Last Saturday night, I went to two parties with Margarita. The first one was a tardeada (afternoon party) for jubilados (retired people)—in this case, retired primary school teachers--hosted by their teachers union. This party began at 5:00 but didn’t really get revved up until 6:30 when the women—who far outnumbered the men—found their way to the dance floor and began dancing together, forming a large circle in the center of the floor.

At 7:00, Margarita and I left the tardeada and took a taxi to get to the second party, a quinceañera, which is a celebration of a girl’s fifteenth birthday. Margarita didn’t know the girl nor her family, but she—and I—were invited to attend by a friend of Margarita's, Doctora Gisela Margarita Reyna—the girl's family's physician and friend—who was invited.

When we got to the banquet hall, the girl herself had yet to arrive because she was having photos taken following the mass that preceded the dinner and dance. However, her parents were there, and the doctor introduced us to them. When their daughter, Jennifer, did arrive in her beautiful pink gown, she was escorted in by her parents, and then her padrino (godfather) spoke briefly and offered a toast in honor of the girl on her 15th birthday, and all the guests joined in. Next, the father waltzed with his daughter, and then other men—her padrino, relatives, and friends—danced with her as well.

Then dinner was served. Now, Margarita and I had already eaten a tasty cena of little sandwiches and finger food at the tardeada. Actually, Margarita stashed most of her food in her purse for the next morning's desayuno. I, however, ate heartily, being hungry and not realizing that a several-course meal awaited us at the next party. So when this second meal was served, I ate the appetizer (melon balls), the cheese soup with salsa con chile seco, and the pasta dish. But I had the good sense to say no to the entrée, chicken Cordon Bleu, served with sautéed vegetables, and the dessert.

When the meal was over, the dancing began. And what a dance! The real stars on the floor were Margarita and la doctora. Now, the doctor is not a tall woman—she might be my height when not wearing high heels, which she was wearing that night—and she is not a tiny woman. Rubenesque might best describe her. Nevertheless, I’ve don't think I've ever seen such energy, such joyous movement, on the dance floor before.

Throughout the whole long set, which lasted an hour or so without stop, the DJ playing one song after another, changing the beat from song to song but never letting it slow down, la doctora and Margarita danced without stopping. The doctor clearly believes in inclusion; she beckoned me to join them, and I did, but I couldn’t dance nonstop as she and Margarita were doing, so I danced awhile, sat down awhile, and so on. At one point, the two of them went over to the parents of the birthday girl and insisted they dance, and it was fun to watch them start out slowly, a little tensely, begin to dance and then get into the movement.

Song after song,—mambo, salsa, cumbia, tropical—the doctor and Margarita kept dancing, smiles of joy on Margarita’s face, smiles of merriment and mischief on the doctor’s face. It was an amazing site. Heck, it was an amazing feat--to dance like that for so long. I was mightily impressed. And what fun!
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On Sunday, I went to the outdoor mercado with Margarita and Miriam. Margarita drove her car to Joaquin and Doña Tere's house, and from there we all walked a few blocks to the mercado. I bought two cantaloupe, a pineapple, a bunch of bananas, some green beans, new red potatoes, avocados, and freshly made blue corn tortillas.
I have to admit that the mercado was a little much for me the first time I went two weeks ago. I’ve been used to buying food in supermarkets with polished tile floors, elevator music, cans and bottles lined up in straight rows on carefully dusted shelves, meat and fish behind plastic wrap or glass cases, and fruits and vegetables washed of all traces of the earth from which they came and many waxed to a high sheen.

How different that experience from the seeming chaos of the mercado—the close press of people on all sides; the sight of freshly killed chicken and pork sitting exposed to the air (and the flies); the smell of fish freshly caught in the gulf beyond the port of Veracruz, I presume, and resting uncovered on their beds of ice; and the huge array of fruits, vegetables, herbs, fresh cheeses, nuts and seeds, and chiles, many I’d never seen before and many that would never have made it into a US supermarket for their failure to demonstrate an ideal medium size and uniform shape. No, there are too many overachievers and underachievers in all this variety.

But this second time, I realized I was over my squeamishness, and I enjoyed the experience and the opportunity to buy really fresh fruits and vegetables. And I marveled at some of the frail creatures, especially the old people, mixing with the crowd—one old woman in particular who was perhaps 4’6” tall, using two canes like ski poles to help her walk slowly through the glut of humanity. She could so easily have been overlooked and knocked over, but she kept moving along slowly, slowly, determined and fearless.
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After leaving the mercado, we went to the Jardin Botanico where we saw a special exhibit of orchids native to the Xalapa area and walked around just a small area of the beautiful grounds. After that, we went to a restaurant and sat outside under a roof of palm leaves and enjoyed a lovely, leisurely meal.