I can't prove this of course, but there can only be one explanation for Raimondo's omnipresence: he has a lookout stationed on the roof of his wax museum. We walk the high road into town and there he is with a big smile, a hug for Anna and a hard hand shake for me. We are good friends, and he misses us when we don't pass him at least once a day. He wants to know where we are going and nods sagely in agreement with our stated plans. When we return half an hour later we repeat the ritual and he will say: "¡Ah, si! You did get the mail." Would we lie to him? He stands outside his museum and chats up the passers-by, hoping to entice them. Sometimes he nails an entire busload of tourists, but nothing can shake him in his conviction that business is bad. At home he adds to a chest full of pesos. He bought the museum three years ago, when his career in the government accounting office promised no more than a certain future. Now he dusts old heroes of the Mexican revolution, waxed into five peso immortality. I have never been inside his museum and will not confess this to Raimondo. He would insist on a personal tour. Sometimes we walk up to the door and greet his wife Anna. For it is she, obscure in the hallway's semi-darkness, who collects the five pesos for a peek at eternity. Last week Raimondo came running down to the street with a gift in his hands. Normally he patrols a few square yards at the steps to his kingdom, but that time he abandoned his station. He had asked a friend to bring real Chiapas coffee for us. It is very touching. But how do we tell him that we don't drink caffeinated coffee? We had to make it up: a report on the high quality, the uniqueness of flavor of this brew. He is already planning future shipments. What draws him to us?

And so we fall victim to friendship, for I do not know of a way to reject a gift that will not keep on giving because we don't know what to with it. Raimondo touches his chest where his heart is beating strongly with goodwill and friendship for us. He was in tears when Anna baked him a flan. Many friendships have survived the crossing of thinner ice.

We have exchanged gifts and cleared the path to well intentioned friendship. We pat our chests to let him know that our hearts beat in unison. Sometimes we make a detour and avoid him. He speaks English and asks for translations of tourism-related phrases to help him in his business. He forgets his English faster than I do my Spanish.

Manuel, on the other hand, is not stationed in front of anything. He patrols a couple of hundred feet of sidewalk along the Alhóndiga where we pass daily. He is a retired miner, in his 80s, and I do not recall how we made his acquaintance, but now he comes running up to us and embraces Anna with suspicious (well, not really) fervor. He is immensely proud of his physique, and we cannot continue our walk without touching his chest or arms in adoration of his muscles. And indeed, his bones are clad in solid steel. One day, when a cold wind swept the street and we shivered on our way home, he unbuttoned his shirt and proudly proclaimed that he, with that chest full of hair that is the pride of a young man, would never be cold. Anywhere else he could have been arrested for indecent exposure.

The city itself became the focus of national and international ridicule when the mayor issued an ordinance making public kissing an offense subject to fines. The newspapers loved it. The city famous for its 'Callejon del Beso', the Alley of the Kiss, an attraction prominently featured in all tourist publications, had outlawed what had brought fame to Romeo and Juliet. The Callejon del Beso, where not young lovers exult in the moment but retired couples come to relive their past. The callejon celebrates the day when two young lovers, thwarted by their parents unwilling to accept a social divide, were able to reach each other's lips from their respective balconies across a very narrow alley.

Now, some months later and duly chastised, city council has put up a very large billboard depicting artistic kisses and heart warming embraces, assuring us that Guanajuato is open minded and in full support of public bussing. And of course it always was, as is continually demonstrated by hundreds of young people. They do not show reticence in public (and most likely do not find much privacy at home) in their urgency to express desires they later know to have mistaken for romance.

Meanwhile the trash is not picked up, many schools are still waiting for books unexplainably detained in the maze of bureaucracy and graft, entire plazas are torn up to beautify a city already rich , politicians accuse each other (and with good reason) of squandering public funds with municipal elections coming up in June. As the Germans say: Alles schon da gewesen. They had a way with words once they figured that there was nothing new under the sun.

It is easy to be an outsider and criticize. It is not as if the US is a paragon of virtue or a caring nation (Texans will disagree with that). No place is. We have been spared the awful violence of the border regions and of those states where the drug routes carve a path of atrocity on their way to the US border. It is the great irony that this violence is not the result of a domestic drug culture, but of cross border, US, drug consumption. A fence has been built, tunnels have been shut down, patrols have been reinforced, in some places militias have taken the law in their own hands, and laws have been passed. But the real problem is drug addiction, the real damage is done by the increasing demand for drugs, and by the poverty of so many Mexicans. There is so much money involved in the narco trade, so much influence that can be bought with it, so many guns that can be bought in Arizona. Free market forces at work: Mexico exports drugs in exchange for guns from the US. I don't make excuses for what the Mexican cartels are doing: it is awful. But there is a context.

Guanajuato, in sharp contrast to the border states, is tranquil. I believe this has a lot to do with the geography of the city. There are definitely break-ins here, and we are careful to lock our homes, but there is very little crime against persons, let alone shootings. The city is built in ravines, and there are only four roads out of the city, easily blocked by police patrols. Anyone starting serious mayhem here would have a tough time getting out. And narcos don't walk, they use SUVs with smoked glass windows and out of state license plates.

We read daily accounts of murders, torture and decapitations. Of heads found in ice chests along the highway, of policemen shot on their door steps and the death toll is in the thousands. There are voices urging the government to step back, to stop the campaign against the cartels. It is thought that the violence started when Calderón became president and declared war on the cartels. Up until two years ago there had been a silent pact between the governments, both national and state, that amounted to a 'don't ask don't tell' policy. I don't know if that is true, but a fact is that there was little or no violence.(A few months ago a shoot-out occurred in nearby León, when a convoy of criminals encountered a re-enforced police patrol intent on stopping them. The enforcement arm of a drug cartel – the Zetas – were fleeing from nearby Zacatecas state, on the way to Michoacán. At the Guanajuato border they called the governor and demanded free passage through the state, invoking an old 'understanding' with the previous government. The governor forcefully declined the accommodation, resulting in the middle-of-the-day-on-the-main-boulevard shoot out. But that is generally speaking as close as we get to violence,)

It will not become peaceful here for some time, and I certainly have no idea how to resolve these issues. But it has to give everyone pause when you read that most of the captured gunmen and kidnappers range in age between 14 and 25. Kids, in torn T shirts and worn-out sneakers. A lot of girls and women. They kill for a couple of dollars, living ten to a room without furniture. (The Mexican historian Enrique Krauze wrote an Op-Ed piece for the NYT – 3/25/2009 – titled 'The Mexican Evolution', in which he argues that the distortion by the US press adds to the despair on both sides of the border. That, yes, there is violence, but that the country should not be judged by that alone, just as the Chicago Prohibition era violence was not representative of the US as a whole. Personally I don't agree with this 'white wash': Al Capone was not killing at the same scale, did not exhibit the extreme cruelty we see here, would not go after public officials and police, unless they were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nor did that violence spread much beyond urban centers. Prohibition brought with it serious criminality. But it never led to the undermining of government with the very real threat to democracy (violence against anti-cartel candidates, intimidation at the polls, even threats against election commission officials). There should be more measured US reporting on these Mexican issues, and in that Krauze is right.)

Next week is Semana Santa, Holy Week. This is a very big deal here, more so than Christmas. Processions, re-enactments, flags and banners, services: the city is preparing itself. We decided to stay here and experience these, so Latin American, religious holidays. The city will be crowded with the tens of thousands of Mexican tourists who will come here, because Guanajuato has a reputation for putting up quite a show. Its re-enactment of the Stages of the Cross, its exuberance in celebrating the meaning of Easter, are unique to Latino-America. At the beginning of Lent, some weeks ago now, devout Catholics filled he streets coming from church and daylong pastoral ministrations, with ashes on their fore heads. It looked as if the clergy, in order to meet demand, had resorted to the use of rubber stamps roughly in the shape of the symbol we used to associate with fall-out shelters.

The Mexican Constitution is adamant about the separation of church and state, and until very recently priests and nuns were forbidden to wear their clerical garb and habits in public. Given the history of the (Catholic) Church in this country, this is not surprising. But the people, publicly adhering to the law (and, I believe, understanding the need for the separation), kept their faith. Faith pervades life, and people walk past churches and shrines (the Virgin of Guadelupe is everywhere) and cross themselves almost automatically, the habit flowing from the mother's breast. It is not uncommon, certainly not these weeks, to see families carry large representations of Jesus on the Cross, not just as reprints of church paintings, but made of wood and often of considerable dimensions. There is no bus, no taxi here whose driver is not guided by the Virgin, and who does not invoke a prayer for a safe journey. Faith, perhaps more than religion, is a part of life here.

The jacaranda trees are in bloom. Large clusters of flowers obscure the branches, bare of leaves after the winter. The small flowers, individually, are of many-hued tones ranging from lilac to purple, tending towards opalescent lilac. But seen from a distance the flowers lose their individuality and become flowing sheets of color, hard to define. During the North American fall and winter the Guanajuato mountain sides are brown and barren, but the summer and early fall rains give color to the ranges, yet garden plants bloom year round. No rain from September until April-May, tropical climate afternoon rains the rest of the time. Meanwhile, there is the sun, and babies wrapped in blankets until the mercury rises to the 70-degree mark. Street vendors unfurl large umbrellas against sunshine or rainfall. The streets offer the same face year round, regardless of weather.

This weekend we'll have a party to inaugurate our new patio. This is of course nothing but a thinly veiled excuse to get together. As our friend Jan asked the other day: "When did you arrive here last year? July? When? We must have a party to celebrate." Anna, of course, is the guiding spirit in all of this. I was thinking of maybe 10-12 people, but the guest list has grown to 30 or more. I had no idea we counted so many as friends. But indeed, we move into a constantly growing circle of friends. I guess we'll just have to get more wine and noshies. We have no parking anywhere near us, a fact we never fail to include in invitations. Actually, there is one space in the alley above us, but anyone with a car larger that a Beetle would have trouble getting out of there, having to back down, making a difficult turn in front of our house, and then inching his way down to the main street. But since most of our friends know of this one space and count on using it, it is safer to announce that there won't be any parking at all. I'd hate to think of people getting stuck up there. Quite a few have picked up a scratch late at night. Wine might have been involved, sometimes even tequila. You know the reckless life we lead.

(I am a slow writer, and I insert this paragraph after the party. We had a great time, with 30+ guests and a shameful number of empty wine and beer bottles….).

A while back we bought an iPod to bring all of our CDs together in one small gadget and save valuable shelf space. We asked our friend Cuautemoc, the Symphony flute player with strong ties to the University radio station, to see if the station would be interested in having our collection. Great idea, he said, and introduced us to a young woman with a role in the radio operation. That was five months ago. We ended up giving the whole collection to Federíco, who is enthusiastically copying it all, passing on tracks to friends. Véronique, the owner of Le Midi, a small French restaurant on the Plazuela San Fernando, now enjoys not my French collection but old Ray Charles recordings. We have all music down-loaded on our computers and frequently exchange tracks with friends.

There is no sense in copying DVDs: we buy movies of excellent quality for about a dollar apiece. Totally illegal of course, but you'd have a very hard time finding original DVDs here. I read that crime syndicates have a lock on the pirated CD and DVD market and have made it very clear to 'legal' merchants that they are not interested in copy right laws. Contradictory behavior in my case. In the college bookstore I would not, even for Anna, copy and sell at cost copyrighted material for her classes without paying royalties to the authors and their publishers. Anna ignored my 'ethical' objections and had her secretary do it. Sheer exploitation of the working class which I tried to avoid.

San Fernando, this small square, so like Paris, was the subject of heated debate in the city. The many small restaurants lining the perimeter all fight for space, and attempt to put as many tables and chairs in 'their' space. The neighborhood complained, seeing private enterprise usurp public space. Some tables and chairs were removed to comply with permits. Meanwhile one more eatery opened. I am convinced that the removal is temporary: those tables and chairs, for now out of view but close at hand, will make a comeback. Our local paper, the a.m., reports daily on new civic outrages, ranging from sewer issues to wasteful spending of fanciful projects that seem to serve no purpose. One outrage a day, seven horror stories a week (like car wreck stories in 'The Shipping News'.) All of these exposés will end up in that civic landfill of corruption, until the bulldozers of a new regime will inevitably unearth them as if proof of past corruption were essential to proper government. In Chiapas a local government published its annual report, boasting of seven completed public works which had not yet made it to the planning stages. The accusing finger of the press is accurate but wields no power.

Mexicans love to eat, and obesity is a problem. As is diabetes. But what temptation! Food is everywhere, and Mexicans eat on the street at all hours of the day. Hamburgers at night, tamales in the morning, everything else in between. There is a rhythm to the offerings, linked to the hours of the day. All food vendors have a permit, allowing them a certain number of hours of the day (or night) to sell food. Once gone, their place is immediately taken over by other vendors, selling a variation of the same food offered earlier. Lots of grease, corn, meat of dubious provenance and quality, great sauces, onions and peppers: what an aroma they combine to create. Le Midi, really, is the only place in town that offers food that can be thought of as better than average. We are 'foodies' but are relegated to the cooking skills of Anna and some of her friends.

Like Allentown where there is a Walgreen, bank or CVS at every corner, we have our share of hardware emporia, convenience stores and pharmacies. Our street alone has five hardware stores, seven pharmacies and who knows how many mini-supers selling almost food-like substances wrapped in cellophane or plastic. Indestructible stuff, stored for the long haul without fear of spoilage. No lettuce in the OXXO. But lots of 1000-mile chips. I have my own hardware store where we bought a hot water boiler, an action which led to close ties between us and the owner, his brother, his son, his uncle and nephew. In their emporium they play roles of changing importance. Four boilers later, and quite a few tips for the guys (re)-installing them, we now wave at them, and no transaction between us, no matter how small, can proceed until we have solemnly shaken hands. The old man in the news kiosk at the bottom of our alley smiles a three-toothed greeting in the morning and takes my seven pesos for the a.m. newspaper without bothering to check the coins. We are that close. His wife, a wonderful woman who does not fail to send greetings to Anna and enjoins me to buy her flowers and to kiss her often and publicly. She must have had bad experiences with middle class Mexicans, for she does not fail to assure us that we are much nicer than 'them'. In my case that only means that my Spanish is not good enough to give expression to whatever feelings of superiority I might harbor (I don't). Given the great accomplishments and skills of the people who live in this country, their tenacity to make life work, the focus on relationships and family in the country where I have chosen to spend my days, given all that and more, it is unlikely that I would feel anything but admiration.

People move into, and out of, our life. Many friends maintain another life back home. Back home, in the United States. It seems so far away. We give them a big hug the day before they fly or drive back and say that three or four months will fly by. And those months do fly by, and we relate to them the judgment of others whose experience had taught them that, in the long run, you can't maintain two lives: one here, one in the States.

Gord is one. Gordy they call him in Canada, which is his home. Gordon, he was born with. A piano player, a serious one, practicing every day on intricate fingering and passages in places where pianos have come to neglect. Gordon who is a scientist, a tennis player and writer of technical manuals to make a living: never at rest. A few weeks ago he played modern Russian music at the Cervantes museum. Sitting down with Isir, a Cuba pianist with whom he was to play quatre mains, I saw him freeze as Isir's hands were coming down to the keys, her body ever so slightly tensing in anticipation of their collaboration. In front of him were two sheets of blank paper. No staphs, no notes. He looked up and smiled a shy smile: 'Momentito, por favor', he said and ambled offstage. It would have crushed a lesser person.

A few nights ago we attended the weekly Symphony concert, with an all- Wagner program. A composer I would not normally sit down and have a beer with, but for Branko the closest you can come to Walhalla – and Wagner certainly was greatly inspired by the place where Norse gods dwelled. Branko and his Vincent have spent the last year preparing for the Wagner festival this fall in Seattle, reading everything from learned discourses on tonality to psychological insights into the dramatis personae of his great operas. There we were last Friday, the auditorium fairly packed, and Branko wanting to sit by himself but willing to exchange pre-concert pleasantries with us. He had brought us the copy of a book on the symbolism of Siegfried's death in the opera 'Twilight of the Gods' and his very being wanted us to understand and share with him this mystical experience. Two people sat down next to him as the lights dimmed and he moved away. At intermission, after some passable music, he felt that the performance was adequate, but that the main course was still to come. At the conclusion, on our way out of the theatre, the musicians with their instruments mingling with us and off to another life, Branko was close to tears: the director had not understood the tragedy of Siegfried's betrayal and death. He had murdered a man already dead.

If only I could lead a life so intense.

I have been exploring aspects of my past: music, literary readings, even whole plays available on uTube, (or is Utube? – doesn't that look like the name of an African dictator? Utube, the young corporal emerging from the forest to reclaim his ancestral lands? - I am so not connected, but know where to find things). Dutch is an awkward language, spoken by people concerned with a desire for intimacy, yet word-wise incapable of conveying that emotion. Dutch language uses diminutives to chain the word to the speaker, as if he or she had discovered an entirely new meaning. I have never liked my native language, perhaps because of the difference between the written and spoken word. I know of no country where the coarseness and carelessness of daily life so devalued the richness and history of language, where the desire to be 'equal' to others so erased a culture. Scrolling through websites I look for grounds where to drop anchor, but mostly find those ghosts that make up memory. Perhaps it is the distance in years and miles which urge a different perspective and impose a re-interpretation. For sure, time colors memory and easily seduces you to rationalize past deeds. Anyway, how good it is to re-live those parts of the past that are undemanding and pleasurable. Like French chansons we labored so hard to understand with our High Scholl French, the cabaretiers whose names were household words. They were stand-up comedians, commentators on social and political issues, interspersing long monologues with song. How surprising to find that the music readily comes back, and that words and entire verses spring to life again. Perhaps this all has to do with growing older, becoming (a little) less intolerant and accepting the nostalgia that is harder to keep at arm's length. I am thinking of making one more visit to the country of my birth.