In Mexico City, We Bought Handmade Flowers, One the Color of the Blue and Another of the Yellow of the Ukrainian Flag, and a Third One of Pink, Because it was Pretty, from the Young Woman of the Gentle Smile
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Dinner at the seafood restaurant across the tree-shaded street from our hotel in Mexico City was excellent and satisfying in both food and the attentiveness of the staff. We leisurely ate a multicourse meal while enjoying the view of the street we had crossed, and of those passing by on the sidewalk outside – casual, well-dressed tourists, some families, groups of friends, and a few local boys perhaps hoping for some monetary attention.
As our meal progressed, the rush of cars on the street began to dwindle, and the restaurant filled, almost organically it seemed, with tables soon crowded with groups of friends – younger, well dressed, seemingly knowing each other as friends for years, at times loudly demonstrative in their joyful cries of greeting and in their physical expressions of affection, both men and women.
And as I observed all the lively human joy and comfort swirling around me within the restaurant, I also became conscious of the almost stage-like scene beyond the windows, with all the trees along the sidewalk making a pleasant and sheltered parentheses to the ever flowing city life of this incredible city – 17 million people within the larger metropolitan area – creating here a seemingly cloistered and muted city life scene, that, even with the exuberance of the greetings, play, and chatter of all the friends within, carried the peace and charm of the tree-lined street into the restaurant, where no one hurried through their meal, or hurried to leave, a spirit of welcomed rest enhanced by the staff as their quiet and unhurried service seemed to invite all to stay and enjoy and relax – Mi Casa es Tu Casa – very much alive and well within the walls.
After dinner, we decided to take a leisurely walk looping around the few blocks that we could see from our hotel window. It was a pleasant evening, just a touch of cool in the air, with my light jacket perfect for the walk as my wife and I holding hands, set out together to enjoy the remaining moments of unhurried evening time, to explore the streets unknown and mostly hidden from view from our hotel window above, by the leafy spread of the trees that lined the streets and under which we now started our walk.
At the end of the first block, the sidewalk followed the curve of the street around a monument circle in the middle of the road containing a pool of water and sculptures which in the soft light of the evening, appeared to be of stylized horses. And in the soft golden light from the large windows of a closed shop, a woman, young and pleasant, sat gracing us with a gentle smile of kindness as we passed, selling flowers or something, my attention more drawn to the world of the children around her and an older woman sitting next to her, perhaps her mother, perhaps the grandmother of the children, I didn’t know.
As we walked on, the family tableau on the evening sidewalk we just passed, became a quiet, deep preoccupation within me, as I knew it would, and wanted. We crossed a side street and in the curve moving back towards the straight part of the tree lined street, we had to carefully maneuver past a very busy crowded restaurant and through multiple tables set up on the sidewalk, the tables for the most part occupied by men slightly older it seemed than those in the restaurant, talking and animated, seemingly happy to be eating and drinking together in each other’s company, a pleasant, friendly, and warm atmosphere.
As we continued on with our evening stroll, we passed two Starbucks both lit inside and one with the door still open, but both actually closed. But not all was lost, as I made a mental note of both of them for tomorrow morning’s longed for median sized dark roast, and to buy two Starbucks mugs from Mexico, one for me, and one for my daughter, a manager-in-training of a Starbucks in Missouri.
After the second big block, we crossed the street and started on our return back to the hotel. Now, on our walk, my heart and mind had never left the woman of the gentle, kind smile, and when we came opposite to where she still sat, I paused and told my wife that I was going back across the street to look at the flowers the woman was selling, something I already knew I was going to do with our first steps away from her, when we first passed where she sat. My wife willingly came with me, and I took her hand, and we carefully crossed the street together.
When we approached the young woman, she greeted us again with a gentle gracious smile, as she seemed to recognize us from when we first passed with our slightly lingering steps, and our own interested and hopefully gentle eyes. I looked at the flowers and asked her in Spanish if she had another colors, as I was looking for flowers of the blue and yellow of the Ukrainian flag. For I knew even then that I wanted to write of the terrible war in Ukraine and its effects upon my friends and their families, and how this soft evening on the streets of Mexico City, and this woman selling flowers on the street to tourists, intersected together in my mind. And as I looked at the children, the young boys running about, I thought of how late in the evening it now was, much later in the evening than when young and little children should be out on the streets, as mine at these ages, would have been at home and in bed hours ago.
The young woman pulled more flowers out of a big black plastic bag and I was delighted with the rainbow of colors of the flowers she came to display – the flowers, Calla lilies, of woven strips of thin plastic webbing, long stems of a wonderful vivid shiny spring green, the flowers a variety of bright vivid colors. And from the bouquet of lilies she offered, I found one the perfect blue of the Ukrainian flag, and another matching the yellow of the flag. When I asked how much, she said the equivalent of five dollars in Mexican pesos and as I handed her the money, she told me in Spanish it was three flowers, tres flores, for that price, and I said “Oh” and she showed me again all the flowers and I picked a pink one because it was pretty and almost glowing in the light and a delight to my eyes.
The young woman, looking up at me as went through my wallet to find the right amount of pesos to pay her, asked me where I lived. When I responded Los Angeles, she smiled and nodded slightly. I asked her if she had ever been to California. She said no, but in her voice and in her eyes there seemed something wistful and unknown, as perhaps she thought California or Los Angeles could be a better place for her and her family, but far beyond the reality of her life.
The children were happily playing with muted laughter, as if admonished and accustomed to not being loud at night, and I asked her if these were her children and when she nodded yes, I asked her their names. She smiled and pointed to two of the boys now behind me and said, “Julio, Ricardo”, and before I could turn to identify each boy with his name, she pointed to the youngest, about a year and a half old, and said, “y es Samuel”. And Samuel, a short distance from us, when he heard his name, glanced back at his mother and me and then took off down the sidewalk in the dim light as fast as his little legs would carry him, and one of his older brothers, either Julio or Ricardo, I didn’t know, responding obediently to his mother pointing towards Samuel, chased after his little brother, bringing Samuel back to his mother as I paid for the flowers – three for five dollars in pesos – the blue and yellow, the colors of the Ukrainian flag, and the pink, to me, the prettiest of all the other colors.
After paying for the flowers, we lingered just for a few moments more, and I beheld again this young woman, a seller of handmade Calla lilies, una vendedora de flores, as she called softly to her children and gestured for them to gather near her – here in Mexico City, a beautiful, tender family tableau, worthy of being painted by a monumental Mexican painter – and I, with every moment, growing more reluctant to leave this family and the few moments that we had shared together, my profit in the transaction, way more than the five dollars I paid in Mexican pesos.
The young woman asked me in Spanish if I wanted to also buy some of the flowers from the older woman, and I said, in Spanish, that no, the three that I had were enough. The older woman and the younger woman both looked a little sad at my statement, but both smiled again as I said thank you and good night again in Spanish. And yet, walking back to the hotel, I regretted only buying three, but I also knew that it was going to be a chore even getting these three all the way back to Los Angeles in the already overcrowded suitcase, without crushing the flowers into nothingness.
The next morning, I decided to take some photos of the flowers from our hotel window looking out over Mexico City in the morning light. And even though I couldn’t quite work the available light in the room to truly show the brightness of the colors, for me it was still a good photo, made even better because angling down to include the cityscape, I also captured the spot where the road and sidewalk began to curve in, and I could see the spot, hidden by the sheltering trees below, where our lives had been graced for a few moments by the gentle smile of kindness of a young woman and her children playing as children always do, with the youngest, Samuel, running away on little legs in the late evening, when we bought flowers the colors of the Ukrainian flag and a pink one, the prettiest of them all. And this is the posting that I came to write about this event, and the only true connection between Mexico City, the woman and her three young sons, and her flowers and Ukraine, is the depth of emotion that now all of them share within me, and for me that is enough.
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A very beautifully written piece. I could see the young woman with her little ones. I wish I could buy all her flowers and make her life less harsh. I wonder where the father was???
Women are so naive and trusting. She should have been home with her babies not out selling flowers late at night. Makes me glad my mom chose a good man for a husband and father. There are so many women like these in Mexico and throughout the world. I would love to visit Mexico, but it is scenes like these that keep me from going there. My dad would take us to Tijuana when were kids. He always wanted us to grow up grateful for everything we had growing up. It was a reality check every time we went to Mexico. It is so dualistic. Extreme wealth for a few, coupled with extreme tragedy for the rest. Thank you for sharing this with poignant story with your readers.