The choir had a "gig" late last night for the Vigil of the
Virgin of Guadalupe, followed by a menudo party at Lolita's house, and yours truly the Party Girl showed up for the whole thing. This meant breaking the official gringo rule, "Do not drive in Mexico at night...especially LATE at night," and my own personal rule, "Do not eat weird Mexican animal products." I should add one more, considering I'm a singer with vulnerable lungs: "Do not hang out in smoky rooms." (koff koff)
I hung with
Cynthia and Mike for about an hour at their apartment, a block from the church since I wanted to catch up on their doings. Cyn is still thriving at her teaching job, in spite of the fact that two teachers have already wimped out and quit at her school, two months into the semester. They need a good plumber...their shower drips hot water to the tune of 450 gallons a month!!
Caramba! Their front door was replaced so they're not so vulnerable (the old one could have been kicked open by a three-year-old), but it's metal, painted black and they're going to have a solar collector next summer if they don't get it repainted.
When I arrived at the church in my uniform (white blouse, black pants), Laura loaned me a bright red
rebozo, since the choir was supposed to be draped in red. The altar for Guadalupe was loaded with roses: a bank of pink ones and vases of American Beauties, even the baptismal font was stuffed with roses, and Cecilia, one of our sopranos, was busy adding more. The padre came over with a handful of incense sticks and stuck them into the font. (koff koff) Right after him came the vice-padre (or whatever he's called) who was swinging the censor like a baseball pitcher, creating clouds of smoke (koff koff), and the choir, only a few yards away, began madly fanning ourselves with our music. Just before the service, the padre came bearing gifts: Guadalupe prayer cards for everyone. I noticed the prayer on the back was in Spanish and Nahuatl dialect.
The music went well, even without a mariachi band (mariachi is traditional for the Guadalupana mass). Lolita led the choir and played the organ, and percussion was a single tambourine. Whenever the incense smoke drifted away, one of the deacons in suit and tie would come around again, swinging the censor. Then, when it was almost over, a taka taka band, hoping to be blessed, pushed their way to the front and began a vigorous rendition of "Las Mañanitas," with everyone in the crowded sanctuary singing along. Buoyed by the music and singing, I was almost floating, when I saw
Ale, threading her way through the crowd to greet me (I had alerted her by email that the Vigil was happening). She and Ulisses aren't Catholic, but they thought it would be an interesting cultural experience anyway. And she got photos, which she posted on her blog, because when I whipped out my camera, the batteries were dead...again!
I had just about talked myself into skipping the menudo party, but on the way out everyone in the choir prodded me, "You ARE going to Lolita's, aren't you?" It was after midnight and I had been feeling pretty wiped out, but the fresh air outside and a brief blogger meetup with two of my favorite people (Ale and Ulisses) perked me up, so I trotted on up the street.
It turns out I kinda like menudo, disgusting as it sounds. Several people were sitting in the living room waiting to eat, but as the
mascota gringa I was sent directly into the kitchen and presented with a seat at the table and a big bowl of soup, along with plenty of condiments to make it more interesting. Menudo by itself is fairly bland ("good for the stomach," I was told by everyone) but when you pour in a little hot sauce and a liberal dose of onion/cilantro mixture it kinda grows on you. Or not. In the center of the table was a big frosted, strawberry-adorned bundt cake made by our soprano, Rosa, a professional baker. "
Pastel de betabel!" chanted everyone, demanding that Lolita cut into it and start passing it around. It was also pretty good, rather on the order of carrot cake.
For entertainment, we watched the Guadalupe vigil at the newer of the two Basilicas north of Mexico City, broadcast live, on Lolita's enormous TV. This is Mexico's biggest Guadalupe event, near the site of the Virgin's original appearance, and millions of peregrines (pilgrims) arrive there every year,
many on their knees. Too classy to hire mariachi, they had a huge symphony orchestra, with opera stars in glittering finery for the solos. They had acolytes and choirboys, dozens of priests and padres. Their communion host was the size of a gordita tortilla. All very showbiz.
Ale and I are in agreement on the Guadalupe story: it could have been a real miracle, this well-dressed, cinnamon-skinned version of the Virgin Mary showing up in the middle of nowhere to request a church be built for her, convincing the bishop with her magic roses, or it could be a very clever marketing strategy on the part of the Spanish Catholic church to win over the Indians by showing them a dark-skinned worship figure they could relate to. But in a country that's 91% Catholic, Guadalupe is adored. Even the gringos have taken up an expression: "Guad bless you."
P.S. the image you see here is, I think, a facsimile of the first painting of the Virgin. Notice the swollen eyes? Small wonder, after 400 years of incense! (koff koff)
I make frequent reference in these posts to Murphy's Law, a principle I'm very familiar with, but until this morning I didn't know who Murphy was. Thanks to Robin Stephens, whose blog appears on About.com, we are now enlightened:
