Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 66

Solitude and Quiet: the Viveros de Coyoacan

We arrived back in Montreal early this morning after a flight that began at 1:30 a.m. I feel pretty spacey: jet-lagged, a bit shocked by the all-too-familiar snow and Montreal's monochromatic palette. But it's good to be back home with Manon and our own bed, bath, and friends. I've got a lot to think about; traveling always changes me, and sometimes gives me a real shaking-up - this was once of those trips. For now, though, I'll continue the travelogue.

Coyoacan: Cortez lived here, and so did his native mistress, La Malinche. Coyoacan is to the south, and used to be where the aristocracy had their summer residences. Gradually Mexico City's growth absorbed it. DIego Rivera and Frida Kahlo lived and worked here, as did their friend Leon Trotsky, whose asylum they helped arrange.

We started exploring Coyoacan at Viveros, a 38.9 hectare arboretum/park founded in the early 20th century to provide seedlings to help restore deforested areas around  Mexico City; it became a national park in 1938.

From the busyness of the metro station and Avenue Insurgentes, we walked around the corner and entered an oasis of tall trees, greenness, and quiet paths. People were running, exercising, or just be-ing; there was a school class in white uniforms learning about the trees, but mostly it was quiet and calm, filled with the sounds of birds.

The avenues of the park were named after particular types of trees planted along them in long allees, like manzanitas and eucalyptus. And there were other habitats, such as a palm grove, and an arid garden filled with giant cactus plants planted on volcanic rocks, and shy, scurrying lizards.

 

In the center of the park, the red gravel-covered paths opened onto a large circle...

...where a matador practiced his moves.

The quiet encouraged me to look closely; color and pattern were everywhere. 

 

 

Our Coyoacan walk will be continued...

Flowers Everywhere

For all my starved friends in the north, an armful of blooms and green things.

 

 

 

 

 

Intensity

Color, noise, congestion, traffic, smells, uneven walking surfaces, chilis, contrasts and juxtapositions, the very old and the brand new: this is definitely an intense city, but immersing ourselves in such a place seems to be our idea of a vacation. People always ask me about the dangers and problems that most of us (and the news media) associate with Mexico City, so I want to write a little about our impressions.

Mostly it's been pretty clear, though today there is a lot more smog -- as you can see in the photo above, the mountains have disappeared. I've been OK except for some stuffiness at night and an occasional slight sore throat during the day. In the mornings I use eye drops.

Mexico City is also quite high - over 7,000 feet --remember the athletes complaining at the Mexico City Olympics? But in my experience the effect of the altitude is even more vague - I had a very slight headache the first few days and felt a bit more out-of-breath than usual when climbing many flights of stairs (which you do have to do in the metro.) I walk a lot anyway, but we are both in better shape than when we arrived because we have been walking pretty much all day, every day.

Then there is the fact of it being a mega-city of 21 million people. There are more people here than any place I've ever been, but the physical spaces are large, too -- I think I've been more crowded on Oxford Street in London. Yesterday we were in the metro during rush hour. The trains come every two minutes or less, and are very full, but what's remarkable to me is the way the empty platform simply fills right up again after a train leaves. The people move not in waves but in a steady flow; it's hard to imagine, let along describe: the collective action of filling, emptying, and immediately refilling is like water. But during less busy times in the metro and on the streets, the sheer size of the system and the city seem to absorb the population so that it's not as congested; you certainly aren't banging up against other people all the time.

I like being one of so many; it's a lesson in humility and world reality. And the people are absolutely beautiful: warm, friendly, helpful, eager to make us feel comfortable and welcome, and even seem happy for our brief encounters. I feel so, so white - Jonathan at least looks a little more brown! People notice, but they're polite about it. Children are more likely to stare, and then look shyly pleased when I smile at them. One little girl toddler was flirting with me when we shared a bench with her mother at a museum, but wouldn't speak; finally when I was turned away I felt a little touch - she had come over and patted my leg and was looking at me with big eyes. Her mother thought this was all pretty funny. And there is a constant level of genuineness and politeness -- during one busy time, a young man immediately offered me his seat in the metro; I declines but thanked him, and eventually seats opened up nearby. We were both on the train for a while, and he was talking to a companion, but when he got up to get off, he made a point of catching my eye and saying "buenas dias." It's that sort of unnecessary warmth and desire for connection that I really appreciate -- in such a large city it could so easily be the other way.

Then there's the question of safety. I don't worry about the natural dangers, but the people who live here are always aware of the possibilities -- as his sign in the subway makes clear.

As for the personal stuff, we have pretty good danger antennas (knock on wood) and try hard tobe careful and prudent, but I've never felt frightened here. Tourists do get ripped off in various ways and you have to be alert. Taking certain kinds of taxis, for instance, can be risky. You shouldnt' go out late at night in certain neighborhoods. But so far as the drug violence goes, Mexico City is not as dangerous a place as some of the provinces. I think physical dangers are more prevalent: you have to watch your step - the sidewalks are notoriously uneven, the curbs high, there are holes and hidden dangers everywhere, and you have to be especially careful about the traffic when crossing any street, even the small ones in a local neighborhood. As for the food and "Montezuma's Revenge," we don't eat anything raw that we haven't peeled or prepared ourselves, we're careful about street food, don't drink fruit waters or anything with ice in it, and we take acidophilus tablets all the time we're here. We bring precautionary prescriptions of Cipro, and thsi time we brought a water-purification system (two types of drops that react together and are added to tap water) that kills anything and makes water safe to use for washing vegetables, brushing teeth, or even drinking (though we just drink bottled water.)

Getting around in such a huge metropolis is daunting too, but the metro is extremly clean and easy to figure out, and we've also been using the Metrobus system, a relatively new network of buses that have their own dedicated lanes. We like learning cities, and use OpenSource maps and Google maps and the Lonely Planet guide to do that. It's easier with two people, but even in a mammoth place like this, when you learn sections of the city, exploring by foot and consulting a good map, then you can begin to put those sections together spacially and gradually it all starts to make sense.

Language is the final hurdle. Jonathan knows some Spanish; I have a basic vocabulary gained by online study using Babbel, but don't know much grammar yet except for some basic verb conjugations. French helps tremendously; I can usually get the sense of what I'm reading or work out a menu, street signs, ads and posters. If we keep coming back I definitely want to study and improve, though, because people want to talk, and so do I!

Being here reminds me, oddly perhaps, of steep downhill skiing or sight-reading music. You just have to be fully engaged, and to like that feeling of intensity, concentration, and sensory fullness. If you like being completely in the moment, then Mexico City is a good place for you -- but as I'll try to show you later, it's also a place where you can find relative solitude, quiet, and a lot of beauty.

Mostly in the Centro Historico

The day began looking out over the rooftops, as usual. We didn't have enough sleep last night, so we began slowly, wandering down the streets of the neighborhood in search of coffee and sweet bread which we ate in the park. Then we came back to our room, and decided to go again into the Centro Historico. We went by metro, which is by far the fastest way during the work week, and emerged at the Zocalo, the great plaza where Cortez built his cathedral and palace on top of the Aztec city he had conquered. I'll write more about these places another day. Today we went north of the Zocalo and slowly made our way down to the Palacio Bellas Artes, where we spent several hours looking at the murals by Rivera, Orozco, Tamayo, Sigueres and others -- also material for another post. What I want to show you today are simply what I think are the best photos of the day, all taken within a few blocks of each other.

This gentleman in his crisp white linen suit was browsing the bookseller's stalls, and stopped - as we did - to listen to a trio of fantastic musicians playing blues on the street. Something about his face captivated me, and I took this portrait.

A corner of the House of Tiles, a famous 16th-century mansion that is now owned by Sanborn's. We went in for a coffee and a bite to eat, but before that, I saw this young man poring over a comic book he'd just bought at a street kiosk.

The Palacio Bellas Artes at left, and the Post Office at right -- one of the most magnificent buildings in the Centro -- after a brief shower.

Many people took refuge on the steps of the Palacio during the rain, and the light was soft and particularly beautiful.

A street scene, looking up toward the Zocalo. Click the image to see a larger view.

Sunrise to Sunset, the first day

 After a five hour flight, made extremely pleasant by AeroMexico, we arrived in Mexico City and took a taxi to our hotel, where we slept and woke to a bright, warm sunrise.

 A neighbor was hanging up his laundry on the roof. In another building, pigeons flew in and out of an abandoned apartment on the top floor; they seem to have made a roost near an old water heater. We are staying, as we did last year, in a real neighborhood away from the touristic city center. In themornign at 8:00, we hear the voices of children in a school courtyard calling "Buenas dias!" in response to a teacher speaking through a megaphone; then they all sing the national anthem. Not long after, the calls of the street vendors begin, and we're enticed down onto the streets ourselves.

For these northern eyes, the banquet of color is like a feast for a woman who has just crawled out of the desert. I cannot get enough of it, and fortunately there is more than any one pair of eyes could possibly take in. The jacaranda trees are in full bloom...

 ...carpeting the streets with violet and adding yet more brilliant color to the rainbow already present.

 Palms sprout from the streets like giant pineapples. 

 But it's the Mexican people who are the real source of the warmth I feel. I never feel more white than I do here, but everywhere we are greeted with smiles and our own desire for connection is met with generosity and mutual attempts to communicate, via our rudimentary Spanish and their occasional bits of English, and lots of sign language and laughter. These two women, a mother and daughter, were making sweet pancake-like cookies cooked on a tortilla grill, and we stopped to talk tot hem and try to ask questions. They gave us samples to taste; the cakes are made of tortilla-flour corn and sugar and other ingredients and are delicious.  After some conversation about ingredients, and then about where we were from, the daughter smiled at us and said, in Spanish, "You are in love, aren't you?" We said yes, for more than thirty years. She said, these cakes are special for lovers! and then we noticed that the larger plastic packages wer decorated withhearts. Of course we bought some; a small package of stacked cakes rolled in paper twisted at both ends.

We met them in the mercado, or market, of the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadeloupe, where we spent most of that day, and is a story I'll have to save for another time. Right now we are back in our hotel room, drinking tequila, and looking forward to a shower and sleep. Until tomorrow, then.

Montreal, I love you, but...

...I'm leaving.

We had another big storm, almost a blizzard. Everybody's pretty demoralized as they trudge along through the snow, wait at the bus stops, dig out their cars, or - as I did this yesterday morning - push through knee-deep drifts to try to open a door. The day before I fell flat on my tush on some black ice, but fortunately didn't hurt myself; other friends haven't been so lucky and are wearing casts at the moment. And we're all still shrouded in layers of down, fur, and wool, in the Montreal winter palette of black and grey, with no end at all in sight.

But on Sunday afternoon, incredibly, I'll be here:

 

 

We're heading for the sunshine of Mexico City, away from this ridiculousness for a while. I feel really lucky to be able to get away, although it's always a huge amount of work to clear the decks so that we can travel.

 

 

Yesterday afternoon, as a little reward after days of accounting and tax preparations and meeting various client and volunteer responsibilities, I spent some time cleaning and revamping my watercolor palette for the trip. These picture above shows the pigments I'll be taking; the palette contains just a couple of changes from before.

 

I understand so well why Gauguin went to the Caribbean and Tahiti, and Van Gogh to southern France: we just start to crave color, and the effect of brighter sunlight on just about everything. Today I did some color mixing tests, thinking about the brilliant colors of Mexico.The cool mixtures made with Cobalt blue look so northern to me, although that lapis color itelf is typical and necessary, whether we're talking about the Mediterranean, South America or North Africa. It's obvious to me that the determining factor in the tonal cast are the choices of which red and which blue to use, much more than the yellows. I took away one of the yellowish earth tones from my previous palette, and after seeing John Singer Sargeant's watercolors up close this past June, I've given myself permission to take a half-pan of white gouache.

Here's the complete kit, which weighs in at only 120 grams, all in a small ziplock bag. The blue thing at right is an eraser that can be used flat but also has a fairly sharp edge. Below the palette, which contains a small sable brush in a travel case, are my Japanese water-reservoir brush pen, a size 0.1 black technical pen, a warm brown Faber-Castell superfine-point permanent marker, a #2/HB Dixon Ticonderoga pencil (thanks, Marjorie!) and an opaque white gel pen, and it's all sitting on two squares of paper toweling, which I use constantly while painting to keep my brush clean and control the amount of water; that gets replaced when necessary. Today I'm going to look for the lightest, smallest pencil shapener I can find. I wanted the kit to be light because my sketchbook isn't, particularly.

I'm sure I'll have some time to sketch, but not sure about making real paintings - that may have to wait until we get back to the studio. It's hard for me to commit two or three hours in the middle of a day to doing a watercolor when there's so much we want to see and do, and frankly, I don't want to push myself - we both need to relax. My focus is going to be on seeing more Mexican art, both ancient and modern. Today, though, it's done me a lot of good just to immerse myself in color, and remember the glorious pinks and azures and golds of the stucco buildings, the deep greens of the palms, the violet of the jacaranda trees, and the faces of the people.

How much posting I do will depend on the quality of our internet connection, but please do check in from time to time. Hasta pronto!

The hallway's a beach, reprise

Referencing tanka #3 from a few days ago.

Plastic Strawberry Boxes and Spent Tulips

 

Double tanka for Ash Wednesday

Pietro Perugino, Moses Leaving for Egypt, fresco from the Sistine Chapel

 

My poetic Lent
began in the dentist's chair.
The drill whirred and struck
an un-numbed crevasse of bone:
sublime sharp sliver of pain.

I thought of Mozart,
so young, the Sistine --
Allegri's lament
piercing his soul: a dagger
he transformed into a pen.

 

Allegri's Miserere mei was first heard by Pope Urban IV in 1630. He was so struck by its beauty that he declared it could only be sung in the Vatican's Sistine Chapel. The music alternates plainchant with verses for two choirs, one choir singing a simpler version and the other, a quartet, "commenting" on each verse with an ornamented variation which includes an ethereal, extremely high ornamentation sung by a boy soprano. In addition to allowing the music to be sung only at certain services, it also became forbidden -- on pain of excommunication -- for the music to be written down or transcribed. According to tradition, which is corroborated by letters, the young Mozart, at age 14, visited the Sistine Chapel in 1770, heard the music, and was deeply affected by its mystery and beauty. That evening, he wrote it down from memory, making a few corrections after a second visit to the chapel. In 1771 he gave a copy to a British historian, who had it published in London. The Pope summoned Mozart to Rome and praised his genius, and the ban was lifted.

Our choir sings the Miserere mei twice during Lent: once on Ash Wednesday evening, and once on Good Friday afternoon. So we sang it last night, along with a beautiful mass setting by Herbert Howells and William Walton's Drop Drop Slow Tears: the novocaine was worn off by then!

 

A Few Winter Haiku and Tanka

1.

I move the orchid,
window to table and back,
needing its pink face --
freckled, blushing --
its gold heart nearby,
beating the grey days.

 

2.

Day's strange beginning:
hot water immersion, steam,
sunrise on hard ice.

 

3.

The hallway's a beach--
squares of afternoon sun
like towels on the floor.
Snow-glare burns my closed eyelids:
red iris-image, then blue.

 

(I generally write these on Twitter, where a number of people explore the 140-character limit by writing micropoetry, haikus, tanka and free verse. If you're interested in that, you can follow me here and find others through my list.)