Village in a Lens - Armando Garcia-Davila

[Larry Robinson]

Village in a Lens

The village church and bell tower reflect off the lenses of my sunglasses. The glasses lie on a table that I occupy in the Mexican coffee shop. On the table sit an almond croissant, and a *Café de Olla,* (strong fresh ground coffee containing powdered cinnamon) in an extra large cup. The image of the church in the lenses is a still life of sorts, whitewashed walls gleaming in morning sun, a stark contrast against the darkness of the glasses. The church, constructed by the Spanish over 250 years ago is an anchor the in the villager’s ebbing and flowing lives.

Pedestrians pass on the sidewalk outside, crossing from one lens to the other—vendors toting their wares, a woman selling silver and gold earrings, necklaces, copper wristbands adorned with red and green gems. A boy of about 10 in a tattered teeshirt sells string beans at 20 pesos a bag. A short, thin, dark-skinned man laden with weaved hats, baskets, and purses passes by.

Tourists cross the dark concave glass in a relaxed stroll; no need for them to hustle in order to survive. "Si not trabajas, no comes," “If you don’t work, you don’t eat,” is a saying here. But in this country it’s more of a fact than a simple adage.

A pigeon, wings flapping, drops from the top of my mirrored glasses to the sidewalk then waggles into the café and employs itself at pecking crumbs. But the salary is a meager one and it soon returns to the sidewalk then lifts into the air, bottom to top of the lenses. Perhaps the wages at the eateries surrounding the village plaza will be more to his liking.

An older man and a younger man grow as they approach from outside the café. The older carries a harp the younger a violin case. Soon their strings produce sublime melodies. Are the two a father and son duet? They are so completely in sync that it must have been a patient father who taught his son over the years. I join patrons in applauding them then walk over, put a bill in the violin case and say, “Gracias, por su musica preciosa.” They nod, gratitude written across their faces.

My image in the glasses grows as I walk back to the table where I pick them up, walk out, and put them on against the bright day asking how is it that fate put me on this side of the lenses instead of the other.

	- Armando Garcia-Davila