Speaking of signs --
Well, we were yesterday. And how the pentimento effect reflects a bit of local Mexican history (letting the hidden lamp shine through).
Since I returned from Oregon last month, I have been primarily camped out in my house with very few excursions into the surrounding world. Not because I am cosetting myself in a covid cocoon, but because I have not been feeling well enough to resume my walking regimen. A visit to my doctor has eventually set all of that right. Or, at least, better.
I felt well enough last evening to walk through central Barra de Navidad to see what effect the latest northern tourist evacuation has had on the town. It turns out that very little was changed. Most of the restaurants I encountered were partially filled -- if not completely filled. I had to wait for 45 minutes for a take-out order because I was number 21 on the list.
Even though the restaurants were doing a good business, there were very few people on the malecon watching the sunset. I suspect that was because we have been having some rather windy afternoons this week, and last evening was no exception. The sea was a flock of lambs' tails.
One sight, though, caused me to pause. A couple of years ago, Barra de Navidad installed an eponymous sign on the malecon to reflect local civic pride. Each of the letters was adorned with a painting of some object associated with Barra de Navidad.
It was colorful. It was imaginative. It was lit-up at night. It was loved.
Maybe loved a bit too much. Tourists insisted on climbing it to have their photographs taken while riding astride its giant letters.
The first blow was the vandalization of the lights. Then the heft of tourists and the continual brine bath had their effects on the letters. They began rusting and then disintegrating.
The inevitable soon happened. The sign was carted off to die with dignity in some dingey warehouse.
For months, the old base stood empty reminding us of more care-free days. Then, in the summer of 2019, the sign was replaced with a poor understudy (sign of our times -- and town). It was a bit like buying a ticket to hear Placido Domingo sing and discovering he had been replaced with Harpo Marx. That is the temporary sign at the top of the essay.
We were assured by the People Who Eternally Offer Assurance that if enough money could be shaken loose from contributors, the old sign would be repaired and returned.
Not surprisingly, the old sign has never been repaired. Instead, the temporary sign that was installed almost two years ago appears to be past its pull date. The familiar combination of climbers and brine have caused the heart to collapse.
If I were a sentimental sort or one of those writers enamored of symbolism, I would probably interpret the failing heart as a reflection of what is happening in these villages by the sea during The Days of The Plague. But that would simply be solipsistic.
Even though I was sorry to see another sign give way to the inevitable fate we all face, I was on the malecon enjoying the setting sun, sea, and the reaassuring pleasure of just being alive in such a pleasant place.
That is what matters in the end. When the sign is eventually removed* (and it will be), Barra will still have all of the aspects that made me choose this place as my permanent home.
And sign or no sign, that is going to be good enough for me.
* -- I have one request for the people who may want to replace the sign. If you do, bring back the original sign. That English "I" in the temporary still jars me every time I see it, and I know I am not alone. Several Mexican friends have asked me why a Spanish sign is not on the malecon. If the heart sign is to be rehabilitated, simply replacing the "I" with a "Me" (for "Me encanta Barra") would be a simple and elegant solution.
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