During the holidays, I know where I am:
Complaintown. Maybe this year I'll go somewhere
else.
To see into the future, I don't have to read my palm or throw my
tarot or tai my chi. I just have to know me. And one thing I know
as I write this, is that in mid-December, I'm probably not in
Batopilas.
There's no doubt the holidays this year are especially poignant,
but, still, I'm probably here, somewhere, complaining. I'm
complaining about the crowds in the stores. Or the cloying and
ubiquitous canned holiday music. Or my inability to decide what to
buy for whom. Or, if I've really got a froth going, I'm complaining
about how much I'm complaining.
I'd also bet that I'm swearing. Swearing, maybe, at the lean I
can't get out of the
Christmas tree. Or at having to completely
restring the lights on the porch because, choosing against
measuring before starting the project, I ended up with a thicket of
lights on one side and none on the other. Or I'm swearing at having
run out of wrapping paper at 2 in the morning on
Christmas Eve when
I should be fast asleep, but, of course, I had put things off to
the last minute, like I always do, so what do I expect, of course
I'm going to run out of wrapping paper, of course the stores are
all closed, of course I'll never learn. Damn!
I wouldn't be complaining and swearing if I were in Batopilas.
Technically, Batopilas is a real place. But to me it is a dream, a
dream of peacefulness and beauty.
Nearly 20 years ago, I went to Batopilas. I went with a couple of
buddies. We didn't know we were going when we began our trip. We
had boarded a train that winds through northern
Mexico's Copper
Canyon, a stunning, mountainous gap in the earth four times the
size of the
Grand Canyon. One of us had read or heard about
Batopilas. Since we were headed that direction, more or less, we
decided to get off the train and check it out.