We decided to spend the day at La Villita (little village), a very old section of San Antonio. It is in Tegsas. No! That’s how Texans pronounce it, and they should know.
Our friend Charles, of Kathy and Charles, had worked at a hospital here for years and he was showing us around. Not that I enjoy history, but La Villita was where Santa Anna’s soldiers were put up the day before the Alamo siege. Of course you remember THE ALAMO?
When we were there, a Texas Ranger walked over to a
tourista and said, “Sir, remove your hat. Brave men died here.” I remember he didn’t say “please.”
Texans are different than Pilgrims of Massachusetts. Sandy and I subscribe to
Cowboys and Indians magazine. Doesn’t everyone? Once there was a cowboy boot advertisement in it. There was a beautiful, color, full page photo of a pair of worn boots, with a handwritten letter explaining that the Texan was sending them back to the boot manufacturer for repair. He gushed about how much he loved the boots and that, in fact, his first child was conceived while he was wearing the boots. Well that was too much information for me. So I wrote a letter to the president of the company, J.B. Hill. All I could picture was a cowboy and his wife leaning against his pick up out in the desert, him with his jeans down to his ankles. Way too much information. He wrote me back and said the ad really was working well, and he was real sorry if it offended me. I wrote a car dealer here in Massachusetts once. I was really offended by his ad for Vespa Motor Scooters that in large print said, “Don’t be a gas hole.” In a letter, I asked Herb Chambers if his Grandmother liked the ad. He apologized in a short hand-written note and said I would never see that ad again . . . and I didn’t.
It is November in Massachusetts, and cold, but here we are in shorts and Tevas. We walked down a cobblestone street and came upon a fiesta. There was
musica coming from behind an eight-foot stucco walled area. We could see all the different colored lanterns swinging in the breeze. There was a uniformed
Federale standing guard in front. As we walked by, the music took ahold of Kathy and Charles and Sandy and I and we preceded to dance in the cobblestone street. A Mexican American
mujer from the fiesta came out, looked both ways as if to see if anyone else was coming, and saw us dancing. She said, “Come, join us,
por favor.” We all said, “No, no, that’s okay,” but she insisted. So we entered.
The courtyard was full of people. The young girls were all dressed up in those colorful ankle-length dresses. In colors of
azul and
amarillo and
rojo and even
verde. They wear their make-up really heavy, with black eyebrows and rosy cheeks and shiny, pulled-back, long hair. It makes them seem much older but still they are very striking to look at. We were escorted to our own table and a minute later one of the fathers brought over a whole case of
cerveza just for us. Soon the women who invited us in came to our table to introduce her daughter. She explained that her daughter was turning fifteen and it was her party -- I mean fiesta. Fifteen years of age is very big in Mexico. The
Quinceaneras.
Sandy and I got up to dance. Kathy said we fit right in with the other dancers. Well, Mexican, or border, dancing is exactly the same as waltzing or two-stepping in the States, but you hold your partner really tight here. I find it to be much harder than the open position. In the open position, you can steer your partner or even dance in place if there is a traffic jam ahead.
Remember in the movie
The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada where the girl walks up to John Travolta -- whoops, wrong movie. Anyway she walks up to John Travolta who is leaning on the bar wearing his big black Stetson, and looking out over the dance floor and she says, “Do yah know how tah two step?” And he replies, “Yup!” She hesitates, and then asks, “Wanna prove it?”
The band is a live one and really good. Everyone is dancing except many of the fathers, who are all over in the corner probably discussing cows or cotton or football, when an announcement is made. “We will now dance the Mexican hat dance. Fathers grab your daughters.” And they did.
You know the Mexican Hat Dance. Everyone does.
Dah dah dahdah dah dada dahda. The fathers hold their hands behind their backs and crouch toward their daughters. You dance in a small circle the size of a sombrero. The daughters arch their backs and tilt their heads to one side. With one hand the young girls hold their dresses out as in a fan. It is hard to believe that we are in the United States. Obviously, as a youth, I must have watched way too many Cisco Kid movies, but I am not alone in the warm feelings that I have always had for the Mexican people.
We stay almost to the end, then take our leave, thanking everyone for the invitation, and expressing to our hosts just how much fun we’ve had this evening.
This was a non-fiction story. You can’t make up ...........
Roberto Tocino
