Guadalupe
This room is just larger than the mattress. White washed walls with hooks for clothes and towels and anything deserving of being lifted off the floor and away from hungry insects. The bed is a couple of wooden pallets whitewashed in the same go as the walls, carelessly dropped to floor in the vain hope that the weight of the mattress would hold them together. A small plastic chair, one leg inches shorter than the others, sits in the corner and dares anyone to risk the seat and put it out of its misery. The smell of mold begs for an open door, but out the back door over the ledge lies only an alley full of scraps and shit and sewage with a slightly hopeful hint of fresh laundry soap.
This room is redeemed by the simplest of things. A plant hangs from bare screws in the ceiling, lush in the moist air, green and full of life. A crooked frame holds a photograph of an old man on a ledge smiling toothlessly and holding a mandolin, wide-brimmed hat pushed back on his wrinkled and sun-burnt forehead. Through the white wooden pallet that serves as a headboard someone has strung small lights, and for those willing to risk the outlet hanging out of the wall the reward is crazed constellations of twinkling stars running from bed to wall and back.
Douse the main light and turn on the stars and lay back on the coarse sheet, feel the hard wrinkles of the plastic mattress wrapper hidden beneath. It is chilly in this room - the back door doesn’t really close, the front door is drafty - and security is provided by a crumbling wall that you’d be crazy to try to climb. Or just hungry. Thick blanket up to neck and hands under arms for warmth. Close your eyes and listen.
The faint glow just barely seeps in through eyelids and the street comes into the room. Under the purple bougainvillea hanging from the retaining wall on the street tinted shadows dance with a riot of colorful fabrics and silhouettes warped by the street lamps and headlights. Motorbike engines belch grand declarations of existence while trucks backfire and mingle with fireworks large and loud as cannon fire. The music is unceasing and it fades from background to foreground, reaches a climax as some enterprising local sets up a full set of speakers just outside the door and cranks up the sweet Mexican love songs. It is hard to tell the screams of joy from those of fear and nothing is to be done about either. A drunk stumbles by and his gait matches the cadence of his incoherent grunts and shouts. Left foot, sharp and angry, right foot drags in a slow moan. Friends and lovers meander by with smiles in their voices, their youth vibrant in their laughter. And finally come the mothers. In their quiet murmur are arms wrapped around precious bundles in thick blankets pulled up to little necks, hands tucked under arms for warmth.
This is my room, my alley, my street in the Valley of the Brave, State of Mexico, Mexico. It is the Festival of Guadalupe, December 2018, and the entire world is here.
