October 10, 2008, Readers’ Forum, By Lou Christine, Impromptu moments, Opinion, How leaving the country does and doesn’t help, By Jeannie Ralston, Letters, Alborada lights the sky and heart

Readers’ Forum
By Lou Christine October 10, 2008 San Miguel de Allende

Impromptu moments

Stirling Dickinson, an art director and educator here in the forties and fifties, initially put San Miguel on the map. Our most famous expat encouraged mostly American art students and others enthused about Latin culture to “Come on down!” Yet the artist, writer, baseball player, botanist, anthropologist and all-around renaissance man is only partially responsible for what became a mini-invasion.

A chance encounter shaped the future of San Miguel when three men (from Chicago, Princeton and Santa Monica) met on a train in Oaxaca in 1933.

As a young man the cultured Dickinson acquired the tastes of his high-society background in hometown Chicago. When he ventured off to New York City as a prim and proper Princeton man he attended the opera. Heath Bowman was a Princeton classmate. Opera tenor and movie star José Mojica was prominent in New York and Chicago, but lived in Santa Monica at the time.

Dickinson the illustrator and Bowman the writer were exploring Mexico while piecing together a Mexican travelogue. Their mission: To objectively describe places, individuals and events they encountered on and off the beaten and unbeaten paths. Willet Clark and Company published their book, Mexican Odyssey, in 1934.

All three men just happened to be in Oaxaca one night in 1933. The next day they found themselves on the same train, in the same passenger car—an impromptu coincidence. Opera aficionado Dickinson recognized famed tenor Mojica as a fellow passenger. Conversations were struck and Mojica invited the pair to San Miguel. Because of tight scheduling, Dickinson and Bowman declined at that time.

In 1937, Dickinson and Bowman were aboard a passenger train heading south. The train made a routine stop just before dawn on February 7. Glancing out the window, Dickinson read the terminal’s sign: San Miguel de Allende. It rang a bell. José Mojica had casually invited them to visit four years before. Dickinson elbowed Bowman awake and instructed the porters to remove their luggage.

Dickinson and Bowman departed the train for a look-see, their first venture into San Miguel. They understood Mojica owned a villa. As fate would have it (and it always does), on that particular February morning, Mojica was in San Miguel visiting his mother. Happy to see his American guests, Mojica became the perfect host. Villa Santa Monica presented itself as a terrific welcome mat.

In later years Dickinson often recounted his first sight of the Parroquia in dawn’s initial light, the church’s towering spires contrasted against the royal blue sky. He said, “My God, such a beautiful sight! I could stay here!” Maybe that was the defining moment when Dickinson fell in love with San Miguel.

By 1947, when Mojica took Franciscan vows and moved to Peru, Dickinson had been established in San Miguel for a decade. Many know the story of how he bought an old tannery up in Santa Domingo for a mere US$90 after being here only a week.

Both men kept in touch by mail. Mojica would return to San Miguel from time to time, mostly to raise funds for the poor in Peru. While here, he and Dickinson spent quality time together.

Today we realize that if it weren’t for Stirling Dickinson, San Miguel might not have become a haven for international artists, American expats and other free-spirited people who love its charm and atmosphere. It’s also safe to surmise that if it weren’t for José Mojica, the San Miguel we know today might have a completely different atmosphere. What the 2008 version of San Miguel is, or what it has become since 1937, is mostly due to an impromptu moment.

Next week: more about José Guadalupe Mojica.

Lou Christine is a local writer and long-time contributor to Atención.

Reprinted with the permission of the author.

I’m starting to hear it again. In blogs, in emails from friends: “If the Republicans win in November, I’m leaving the country.”

I said the same thing in 2000, but my husband calmed me down after Bush “won” with this: “The country survived Nixon, for God’s sake. How bad can it be?”

I said it again in 2004, when I saw just how bad it could be and how Nixon was about as destructive as a trolley car compared to the Bush-Cheney F-16.

And you know what? I did it. Or we did it.

My husband and I moved out of the country with our two sons. For almost three years, we have lived in San Miguel de Allende, a gorgeous colonial town in the mountains of Mexico. Sure we had other reasons to move; we wanted our boys to become bilingual. But the gun in my back as we made our border run was my despondence that an America that could re-elect Bush was an America I could no longer recognize or connect to.

For the most part, these past three years have been blissful, in the way that ignorance is bliss. It has been easier to distance myself emotionally from the GOP-created chaos. When I hear news like Cheney trying to dodge accountability because his office isn’t fully part of the executive branch, I can turn off my satellite radio and revel in the heretofore-unknown comforts of sand around my earlobes.

I don’t have to see opposition bumper stickers and yard signs and find my hands tightening on the steering wheel as I wonder just what kind of idiot can still be proud enough of our mess-of-a-country to advertise such slavish loyalty. I don’t have to hear people make stupid comments like, “I think history will show that Bush was a great president.” (OK, I did have to hear this when my mother reported on my sister’s recent musings, but hearing it second-hand probably saved a few blood vessels behind my eyeballs.)

The night before the 2006 elections I actually slept soundly, something that hadn’t happened on the eve of several previous national votes. I simply told myself that if the results didn’t turn out right it was because that was a country I no longer knew. (I did still vote, however, since I would never give the other side the satisfaction of one less voice.)

But in many ways moving hasn’t offered as much relief as I’d hoped. Mexicans and other foreigners here often ask me for an explanation of US conduct or the mentality of US voters. I often find myself apologizing for what we’ve done or become, even though I don’t support the policies. I feel the embarrassment of association here, like a child whose uncle has been arrested for streaking at a little league game.

I also have a nagging sense that I should be in the mix right now, ringing doorbells and writing letters to my local paper, doing what it takes to make sure we don’t take another journey down the toilet bowl. When I announced I was moving to Mexico three years ago, one friend was not pleased. “You should stay here and fight,” he said. I often have twinges of guilt that I took the easy way out.

To be completely honest, now that the 2008 election is in full gear, I realize that I still care, so deeply, what happens to the US. Being nine hundred miles from the nearest road sign in English cannot fully ease my despair that a once-stellar country is on the brink of collapse under the combined weight of consumerism, cynicism, mental laziness and greed. It can’t prevent my stomach from aching when I catch Sarah Palin spin her silky-but-saucy deceptions and manipulations.

I feel more invested in the outcome this November than ever because I’d like to be able to go home if I so desire. I want to feel that the country has woken up while I was gone and that I’ll now feel like I belong again. There is a group of ex-pats in San Miguel who are waiting for a Democratic victory the same way Miami Cubans wait for Fidel’s demise.

What I say about this election is, “If McCain wins, I’m not going back.” And I mean it.

Jeannie Ralston’s first book, The Unlikely Lavender Queen: A Memoir of Unexpected Blossoming, was recently published by Doubleday Broadway. She lives in San Miguel with her husband, National Geographic photographer Robb Kendrick, and their two sons.

Three o´clock on Saturday morning. The air is still warm when my teenaged son and daughter, her friend and I wake up to go to the earliest of San Miguel’s celebrations, the Alborada.

The dark purple sky seems filled with many more stars than I usually notice. It’s a beautiful, clear night.

Taxis slow down to offer us a ride, but we continued walking. As we approach Centro a group of blonde-haired, rebozo-wrapped women rapidly cross our path, hurrying so as not to be “late” for the celebrations. We pass a bar open for an early-morning warm-up, or maybe for those who were celebrating all night. A young couple argue energetically with a traffic officer who is about to tow away a small, battered jeep. As their enthusiastic defense continues the bar owner, who also owns the car, runs down the street to protect his vehicle.

We do not see how the conflict is resolved as we turn the corner onto Umarán and are immersed in a wave of noise from the crowd that fills the Jardín. Brass bands playing loud, syncopated music entice clusters of dancers.

We wander around looking for the perfect place to watch the fireworks being set up on opposite sides of the Jardín. Finally, my daughter decides that the middle of the street in front of the clock tower is the perfect place for us. We chatter as we wait, eat mayonnaise-slathered elote and watch people: cowboys dressed up in boots, leather jackets and hats; young couples with babies; people of all ages … and lots of young lovers.

As the clock strikes 4am there is sudden darkness when the lights of the Parroquia are switched off. Before the crowd can even catch its breath rockets and fireworks assault our senses. I cover my ears to soften the deafening screeches. Chrysanthemums seem to bloom in the sky with multicolored bursts; other rockets careen off walls like crazy electrified flies, racing madly from railings to walls and columns in front of the church. I take a moment to look at the crowd around me. Many faces are illuminated—not by the fireworks but by their cell phones as they film the show!

My daughter bounces up and down, looking left and right, as the lights and whistles call our attention to opposite sides of the Jardin. “This is like a debate,” she shouts above the noise, “and a disco!” She adds her own whoops to the roar.

A Catherine wheel lights up and slowly begins to spin. On closer look, I see it is a sacred heart. As it gains momentum and becomes a blur of white light, kids dance in front of it, as if in a strobe-lit nightclub. The next Catherine wheel, a Holy Grail, starts to spin, but there are no dancers this time.

Thirty minutes later the enthusiastic crowd that packed the streets has thinned as people leave, look for a place to sit or wander in search of more warmth.

The chill of dawn is near and I am almost ready to return home, but my daughter wants to see the castillo. We cross the Jardín, now filled with heavy smoke and littered with pieces of paper from 45 minutes of nonstop fireworks.

As we huddle together to watch the last of the display I really feel the cold. The castillo is lit, and my daughter jumps with delight. The spectacle begins with three circles of blinding white and red light, then each side of the castillo lights up, flaring toward the four cardinal points. As the lights travel up the framework an illuminated cross opens like petals. Finally, the crowning glory: a corona that is a dizzying display of gyrating lights that spin off into the night sky to the applause of the crowd.

Just as we are about to leave, a soft, green light catches my eye outside the church. I try to distinguish its form as we weave through the onlookers. A sudden gasp from the crowd stops us in our tracks, and we see the structure has fallen onto the gates. Fortunately, it is stabilized. I see that the soft lights form a likeness of the crucified Christ. Gratitude and appreciation flood through me. Thank you.

As the Jardín recedes the girls are giddy with excitement and laughingly proclaim that after this morning’s display everyone in San Miguel will be deaf, dumb and blind.

I laugh in agreement but feel my senses and heart are very much alive.

Suzanne Ludekens

Sandy Baum, Lynda Herring and Matthew Dominy responded to letters in the September 26 issue by Rodrigo Antonio Treviño Lozano and Herbert R. Bolz criticizing Baum’s article “Soaring with the eagles” (Atención September 5).

Editor:

It saddens me to see the letter from Treviño in response to the article I wrote about the Young Eagles program and about fellow pilot and friend, Rusty Henson, who took 12 people for a ride in his airplane at his own expense to expose them to the joys of flight. I think Treviño missed the point entirely.

The Young Eagles program lets youngsters experience flight at an early age. If they enjoy the flight, it might give them another goal or perspective in life or certainly something else to think about as they are growing up and may inspire them to realize that when it comes to human potential, there are no limits. Is there any reason to believe Mexican youngsters do not have the same potential?

The national Young Eagles program started in 1992 in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, home to the Experimental Aircraft Association. To date, volunteer pilots have provided the experience of flight for over two million young people between the ages of 8 and 17. Rusty has flown over 200 youngsters as part of the Young Eagles program in Colorado.

I’m not sure about two of the young passengers that flew with Rusty Sunday, but I can bet the family of 10 who flew with him that day have never ridden in an airplane or even been up close to one. Maybe someday one of the eight sons or daughters could become an airline pilot from this early flight with Rusty. It has given them something else to consider.

Many citizens are not aware that San Miguel has its own airport, albeit a 5,000-foot grass and dirt runway, that has been operating 71 years. Seven airplanes occupy four hangars at our airport. Local Mexicans own five of those airplanes. Most airplanes we see flying over San Miguel are flown by Mexicans, not rich norteamericanos, and most of them fly to San Miguel from somewhere else in Mexico. With or without the airport, airplanes are flying from other cities, coming to San Miguel for a sightseeing trip, circling and then leaving without ever landing. It happens frequently.

The airport itself will not create noise pollution and training flights will not cross over the city.

Amigos de la Aviación de San Miguel, an organization of pilots, local business people and other folks, actively promotes general aviation, tourism and aviation-related economic opportunities while supporting the orderly growth of the airport. I invite anyone interested in the future of San Miguel to join this group to work toward these goals.

Sandy Baum

Editor,

I agree completely that aircraft creating unwelcome noise and hazards to safety are not desirable. However, Treviño does not differentiate between the irresponsible parties creating problems and the flights by experienced, careful pilots such as Rusty Henson, Miguel Gastelum and Alan Herring. They wish to promote safe flying in our city, teach others about the joys of flying and attract people to our city who travel by private plane. Instrument instructors, these aviators adhere to regulations forbidding flight at altitudes lower than 1,500 feet over our city—at these legal altitudes, small planes create neither noise nor hazards to safety. How can it be fair or logical to condemn all flying because of the offenses of a few?

Bolz suggests that anyone wishing to learn to fly should travel three hours round-trip to the León or Querétaro airports. These large, commercial fields are less suited to private aviation than is a smaller one such as our own—which has been San Miguel’s airport since 1937!

As a life-long educator, it occurs to me to ask both these gentlemen why they wish to limit the experiences of others. When Rusty took children flying, he was allowing them to learn about something entirely new, which is the very best kind of experiential learning. My own husband, Alan Herring, has frequently taken the children of friends for airplane rides here in San Miguel. One child was so thrilled that he refused to take his foam earplugs out for the rest of the day, telling his father that he wanted to keep the wonderful memories of his flight inside his head.

Bolz refers to San Miguel as el pueblo mágico and I could not agree more. I fell in love with the city in 1974, and have made it home. Others certainly feel the same way, hence the Patrimonio de la Humanidad designation. But does being a World Heritage site and a magical place mean that we should not have an amenity such as an airport? Our city has worked hard to preserve its beauty and charm while adding many improvements to the quality of life. San Miguel thrives on tourism and benefits from the presence of a diverse community. Many pilots (more than the “handful” mentioned by Treviño) come to San Miguel, to visit and to live, drawn, in part, by our airpark located nearby at San Julián. Why not embrace this facility as one more of our pueblo mágico’s wonderful attractions? If Rusty is able to establish a flight school, couldn’t we consider it yet another educational opportunity available here? Preserving magic doesn’t mean prohibiting enrichment of our city and our community.

Lynda Herring

Editor,

The benefits of a small public airfield—with a paved runway, secure facilities and some basic services—would far outweigh its drawbacks. I understand the desire to preserve the tranquility and historical integrity of your beautiful town and cannot argue that a large commercial airport may detract from its inimitable character and old world ambience. But a small airport would be of practical benefit in many ways to San Miguel and its people; allow me to address Treviño’s concerns point by point.

Benefits: I take issue with the assumption that everyone enjoying such an airpark would be wealthy. My father, a retired airline pilot, is neither rich nor as self-serving as Treviño implies; I’d venture to say that most private pilots are in a similar situation. A pilot’s license is not a symbol of wealth and to assume as much berates the many pilots who pursue their hobby with modest means. Moreover, most pilots I’ve known try to share their love of flying with others—in their own time and out of their own pockets.

A privately run, for-profit flight school in San Miguel would be of limited appeal and consequently limited impact, but an airfield would be important for urgent medical transport, firefighting, public services and volunteer programs. It would not be limited to the exclusive enjoyment of the wealthy few.

I’m not advocating an international airport. I envision a minimal-impact facility with just enough runway for small recreational or medical aircraft; something appropriately sized for the city and its modest aviation needs—no lights, control tower, or commercial traffic.

Noise: I doubt noise will be a big factor. In Mexico, as in the US, low flying is illegal, especially over populated areas. I find it hard to believe, anyway, that the noise from a few light aircraft would concern a city so accustomed to the nightlong symphony of cohetes, bells and engines.

Safety: Accidents in general aviation are rare and I’ve seen no evidence to suggest that a flight school increases the risk of an incident. Indeed, existing laws prohibit flight training over populated areas. The author’s anecdotal example of a startled horse is hardly a solid case and could just as easily have been the result of fireworks, car backfires, or celebratory gunfire.

A small public airport in San Miguel with common-sense regulations and a spirit of cooperation between aviators and fellow sanmiguelenses would benefit everyone. San Miguel is a special place and we should ensure that it stays that way. However, I hope the people of San Miguel, open-minded and accepting as they are, can find it within themselves to at least consider this possibility without dismissing it outright as the folly of a few “rich eagles.”

Matthew Dominy
Placitas, New Mexico

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