Life in Technicolor Ramblings of a place-commitment phobe

The children are breathtaking in skin the color of milky black tea and ebony hair, making me as conspicuous as a piece of printer paper among cardboard. Urchins run up and down the sidewalk by the shop where I work, clothes dirty with dust and deep brown eyes gleaming with mischief as they grab more handfuls of candy. The girls’ loose, dark tendrils frame stunning faces while the boys' hair sprouts thick and soft from their foreheads; a playful exclamation point to their gap-toothed grins and warm, innocent eyes.  As gorgeous as they are, they’re little imps, leaving messes in our play area and on our tables although that never stops me from wishing I had the genes to produce one of my own.

That afternoon, I lose myself in downtown El Centro, stumbling upon the huge indoor market. It’s nothing but color and noise and smell. The meat market at one end boasts the bloodiest, most unappetizing flesh clinging to bone I’ve ever seen. Every time I catch the faintest whiff, I taste vomit on my tongue, yet people are still everywhere, mostly women with babies slung over their arms. In the midst of the stagnant dust, the school kids in collared shirts or plaid, pleated skirts stand out like advertisements for laundry detergent; no longer urchins stealing candy, but Mexican dolls sipping from straws in white, styrofoam cups, distressing the teenage boys who fidget and throw them furtive, awkward glances.

Everywhere's normal is different, but there's a distinct pattern of life that always reveals itself. Here in Mazatlán, they drive around in multi-colored old pick-ups, three or four freeloaders piled in the back. Their houses are the deepest shades of every rainbow: bright oceanic blues, golden sunset yellows, light coffee with cream browns, fruit peel oranges, and lime greens. They run taco stands from the corner of every fourth block and make the best quesadillas con carne asada anywhere on the planet. They rise early to hammer nails and mix concrete piles on the street or to stock produce in small dark frutarias. They cover golf carts to make Pulmonias for tourists. They ride their bikes and walk their dogs and slide their rollerblades the length of the Malecón at sunset, and once dusk drops lightly onto the waves, they don bright high heels to go for a cup of coffee and a piece of cake. The moon rises full, a rich glowing orange in the inky black sky, yellow lights all over the city winking at it from down below.

Walking through the old town, I feel I'm in a framed photograph hanging on the wall back in a tame apartment. Yet I'm here, breathing salty ocean, squishing sand between my toes, and speeding off into the sunset on a blue and white moped, occasionally catching a Doppler effect of Mexican radio; horns and lyrics barely keeping time to an erratic tempo. Pero ésta es vida, loud and beautiful, salty and hot.