Of Dogs and Men—the Flaneur’s Life

As we drift around the Sea of Cortez, La Paz seems to be our base. It is the place where family and friends come and go, where flights and buses leave; we sail in the long narrrow channel (which closes when winds are high) into the windy, current-swept harbour often, and tie up at Marina La Paz, where there are so many gringo boats there is a club house on the dock where people meet for coffee and to exchange books, DVD’s, and information every morning.  This week we are waiting for friends to arrive from Canada.

This afternoon I set off for a leisurely amble through town, with my camera. I guess you could call it a flaneur’s expedition (flaneur: An aimless idler; a loafer. French, from flâner, to idle about, stroll) settting off with no clear purpose, but to observe the goings on around me. I did mean to stop at a couple of places to photograph “death art” but other things happened on this walk, as they should to a flaneur.

First, I met a flaneuring dog—a black lab/border collie thing, I’d seen around town. He was a little scruffy and lean, but otherwise healthy, with a big white smile. He sneezed a few times to let me know he was there, took one sniff of me, decided I was a gringa and likely to be fruitful, then fell into easy step with me. At first I told him to go away “vaya, vaya”, but I think he knew it was half-hearted. If I was Mexican I would have been sensible and shouted or tossed a small rock at him. Instead, I studiously ignored him. He trotted along happily, nosing every garbage bag, investigating every food source, even the house sparrows taking dust baths around the street trees. When we passed other dogs, he looked up at me for support as if to say “I’m with her”, but ultimately, he carved a wide berth around them and eventually caught up with me again.

I said “look, we are not together. Don’t even imagine you are in my company.” I was tempted to stop at a food stand and buy him a treat but I figured that would turn him into a more aggressive mooch in the long run…But he seemed happy with our arrangement, trotting along in a gentlemanly fashion. In the same spirit as the Mexican men who occasionally take an interest in me—polite, watchful. If there’s an outside chance, que bueno, but otherwise, respectful.

I eventually lost him when I slipped into a store, where I finally did photograph what I’d set out to: the many little figures one can buy in honour of the dead. It seems that the Mexicans have a healthy relationship with death, taking pleasure in imagining all of us (from the young woman in her prime, to the dentist and gynecologist) as joyful skeletons. 
But what really caught my interest today were the walls I passed on my walk. I like old peeling walls, which show their layers—they are so much more interesting than perfect newly painted walls. Not to push the metaphor, but what do you think? A wall with a past, showing its history…just makes it more beautiful?

As the sun was setting, I stopped for a marguerita at Hotel Perla, on the waterfront. I was the only customer and the waiter was elaborate with me, to the great enjoyment of his idle colleagues. Will that be a marguerita on the rocks he asked me in Spanish. No, on the veranda I answered. Time to sign up for those Spanish lessons...