Guanajuato is known as the land of the frogs. I'm going to pretend it's because the town, like a frog, has an irrepressible urgency to sing her song. Music lives in every stone and tree trunk and discarded cigarette of this city.
I went to the bar on the corner last weekend and listened to the best live jazz music I've ever heard. How do I even begin to write about this music and its addictive, schizophrenic energy? I feel it in my ears, in my feet, pulsing through my legs. It is complex and flirtatious and speaks to some very elemental part of me.
I went to a cello concert held in an old stone hacienda last Sunday. When the cellist played, I was still and watching, enchanted by the arch of his fingers and the way his elbows angled against the instrument. The negative space he created with his body expanded and collapsed with each note--a crescendo and decrescendo. The movement of his limbs was yet another shade of the songs he played.
I walked down a dirt road a few miles outside of the city yesterday. An old man--his face brown from the sun and shining with generosity--sang us his song as we walked. His voice was marked with memory and intent and my feet were covered in dust and light; I was filled from belly to throat by his traveling melody.
I sing the praises of this brilliant, musical, frog laden city.