Once more, the Mercado de San Juan de Dios is transformed into a wonderland as the Christmas marketplace is open for business.
Extra booths have been erected around the market and they are filled with ornaments, Nativity figures and accessories, decorations, Baby Jesus figurines of many hues and sizes (and gorgeous gowns of swaddling clothes), garlands, pines, sparklers, elf costumes, devil’s pitchforks, cuetlaxochitls, Santa caps, treats, and holiday fantasies.
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“The Mini – Solve in seconds”
That’s the promise, or more probably, the challenge of the daily five-by-five crossword puzzle on the New York Times games page.
Monday’s second row, down, challenge was “Rockefeller Center statue depicting a Greek Titan.” Five letters.
Obviously not Prometheus – the golden, cast-bronze statue in the lower end of Rockefeller Plaza – since it busts the five-letter wall. But that’s the one everyone knows, even if they have never been to New York, because it is always in the frame with the Rockefeller Christmas tree.
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His name is Pehuenche and he will be in concert this Sunday, Nov. 17 at the Tres Fuentes hotel and as exciting a singer as the Veracruz native may be, there is an equally exciting story behind the concert.
San Miguel de Allende isn’t exactly on anyone’s music circuit – those well-traveled paths that bands and other performers follow from town to town – or at least it hasn’t been.
At least until now.
Continue readingThere is an old joke about two explorers who are captured by cannibals. One is a Californian and the other is a New Yorker.
The explorers sit at the bottom of a large vat filled with water. Natives run around collecting firewood and depositing it at the base. It is going to be a big fire. It is going to be a big feast.
The chief of the cannibals stands over the two explorers and admires their pale skins.
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The Day of the Dead has begun, in the most beautiful ways imaginable.
This morning dozens of people, young and old, arrived at the Jardin Principal to build large public oftendas, the altars that pay tribute to family, friends, classmates, motorcycle and Rotary club members — our loved ones who have passed away.
It is a beautiful and heartwarming thing to watch.
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Sorry for the Dad Joke. It just came to me in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Turns out, the Cosmos is as corny as I am.
“Hey, shiny new Artificial Intelligence program: Write me a poem about walking through the Scottish Highlands and do it in the style of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.”
OK, I didn’t do this. I may still do this — but I didn’t.
Not yet.
Recently, I re-read Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha” for the first time since my childhood.
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He awoke with a sharp grunt. Like someone had kicked him in the balls.
Come to think of it, it hurt down there, too. And he had to pee. Again.
“Driver,” he called to the front of the black town car. “Pull over. I have to piss again.”
“Can you hold it for about 10 minutes, Mr. Trump? This is a pretty bad place to pull over.”
“President. I told you to refer to me as President Trump. I don’t want to say it again.”
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Art is best left to describe itself.
I’m a firm believer in that.
But I also believe you should let people know where they can find the cool stuff. This, for example.
The beauty of San Miguel de Allende is that you find art everywhere, often in the most unexpected places.
Especially murals.
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Here is how it all unfolds.
Trump loses. He loses badly. The numbers are so clear and decisive that there is no wiggle room for Trump to claim fraud. The victory is decisive.
Trump does not concede defeat because he and his family are all busy packing.
Trump abdicates his “MAGA throne,” goes into exile in Russia, and sets up a shadow government. The money he has squeezed from the faithful in side scams and the money he has harvested from foreign interests is already safely deposited in Russian vaults and bitcoin portfolios.
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A long hike is never really over.
We finished walking Scotland’s West Highland Way on September 18. It is still very much on my mind and I suspect it will be hanging around.
There were lessons learned. Both about myself and the trail.
That’s really what it is mostly about in the end, isn’t it? Nobody walks – let’s call it 100 miles – and walks away not knowing something new about themselves.
Even if it is only whether or not you love toe socks.
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Musings, Magic, San Miguel and More 