The Guadalajara Reporter

As the year turned, many looked back at 2012, a chilly task; others chose tropical recollection, sometimes serpent-graced

During the holidays, many folks looked back, examining what last year meant. Being perched on a rural foothill of a mountain facing the rain and the winds of December and early January, the new year prompted a look back on warmer times.  And to experiences further back chronologically.

There was that time when a fresh wave of U.S. citizens, snagged by the allure of Mexico, began arriving here after World War II. Mostly, these veterans were looking for an easy-paced, quiet venue that was barely a dot on the map.  Even a few teenagers, who would too soon become vets themselves, joined this southern exploration. They were prompted by publications suddenly calling attention to Mexico’s dramatic history and its near invisible cultural boom.  The first version of Octavio Paz’s revelatory and artful examination of Mexican culture and character, “The Labyrinth of Solitude,” appeared in 1950.  In California, cinematic “art houses” featured documentaries of the “modern” history of la corrida de toros.  Hemingway’s novel “For Whom the Bell Tolls” was still selling well. Hemingway’s short story, “The Killers,” was made into a film (Burt Lancaster’s debut) in 1946, prompting re-issues of the author’s earlier work (“Farewell to Arms,” and several short stories about those who fought in World War II).

In 1950, a young Spanish American, whose father owned a popular Los Angeles eatery, was driving down the west coast route. At 24, he wanted to become a novillero (professionally facing young bulls; one step before becoming a matador).  He’d told his parents he was going to visit his mother’s Mexico City family.  We had met at a Culver City park, where we both practiced the basic strategies of the corrida. (I had agreed to pay for half the gas.) When we stopped to rest, I intended to find cheap lodging; no one was financing my tauromachian dreams.  Unfortunately, we had a falling out. Coming from a background of money, he evidently was used to dealing with people who were not so lucky in a manner politely termed “haughty.”  About the third time he did that, I told him to knock it off, using simpler, coarser, language.  By the time we paused in Topolobampo, Sinaloa, conversation had become awkward. The hotel I chose was adobe with a teja (tile) roof.  Chickens – featured on a menu scribbled in misspelled Spanish – grazed everywhere: the bare “yard” around the building, on the roof, in empty rooms where doors were left open. My room had a bare bulb hanging in the center of the ceiling, and hard-worn, but clean, sheets and towels.  There was a scarred sink with the inevitable dripping, rusted faucet, and in two windows rusted out screens. The toilet and shower were in the back.

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