Little Mexico

by Kyle Keller
3/4/2009

After worming through an absurd gauntlet of automobiles and traffic lights, I found myself gliding into a small Latino village.

Hunkered beneath limestone bluffs, just south of downtown St Paul, and West of the Mississippi’s abrupt serpentine curve, churns a gentle and quaint Latino community. The West Side flats have traditionally been homesteaded by a vast amalgam of immigrants, but after the “first” World War, the area became a true scene for the Hispanic cultura.

A thin, arching footbridge with bright-pink façade welcomes unbeknownst visitors with cultural sabor as they tumble along old Robert Trail. Cesar Chavez Street, named for the cherished Mexican labor activist, acts as Main Street for Latino commerce and entertainment.

Although the strip is short, covering no more than a square mile or so, it’s quite vibrant and just plain pleasing to the eyes. The warming color schemes and festively handcrafted signs give Chavez Street a real zest and genuine Hispanic aura.

In a land feared and respected for its cruelly bitter cold, a taste from the South truly lightens the spirit. I caught myself replaying personal adventures in Mexico as I carelessly rolled the strip, gobbling up the visuals.

A pasteleria offering cakes for an upcoming quinceanera celebration; a clinica to good health, nurturing planet earth’s children in native tongues; Mercado, stenciled black amenity labels, kids’ toys, spicy candy, authentic gaucho belts. A strange sort of low-hanging brightness glazed over the miniscule atmosphere of Chavez Street, both nostalgic as well as innocently aesthetic. The barren sidewalks, however, revealed the real truth of an ugly winter:

No crazy hats bopping around. No wild string quartets roaming pothole-filled streets, all the while crying harmoniously of lost lovers and kingship. No concrete- treading toy vendors smiling ear to ear, wielding spin drums and blue paper whistles. No charms to be claimed. Everyone was feeling this come down, I remember thinking.

After taking in more gloom than I could stand, I decided to exit the heated car and make my way at least a block by foot. I parked next to a rainbowishly decorated mural, respectfully priding some great historical figures that I’d never taken enough time to have “heard of.”

After passing some head-hang-low-type street people, I made my way into the resident liquor store, which overtly offered deals on tasty Mexican beer. I snatched a sixer of Tecate, a fifth of hornito tequila, and approached the register. Caucasian female swiping plastic Visa; MasterCard’s accepted. Meager white-bearded man perched behind white cashier woman, deciphering one top-ten-Americana song on flashy Macintosh mobile. My God, I thought. We’ve done it again. First Burger King. Then, ugghhh.

Accelerating pace. I jumped a new threshold: “Now Entering El Mercado Burrito,” the sign read warmly. Pessimistically assuming to find Old Dutch “tortillas” and microwaveable Taco Bell entrees, followed by the guiltily white echo of “What have we done now,” I squirmed into the many-time brick renovated establishment.

Wrong again.

The Authenticity: bump-bump-bump-bump—the thumping bass hit of Mariachi beat and the heavenly baritone voice of a Mexican suave. My squinting eyes morphed into borderline dilated pupils. Nearly all five senses pleasantly zapped by throbbing culture. Odorously poignant chiles and tortas lining display cases, what true “earth tone” color coordination looked like. All foods from God’s ground, harmoniously attractive, minus the red #6 and MSG. Awful… (In a good sense of the word “awe”).

Attractive handbags, finger-molded potteries and dinner plates covered in sun scenes and Mayan calendars, clay-kitten trinkets and keyed playable flutes. It was all there, like in my Mexican dream travels. Scoring points for real mood elevation.

Aisles constructed like typical grocery store, yet decorated for yearlong occasion. Piñatas dangled invitingly above each row, column and end-cap. Every wall entrenched in flamboyant colors,  the colors that all of us refuse to admit we’re in love with. We’ve encrusted ourselves with such a bohemian sense of art that we’ve willfully steered away from the best color arrangements of all: the fun ones. In parts of Mexico, they have entire cities bathed in these illuminatingly wonderful tones. They make us happy, why not use them, exploit them even?

I giddily romped through rows and rows of goodies. Stone ground flower “tortilla chips,” check. One pint of jalapeno-laden salsa, check. One thirst-quenching mango cocktail, check. Meandering bee line to money machine.

Making my way to the register, I sighed, calmed, relieved. Contentment. I’d got my cookies for the day.

The great American equalizer has thus far left Chavez Street unscathed, I reckoned.

And soon enough, God, it can’t come soon enough, the stunted stretch of Chavez Street will fill again with its delightful cacophony of brilliance, vitality and soul. Come, summer months. Please Sun come back! Tip your 23.4 degrees once again! Waxing this round…

When Old Man Winter’s wrath begins to wane, and the enduring members of our populous emerge once again from their crooked homes, the whole place will be a scene to fancy. And I too, will be dancing; flailing a jeering skeleton puppet made of paper Mache.

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