On Mexican Time

The first month of my summer has thus far been fair.  I would describe it as busy boredom for the most part.  I'm pretty good at entertaining myself when I have nothing to do: my job doesn't start until this Friday, so I've had an entire month to myself, trying to keep myself busy.  My online summer classes are a lot of work, but aren't much fun.  They're time-consuming, hindering my pleasure reading considerably. 

So far, I've read J.K. Rowlings' A Casual Vacancy, a depressing but very well-written book, interesting for the sociologist's mind.  Now I'm past half-way through a book titled, On Mexican Time by Tony Cohan.  What it lacks in plot it makes up for in rich cultural descriptions.  For a lover of all things Hispanic, I eat it up, mentally planning my own trip to San Miguel de Allende, a quaint town a ways out of D.F.  The writer's style is dramatically poetic, and some of his literary habits irk me (he intentionally skips conjunctions, ignoring the 'and' necessary for a series of nouns), but I can't help but love the familiar conscious appreciation for a country's beautiful culture.  It's a good time to read this book, having returned to the States almost exactly 6 months ago.

To share, this passage speaks to me as it rings true to the pleasant nature of my experiences south-of-the-border:

"Crossing the jardín beneath a canopy of bells, I set off upon a round of errands.  Some I could have done in California but find so much more pleasurable here.  Crazy, I suppose, to buy a watchband from the pitiable selection at Emilio's tiny relojería on Insurgentes: but the walk to get there, Emilio's warm "Feliz Año" as he pushes back his eyepiece and smiles, and the cartoon jokes in Spanish pinned on the walls, beat a featureless trip to some gold-soaked California watch emporium.  I could have re-heeled my shoes at a high-tech L.A. shoe boutique, but Jaime's dim, aromatic shoe shop behind the covered market lies at the end of a sensual adventures.  Subjecting my boots to the unlabeled pastes and waxes, glops and creams the shoeshine boys in the jardín use may not do the leather any good, but I get the best seat in town and great gossip.  At Eréndira's Unisex Salon, I squeeze in among Mexican matrons reading scandal magazines beneath bubble-headed hair dryers and let Eréndira shear me before a cracked mirror for the peso equivalent of three dollars.  And no matter how I look when she's done, Eréndira always stands back and coos, "Ay muy guapo," as if she really means I look that good."