As we drive in the second tiny lane, approaching the cheese-colored ala telenovela houses, I glimpse overlooked the street: tropical yellow house matched with classic blue door, cream walls with ironed windows embraced by poison ivy and background is rugged green mountains. These have me mildly dè javu.
“Do you guys want to suggest anything for lunch?” My friend asks after stopping Eichhörnchen, the name of our rented Chevrolet sedan, in off-street parking. But none of us offer preference for meal. Mineral de Chico, is a small town not far from Mexico City. On a Sunday noon, it is as crowded as an amusement park could be. Water chirping in the fountain, whilst the air is warm and soothe makes my friends stifling heat. But we keep strolling to find any home of authentic receipt. We pass by the local shops along the street. The walls of every shops are various from rose quartz-colored to serenity. But what they sell seemingly similar; a figure of a woman painted colourful in ceramics, keychains, wooden stuffs and stones. Is she really loved by her nation or she is just the world’s icon? The one that being sold as souvenirs to prop up economy or a symbol of civil revolution? “…Come on,” I follow my fellows walk up the ivory-stone sidewalk. Maybe this country has perspective that an emerging traveler like me will never understand. In this little town I do not see any suffer and thread around, all I can see is bright-coloured houses and a sound joyful music. The markets sells, the demand buys; just like the usual. Town-hall, old museums and outdoor food market, we finally find the house we are looking for; pumpkin-colored building with no door. A woman welcomed us as she smiled. Four of us sit at the porch, sightseeing the almost-empty street. The sky above the dark green mountain is already full of cloud make a contrast gloom of panoramic view. The emerald green mini Volkswagen parked in front of the porch faded by years to shapes her beauty. I dissolve in the squad conversation, but my mind spirals to my own thought, admiring the tranquil day: shady trees, curved windows, the smell of everlasting weekend. The woman who welcomed us returns and gives four books of menu. As I gaze in the faded white colour paper, my eyes stroke at the familiar words; “…La sopa calabaza, por favor?” I said to her. I ask my friends whether they know what calabaza is or not. “Why did you order it when you don’t know what is it?” It actually remain me to a name of a fiction family in my childhood. The colourful pages with contrast colours. One shows me the result of google search; a kind of pumpkin. Pascualina della Calabaza’s journey is the answer of my dè javu. The bright colour in Mineral del Chico is similar with the colours in Pascualina’s visuals. I can not wait to end my trip sipping a tasteful soup amidst the panoramic view of Mineral del Chico.v
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Back to Winter during her fortnight stay in Australia. Unlike her young spirit for indie gigs at The Grace Darling Hotel or mural art along Hosier Lane, she went to the most common tourism site but most contemplative one; a Shrine.
The latte coloured sanctuary amidst the gigantic building was nothing compared to the grandeur architecture of any palace. However, the trapezium roof and countable pillars in the front doors almost depicted the most humble version of Palladian architecture. “Let’s go.” She urged herself. A monument welcomed her like a warm hearted host serving a number of name in its body. The names of locations she knew since her first geography class at school such as Java Sea and Borneo. The year she never thought that violence really happened anywhere in the world. Especially in the wars that took souls and dreams away into ashes or drawn underneath the earth. Worst part: wound of condolence in the loved one. The shrine initially was meant to commemorate the heroes in the world war. As time went by, it let all Australians who have served in any war to be commemorated. Inside the building was a spacious hall full with sense of sacrality. As far as she wander, the shrine not only provided exhibition, but it also gathered people for talk. “Every 11th of November, before midday, at 11 AM, A ray of light will hit the Stone here…” she heard a tour guide explained to a couple of middle age tourists. She took a look at a marble stone sunk below the pavement right in the centre of the hall. “Greater love hath no man.” She read the written message down there. She picked an imitative red rose from the cup next to the love story of a soldier, left the echoed voice belonged to the tour guide and climbed to the upstair leading to unknown end that turned out to be a quiet balcony. “What actually is the different between sacrifice and victim in a war?” She traced back her memory to the previous day while she attended a random lecture in Clayton while waiting for acquaintances. The lecture called Australia’s Black History. Just like its name, it was even darker than an espresso she bought in the class; the story of Aborigine’s massacre during British invasion. An aborigine slave who was accused of white man murder and the aftermath was the massacre in the river that can broke anyone’s heart. She stared right to the monument and back forth to the building. She was trapped in a superficial grief of remembering the person who passed away due to political interest; the war, the massacre and the kidnapped. Melbourne and Shrine of Remembrance showed her that tragedy- even the most bloodiest one could be a foundation to build a strong nation. In a lecture class, the fact of Aborigine massacre as a victim of colonialism would construct consciousness of tragedy through academical pulpit. Whereas Shrine of Remembrance gave a strong symbol that Australian will always respect their prior heroes who was sacrificed themselves in battlefield. As she returned home, she wondered how could tragedy like 65’s mass murder never openly discussed massively or how could the kidnapped of some activist in new order never moved the citizens to dig out the truth. The death with no corpse was psychologically torturing because the loved one might expect their lover would come back. That was why she walked to the palace and hold black umbrella with the people who care. The calling of the Shrine that led her to admit tragedy and speak up. When the solstice is the condition where the sun is in the furthest distance toward the earth, equinox is the closest distance of the sun towards equator. “Equinox occur when the axis of rotation of the earth is exactly parallel to the direction of motion of the Earth around the sun. Meteorologists use it as the official turning point in the seasons because, although it can vary from year to year, it allows for the most accurate record” (Mirror.co.uk, 22 September 2019). The autumn equinox is the transition moment of the season from summer to autumn. In the ancient era, people were already aware of this not only to mark the changed season but also to praise gods and hoping for bless in the new season. Thus, they placed a huge stone to gauge its shadow of the sunrise or sunset in order to determine either solstice or equinox. For travellers, when it happens to be an autumn equinox moment which is on every 23 September, there are some archeological destinations to visit to witness beautiful sunrise- or some "magical" that we will never forget. 1. Mnajdra, Malta 2. Chichén Itza, Mexico "Every equinox, the spirit of Kukulkan, the Mesoamerican plumed serpent deity, slithers down the side of Chichen Itza’s famous El Castillo step-pyramid. Near sunset, the steps create a series of triangular shadows that resemble a row of scales running down the middle of a dragon’s back. As the sun retreats, these scales of light and shadow seemingly move from the top of the pyramid to the bottom, resting at the sculpture of Kukulkan’s head." (isango.com, 2016) 3. Angkor Wat, Cambodia 4. Machu Pichu, Peru Unlike the other ancient sites, every equinox (both spring and autumn), the Intihuatana in Machu Pichu shows no shadow. It is believed that the Inca (the largest empire in pre-Colombian America) held ceremonies on these auspicious dates. These ceremonies were meant to hold the sun in place, ensuring a good harvest and general prosperity. 5. Stonehenge, England
6. Newgrange, County Meath, Ireland
She lived in colors and tragedy; bold red and glittery gold. Holding her red book, she was wearing leather corset and a tehuana skirt, in the frame imprinted on her house. Who was she?
Coyoacán, a cultural hub in Mexico City, on the weekend offered a bunch of options to explore indigenous sides of Mexico. Among bars, traditional markets and local performances, her house was the chosen one; Museo Frida Kahlo. From the outside it was a fortress consists of striking blue wall and gigantic green door with such a long queue. As I stepped up the corridor stairs and got in the building of the left area, I was depicted to who is she from her fashion style; an eccentric and modest woman. She loved to wear those beautiful Mexican traditional dresses but what appealed me the most from those attributes was the crutches. It was a bus accident—painted her skin with blood and gold glittery powder exhibiting a terrible beauty just like the characteristics of her artwork. Her name, Frida Kahlo, is famous for surrealism painting which is not only a media to express but also to criticize, in other words to make a movement. Strolling the greenery yard decorated with some aztec statues I then got in the second building; a shelter where she used to sleep, paint, cook and even host a big figure like Leon Trotsky. Frida Kahlo and her beloved husband Diego Rivera, also an artist and social activist, always open their door for everyone to share kindness. This house shared warmth and brought the visitors to a beautiful nostalgic of simple life; the furniture, the painting equipment even the earthenware in the kitchen, made me gaze in amazement. Pulmonary embolism took her life away but she is still here. She never dies. Living in her painting and her zeal. This house unsilenced her ideology and her partiality to the marginals. Frida never gave birth but the generations who embrace her spirit is her successor, her children, that is not limited by citizenship and background are the people who will continue her fight. Her legacy in the form of art will never run out. Moreover, her diary, those are sold in the form of book, would be able to share her romantic life through her colorful rustic drawings from surrealist to idealist. She still lives in her everlasting artwork. Stepping out from her house, I still had a fortnight stay in Mexico to uncover other local uniqueness. I never thought I would have a chance like this, to be introduced to great mother through her lively residence. Eventually, I was conscious that in the travel journey a lot of unexpected things always happen! |
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