Spain's ham-handed colonial policy inevitably led to loss of empire. Napoleon invaded the Iberian Peninsula, diverting Spain's attention just long enough to open the door to Latin American independence movements. The genie could not be put back into the bottle, and on September 16, 1810, in the nearby town of Delores Hidalgo, Father Miguel Hidalgo issued El Grito, calling his countrymen to rise up against Spanish rule. September 16, then, is the Mexican equivalent of the 4th of July in the U. S.

At the beginning of September, the first sign of the coming celebration is the appearing of flag vendors.

Many flags wind up on buildings; some are draped across the hoods of cars.

Civic decorations include portraits of Mexican heroes in tinsel frames, strung up over the streets.

I think this one is supposed to be Benito Juárez, Mexico's greatest president. Or maybe a character from Night of the Living Dead. You decide.

Fireworks are nothing special in San Miguel de Allende. Something explodes here at least once a week.

"Ho hum. Rockets again tonight. What's on TV?"

The night of September 16th features the biggest fireworks display of the year. During the day, elaborate displays are constructed in the plaza in front of the Parroquoia; they're called by the Spanish word for castle: castillo.

The Presidencia spends tens of thousands of dollars on these things, an expenditure questioned by some, given the social, health and infrastructure problems in our community. Bread and circuses, anyone?

Erecting the castillos requires skill and muscle. If one of these guys straining to stabilize a tower lost his grip on the rope, tons of steel and gunpowder could come crashing down on little kiddies crowding around toy vendors.

Just another example of this country's 1950s attitude toward public safety: risky, but curiously refreshing.

I don't have the courage Billie showed when she visited Delores Hidalgo for El Grito Saturday night. So I didn't attend the fireworks Sunday night. My idea of a great July 4th or September 16th is to hang out in the Jardín during the warm afternoon or go find lunch in a quiet restaurant somewhere. As El Guapo says, "Thats just the way I roll."

Independence Day is for dressing up. Saturday Jean and I went to comida at a friend's house. All the women being Mexican (except Jean), they were tricked out in festive outfits with ribbons or yarn braided into their lovely black hair. By comparison, we gringos felt kind of dowdy.

Mexican girls learn to dress up for festive occasions at an early age.

I sat in a shoeshine man's high chair (shoeshines are one of Mexico's great inexpensive pleasures), when I saw this member of a drum and bugle corps walking by. He belongs to the selfsame drum and bugle corps that practices five days a week in Parqué Juárez right beside my house, treating me every evening at six to endless repetitions of bugle tunes.

I know 'em all be heart, now. I wish I didn't.

I've never seen these guys in uniform before. I like the red yarn pom-poms dangling from his shoulders. Looks like a Napoleonic Hussar. Or a doorman for Leona Helmsley.

I sat at home around 9 PM, listening to explosions, holding shaking Rosita on my lap, and reflected on how disturbing all the noisy hoopla was when I moved here four years ago. Today it all seems so normal.