The Log from the Sea of Cortez

by John Steinbeck

The young males watched us from the safe shade of the cantina and passed greetings as we went by, and a covey of young girls grew tight-faced and rushed around a corner and giggled. How strange we were in Loreto! Our trousers were dark, not white; the silly caps we wore were so outlandish that no store in Loreto would think of stocking them. We were neither soldiers nor sailors—the little girls just couldn’t take it. We could hear their strangled giggling from around the corner. Now and then they peeked back around the corner to verify for themselves our ridiculousness, and then giggled again while their elders hissed in disapproval. And one woman standing in a lovely garden shaded with purple bougainvillaea explained, “Everyone knows what silly things girls are. You must forgive their ill manners; they will be ashamed later on.” But we felt that the silly girls had something worthwhile in their attitude. They were definitely amused. It is often so, particularly in our country, that the first reaction to strangeness is fear and hatred; we much preferred the laughter. We don’t think it was even unkind—they’d simply never seen anything so funny in their lives.

The proper way to see the world is with a smile and a giggle. What other way do we display the joy of discovery?