Rosca, Pina and Ideals

1-7-11
Today is my Grandfather’s birthday, marked every year now by his only daughter, my mom. ‘Pop‘, we called him. He liked the warm air where I am now.  Here is a bow to you, Mama, and to our Pop, Ludwig Stanley Baier, an incredible man.

Last night our yoga practice grew to 5 in the kioske. We had an invigorating hour and then savasana even with mosquitos biting in the dark. Afterwards we cut the ‘rosca’ which Liliana brought, a wreath of cake which is the traditional way to celebrate the Feast of the 3 kings.  We laughed while playing the game of looking for ‘el nino’ the little white plastic boy Jesus hidden in the bread. Tradition goes that whoever gets the baby must put on a party Feb 2, which I guess is connected  with  the beginning of Lent, and of course is our ‘Groundhog Day”.  I name it ' El dia de marmota' as I explain it to our young friends who seem eager to know everything.
This rosca was soft and golden white, not too sweet, padrisimo - the slang word Liliana told me I can use instead of the usual superlatives. She showed us the bakery where it came from, and I plan to return there to try other goodies.

Curtis and I had walked to the San Juan market the day before to procure a pineapple, and so we shared this along with the rosca. The 5 of us talking in our English/Spanish/slang, ebullient exchanges, about what we did that day, how we appreciate truly ripe fruit, words, dreams, traditions -  just the type of discourse I long for  in a travel experience - a vision quest.

After the post yoga party, Diego showed us another route out of the park, which took us past the Cathedral and the remains of Tlatalolco, an  Aztec stronghold which fell to Cortez in 1521. The site has been restored enough to see the style of construction, and to note clearly that the bricks which wall the church were taken directly from the temple ruins. History is written by the victors.

As we came back out to the street, Diego had us turn to look at the building behind us, part of the University at la Plaza de las Tres Culturas, the name for this whole area. There in 18 of the large windows walling the building were images of the 18 students gunned down by the military for protesting government policies back in 1968, in the square next to where we stood.  My mouth fell open, tears came. I was amazed that the political powers would let this be such a huge, permanent public image facing a major thoroughfare. Our friends were born long after this occurred, but they showed a real reverence for this space, and a clear knowledge of the significance of these events. I shared what went on in the U.S. during the same years, Kent State and Vietnam. They listened, as always, with great attention and interest. Recalling the U.S. draft and the havoc which those years wreaked upon my generation, I feel sad. Instead of the war to end all war, we are now left with the concept of endless war.

That night in the park, and the images of the young faces on the windows will be etched in my mind’s eye forever I am certain.  Martyrs for the cause of human rights live on, and yet their faces are so young. I hope my young friends will replace them as thinking individuals. They come from modest circumstances, but they are so fun and lively anyway. They are learning yoga so easily. I tell them it is such an honor for me to be their first teacher, and they give us Cool Mexican slang words so we can feel young too.