A crowd had gathered behind the statue of Bishop Quiroga in the Plaza Grande of Pátzcuaro. From there, music of an enthusiastic, if poorly-tuned ensemble enlivened a gray day. The tunes were accompanied by an infernal clacking.

I hurried over. By the time I got there, the show was over. I had (almost) gotten to witness the dance of the Veijecitos (little old men), a centuries-old tradition. Wearing colorful costumes, hats festooned with ribbons, ancient men dance on a sounding board, their wooden sandals and canes banging out rhythms and pretty much drowning out the musicians.

I caught this man's final flourish just as the performance ended, appreciative tourists applauding.

Ta-DAA!

The dancers patiently posed for turisty photo ops, leaning on their canes, their masks frozen in toothless smiles.

Glancing to my right, I saw a few performers taking a break. Why, they weren't old men at all! I felt a little cheated as I watched teenagers in veijecito garb tossing a frisbee. Later I learned younger people had always been dancers: it's too strenuous for genuine elders.

A young woman selling balloons was unimpressed with the goings-on. She clearly had seen it all hundreds of times. What delighted the visitors went right on by her, as she dreamed on about tonight's date. Or whatever.

The whole affair impressed me as somewhat Disneyesque. Whatever the original dance once might have been was today transformed into tourist attraction.

I was killing time, waiting for Clint to do some business. The Veijecitos provided an hour's welcome diversion.