Becoming a Writer

San Miguel de Allende, Paroquia

Becoming a Writer

…I began my new life with a stroll around town, searching for a
different restaurant to try out my menu Spanish. I discovered “La
Terraza,” owned, I was to learn, by Don Daniel Mojica. It was
located right beside the big church and in frot of the town
square. It was in a building with only plate glass windows and
carved stone columns separating them. It was bright and cheerful,
but as I was to find out, too expensive for me.

Don Daniel had been a professional Tango dancer in a fancy
speakeasy in Cicero, Chicago during the 20s and had been
accidentally shot up one night in a drunken brawl. He decided
Chicago wasn’t for him after all and got back to San Miguel as
fast as his now limping legs would carry him. My menu Spanish
proved to be unnecessary as he spoke excellent English.

His advice to me that morning was, “Stay away from those bums at
the Cucaracha. They’re no good.”

Naturally I was intrigued.

There was one saloon that was patronized by the few Americans
that lived here then, the Cucaracha. The bar was owned, I learned
later, by a pair of uncles of my finance with whom I immediately
began building a friendship.

Chucho and Miguel Correa were brothers. Chucho was the older,
more stable of the two. Miguel was a much an older man than I,
but we hit it off right away. He was married to my wife’s aunt,
and with his little bit of English and my little bit of Spanish
we shared jokes, sang songs, and he introduced me to the Mexican
patrons of the Cucaracha who I liked better than the Americans
that were there.

Every night, Miguel’s older brother Chucho, the actual owner of
the bar, would clear everybody out and lock up the place at 11
P.M. We’d all wander around the corner and wait for him to walk
through the Jardin, which is what they called the main square,
toward home, and then we’d go back. Miguel would unlock the door
with his own key and back inside we’d go to drink free for a few
more hours. It was on one of these binges that we decided to
serenade Miguel’s girlfriend. We used my car, naturally, for the
job.

We put the top down on the car and picked up a marimba band,
loading the xylophone into the back seat, and took off. Little
did I know what Miguel was up to. We drove down San Miguel’s
narrow deserted streets at about 3 A.M. and set up the marimba to
play with the musicians sitting on the boot. The band struck up a
tune and I was really enjoying the music when all of a sudden
Miguel yelled, “Let’s go!” Well, I followed instructions and we
were soon setting up at another location and another and another!
This guy had girlfriends all over town! We were high-tailing it
every time a husband stuck his head out of the window to see who
we were!

On another occasion we took a guitar and a bottle to the police

San Miguel de Allende, Bajada de Salida a Queretaro

station and got the whole garrison of night duty cops drunk and
disorderly! Miguel was the only man who could drive by the cop’s
door and shout, “Adios culeros!” and get away with it.