Guanajuato Bound

7.21.06

I am the only non'latino in line at the Continental check'in counter, surrounded by a sea of black haired, toffee skinned families and their many rolling bags. Some are re-organizing their belongings when they discover that their luggage outweighs the 50 lb limit but there is a calmness to all the shuffling. Were this New York´s Kennedy airport and a line of tahiti bound upper east siders I can just hear the exasperation oozing out of their botoxed pores. Even teh crying babies are suffered sweetly as we patiently creep towards the security finish line. Finally at the gate a teen falls asleep with his head on his dad´s shoulder and soon pop´s slumber lowers his own cabeza onto his son´s. I am touched by this display of raw filial trust. I don´t think I would see this amongst the those Upper East Siders. An abuelita sits with her legs primly crossed, shiny black purse in her lap,k wearing what looks like a black hooded cape. Her budding breasted grandaughter offers her a Kettle Potato chip and another couple spoon yogurt into their mouths, her in an argyle vest, she in a turquoise flowered shirt. Perhaps it´s teh midnight hour and lack of crowds that lends an eerie subdued quality, which is now broken by an arguement behind me, half Spanish, half English: some woman has taken a seat for her books rathe rthan her butt.

The father son team wakes up and rearranges themselves, resettle back into sleep and I remember the lovely days of a toddlers warm head nestled in my neck in complete surrender. Would that a veil of fatigue could settle over the world´s hot spots long enough for these warring factions to rest a minute, and perhaps awaken slightly saner.

I have always loved this witching hour, whether with the promise of travel ahead, or for a 2am feeding, or when insomnia pushes you through the house, past the glow of various appliances, the bathroom, the computer, or the fridge.

I arrive in Leon in the dark and sleep in the taxi until jarred awake by teh speed bumps in an incredible mountain carved tunnel with rough walls. I am delivered to the Plaza Union at dawn with roosters crowing and a styrofoam box following me along the lonely tiles. I look around at the tight streets, the green curli-cued lampposts, the still shuttered buildings and feel very much at home. I sit on a wrought iron bench to watch the morning unfold as I wait for my host family pick me up. A bonging church bell rings, pigeons cluck around, street sweepers use long palm fronds to pick up the night´s detritus. I get a quick breakfast while awaiting my pick up and watch the town´s people on their way to work, school, wherever.

TUrns out I was only minutes away from the Sra. Rodreguez house and have to haul my bag up steep cobbled streets and passages only5 feet wide as she leads me to her home. I am giddy with exhaustion and drop my bags quickly to catch a bus with a fellow student to Academia Falcon on the other side of town. IT´s a lovely victorian style house painted deep ocean blue nestled between two other buildings. INside it opens up to a many level edifice and garden with terraces and lots of little class rooms. Many students teeming around, including some kids. I get signed up for 6 hours of Spanish classes to begin on Monday and a day trip to La Gruta and San Miguel tommorow. I feel like hanging out with fellow students and snoozing in the sun by some hot springs sounds wonderful as it´s cooler than I expected. Now I will go pass out before la cena at my host´s house, then wander around the city this afternoon, perhaps join a school sponsored evening tour to include la Calle de los