“Bougainvillea Poetry”
After a while, no one wants to look like a tourist. Experienced travelers will buy a hat in a local store, convinced that having the same head covering will somehow make them less con - spicuous. They stray off the main streets and take their meals in the places locals frequent. They leave their fancy backpacks in the hotel and carry only what they need to explore the city. And, most impor - tantly, they don't take photos. If the tourists who don't want to appear to be tourists take photos, they only take a picture of them - selves and their traveling partners. If there is something beautiful in sight, it serves as background. The goal is to appear to be anything but a tourist.
I was at a poetry reading the other day. I go to very few poetry readings. Because I write, I have writer friends, and some of them write poetry. So I occasionally go to a poetry reading to support my friends. But I never leave a poet- ry reading without feeling a little more stupid.
I sit among a group of people, listening to poetry, while con - sciously thinking to myself, 'I have no idea what that means.' As I puzzle over what it might mean, the poet keeps on read - ing. Then I realize I have missed the last line. Now I really don't understand what is being talked about. So I sit back and listen to the words, and at the end, everyone applauds and, of course, I do, too. But all the while I am thinking that I am a much more stupid person than I give myself credit for being. But at this poetry reading, I heard something that I understood -- although it was not from the poet who was reading, but from another poet. She said, 'You know who I'm talking about -- the tourists. The people photographing bougainvil - lea!' Everyone around the poet laughed, and I actually knew what she meant -- and I was kind of sor - ry that I did. Much of Mexico is filled with bougainvillea, which bloom for most of the year, and San Miguel is no exception. It is stunning, espe - cially blooming against a brightly painted wall. And it seemed to me that a poet - a poet especially -- should realize this.
Everyone photographs the bou - gainvillea when they first arrive. Then they realize it is everywhere, and in time, they usually stop no - ticing it altogether. And this doesn't seem especially funny to me, even if it's true. It seems a little sad. If having more refined tastes means I stop noticing bougainvil - lea, I'd be happy with the tastes I have, even if I never understand much poetry. Because it seems to me the ability to notice the beauti - ful in the ordinary is more import - ant than recognizing the unusual. My friend read her poetry, which I was delighted to discover I not only understood but found very funny. And I left, thinking about her poetry, and poetry in general, and bougainvillea in particular. It is ordinary beauty that stuns me, time after time. Seeing something that has no business being so beautiful -- in a setting where no one even notic - es - seems like a miracle. Hav - ing the luxury to stop and enjoy it -- perhaps even take a picture - feels to me like an act of worship. It is not a bad thing to be a tour ist. It is not terrible to stop in the middle of the sidewalk, blocking foot traffic, overwhelmed by the beauty of an ordinary thing. In fact, I think I will try to remain a tourist as long as I can. Till next time, Carrie
