not express sadness or to act to help these two individuals. From what I understood, Rand supports selfishness and the pursuit of one’s personal happiness without really regarding others.
Then Friday morning I was listening to Don Cheto, the Spanish-language radio personality , who so entertains me. He was born in my parents’ home state of Michoacán, and listening to him takes me back to their village, populated by uneducated and hard-working people. I love Don Cheto’s wit, his sense of humor and his obvious intelligence. He perfectly understands the immigrant experience, which means he perfectly identifies with his listeners. His co-host Marlene Quinto is a young woman, who can be likened to probably any of his listeners--uneducated, sometimes coarse, ill-mannered and crude, sometimes very inappropriate when speaking about sexual things (but most Mexicans I know are like that, loving to speaking in innuendos, double entendres and their “albures). What I like about her is that she seems to have an air of innocence and inexperience about her, that makes her sound almost like a child. It appears she has knowledge about living in the most feared neighborhoods of the LA area and knows about the “cholo” life. The other guy’s name is Felix but they call him Boro, he is the “braniac” of the group, the educated one, the non-peasant- middle-class-guy. They have a good chemistry between the three. Obviously Don Cheto is the star, in my mind deservedly so.
Anyway, Friday morning on my way to work, Don Cheto commented on the China and Mexico tragedies. And then he said something that struck me as true and correct in describing us, society members, and our ability to ignore so much pain and loss. He said that our worst sin as human beings was our indifference. I don’t know about you, but it hit home with me.
I hope 2012 turns a corner and comes to be a better experience to us all, here in the United States, as well as our entire and beautiful planet, places like Greece, Italy , Spain and my wounded Mexico. On my part, for my family and myself, I will continue to explore and look for freelance opportunities to make better use of my communication skills in Spanish.
Let us pray.
So it’s a new year and I imagine that you-just as me-are trying hard to keep up your optimism and faith in us, the human race.
It’s not always easy though, isn’t? I just heard about two terrible cases that do very little to prove our worth and value.
I’m talking about that two-year-old little girl in China who was run over by two vehicles and then left there bleeding on the street as 18 other persons walked, drove or pedaled right by her without stopping to help or to call for help.
The other tragedy occurred in Mexico city this week in a Bancomer bank. A 60 or 61 year old man is standing in line with many other customers, all impatient to make it to the cashier to take care of their business. The man suddenly takes his hands to his chest, steps out of line and dies on the floor of a heart attack. Not one single person in the bank, customer or employee, did anything to help this man. Apparently they were worried and did not want to lose their place in line.
How can we explain this? What does it say about us? Is it fear that stops us from acknowledging the pain and suffering in others? Is it selfishness?
Thursday night I was watching a movie with Helen Mirren as the philosopher and writer Ayn Rand. Well, if I trust Rand’s philosophy, it would have been okay to not express sadness or to act to help these two individuals. From what I understood, Rand supports selfishness and the pursuit of one’s personal happiness without really regarding others.
Then Friday morning I was listening to Don Cheto, the Spanish-language radio personality , who so entertains me. He was born in my parents’ home state of Michoacán, and listening to him takes me back to their village, populated by uneducated and hard-working people. I love Don Cheto’s wit, his sense of humor and his obvious intelligence. He perfectly understands the immigrant experience, which means he perfectly identifies with his listeners. His co-host Marlene Quinto is a young woman, who can be likened to probably any of his listeners--uneducated, sometimes coarse, ill-mannered and crude, sometimes very inappropriate when speaking about sexual things (but most Mexicans I know are like that, loving to speaking in innuendos, double entendres and their “albures). What I like about her is that she seems to have an air of innocence and inexperience about her, that makes her sound almost like a child. It appears she has knowledge about living in the most feared neighborhoods of the LA area and knows about the “cholo” life. The other guy’s name is Felix but they call him Boro, he is the “braniac” of the group, the educated one, the non-peasant- middle-class-guy. They have a good chemistry between the three. Obviously Don Cheto is the star, in my mind deservedly so.
Anyway, Friday morning on my way to work, Don Cheto commented on the China and Mexico tragedies. And then he said something that struck me as true and correct in describing us, society members, and our ability to ignore so much pain and loss. He said that our worst sin as human beings was our indifference. I don’t know about you, but it hit home with me.
I hope 2012 turns a corner and comes to be a better experience to us all, here in the United States, as well as our entire and beautiful planet, places like Greece, Italy , Spain and my wounded Mexico. On my part, for my family and myself, I will continue to explore and look for freelance opportunities to make better use of my communication skills in Spanish.
Let us pray.
Friday, December 16, 2011
#44 - 2011, this is it!
This is my 44th post. Just eight shy of 52. Considering that this is my first year blogging, trust me, I’m thinking 44 entries is a pretty neat accomplishment for someone as lazy as myself. So, yay me!
My intention is to keep up the discipline of writing once a week in 2012. Who knows? Maybe I’ll reach that magic 52 and can boast of having written regularly once a week.
This is it for me this year. I will not post (I don’t think) until next year. I will try to rest and enjoy my family during these last two weeks of 2011 and I will continue praying for a healthier and more prosperous and peaceful 2012 not only for me and mine, but also for you and for our lovely planet.
Peace my friends,
Margarita
My intention is to keep up the discipline of writing once a week in 2012. Who knows? Maybe I’ll reach that magic 52 and can boast of having written regularly once a week.
This is it for me this year. I will not post (I don’t think) until next year. I will try to rest and enjoy my family during these last two weeks of 2011 and I will continue praying for a healthier and more prosperous and peaceful 2012 not only for me and mine, but also for you and for our lovely planet.
Peace my friends,
Margarita
Friday, December 9, 2011
#43 - My Movies - Melancholia
I saw Melancholia this week. Let me tell you it’s a strange but very interesting movie.
I’m not familiar with the director. A Danish guy, Lars von Trier, who apparently likes to stir in some controversy around his films and himself. I read that the idea for this movie came after he had a depressive episode and found that, depressed and indifferent, he actually was stronger and able to withstand more of the hard things in life.
So the movie starts with the end of the world due to some planetary catastrophe. Then the story centers on two sisters, Justine and Claire played by Kirsten Dunst (this part was initially planned for Penelope Cruz) and Charlotte Gainsbourg. We attend the wedding of Justine and Michael, a big event planned by Claire and financed by her wealthy husband John (Kiefer Sutherland). Claire wants to give her sister the perfect wedding, but soon we realize that it cannot be. Justine is actually pretty strange and ill. To start off, the bride and groom arrive to the reception two hours late. When we meet the girls’ parents we can explain to some degree the total dysfunctionality of this family: anger, resentment and unresolved conflict bubble to the surface of this family’s dynamic.
The wedding ends with a bride so disengaged from and indifferent to her wedding that she wanders off to the beautiful palatial gardens to urinate on the grass and in her wedding gown and to have sex with a stranger. The heartbroken groom finally leaves with his family.
This wedding seems a bit odd to me. Justine’s family, self-cenetered and all, is obviously aware of her mental illness, that to impose a wedding on such a frail individual seems clearly ill-advised and counterintuitive.
I guess because the story in reality deals with the impending end of the world and humanity’s tendency to not believe that our end can be almost uninmportant and meaningless. I understood how sick Justine really is, because as she says herself she “knows things,” and she knows that the planet Melancholia won’t pass by the Earth but that there will be a head-on collision with us and that we will end with it. And still, she remains in total silence and indolence, not ever once showing fear or despair, when you would think that any other human being would do something, at least share it with her loved ones, no matter how useless she knows it all is. But Justine’s listlessness is extreme and her disregard of all things human is really serious.
The acting by Kirsten Dunst and Charlotte Gainsbourg I thought was powerful and Wagner’s music is heartbreaking to the point that even your bones vibrate, especially at the end.
I’m not familiar with the director. A Danish guy, Lars von Trier, who apparently likes to stir in some controversy around his films and himself. I read that the idea for this movie came after he had a depressive episode and found that, depressed and indifferent, he actually was stronger and able to withstand more of the hard things in life.
So the movie starts with the end of the world due to some planetary catastrophe. Then the story centers on two sisters, Justine and Claire played by Kirsten Dunst (this part was initially planned for Penelope Cruz) and Charlotte Gainsbourg. We attend the wedding of Justine and Michael, a big event planned by Claire and financed by her wealthy husband John (Kiefer Sutherland). Claire wants to give her sister the perfect wedding, but soon we realize that it cannot be. Justine is actually pretty strange and ill. To start off, the bride and groom arrive to the reception two hours late. When we meet the girls’ parents we can explain to some degree the total dysfunctionality of this family: anger, resentment and unresolved conflict bubble to the surface of this family’s dynamic.
The wedding ends with a bride so disengaged from and indifferent to her wedding that she wanders off to the beautiful palatial gardens to urinate on the grass and in her wedding gown and to have sex with a stranger. The heartbroken groom finally leaves with his family.
This wedding seems a bit odd to me. Justine’s family, self-cenetered and all, is obviously aware of her mental illness, that to impose a wedding on such a frail individual seems clearly ill-advised and counterintuitive.
I guess because the story in reality deals with the impending end of the world and humanity’s tendency to not believe that our end can be almost uninmportant and meaningless. I understood how sick Justine really is, because as she says herself she “knows things,” and she knows that the planet Melancholia won’t pass by the Earth but that there will be a head-on collision with us and that we will end with it. And still, she remains in total silence and indolence, not ever once showing fear or despair, when you would think that any other human being would do something, at least share it with her loved ones, no matter how useless she knows it all is. But Justine’s listlessness is extreme and her disregard of all things human is really serious.
The acting by Kirsten Dunst and Charlotte Gainsbourg I thought was powerful and Wagner’s music is heartbreaking to the point that even your bones vibrate, especially at the end.
Friday, December 2, 2011
#42 - Post “a la Freud” or Pedaling Memories
I was busy all last week being grateful (and, trust me, I have much to be grateful for) that I didn’t write a post during the Thanksgiving break.
But me is back! With not much to write about. I’m thinking of letting myself go “a la Freud,” letting my ideas flow as in free association mode.
The other day I was thinking about the several decades of my life and how my past gets mistier year after year. I thought this when I saw a child joyfully riding his bicycle and I thought to myself, “Hey I used to know how to do that!”
I remember the last two times I’ve been on a bicycle. The last one is a bit embarrassing because I fell off the my brand new shiny blue bike (a wonderful birthday present from my husband’s son Octavio) and I was semi-drunk. I say “semi-drunk” because I achingly remember every detail of the incident, the burn on my calf, etc, so we shall say that I was somewhat tipsy. The fall happened right before I even attempted to try pedaling. I didn’t think I could fall, trusting as I was on that notion that you can’t forget something as easy as that, that it would be exactly like “riding a bike”!
But long before that in 1989 it turns I was in Toronto with my first husband, our friend Beatriz and her chef boyfriend, a French-Canadian that we shall call Pierre. That day Pierre had cooked for us. I remember how amazed I was that a salad could be so utterly delicious. Pierre said that the secret is always in the dressing, and that the one we had enjoyed was his own creation. Well, Pierre, it was exquisite!
The four us ended on an island whose name I do not remember, nor can I recall how or why we went there. All I remember is that the four of us were riding bikes. And it was exactly as the saying goes, easy “like riding a bike.” The day was hot but beautiful and oh my gosh, all that greenery. I remember picking up some pebbles from the beach and bringing them to San Antonio with me and putting them as little decorative remembrance pieces on the window sill of our apartment to remind myself of that that sunny and falsely carefree day. The little rocks have long been lost, but the memory has not been misplaced (thank goodness).
Hey! There was another bike ride before the embarrassing fall and after Toronto. Raúl, my husband, is living in Houston. Our friend Rafael and I are visiting him fo the weekend and we decide to go to Galveston. We wanted to see the sea (ha, “see the sea!” get it?). Before that I had only been to the beach once in Mexico, in the beautiful state of Colima. Raúl and Rafa are both poets and you can imagine the words and descriptions they had to share about the ocean. So there we are, walking among tourists and Raúl and I have a mega-fight and he says rejects the idea of renting a bike that can be pedaled by four, but Rafa and I rent it anyway and we pedal on the beach. I remember him encouraging me to pedal beyond my own astrength. I gave my best effort, but it was a lot of sweaty work. Meanwhile Raúl was drawing a heart on the sand with a message for me in its center: “I love you” (te amo). Awww!
But me is back! With not much to write about. I’m thinking of letting myself go “a la Freud,” letting my ideas flow as in free association mode.
The other day I was thinking about the several decades of my life and how my past gets mistier year after year. I thought this when I saw a child joyfully riding his bicycle and I thought to myself, “Hey I used to know how to do that!”
I remember the last two times I’ve been on a bicycle. The last one is a bit embarrassing because I fell off the my brand new shiny blue bike (a wonderful birthday present from my husband’s son Octavio) and I was semi-drunk. I say “semi-drunk” because I achingly remember every detail of the incident, the burn on my calf, etc, so we shall say that I was somewhat tipsy. The fall happened right before I even attempted to try pedaling. I didn’t think I could fall, trusting as I was on that notion that you can’t forget something as easy as that, that it would be exactly like “riding a bike”!
But long before that in 1989 it turns I was in Toronto with my first husband, our friend Beatriz and her chef boyfriend, a French-Canadian that we shall call Pierre. That day Pierre had cooked for us. I remember how amazed I was that a salad could be so utterly delicious. Pierre said that the secret is always in the dressing, and that the one we had enjoyed was his own creation. Well, Pierre, it was exquisite!
The four us ended on an island whose name I do not remember, nor can I recall how or why we went there. All I remember is that the four of us were riding bikes. And it was exactly as the saying goes, easy “like riding a bike.” The day was hot but beautiful and oh my gosh, all that greenery. I remember picking up some pebbles from the beach and bringing them to San Antonio with me and putting them as little decorative remembrance pieces on the window sill of our apartment to remind myself of that that sunny and falsely carefree day. The little rocks have long been lost, but the memory has not been misplaced (thank goodness).
Hey! There was another bike ride before the embarrassing fall and after Toronto. Raúl, my husband, is living in Houston. Our friend Rafael and I are visiting him fo the weekend and we decide to go to Galveston. We wanted to see the sea (ha, “see the sea!” get it?). Before that I had only been to the beach once in Mexico, in the beautiful state of Colima. Raúl and Rafa are both poets and you can imagine the words and descriptions they had to share about the ocean. So there we are, walking among tourists and Raúl and I have a mega-fight and he says rejects the idea of renting a bike that can be pedaled by four, but Rafa and I rent it anyway and we pedal on the beach. I remember him encouraging me to pedal beyond my own astrength. I gave my best effort, but it was a lot of sweaty work. Meanwhile Raúl was drawing a heart on the sand with a message for me in its center: “I love you” (te amo). Awww!
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