Mari and I visited Tucson for a few days this month--a kind of belated family holiday trip. Twice, we have lived in Tucson for a few years each time, so our visit was something like Felix, smelling familiar and unusual things.
We drove up Silverbell, wide in its newer neighborhoods, in bright and clear light, framed by the purple mountains rising from the desert floor like islands.
Together with family members, we (of european and asian descent) breathed in the wonderful smells and rainbow sights of Teresa's Mosaic Cafe, a woman making corn tortillas on one side of us, and the Santa Catalinas beyond the windows on the other. We tipped our margaritas in gratitude, and sipped them to show how fine it is to be in a city that surrounded us with Mexican and Native American food and language and culture. Salud, Teresa!
We may live there again, someday. Places like Tucson are not so much an escape from winter as they are an immersion into another culture; one that invites you to become a participant. "This," the culture says at lunch, "is how we use peppers and cactus paddles, and how we prepare fish!" "This is what it sounds like when we speak to each other! 'Amigo,' we say: 'Amiga!' Bienvenidos!"
"Should we go look at our old house?", Mari says, and I say, "Yes!, and see what else there is, too."
"It gets really hot in the summer," Mari said, "and there are two rainy seasons."
"Do you remember the smell of creosote when it rains," I replied, "and water in the arroyo?"
"I do! And javalinas, with their babies, begging for lettuce and potatoes! And deer in the yard!"
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