They came in a long procession of pickup trucks and sedans, the trucks adorned with bouquets of pink and white flowers on their hoods, all overflowing with people—half a dozen abuelos, padres, tíos, and tías standing in each truck bed holding each other’s shoulders for support—the cobblestone calle barely wide enough for them to weave through the cars tightly parked on both sides. Floral perfumes mixed with the ever-present odor of diesel exhaust, the breeze carrying a hint of woodsmoke from the wildfires raging on the far side of the mountains.
The procession halted just shy of the last intersection before the calle became pedestrian-only, much to the frustration of the taxi drivers and their passengers now trapped behind. The tíos in their finest sombreros de vaquero and botas de cuero were first to climb down from the truck beds, dropping the tailgates and holding the hands of the women in their embroidered rebozos as they stepped down onto the uneven cobblestone. The women opened paraguas to keep the sun off of their faces made up in colors matching the vibrant floral embroidery of their dresses. Next came the abuelitas and hijos spilling out from the sedan cabs in numbers that seemed impossible to reconcile with the space available inside. Yet more children climbed out from rear hatchback doors.
The party slowly gathered in front of a café, perfume now conquering all other aromas wafting down the calle. The cars and trucks, once emptied, veered left up the hill and back into the regular flow of traffic. The children ran circles around the adults, niños chasing niñas and pulling on their dresses. An abuelita held the smallest niñito in her arms, his stiff starched guayabera several sizes too big. The men laughed and smoked and patted each other on the backs. The bride and groom were not among them.
I made my way through and past, down the pedestrian-only calle to the plaza that is the heart of the city in search of an ATM. At midday on this warm spring sábado, so like all others in this idyllic valle, the plaza was a sea of people seeking divertido and respite from the sun under palm and loquat. Young men hunched over short stools scooping toasted chapulines from clear plastic buckets for tourists to sample with nervous laughter. Frighteningly small abuelitas in traditional shaggy black faldas peddled handmade tapestries, forcing them in the faces of the travelers, pleading mire, mire, attempting to haggle cincuenta, cuarenta, treinta despite endless frowns and waving of hands and mumbles of no gracias in response. A lone Asian man under a black umbrella called out sushi japones, sushi japones, intermittently drowned out by loudspeakers advertising guided tours of the ciudad and its surrounding pueblos and selvas. A disfigured man with a badly swollen leg seated in full sun held up a cup for spare pesos, accompanied by a tan-colored dog with a cleaved tail sniffing out scraps of papas fritas and remains of rice and meat placed on the ground for perros callejeros by sympathetic shopkeepers at dawn.
As I waited in line outside the Banco BBVA I was startled by the loud percussive pop of a firecracker that revealed itself in a minute cloud of smoke in the sky, the sound so physical it set off a car alarm at the far corner of the plaza. After a moment the owner of the car silenced its wailing; then came a second burst that set it off anew. In the calle outside the bank an old woman with her foot in a cast was unloaded from car to wheelchair and I exited the line to help her handler lift the chair up on to the unramped sidewalk. I jumped as yet another firecracker popped above my head, this one close enough to dull my aural perception for a moment.
In that void of sound that followed the last crack I began to hear whispers of rhythm, first the low steady thumps of bass drums, then the ringing rattling of snares filling the space between downbeats. As the rhythms grew louder I started to make out echoes of harmonies pouring out of trumpets and clarinets dancing joyfully through a major scale in all directions, anchored by a sousaphone blurting root notes following the lead of the bass drums. The melody of the music revealed itself in tandem with the wedding party, dancing as they marched south down the west side of the plaza. I stepped out of the ATM line once more so I could continue to observe them. The bride and groom were leading the procession in their matching cream-colored guayabera and vestido de novia. The groom motioned wildly through the air as he marched in step to the rhythm, shouting with a massive smile on his face as though he were recounting his fondest memories of all the people marching behind him, or maybe he was just singing along to a traditional canción that would be unfamiliar to me, pantomiming the emotional arc of its narrative with his hands. The bride’s translucent white veil extended for several meters behind her, held above the grime of the cobblestone street by her madre marching in step behind her. As the procession drew closer I recognized the abuelita with the niñito in her arms. I caught her eyes for just a moment but the feeling of her gaze lingered and it lingers still and it would be foolish of me to try to describe it to you.
Then it was my turn to enter the bank lobby and use the ATM. When I exited the party was gone nor could I hear their music.