Preface to "Crossing Mexico"

I began writing “ Crossing Mexico” many years ago while living full time in San Miguel de Allende. When I stumbled upon this colonial town in 1995, I knew I had come home. It had the charming feel of a village that had magically stood still inside of time. I was enchanted by its architecture and the endless maze of narrow cobblestone streets. My senses were instantly filled with a vibrant palette of unknown colors and textures wherever I roamed. I was intoxicated by the tumbling purple bougainvillea, each ancient building and the gentle ways of its people. There was a sense of joy everywhere, something that as an American, was completely foreign to me.

My days and nights were filled with explorations of my surroundings and the community that I was soon to call my own. My creative energy soared to impossible heights: my camera was my constant companion with a thickening journal tucked carefully away in my bolsa. I was dizzy with possibility. As I grew more confident, I began to discover that my spirit felt lighter. It was ignited with a new passion: in art and within my heart. I was “muy curiosa”, ready to shed my pale skin and all the deeply etched rules of my previous life.

It seemed that news traveled quickly in San Miguel, which made for efficient communications even without electronics. “Chisme”- gossip- spread with ferocity, often within a matter of hours. It was the blessing and curse of living in a pretty fishbowl. There was less than 6 degrees of separation between your circle of friends and those on its edgy perimeters.

In the beginning I found the wildfire of stories to be mere sport, a child's game. They delighted the storyteller in me. I once spread a provocative rumor about myself just to see how long it would take to make the rounds. Less than 24 hours later, I was proclaimed the voracious lover of both a notorious man and a mysterious woman, told with salacious details that made me actually envy myself.

I have kept “Crossing Mexico”, these 'fictionalized' vignettes, in a worn folder, never knowing if they should be birthed or simply tossed away. After a decade of being cradled inside my desk, I have decided to let them finally sip air.

I dedicate my stories to every creative soul I met during those years, each pocessed their own unique gifts, sense of drama, and beauty. There once was a time when we all walked that tightrope of ourselves together- and thought of little else.