They met in Michoacán. I met them in Guerrero. Zihuatanejo, to be exact.
The other day Sally and I were enjoying our iced tea and mango smoothie
at El Cafecito, a charming little sidewalk cafe just across the Paseo del Pescador from the beach-side fish market.
cians, most of whom we appreciate and tip. Most are young, talented and project pretty well; some have little portable amps.
Just as one young performer was wrapping up his little gig, we noticed a very elderly couple totter into the shady oasis and sit across from us on
the sea wall. He appeared very frail, shuffling in tiny steps and nudged by Parkinson’s-like tremors. I couldn’t see his eyes, though his very dark sunglasses and certain mannerisms suggested he may also be blind.
She, though quite frail herself, was obviously the one providing the support…and carried the guitar.
Luis swears he remembers playing
for Sally and me almost 20 years ago.
FIFTY YEARS TOGETHER
I’m intrigued by the very well-used instrument. Whose is it? Why do they have it? It seems quite obvious neither of them is up to the task of per-
forming, especially for such a scattered group.
I have to know…so I grab a chair and go to them.
Neither speaks English, so my command of Spanish opens the door. First of all, they both seem delighted to chat. We introduce ourselves and share a little information about each other.
When I get around to asking Maria Elena and Luis about the guitar, they explain: For decades, Luis was one of iconic strolling musicians playing for diners along the several beaches here—mostly Playa La Ropa—every evening. Now and then Maria Elena would accompany him, or at least bring him his supper.
EVER THE AMBASSADORBoth were born in Mexico City. They met while working as street vendors somewhere near Uruapan, Michoacan, and have been together for 50 years. He’s performed in other parts of Mexico, and even as far away as Seattle, where he once sang and played in a restaurant.
We compare notes about our respective histories with Zihuatanejo, and Luis swears he remembers playing for Sally and me almost 20 years ago somewhere on La Ropa. (Ever the good ambassador for the place and the music, I’m thinking.)
Luis addresses me by the gag nickname
I used yesterday in our introductions:
¡Buenos dias, Jefe!
THE MUSIC IS LIFE
I ask him to play me a song and he asks what’s my favorite. I suggest he play me his favorite. Which he does—a sweet, nostalgic song about the beautiful state of Veracruz, with a musical nod to el Son Jarocho, the traditional folk music style of that Gulf Coast region.
His voice is surprisingly true and strong, and he picks and strums with fingers that absolutely defy his tremors. I thank them and hand him a hundred pesos—a little over $5.00 USD. He doesn’t see it, but she reaches over gently and takes it. We shake hands again—each of them sandwiching mine between both of theirs.
¡UN BIS! / ENCORE!The next day there they are again. I walk over; they smile and extend their hands. Incredibly, both remember the gag nickname I used yesterday in our introductions. Hola, ¡Buenos dias, Jefe! they say.
Luis plays us a couple more songs, including a request: Los Caminos del Sur and another of my favorites, Zihuatanejo.
I’m not sure other patrons of El Cafecito are aware of Luis and Maria Elena's presence, not to mention and that they still see his music as their livelihood. I'm afraid they're that inconspicuous.
So each day we see them, Sally and I make sure to request more songs, applaud and hand them a couple of bills as conspicuously as possible. Others do notice, clap and hand over more tips. Some, I'm happy to see, also offer their hands.
THE LAST OF HIS KIND
As our annual month here in enchanting Zihuatanejo winds down, I know I’ll weep once again as our Sun Country pilot dips a wing to this welcoming, beach-bejeweled bay and the lovely people who live here. This time, I know one big reason for the emotion will be that this was the year I met Maria Elena and Luis.
This was the year I had the honor, the privilege, of becoming friends with this pair of endearing, iconic costeños—Luis, el músico ambulante, quite possibly the last of his kind.
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