About an Old Love
By Federico León de la Vega - August 2007
 When I was 20 years old I was a sophomore at a Jesuit University in Mexico City, I drove an electric blue jalopy that pretended to be a sports car and I cruised down the wide avenues of old beloved city. The colonial areas od San Angel, Coyoacán and Guadalupe inn were my territory. Through my sunroof I could see the giant trees in Francisco Sosa and many other wooded streets. These were still years when Mexican writer Carlos Fuentes could call that "The Most Transparent Region" and smog didn't seem to be a problem.
Among the new co-eds I met a blond girl with an angelic face, who quickly caught my attention. Cristina was her name. With urgency typical of my age, I asked her for a date and she accepted. Armed with my blue car, my best jeans, English Leather lotion and my total student budget, one evening I knocked at her door of her home on Avenida de las Águilas. A maid in uniform answered to the door; smiling she invited me in. "Señorita Cristina is waiting for you in the library she said, please follow me" she said, and down we went through a long corridor that took me into a magical world. It was not unusual for houses in the boroughs of San Angel and Coyoacán to have nice libraries. After all, even today much of Mexico's cultural heritage concentrates in the area, however, this was quite a special one. The corridor was dimly lit and went through a great house. Through the dusky environment, at the sides, I could appreciate some of its modern elegance. On my right I remember passing a large living room and then on my left, a chapel. Finally, the hallway came to a garden full with tall trees among which a path meandered. Well! From the thick vegetation came out sculptures: Henry Moore's bronces!... several of them, perhaps many. With my mouth opened wide i became worried that my complete student budget would not be sufficient for this date (but I was wrong, since to entertain Cristina you didn't need money, but only deep thinking).The library then appeared: a cristal cube with three levels. In the middle one was Cristina working on a sculpture of her own. Marble pieces all around her and a male torso which was turning out surprisingly well. Through our conversation I learned she had spent some time in Italy and taken courses. She was not a girl to be impressed with light and careless conversation from a young suitor. One had to speak with truth and substance.
Dinner came in the way of quesadillas, ham and wine on a silver tray with lacy napkins., brought by the maid. Everything was quite enjoyable that evening, although different from what I had envisioned. On the way out, she showed me the family's chapel. On a gold plated baroque altar, the figures of various saints had been sculptured to portray the faces of family members! Then in the garage, pulling off the tarp that protected it, she showed me an authentic vintage sports car. Her uncle's toy. A British Leyland MG from the mid 50's in show room condition. British racing green body and tan leather interiors. Once at door, a kiss on her cheek... good-bye.
I went out with Cristina for a few months. Our relationship became a sincere friendship. Somebody or something occupied her tender heart. We did have a good time and went together to many cultural events and art shows. I lost track of her when I finished college.
Years went by and I left Mexico City. Nevertheless I would often visit relatives or take care of business there. On one of these visits I drove by Avenida de las Aguilas and was hit by deja vu. I stopped and put reverse, parked in front of a garage door that seemed familiar. No… it couldn't… or could it be? The door seemed the same, but the walls at the sides had disappeared I went back to the car and stood looking for a few minutes. Maybe? I dared knock at the door no answer. I insisted. Shyly, little by little a crack appeared in the door and then the face of a woman. She was dressed in rags and her hair was messy, she looked tense. I asked for Cristina, she then became relaxed and opened the door. The lot of land had shrinked and there was a lot of trash. From a card board house came two kids with runny noses and a pig. At the far back, a pile of tall sculptures. The woman said the property had been sold in parts, first one lot then another, coming finally to this...Cristina now lived nearby, with her grandmother, and she gave me the address.
I soon was knocking at the new house, which was in fact yet unfinished. Small, but in a good area. I greeted the grandmother, a distinguished lady whom I had met many years ago. Now she was confined to her bed and Cristina personally cared for her. There in the room they shared, Cristina filled in on the years we had beed apart. One of Mexico's past presidents, who had socialistic ideas, had visited her family's ranch and forestry operation in the state of Tabasco in southeastern Mexico and had become keenly interested in it. He had made a low offer to buy, and when refused had become intent in acquiring it by any means. One thing had lead to another and clash of powers finally resulted in the her uncle´s ill health and death. Things had drastically changed for Cristina. I told her my part; now I was married and lived far away. At the door, a kiss on the cheek... good-by.
I returned to that part of the city many years later, when a second level was being constructed on a close by highway (the Periférico). I found San Angel painted with graffiti, elegant houses for sale, darkened by the enormous mass that went on above them. The  famous San Angel inn restaurant, formerly the manor of a hacienda, looked less elegant. Down Avenidade la Paz many other restaurants and fancy shops had dissapeared. On Insurgentes Sur, where I used to have my shoes polished while reading the newspaper and looking at girls go by, they had cut the tall trees to construct bus stations fort the metro transit, right in the middle, making this majestic avenue look narrow and somber. I then made my decision not to return to México City if I could help it. I have not heard fron Cristina again.
I wonder if what happened in Mexico City could happen in Vallarta?
Federico León de la Vega
E-mail: fleondelavega@hotmail.com
Author Note: This is a chapter of a book I am writing about my adventures as a painter artist.
The Federico León de la Vega Estudo – Café is open to the public and is located in Paseo de la Marina 31, Nuevo Vallarta, Nayarit. Opening hours are Monday to Saturday from 8:00 a.m. to 8:00 p.m. Sundays from 8:00 to 11:00 a.m.
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