One stereotype of Mexico is that of a patriarchal society dominated by alpha males, by the church, the aristocracy and the government; a country where meek, submissive women live at the whims of their men. Travel magazines offer advice to single women: never date a Mexican by yourself; always bring a friend along. Men are advised to stay out of cantinas to avoid fights with knife-wielding drunks bent on proving their manhood. Mexicans are supposedly manly men, a danger to those they covet and those who cross them.

I've never seen it.

I saw more fights growing up in Boonton, NJ than in Mexico. I heard domineering, sexist remarks from my SIlicon Valley colleagues that I doubt any self-respecting Mexican would make.

I think the notion of the macho Mexican comes from travelers' cursory first impressions, based on observations of a sort of cultural playacting. The romantic image of the bullfighter laughing in the face of death is one.

Bullfighters don't want to get hurt. Like professional wrestlers, they know how to create the appearance of danger and injury, but they're not about to jeopardize their careers through disability if they can help it.

A bullfighter puts his masculinity on the line.

Mexican men are courtly and polite, generous and romantic. They comport themselves with transparent pride. They are shown respect by their women. But they do not necessarily wear the pants in the family.

Young couples who can't afford their own homes (and there are many such) often live with the wife's mother. Young husbands wind up being answerable to their mothers- and fathers-in-law. I know guys in this situation: there's nothing macho about them. Some of them actually whine. Girly men.

The women I saw in the villages of the Yucatan, Campeche, the Huasteca, submitted to no one. Many were heads of their households, the family decision-makers, ellas que cortan el bacalao (she who cuts the cod).

There's a childlike pretense about the swagger of Mexican men—of those who try to look macho, anyway.

Struttin' for the ladies.

They don't quite seem to bring it off.

At first glance, you see a lot of hyper-masculinity. Men appear to be fully in charge. But it's all just bad acting, wishful thinking, a fantasy.

A few years ago, Jean and I bought our newly-restored colonial home in San Miguel de Allende. Although many Americans transplanted to Mexico like to take on home restoration, we knew that, given our particular personalities, our marriage wouldn't survive a major construction project. So when we found this place, we moved in without hesitation.

We were fortunate in that the buyer of our ranch in Glen Ellen, California, made a good offer on our furniture, so all we moved to Mexico was our books, art, and clothes. But this also meant that we were now owners of a house without a stick of furniture in it.

I wanted to put something of mine in the house to establish some sort of presence, but furniture is not my department. Luckily, the Candelaria Plant Sale was in session, just around the corner in Parqué Juaréz. I decided to buy a plant for our new home.

While wandering among the plant vendors, I fell into the clutches of an evil cactus dealer. He sized me up, computed the probable maximum amount of money in my wallet, and showed me a large pachypodium intended to suck all of that money up.

I was doomed. Here was a specimen plant worthy of my new home. I had to have it, cost be damned. Transaction quickly completed, the cactus man sent three burly men to carry the plant to my house and buck it up the stairs to my patio.

Here, Rose evaluates my newly-arrived pachypodium.



Pachypodiums (pachypodia?) are so named because they have thick stems. Pachy=thick (as in the latin for elephant: pachyderm=thick skin), and podium=foot. Thick foot. They are native to Madagascar. You can buy one this size for somewhere north of $1,000 in Austin. Mine cost a fraction of that, although it was still a lot for a plant. But then, it came with a couple of opportunistic barrel cacti growing in the same pot. What a deal, no?

Mine is a white-flowered Pachypodium lamerii. Here it is, transplanted into a nice pot and blooming for the first time.



The frowsy clump of leaves reminds me of Sideshow Bob, the Simpsons character. It's the reason I bought it.

Over the next couple of years, the plant grew angular branches, losing its cute mop-top look.



Maybe I fed it too much, or overwatered it. Most likely though, the arms are just part of its habit.

On a trip to San Francisco, I visited the recently restored Conservatory of Flowers in Golden Gate Park. I was extremely gratified to see that my specimen was bigger, bushier and had more flowers than theirs.

This year, something ominous has happened.



My pachypodium is producing pods. Look like something out of a horror movie. It's reproducing. What is going to emerge?



This is when the theremin music swells, and the doughty bespectacled scientist, preparing to eradicate the alien menace, says, "There are evil things in the dark places of this world—things better left undisturbed."

For many years now, early in the morning, someone sets out buckets and a brazier on Canal Street underneath the Quebrada Bridge. They do this so no cars will park in that location.



Sometime after midmorning, a woman arrives and starts a charcoal fire in the brazier. When the pan is hot, she cooks gordos and sells them to passers-by.



Gordos are sort of thick tortillas with a savory filling inside She pats balls of masa (cornmeal dough) into disks, places some carnitas or other filling on one of them, puts another disk on top and smooshes the whole thing together. Then she fries it in oil.

They're really yummy. They're great for when you want a snack. They're bad for when you're trying to preserve your waistline.

San Miguel de Allende has been a zoo this Semana Santa. I've never seen so many visitors outside of the Sanmiguelada weekend. Vacationers have come to town to observe all of the rituals, processions and celebrations. The police diverted traffic away from the center of town, which only pushed the traffic jam out in to the surrounding neighborhoods. Frustrated drivers reacted angrily. Prince of Peace, my foot.

I was apprehensive about Easter Sunday. Would even more people crowd into town? Would there be even more partying? More noise?

Sister Suzie, Jean and I ventured out Sunday afternoon, looking for a restaurant that tourists wouldn't know about. We walked down to the corner of Terreplen and Jesús, where a window with a figure of Christ, a year-round fixture in our neighborhood, had been dressed up for the holiday.



He managed to look both serene and festive at the same time, with purple and white decorations and surrounded by Easter lilies.

Over on Reloj, one of the Judas figures awaited his fate.



You can see a pinwheel that circles his waist. This guy is going to spin! Inside his body, exploding firecrackers will blow him to bits.

When we crossed the Jardín, I wondered where everybody was. I expected huge crowds, but the scene looked like any other Sunday. People sat on benches, passing the time.



Behind this group, you can see a band in the gazebo...



... the San Rafael Music Band. Listen to their sound:


They have a quasi-german oompah sound, overlain with a latin beat. Two clarinets harmonize in thirds, joined eventually by brass, the tuning slides of which remain undiscovered by the musicians. This gives their performance a sort of sour, atonal quality. Don't get me wrong. I love this sound.

No mobs, no processions, no hordes of photographers. Just a warm afternoon in the park, everyone out relaxing, having a good time.

Some people lined up for a treat from the horse-drawn ice cream wagon.



Inside the gates of the Parroquoia, a ladies' auxiliary was selling gordos.



Half the people sitting on benches were eating something.



Toy vendors tempted the children; dried flower sellers angled for adults.



Street musicians looked for a gig, but the tourists were mostly gone. No takers.



The few tourists remaining, those who didn't have to make the long trek back to Mexico City by nightfall, did what tourists always do: Take pictures.



It was a good afternoon to get a shoe shine.



This customer's yellow and purple boots didn't seem to be a challenge for the shoeshine man.

It was a blessedly quiet day, a respite from the intensity of Semana Santa.



I think people were glad just to slow down, hang out in the park, relax in the warm weather. Like the Chivas fan in her red-and-white striped shirt, sitting in the shade, content to watch everyone else taking it easy too.

In restaurants, Mexicans and old Mexico hands signal for the waiter by shouting, "¡Joven!" Means "Boy!"



In my admittedly limited experience, I've only heard Norteamericano visitors and newbies call out "¡Señor!" I've never heard anyone say "¡Mesero!" (Waiter!) My friend Paul Latoures, looming menacingly, growls, "¡Oy Joven!" A trembling waiter scuttles over to our table, tugging his forelock. I badly want to emulate Paul. But I don't want to come off as an arrogant American.

(Not that Paul is one, mind you.)

As I thought about political correctness, I remembered the old song, "Chattanooga Choo-Choo". I'd always visualized a nice couple on the platform, she with a veil and he in a fedora, asking a tow-headed ten-year-old, "Pardon me boy..." Now it dawns on me that Mack Gordon and Harry Warren were probably imagining an elderly negro porter, not a youth. That kind of talk was acceptable for the times. Many people probably didn't even see it as disrespectful.



Today of course, virtually no American would refer to a black person of any age as "boy". It's demeaning, insulting.

Expressions that would seem rude or insensitive in the USA aren't taken that way in Mexico. It's common to nickname someone Gordo (Fatty) or Calvo (Baldy). In fact, a mesero, keeping track of separate checks at our table, wrote at the top of mine, "Calvo". Humph. That's no way to earn a good tip, Joven.

I've inured myself to the use of Joven. The other day, Jean and I were lunching with two other couples. I signaled for the waiter. ¡Joven! Someone commented on my increasingly free use of the term, triggering a discussion along the lines of this post, about political correctness, about the "Chattanooga Choo-Choo".

At that point, my friend Will, in a fine tenor, burst into:

Perdoneme joven,
¿Está el tren de la Chihuahua?

My sister Suzie, visiting from Capitola, CA, and I went to Atotonilco on Good Friday, unaware that, and unprepared for, a major reenactment of the events of that day two thousand years ago. We joined a huge crowd, thousands of spectators, and spent several hours in the hot sun photographing the event until thirst and hunger forced us to give up somewhere around the Fifth Station of the Cross. I apologize for not being able to hang in there through the Crucifixion, but the experience and images we did capture were moving (and disturbing).

[WARNING: Some images show torture and injuries.]

The crowd gathered around Pilate's court. Little children almost vibrated with anticipation and excitement.



Pontius Pilate and a Pharisee met on a high platform before the multitudes to conduct the trial.



He and the Pharisee wore clunky hands-free microphones so that the crowd could follow what they were saying.

Jesus, convicted and tied to a post, was scourged by Roman soldiers.



At this point, I realized I was watching something remarkable. These soldiers were not pretending to beat Christ; they were delivering a real beating.

As the scourging began, scores of terrified children began to wail. This somewhat older girl reacts to the cruelty.



A roman soldier taunts Jesus. He roars to the crowd, "Aquí está su rey. ¡Jajajajaja!" (Here is your king. Hahahahaha!)



He really liked saying that line. He must have repeated it forty times.

Scourging over, crown of thorns placed on Jesus' head (real thorns) Barabbas is presented to the crowd. Who to spare? Barabbas or Jesus? The citizens of Jerusalem decide.



Barabbas celebrates his freedom: "¡Libertad, libertad!"



The Roman soldier to Barabbas' left is winding up to deliver a blow with his lash.

How could such sweet little girls have condemned a man to torture and death?



A soldier reads Jesus' sentence to the crowd.



The crowd prepares to accompany Christ down the Vía Dolorosa. Custodians wearing their own crowns of thorns clear the way.



Hanging from this custodian's belt is a rope scourge. Many people carried whips like his, as it is a custom in Atotonilco to mortify the flesh. They are readily available in roadside booths. You can get yours in designer colors: day-glo purple with glitter. I kid you not.

He is also carrying a baggie of water, as were all the other custodians. ¿Porque? Two possibilities: for rehydration during their long trek, or, to keep flies away. You figure it out.

Jesus drags the heavy cross down the Vía Dolorosa, from time to time receiving lashes from the soldiers.



Not visible in the photo, Jesus' lips are caked with dried saliva. This man is truly suffering.

You can see welts on the back of one of the condemned thieves accompanying Christ to Golgotha.



He, too, is suffering real pain. A man playing a soldier holds a lime to the thief's mouth to help cut his thirst. He couldn't offer him a drink; it would break the verisimilitude.



Suzie and I sped up, leaving the procession behind. We were thirsty and hungry. My energy was gone. My arms ached from holding the heavy Nikon and its long lens over my head. On our way, we came upon Judas, waiting for the crowd to arrive before hanging himself. Apparently the people of Atotonilco follow the account in Matthew, not the version in Acts where he died after falling.

Here, Judas is enjoying a cigarette and a joke with his buddies before the action starts.



At the left of the photo stands a man with a roll of toilet paper hanging from his belt. Now there's a custodian who understands all of the crowd's needs.

People wait at Golgotha. The procession will reach them in an hour or so. I wish we could have stayed for the climax.



Ever practical as Mexicans can be, refreshment vendors surrounded the crucifixion site.



A cup of pineapple and watermelon chunks, sprinkled with lime and chile, really hits the spot when you're attending a crucifixion. I imagine it was much the same in biblical times.

A toddler tries to make sense of it all.



I would not choose to subject my babies to portrayals of cruelty, much less actual inflicting of pain. But I grew up in a different culture, and it's not my place to judge this one. To wonder at it maybe, but not to judge.