El Ojo del Lago April 2015
Ajijic and Chapala news magazine devoted to news, interviews, history, culture and art.
Mexican Runaway Bride: A Vignette of Life in Ajijic By Janice Valverde
A shiny white SUV was parked right across the narrow cobble-stone street from the old San Andrés parish in Ajijic, Mexico. The vehicle, the black wrought iron gate that opens to the church yard, and the massive double doors of the church were in perfect alignment, creating a direct path for the new bride and groom. What an ideal evening it was for a wedding—a calm, warm, bright Saturday in the village situated on Lake Chapala. The air shimmered with the same ethereal something that makes Lake Chapala such an extraordinary sight as it shines under the sun all day and under the moon at night. I wasn’t a wedding guest. I had no idea who the bride was, or the groom, or their families. I was a curious tourist. As I’d wandered from the plaza that evening with a strawberry ice cream, my plan was to visit the old stone and stucco church. I had read that the oldest part of it dated from the 1600s, with additions and changes through the intervening 500 years. Its bell tower had caught my attention from afar, since I had a clear view of it from my hotel balcony, about eight steep blocks above the plaza and church. With the lake and surrounding mountains as its backdrop, the tower was an impressive sight, especially at night, when it appeared to be a four-tiered wedding cake, topped with a cross illuminated with blue lights. Wherever I was in Ajijic, I could hear the clang clang of the bells—not a melodic chime, and clearly not a recording of Big Ben that I have heard from other bells in other places. A poor village does not have the finest bells. Still, it was a pleasant clang, and I looked
forward to the bells sounding out Ave Maria at noon, and again at 7:00 p.m. Hoping the church would be open, I walked around the corner from the plaza, happy to finally be close enough to go inside and have a look. Finding a local wedding was even better. I passed through the iron gates, into the churchyard, and joined an impromptu gathering of other voyeurs, both gringos and Mexicans, who were observing from just inside the gate. Entering just a moment after me was a procession of four young women in long gowns. They passed us and then, balancing on ridiculously high platform shoes; they made their way up a set of concrete steps in the middle of the large churchyard. The foursome came within a few yards of the open church doors, but didn’t enter. Each had long hair that tumbled in stylish loose curls to her shoulders. Each clutched a small evening bag. They formed a row with their backs to us—actually a sort of rainbow. One wore royal blue, one wore emerald green, another was in bright coral, and another in black velvet. I couldn’t help but notice that none of them wore slips under their gowns. Our little group of voyeurs (or anyone else, for that matter) could see their legs and derrieres silhouetted through their diaphanous skirts. Why had they stopped just short of the doors? Were they waiting for someone to escort them to their seats? A burst of music answered that question. Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. It was obviously the recessional, not an entrance hymn. Aha, I thought, these young ladies had timed