tuning up my attitude

I am turning into a grouchy old man.


You know him.  Stands on his front lawn shaking his cane at unruly children. 


The relative who shows up at every family function constantly complaining about the president -- any president -- and how corporations are more interested in selling packaging instead of products.


Let me give you an example.


Last week I was having trouble with one of my posts.  The Mayas kept slipping from the grip of my pen.


What I needed was a change of venue.  So, I packed up my pad and pen, and headed around the corner to La Rana, one of my favorite eateries, for some peace and quiet -- and a nice serving of sopa tortilla.  A writer's dream.


The change worked.  While I was grazing on chips and pico de gallo, sentences began flowing.  Even the arrival of my soup didn't staunch the prose.  Pyramids grew.  Heads rolled.


But every tale needs conflict and a protagonist.  And I saw mine saunter into the restaurant.  Boots.  Cowboy hat.  And the dreaded guitar.


Let me pause here for a second.  I love music of almost every type.  Philip Glass is laying down a soundtrack for this post as I write.


But I long ago learned to dislike roaming troubadours in Mexico.  For good reason.  Actually, several good reasons.


One.  They push a product in my ears and ask me to pay for something I do not want.  The moral equivalent of street corner windshield cleaners.


Two.  Almost always, they are terrible singers and worse guitarists.  Faults they attempt to disguise through the fall back of the untalented throughout the world -- they sing and play as loud as they can.


Three.  They are almost never original.  They play a limited number of tunes -- usually two Mexican folk songs and a handful of American top 40 pieces.  You know them.  La cucaracha.  Guantanamera (not even Mexican).  La bamba.  Cumbaya.  The type of songs your sister makes your niece sing at Christmas dinners.


You can always tell if there is a person who does not like cats in any crowd.  Just toss in a cat, and the cat will be drawn to that person like some kind of kitty lodestone.  I must have the same draw for restaurant musicians.


The moment he entered the small dining area, he made a beeline for a spot right behind my chair.  And started singing trite tunes without a bit of talent -- loudly.


No scowl tossed over my shoulder was going to shoo him from his perch.  Because the tourist crowd was eating it up with peso tips and silly photographic poses with The Local Color.  "And here I am Mary with a local musician.  Those people can all sing beautifully.  And I knew every song."


I came home that evening out of sorts.  I sought peace and quiet and got Charo in the body of a 54-year old Mexican man. 


And then I realized I was falling into the same fallacy I find humorous in Americans and Canadians who come to Mexico and try to "fix" the country.


You know them.  The people who want to stop other people from smoking in public.  Who want to reorganize grocery stores.  Who want the local traffic flow to be as logical and tidy as in Victoria. 


I realized the mistake was mine.  For thinking I could find peace and quiet in Mexico by going to a public place.  Good grief.  I can't find peace and quiet behind my garden walls.


The musician was only trying to earn a peso or two in the way he could.  And I treated him worse than a beggar.  After all, I don't glare at the elderly woman who stands with outstretched hand in front of my grocery store.


Having admonished myself, I headed back to La Rana on Saturday night.  With a plan.


I knew he took requests.  If I had trouble with his tourist-pleasing repertoire, I could ask him to play something I wanted to hear.


After he flayed Con te partirò (to the point I did not recognize it other than the syncopated beat on his guitar), I asked him if he would play a request.


"Of course, señor."


"Could you play anything you have written?"


"No, señor.  I don't write music."


"Could you sing a Luis Miguel piece?  México en la piel?"
"No, señor."


"How about a Chavela song?  Luz de luna?"

"No, señor."

"La Llorona?"


"Sorry."


"Macorina?"


"No."


"Esta bien.  You choose.  Something nice and new."


"Do you like Guantamera?"


All right.  I tried.  His singing was no better.  His guitar technique was more Ted Baxter than Ted Nugent.  But I enjoyed him.  His music.  And the evening.


Will I tense up the next time I see him enter a place I am dining?  Probably.  In the same way most of us tense up when the dentist drill begins its whine.


But I have learned to find the joy that each moment offers.


After all.  That is one reason I moved to Mexico.


Note:  The photograph above is not of the restaurant musician.  It is Vincente Fernandez.  He knows how to sing.