When leaving Rome, keep the Roman in you. Not the part of Empires, pillaging then taxing the pillaged. No, no. That’s too barbaric and I fail to find the joy in that. No passion in destruction. My Rome is Mexico and in Mexico, the Romans dance salsa! It’s even easier to keep being Roman when you happen to be inside a Mexican dance salon. You’d have to be a soulless shell of a father to skip that day in a daughter’s life when she gets married. Not mention dead to turn down the opportunity to go to Prague with her friends from overseas for that event.
I have always loved the Asian mystique. Watching the movies of Kurosawa in my youth, I was entranced by Machiko Kyo’s eyes in Rashomon. So exotic yet full of that unique human beauty, I thought. Even now I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice without the dubbing, but those eyes said far more than words ever could. The Asian mystique caught in the cinematic mystique. Can you blame me for just walking up and taking her off her chair.
“Wow!” She squealed in not-undelighted surprised, “What are you doing, sir?” Her Spanish was impeccable.
“I don’t know how to dance!”
Her feet said otherwise. Her accent had the flatness and dragged Rs of Mexico City. Who knew the day I would love to hear that accent could have ever come!? I could see my daughter gently shaking her head as she and the other guests watched the spectacle before them. No mind. It was their day and we had all cried all the happy tears we could muster away into glasses of wine and pitchers of beer. Now, it was time to celebrate all those who came here to honor them.
Well, okay, and a petite young lady with inkwell eyes framed by some stylish glasses is something to honor too.
As the newlywed bride readies the camera after recovering from her disbelief, I just look into the young bachelorette before me. Yes, I’ve been married, divorced, re-married and now managed to get this far in life.
Doesn’t mean you have to forget what it was like before all that.