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Viejos Gringos

That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
– Those dying generations – at their song,

from Sailing to Byzantium
William Butler Yeats

In this city of exhuberance, where all over are white concrete lovers´ seats whose design is meant to keep paramours from deep embrace, is a burgeoning generation of ancient foreigners. Yesterday I met some of the oldens.

The library is just as charming as it has seemed in all these months of research.

Roger at the desk has a yellowed moustache above his smile. He explained membership (300 pesos for the year) The International Women´s Club ( high tea, charity, book discussions!) and NAFTA (the expats who meet for drinks at the Fiesta Americana the first Friday of every month – tomorrow!).

The shelves are lined with donated volumes – really good books – a community board advertises art lessons, the back courtyard is sunny, shady, overgrown green, and there I meet Sharon and Bill… they seem entrenched.

Tomorrow I join! And attend my first Spansh class there with Rafael for 50 pesos a lesson.

At this point in my entry the lights went out at the internet cafe…I resume back home, drinking vino tinto with Malcolm. The lights were out here for two hours maybe; we read (me) and played Animal Crossing (him) in the half dark votive lit bedroom. We ate steak and salad (fair to good) and work on art (Mexican to Byzantine).

We’re young here and busy buzzing creative. Happy together. Some photos of yesterday follow:

The Catedral is more masculine than I expected. I feel alien here. Many people pray, but not me. Troublesome.

There Is 1 Response So Far. »

  1. Sounds great but why would anyone love concrete in the fist place????

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