Journey to Xibalba: A Life in Archaeology

Letter continued

26฀฀ v฀฀ CHAPTER ONE subjected to the Cold War, it was the first time they ever got a direct, full-strength dose of Marxist philosophy. Although I didn’t sign up for classes the first semester, I attended them every time I could. I intended to take the courses offered the next semester, but a telephone call to Yale changed my plans. v฀v฀v฀ LETTER CONTINUED v฀v฀v I acknowledge that my first encounter with San Miguel de Allende was nocturnal and more than a little romantic in nature. I share it with you now because it remains the basis for my sentiment and passion for the Historic Center. Thirty-six years ago I pulled into San Miguel at 11:30 p.m. on a Saturday night. It was in late May of 1970. I was a young man of twentyseven . I drove into town on the narrow road that ran between what was then the single-lane traffic of Highway 57 and San Miguel de Allende. I entered the village on the northeast corner of the community. Back then the cobblestones began out past Paco Garay’s textile factory, where the asphalt pavement ended on the final curve. I had never driven on cobblestone streets in my life, and this jogging experience became a physical and audible background for the new images passing before my eyes. Indeed, every loose nut and bolt, suitcase and box in my brand new van began to vibrate and make noise. Of course, I didn’t know where I was going and drove past Calle Hidalgo and turned left up Calle Quebrada. I was more than just a little nervous because of the dimly lit streets. Adding to my anxiety was the fact that I did not see a car or a person on the street. My eyes searched every darkened doorway, niche, and side street for any sign of life. It appeared so devoid of humanity that I was beginning to think that I had either entered a ghost town or crossed over into the Twilight Zone. I began to question my decision for beginning this trip, “What have I done?” When I arrived at the bridge overlooking Calle Canal I stopped and got out of the car to get my bearings as well as to look for someone to understand my gestures and answer my question, “Is this San Miguel de Allende?” There was not a soul around, but as I looked up Calle Canal, what I saw forever changed my life. It was something comparable to walking into an art history book. The view was one of eighteenth-century images and textures. Stealing a line from Gabriel García Márquez, “Everything was so new I didn’t even have names for them.” Nevertheless, I began to take a visual inventory : the narrow cobblestone streets, the stonework, the ironwork, the wooden doors, the bugambilias cascading down textured walls of stucco, cantera, and/or adobe, the cúpulas of the churches, and the dimly lit faroles (streetlights). Most of the building facades were painted white back then, and the little light from the faroles created patches of friendly warmth for an otherwise dim, cool, and moonlit mystical scene. It took me a while to accept the visual shock. I actually thought a white rabbit might appear at any moment running up the street ahead of me like the one in Lewis Carroll’s fantasy, Alice in Wonderland. I got back in the van and at the next corner turned left off of Quebrada up the hill on Umarán. In less than two minutes I found myself in front of a gigantic, dark, and intimidating gothic cathedral . The blue moonlight accentuated the upper edges of the stones along the sides and front of the facade. I thought of El Greco’s painting View of Toledo, but it would not have surprised me to have seen swarms of bats descending upon me from the belfries. At first the plaza appeared to be as empty as the streets. However, when I was about to drive on, a shadowy figure began to emerge from the dark under a bronze sculpture of a friar and Indian. As the vague figure moved in my direction, I quickly ran through my head the only three phrases of Spanish I knew: “Buenos días” (Good day), “¿Donde están los baños?” (Where are the bathrooms?), and “Lo siento mucho” (I am very sorry). I decided that...