Something Rotten in Tubac

It is mid-April.
Today we drove fifty miles south of Tucson
to Tubac, a tiny little artsy-kitschy colony
almost down to the Mexican border,
just for the fun of it, and for lunch.

It is the tail-end of the serious season in Tubac,
since, before long, the snow birds
will be migrating north for the mosquito season.
Believe it or not, summer is the slow time in Tubac.

Tubac.
It was originally a Tohono O'odham name
which translates into English as "rotten".
Cuwak (rotten) was spelled, Tubaca, in Spanish.
Oh, what the hell, people thought: drop the final "a".
Tubac.

Tubac is on the banks of the Santa Cruz River,
which is more sand than water,
more memory than fact.

Tubac is a fine place.

It is an absurd place.
And it is changing.
There are more restaurants,
fewer unglazed pots,
better art at higher prices,
and more Spanish words spelled wrong.
It is becoming less a fixed street fair,
and more an investment opportunity.

Still, it is fun, because it is not far away,
and there is less dust and more good food.
It hints of something that used to be,
and that in fact is gone, except for the
sun-bleached mesquite fragments in the art stores,
next to the newly-tooled leather purses
for those who want something wildy-western
to carry a cell phone in when they go north
in search of snow on grass, and a summer cocktail.

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