Que sera, sera.

Why I think imperfect places are just perfect.

When you read this, I will be in Mexico City, not writing it. We're off visiting museums for a week, and to fill the void, I am sending you an essay I wrote on one of my previous trips to Mexico. Have a cerveza or a horchata while you read it and think of me, doing the same.

As our plane swooped down over Mexico, endless green filled the windows. My first instinct was to wonder what sort of farming this could be, dense, unbroken, and stretching to the horizon in every direction. As the wheels touched down, I saw it was jungle, an impenetrable mass of unruly, complex life. The runways had been cut out of the wilderness, but no attempt had been made to cultivate the creepers and trees. Nature was too vast, man too small.

Mexico is a mostly modern country with drive-through Starbucks and TGIFridays. But many Mexicans accept the unrelenting power of nature, impossible to dominate completely when the air is humid and the sun shines brightly all the live-long year.

Grasshoppers the size of iPhones careen through the sky with chartreuse scales and hot-pink wings. Raccoons wander into four-star restaurants and take corn chips off the bar. Cars are sun-faded, concrete is cracked, donkeys trudge. It’s not a wealthy country, but that’s not the reason things seem shop-worn and resigned. It’s because Mexicans accept the inevitable encroachment of Nature, that it’s pointless to be fastidious when geckos will wander onto your kitchen counters and carpets of kelp will wash onto your freshly grouted patio.

I like it.

In New York, we have been beating Nature back for 500 years, and we think we’ve won. So we can’t help but freak out when mice nibble on the organic granola box, when mosquitoes find their way under our 600-thread-count sheets, when Hurricane Sandy knocks out our wifi for a week. If Nature gains the slightest foothold, we take it as a sign that our entire civilization is crumbling.

I like that, in general, Mexicans are so much less uptight about perfection. They are cool if you do things that are a little risky — but hardly dangerous. Things that would have flocks of lawyers descending anywhere in the States. Unsecured seatbelts don’t have those annoying warning alarms. There are packs of cigarettes in the minibar. People build restaurants out of driftwood and light them with masses of candles. Some cars are missing fenders or bumpers and are painted patchily by hand. Most streets have no sidewalks or street lights, so walking at night under starry skies can be an adventure.

We sat in a beachside restaurant that served food that would have been the envy of any entry in the NYC Zagat. But before our appetizer arrived, the waiters patrolled through with smoking pails, emitting clouds of burning citronella so chokingly dense we could barely see our $12 artisanal margaritas. The mosquitoes and gnats were barely dissuaded, but no one bothered to complain to the Health Department, pausing only to reach under our designer linens to scratch the welts.

Mexicans don’t value their lives less than their Northern neighbors. They just accept that we can’t control everything all the time. And that this acceptance makes life easier and preserves resources for more important things. Insisting on perfection makes things a lot less interesting and spicy. It’s also a losing battle.

Maybe it was the heat or the Negro Modelo, but my pen line was a little looser in Mexico. I did a number of scrawled pages in my journal, drawn half lying down, book propped against my spreading gut, mango juice on my unshaven chin. Maybe this was how Gauguin felt.

I am sloppy by nature, but I’m not always loose. I value looseness because it feels more organic and expressive, more human, more natural, more the way life is. Less uptight, less gringo. Jack tells me his drawing teacher insists they draw standing up, with their pads on an easel, and that they draw from the shoulder, not from the wrist, to make bold and sweeping lines with their whole bodies.

Flat on my back on my chaise, I am far from that, but I feel integrated, natural, in tune with my surroundings. My body, immersed in sweat and heat and verdant richness, feels sensual and at ease. My inner critic, the monkey, is dulled too. He is chewing lazily on a mango in the shade, indifferent to my drawing. He can’t be bothered to nag me when we have the jungle at our doorstep. In Mexico, monkeys sit on your roof, squat on your car, and hoot from the trees above your hotel window. But it seems they stay out of your head.

Over this past week in Mexico, I haven’t been as insanely productive as I might have been. But I have been more in tune with my nature. I’ve dismantled waves, I’ve counted grains of sand, I’ve listened to grackles eat French Fries, and I’ve felt the walls of perfection erode. Rules, goals, and expectations, it turns out, may not help me make as much stuff as simply sitting in the sun and letting the world grow on around me.

Your amigo,

Danny

P.S. As I finish uploading this, we are still not sure if there will be any air traffic controllers to guide our plane back home. If not, I shall stay south as long as it takes to resolve the government shutdown, sad but not too sad.