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Letter to John Rueschhoff
Dear Friend,
Martes
Gordo
[Carnaval]
is
over
but
there
is
always
a
carnival
in
Vera
Cruz,
a
Coney
Island
of
the
mind
if
nothing
else.
We
are
living
on
another
planet
here
which
sometimes
looks
and
feels
like
the
old
one;
you
see
neon
lights
and
trees
and
salt
shakers;
you
see
the
sun,
and
bricks
and
cement,
you
hear
music
and
voices
and
car
horns,
you
may
feel
hot
or
lazy
or
crazy
or
horny,
just
like
the
old
planet.
But
in
the
end
you
realize
it's
not
the
same
one,
no,
it's
as
alien
as
Habashat
and
you
are
a
baby,
kicking
and
grasping,
looking
for
something
to
hold
on
to.
If
you
don't
hold
on
you'll
float
to
the
top,
right
out
of
the
picture,
because
this
is
a
submarine
empire.
Even
the
Palacio
Municipal
looks
like
one
of
those
little
cerulean
and
white
castles
that
people
put
in
their
aquariums
for
the
disbelieving
gold
fish.
It
also
looks
like
a
gigantic
wedding
cake.
Next
to
the
Palacio
is
the
cathedral,
with
an
enormous
Corona
beer
sign
in
the
form
of
a
golden
crown
resting
on
its
shoulder
next
to
the
dome.
Veracruz
is
like
other
tropical
sea
ports:
ageless,
worldly,
sensual
and
decadent.
It's
tropic
and
therefore
volatile.
The
Mardi
Gras
here
is
totally
different
from
the
one
in
New
Orleans,
spontaneous
and
derived
from
the
sources
of
nature. La alegria really
has
no
translation,
here
it's
too
well
defined: una casa de locos con visita del mar, as they call it, an insane asylum with a sea view. And it's the sea view that makes everybody a little crazy in a generally harmless, histrionic way, like the lunatics in King
of
Hearts (who
were
the
only
sane
ones
in
the
movie).
The
people
of
Veracruz
are
aware
that
in
1517
Cortez
and
his
eleven
ships
appeared
here
in
the
harbor,
fulfilling
a
prophecy
and
changing
the
world
forever.
Maybe
the
thought
of
that
makes
them
a
little
crazy
too.
As
well
as
a
place
to
dream,
it's
also
a
place
to
be
alive
in
the
world—attentive,
responsive,
understanding,
creative,
passionate,
ebullient,
etc.
Marimbas
pounding
in
your
head
even
while
you're
sleeping,
just
to
keep
up
the
rhythm,
the canciones corridas, the comidas corridas, everything
on
and
running
together,
an
endless
throb
even
if
it's
only
the
beat
of
a
hammock
swinging
in
the
breeze.
I
saw
a
ninety
year
old
woman
dancing
around
with
two
snow-white
doves
sitting
on
top
of
her
head,
clutching
her
tangled
hair,
content
as
they
could
be
in
spite
of
the
crowds
and
the
noise,
"cooing
and
billing,"
as
they
say.
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