it’s not my party -- but I’ll dance if I want to

It has been quite a birthday party.

But this is Mexico.  The land where celebration is an art form.  Even when the guest of honor is 478 years old.

You know my opinion about cultural events at the beach. I miss having them there.  But I have certainly had aplenty on this trip to the highlands.  Even here in Pátzcuaro -- a town not known for its cultural offerings.

I managed to miss the jazz trio this afternoon because I was indulging in an another Mexican institution that I admire even more than fiestas -- siestas.

The fact that most of the acts in Pátzcuaro had a decidedly home-grown improvised patina merely added to the charm of the entertainment.

And nothing screams home town like a local parade.  I have participated in enough of them in The States to know the drill.

Some entries seem to be universal.  Such as the police band.

Or beauty queens draped over expensive vehicles.  The two sole interests of most teen boys.  And both equally unapproachable.

And horses.  With a decidedly Hispanic showiness.  Spain has left a deep brand on the country.

Of course, there were the senior citizens in their royal court duds proving that beauty is not the monopoly of the young.

And marching bands.

Then there are the entries that are pure Mexican.  Starting with the guy who shoots off rockets leading the parade.  The dog showed up whenever fireworks were involved.  She seemed to be fascinated by the explosions.

Or the various governmental offices marching as a hierarchical group.  This is another vestige of Spanish rule.  To have a public position is to have honor.

Or the giant puppets -- mojigangas if I recall correctly.  Did I get it correct this time, Babs?

And the entry from Crefal.  That is a post in itself.  Honoring the Americas.  Or the part that matters to Crefal -- the nations south of the Rio Bravo.

The evening was topped off with with a concert on the plaza grande.  A series of bands with bass that could loosen fillings.  All of them adding their congratulations to The Grand Old Lady on the lake.

And, of course, there were artistic fireworks.  The type of displays that typify celebrations in Mexico.  But there were no rockets fired into the audience.  Melaque does that far better.

  
A great party it was.  And I didn’t buy the old girl anything for her birthday.  Of course, I left many a peso in restaurants around town.

Happy birthday, Patzcuaro!