This is my second week and the morning is overcast. I’m not incredibly motivated to go out, walking along the motor way to the Soriana is a big deal, cleaning the floor is a big deal.
On the weekend I was lucky to be invited to a Mexican wedding of the child of a friend of my friend’s parents. We stayed in a colonial hacienda, sprawling verandahs through washes of green garden and courtyards, old enough for strangler figs to put down massive roots from seeds lodged in stone archways, tranquil pools and the sound of water gushing down an aqueduct.
We drove to the wedding, the guests were seated outdoors on the grass under white cloth strips, it was late to start and almost dark as the ceremony ended. I was sipping cocktails with a beautiful family.
The reception was under a pavilion open on each side and the night was cool. The first course was a cream cheese ball wrapped in prawn with a fresh mango sauce and fried noodles on the side. The bride and groom sit together alone at a small table for their first meal as a married couple.
As we were coming back from the bathroom my friend said she liked how the only thing to do at a time like this was to have fun. And nobody knows us here. I don’t feel like I deserve to be here, I said. But cheers! We had a paloma cocktail. And danced, and had another paloma. For some songs they handed out novelty items that coincided with the song, like straw hats, masks, glow sticks. At some point it became very, very fun. We met a man who used to live a few streets away from us in Sydney. At midnight everyone walked under the trees and there were fireworks. At 2 am they served chilaquiles for breakfast. Then the least drunk one drove us back to the hotel.
After breakfast in the morning we walked around the hotel gardens and took photos by the fig roots.
We detoured through the country to avoid Mexico city traffic. The colour of the landscape is like Australia because it is dry, though the artist would use less blues I guess, but the sky is paler. I think of the landscape as heterogeneous, like a scientific diagram: homogeneous is the beaker filled with clear solution. the heterogeneous beaker is filled with suspended soil, leaf litter, stones, grease, pieces of plastic. Everywhere is weathered or growing to be only that place. A field of mini cone haystacks sweep between trees, hand written fluro posters advertise tacos, enchiladas, queso. a family sits to a meal beside a barrow of watermelons for sale, a stone wall encloses a roadside garden, a magnificent gate encloses an overgrown garden. From a dun coloured thicket a spindly tree puts out white flowers. In the quiet room I know I am lucky. So, to the Soriana…
And did I mention that I saw a hummingbird last week outside my window.
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.