Wherein the Eater Goes South

M.G. Vallejo, the namesake of our little town here, was a pretty famous dude. Known for being a most famous general, he actually never lived in our town proper, but just a few miles away in what is now Petaluma. Like all good Spanish Generals at that time, our founding colonialist most likely came from Spain by ship by way of Mexico. One of my all time favorite Spanish Colonialists has been up for sainthood for quite a number of years now, his entry into the canon thwarted only by a failure to confirm a single miracle…if crossing the Atlantic and rounding the Cape of Good Hope in a rickety wooden ship with hand drawn maps, no GPS and limited fresh water and food the mid 1500’s doesn’t count, then nothing Mother Theresa ever did should count. Apologies to all you Mother Theresa fans out there, but that’s just the way I feel about it. Anyway, stepping down from the pulpit, I decided to visit the place it all began, the town where Fray (soon to be Saint) Junipero Serra first set foot in the New World, opening the door to all the yummy Mexican food that we’ve enjoyed so much over the past few weeks, San Blas, Mexico.

I’ll admit that I’m pretty well known here, and, unlike many of the minor celebrities who walk the town, I’ve never spent a single night in the jail here. Part of my celebrity, such as it is, stems from the night that I decided to climb to the top of the bell tower on the old church in the town square. One of the locals mentioned to me in an offhand way one evening that there was a special relic that had been placed in a brick at the top of the tower. It had been covered by plaster for 150 years or more and now that the plaster had been flaking off, it was visible once again. Those who were able to touch the relic were assured some great benefit in their lives. Count me in, I thought, as I plotted how exactly I would see this relic. Spending some quality time with the mentally challenged family who runs Viejano’s bar seemed like an excellent idea. Closing time seemed to come rather early that night, so when the doors shut me out and I found myself in the center of the plaza gazing up at the full moon behind the tower, listening to the bell strike a single note. Seeing the iron rungs stuck into the side of the tower, I began to climb, looking up only, not daring at all to look down. Time flies when you’re having fun, but so too, do bats. Just a couple of points to consider before I continue.

1. Iron stuck into the side of a building in a coastal town rusts.
2. The longer it stays there, the more it rusts and the weaker it becomes.
3. Wiggly rungs at 75 feet above sea level do not inspire confidence in one’s future.
4. Bats do not like to be swatted at when they’re flying around.
5. Bats are afraid of the sound of crows.

By the time I reached the top of the tower and was looking around for the relic, holding on for dear life with a single hand as I swept my free hand over the masonry work, hoping to feel a crucifix or something, the bats came swooping in. Was I near their nest? Did mama bat think that I was trying to snatch her young? The swatting did not make them any happier and I was certain that the high pitched sound they were making was a definite call for reinforcements. Not to be outdone by what I considered at the time to be an inferior mammal, I began cawing like a crow. This had the beneficial effects of both scaring off the bats and distracting me from my dawning realization that I suffer with paralyzing acrophobia.
Having not found the relic or any sign thereof, I turned my attentions to getting back to sea level. As I turned to survey the plaza and reassess my route down the tower, I noticed that I had attracted something of a crowd in the plaza, the nightowls and drunks who had come to see what a crow could possibly be doing in the middle of the night. Although I did manage to bend one of the iron rungs, I didn’t actually break it or cause much serious damage to the old church. For those care about these things, the church is immortalized in the poem “The Bells of San Blas” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Shaking, I stepped onto the plaza, greeted by scattered applause, cat calls, and overly friendly drunken backslaps. I had earned myself a new name: El Cuervo, the crow. By morning, news had spread through the town and it seemed that there wasn’t anyone who didn’t know.

I was more than happy to make it out to Gabino’s at the beach, just as I did today, to enjoy a plate of the most delicious shrimp ceviche this side of anywhere. I’m convinced that God speaks through Gabino to produce such a heavenly delicacy. Ceviche’s on me today, Crow, he said winking.