Disclaimer - Political content of this blog is pretty nigh nil.  Read on if you must.

The sun has set and I´m sitting in the plaza of a Spanish colonial town in Mexico.  Townspeople are walking about the beautiful plaza, crowned with a colonial era church, and dotted with lovely, and tall palm trees.  Children are playing and shouting and laughing with delight.  As I watch them, (my guess is they're 5-7 years of age), flowing from one side of the church to the other like waves lapping an elaborate stone shoreline, I´m reminded of summers of my own childhood long gone.  Their play resonates, reminding me of nights when as children, we tempted our fates by disregarding the ordained time to be home, in favor of one more game of kick the can under incandescent street lights.  In short, I find this all very charming.  It´s something I´ve not seen in an American town, (at least not without a bevy of mothers overseeing the play), for some time now.  I admit my experience may be a tad limited, and I´m not in the habit of hanging out by schoolyards and playgrounds.  Perhaps somewhere in some small towns in my country scenes like this play themselves out night after night, like re-runs of last weeks' cinema offering, were someone there to witness it.  I hope so.

Knowing the degree of control exerted over children these days, leads me to wonder what the long term effects of such regulation will be on personality development.  Perhaps I'm projecting.  I was never very good at´'towing the line' as it were.  I grew up in a blessedly less threatening time and was also blessed with parents who understood and fostered a sense of exploration in me.  When I consider some of the things I was more or less OK'd to do, if not encouraged to do so, I am sort of amazed.  I'm amazed at my good fortune to be born at such a time and amazed at my parents´lassaiz-faire attitude toward child-rearing.  I suppose to some extent, that too, was a function of that particular snapshot in time.

Now as I look out on the plaza, some of the younger children have drifted away, while a few remain to continue their games.  The square is filling up with an older crowd now.  Three elderly gentlemen stroll close to each other, engrossed in conversation, while some teenagers are playing on skateboards at the far corner of the parque, (not an easy feat given the cobbled pavers in the streets and walkways).  I sit under a hotel promenade's lovely arched columns, on ancient paving stones, sipping my cerveza.  My bartender, Alonzo, is watching futbol on a large screen TV in the room to my rear, while another TV, (with sound turned off), stands about 30 feet away along the promenade.  At a nearby table, three American girls in their late 20s or early 30s sit and drink and converse, oblivious to the few of us within earshot.  I´ve always counted it a small blessing that my hearing is 'muddled' in crowded situations, making it difficult for me to isolate the words spoken by my nearby table mates. 

Sustenance is in order though, and I ask Alonzo where I might eat, and he directs me to Paulo's, across the square and down a side street.  The darkened street is abandoned, but fortunately Paulo's is not quite.  Paulo and his wife sit in earnest conversation in the foyer of their restaurant and do not miss a beat as I enter and enquire if they are still serving, as the dining room is empty.  I can tell they are warming to me as I speak their native tongue, and they both disappear into the kitchen, again without missing a beat, conversationwise.  The rhythm of their talk filtering out from the back rooms bespeaks an ease and comfort with themselves and each other that would be enviable in any couple their age, (I'm guessing 65-70 years).  

The room I sit in is sparsely decorated with some paintings and some family photographs.  The ceilings are high, perhaps 18 feet above the floor with vigas and latillas between them.  The windows are unglazed but have massive wooden shutters that open to the inside, lending an immediacy to the all but deserted street.  In Santa Fe this room would command high rents, and a commensurately high priced menu.  As it is I'm enjoying a world class Mexican dinner for the equivalent of about $6.

 I've bid Paulo y esposa buona notte and have returned to the hotel promenade for an after dinner drink.  The youngest children in the square are mostly gone now, replaced by some 10-12 year olds playing soccer and riding bikes.  Some teenagers loiter on the stone steps and offer me that wan, knowing smile, only a 16 year old can pull off without collapsing in upon him or herself like a spent supergiant.  The requisite number of cars with LOUD stereos cruise the square now, announcing their worldliness to themselves and those who are not yet totally deaf.  The game on the TV is over and our team has lost.  There is no joy in Mudville tonight except, perhaps for that Americano sitting at the end table in the promenade with his faint smile, revealing a fleeting burst of contentment;  likely temporary, like his visa.  Take life as it comes mis amigos.

No need to recommend this post.  I just wanted to post a 'travelogue' for those who might be interested.