International Women's Day

Last night I found myself reading my diary from a trip to Mexico in 1979. It was an unexpected page-turner. I was fascinated by the most intimate reflections of a young woman, traveling alone in a foreign country, at the tender age of 32 – her self-esteem, empathy, intellectual mobility, and vulnerability. I LOLed and WOPed over her portraits of many of the people whom she encountered, some of whom she “hung out" or traveled with during those months.
One of many constantly recurring themes in this diary is how this smart, independent, young and therefore attractive this woman - who was me too - chooses to deal with the discovery that she is being followed, sometimes harassed by men. The natures of the incidents vary, as does the way she handles each potentially precarious situation. Could it be me? So very alive and in touch with her inner, and in the spirit of International Women’s Day, I offer an excerpt from that handwritten diary:

Mexico City, August 10, 1979:
…when I finally calmed down after the bus ride back into the city, I went out to the Anthropological Museum in Chapultepec. I spent a lot of time in the bookstore, browsing and reading and then took a look at the sound and light orientation show, which gave a dramatic perspective on the museum. Afterwards I went and sat in the sun on the museum terrace. A young Mexican man approached me and we had a conversation about rituals, he even wanted to talk about drugs. He seemed naïve, though sincere. Mostly I was happy that he enabled me to speak again to young Mexican men, face their weaknesses, their vulnerability without feeling so vulnerable myself. Unfortunately, on the bus home to the Velasco’s I was forced to confront one more insipid type who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and muster the courage to say: “¿No puede dejarle la mano a su mismo? [Can’t you keep your hands to yourself?] He looked vacuously awestruck. He got off at the next stop and the rest of the bus ride back was pleasant.
When I returned home I let off a little steam with Olivia and then went upstairs to wash off the filth of Mexico City streets. The shower helped a lot; felt like a new person. After a cup of coffee with Alberto, and a brief nap, I went back downtown to the Zona Rosa without any incidents. I planned to meet Angela for a concert later in the evening.
I arrived at the Toulouse L’Autrec [my favorite restaurant with its inexpensive and delicious tortilla soup, which I make to this day], just in time before the afternoon deluge, the inevitable torrential rainfall. I found a table in the courtyard, under the awnings where I could watch it pour cats and dogs, and even marbles and baseballs, huge bits of hail that bounced like ping pong balls off the awnings and terrace, forcing people who sat too close to the edge to move indoors or to some other cover. It was a short, merciless hailstorm that I found entertaining. I was one of the only people still outdoors.
After dinner, while sipping my coffee, a tiny hunch-backed woman came up to me with an enormous bouquet of pink roses, saying “Los caballeros en la mesa alli le han mandado.” I asked her which table and she pointed up to a table along the balcony railing of another restaurant facing onto the courtyard. I looked up and saw a table of handsome young men looking in my direction. I lifted my hand and nodded toward them to say thanks, and one of them nodded and waved back. I rubbed my nose in the fragrance of the flowers, and breathed deeply. When I left the restaurant no one was following me. I had enjoyed an elegant gesture.
I left for the concert, where the first piece was The Selection of Love of a poet: “Si me has amado, cariñito, te mando todas mis flores, y ante tu ventana resonorará la canción del un señor. “

…To be continued