Patricio and I drove up to the city of Querétaro late in the afternoon yesterday. Mitote Jazz, headed by our friends, Cipriano and Isabel, were scheduled to play at La Biznaga (the barrel cactus) downtown, and we didn't have any good reason to miss it; though 130 miles north of our place, in the same time span we often make it down to Coyoacán, well inside Mexico City itself.
And we adore Querétaro. Not only does Patricio feel a connection to the city--his grandmother having lived there for a year--it's also many things we miss here in Nicolás Romero: it's clean, safe, chill, lovely, easily navigable, cosmopolitan.
Stepping out of an Irish Pub where we asked for Biznaga directions, Patricio laughed at how difficult it was for him to pronounce that little word, "Irish." That funky diphthong of a long 'i'--with it's 'a,e' sounds squished tight together--make wrapping one's mouth around the next full, rounded 'r' a formidable acrobatic trick of the tongue. But knowing that I've got a share of sunburning-skinned, strong-willed, party-loving Irish genes frolicking inside, he persevered in practicing as we held hands together and walked up the street.
Ducking into La Biznaga, full of cactus, service as if they already knew us, and it's particular bohemian assemblage of stuff, we both began to savor a tingle of something most everyone takes pleasure in feeling. It's not even hard for Patricio to pronounce; up north in Querétaro, with friends and their music and plate full of spicy potatoes, we somehow felt like we were home.