It’s Friday January 22, 10:38 am, and I am heading to Olvera Street, to the Historic Pueblo of Los Ángeles. I have decided to go eat a churro relleno (a filled churro) and spend some time just by myself. I have always loved coming here because it reminds me of my hometown: Sombrerete, Zacatecas.
Placita Olvera has the power to transport me to my childhood when everything was tranquil and where I lived the day-by-day without any worries. Where everything was just running around nonstop, while playing at the jardín and going up and down the kiosk. Of course, at Placita Olvera I cannot run around and go up and down the kiosk, I mean if I wanted to be deviant I would, but I would not… Haha.
Placita Olvera reminds me of when my grandparents would take me and my sisters to the town and we would wait for the camion (bus) after a long day of shopping at el Mercado (the local market) or having walked for so long and el jardín was the resting point for everyone who would go to el pueblo. It was, still is, the meeting point of everyone; where everyone from other Rancherias would catch up and talk about their cattle and or crops, and to some extend share stories and worries about the temporadas para la siembra. But more than anything it reminds me when I though everything would be the same. When I thought my grandparents would never get old or die.
La Placita Olvera reminds me of those times I would see my grandpa laugh while talking to men from other Rancherias and he would just wipe his laughter tears with his hand. It reminds me of the strong man he was and of how brave he was; of how he would forget about his worries and his sickness for just one day. It reminds me when he would get dressed up because my grandma would make me and it was a constant arguing because he hated wearing closed shoes and he preferred wearing his huaraches, but of course, my grandma wouldn’t let him, “porque iba ir de fachoso.”
Going to Sombrerete was those days when he wasn’t be comfortable because his attire didn’t reflected who he was. He wasn’t a conformist but a rebel, he was just himself, un hombre de campo, aferreado a sus ideales y bien terco (a country men, with strict ideals, and really stubborn). But we all loved him, aún que nos regañara. He was like my second dad; someone from whom I learned so many things like: not giving a damn whether people like me or not. It is no wonder why Placita Olvera is very dear to me, it takes me back home: it brings me memorable moments of when I was a child, it makes me not worry, and it is peaceful like el jardín in Sombrerete.
Cambio con Causa 