PRAISE FOR ON MEXICAN TIME
What Peter Mayle has done for Provence, and Lawrence Durrell for Cyprus, Tony Cohan has now done for the lovely Mexican town of San Miguel de Allende. He has taken the time, measured in years, to go beyond the simply exotic or picturesque surface, in the process transforming the Other into an Us. A fine book.
Pete Hamill
Not just a story of one expatriate's attractive lifestyle. Cohan picks upand passes ona lot of Mexican history and culture. His prose is appealing. Chapters read like carefully crafted short stories.
Washington Post
On Mexican Time captures the sabor of expatriate life in San Miguel de Allende. [Cohan's] work and feeling for the place and its people are deeper than the standard new-life-in-yet-another-paradise books. Remarkably engaging at once vivid and quiet and often elegant, On Mexican Time is more intimate and far better written than most memoirs of expatriation.
Santa Barbara News Press
Like Mexico itself, On Mexican Time is a spectacle of sights, scents, and sounds. Shaped by Cohan's imaginative and vivid prose, colors, aromas, and sounds leap, waft, and resonate from the page. Want to take a trip without packing a single box? Without leaving your chair? Read this book and be swept into the cosmic heart of Mexico.
Sandra Bentez, author of A Place Where the Sea Remembers and Bitter Grounds
On Mexican Time details with a sensitive eye and self-directed humor the process of falling in love with a foreign place and of making it home. Cohan's command of the language is that of a maestro he draws his metaphors like an artist.
Atencion San Miguel
Cohan is a gifted writer, and Mexico soon reveals itself to him. He balances lyrical descriptions of the land and of the characters of the village reminiscent of Harriett Doerrwith other musings that add grist.
Los Angeles Times
Cohan is poetic in his descriptions of the vibrancy of life, the serenity of the pace of activity, the simplicity of priorities, and the attentiveness of human relationships in Mexico [his] account is humorous and enviable for the adventure and sheer joy of adopting a new language, culture, and lifestyle.
Booklist
Cohan writes poetically and evocatively about the world around him. He is enchanted by color, by sound, by language. He is mesmerized by a new perception of time. Through it all, Cohan develops a comfort with mystery. Mystery, he finds, is not something to be solved, but something to be savored. With this understanding comes acceptanceCohan's and his neighbors'. And we've gotten much more than a story about a charming Mexican town.
San Francisco Examiner
Cohan's book provides a picture of the country as a whole, well beyond the life in provincial San Miguel. The most memorable aspects of the book are the psychological ones. In Mexico, Cohan says, you laugh until the tears take over. This book gets to the heart of a country remarkably difficult to penetrate, and brings a shaft of Mexican sunshine into the northern smog. One should not ask for more.
Times Literary Supplement
One of those rare, delightful books that allows the reader to enter the author's mind and float effortlessly from place to place and thought to thought.
Albuquerque Sunday Journal
Cohan writes with elegant and polished prose about the sensual delights he finds in every corner of his adopted home You get to feel you have been there.
Austin American-Statesman
[Cohan is] a clear-eyed chronicler of the daily life of San Miguel, a history-rich town in a country that few Americans have known Much better-written and much more illuminating than the usual travelogue.
Kirkus Reviews
Cohan explains with sensitivity and care the experience of learning a new language and exploring a new country. The reader is left with a clearer picture of our southern neighbor, absurdities and enigmas intact. This is not a paean to paradise, but an honest look at a multilayered society too little understood by norteamericanos.
Virginia Pilot
Cohan has the novelist's eye for detail and for nuances of relationships an eloquent, heartfelt plea for admiration of Mexican culture and a warm and polite people. To describe this complex society, Cohan invokes the Spanish word for flavor, sabor, meaning not just flavor in food, but in all things, music, art, speech and dance.
Mexico Connect
C ontents
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7
II
13
III
20
Chapter 1
T wenty-One-Day Ticket
JANUARY 1985. THERE IS NO AIRPORT directly serving San Miguel de Allende. Boarding a midafternoon bus from Mexico City's north terminal, I watch the clotted capital become desolate factory outskirts, then dissolve into cultivated swaths of agave cactus, sorghum, bean. The air softens. Msica estereofnica raises sweet laments. A Virgin of Guadalupe pendant sways from the driver's mirror between decals of Che Guevara and Rambo. A tossing reverie must have become sleep, for when I next look out the shadows are long, the hills closing in. Along the roadside, farmworkers materialize out of the air, then recede back into dusky earth. Little roadside shrines whiz by, candles lit within. Old stone walls run to nowhere. Clusters of black birds wheel, then swerve toward the horizon like iron filings to a magnet. I look over at Masako, her head pressed to the window.
A sudden sharp descent causes me to grip my seat. A dying sun sets ablaze a little town nestled on a hillside. We debark in a dusty clearing among stray dogs. A half dozen scruffy kids vie to carry our luggage; I wave them off. A taxi driver in a clean white shirt offers to take us into town. Anxiously I counter his figure by half; nobody's going to rip me off. Shrugging, he agrees, as if to say: If it's that important to you.
We step through a canopy of bougainvillea into a cool, flower-flooded patio. I enter a hotel office where earlier I'd called to ask, Do you have a room? and been answered with Maybe. I'd bridled at the insouciance, with its echoes of being put on hold; but as our luggage slumps onto a tile floor in a high stucco room overlooking a shady garden, I ease, forgive.
We walk through a dimly lit town of roseate Moorish walls. A tuneless band plays somewhere. Church bells stun the air. I see a ghost or a barefoot woman walk by smiling, a bucketful of calla lilies on her head. Through the open door of a church, I glimpse a wooden Jesus in a wine-colored velvet robe. Cobbles and narrow, raised sidewalks force me to notice where I place my feet, imposing a minuet with each passing person.