I Love a Parade

Downtown, the traffic had stopped dead. It soon became clear that a parade was coming. There were two modest "floats:" One battered pickup truck bearing a cardboard statue of a saint of indeterminate gender atop the cab, and another truck with many brightly colored crepe paper streamers, a dilapidated sound truck with huge, tinny speakers blaring Mexican music from the bed, and about a thousand people on foot including a man carrying a lone tuba which he was not playing.

A mariachi band would have been nice, but there was none. It was a low-budget affair.

Everybody was dressed in traditional Mexican clothing, always a colorful banquet for the eyes. The women wore long dresses and shawls, the men, sombreros and boots. Excited children ran back and forth in the long lines of people.

I didn't have time to stop, but thought maybe it was a celebration of Saint Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico. I learned later that the traditional Posadas, which in Mexico begins on December 16th and includes nightly parades for nine days until Christmas, is a simpler celebration in the Bay Area. One procession is the norm here, and I think that is what I saw today.

The word "posada" means "to ask for shelter." The tradition of Posadas is based on the idea that people should experience the hardships Joseph and Mary endured during their escape from Bethlehem before the birth of Jesus. It is a reenactment of their arduous search for shelter. The ritual has retained its ancient flavor to this day.

People go in bands from house to house, asking for food and shelter. They are rejected at each one until finally, somebody invites them in and the celebrations begin.

Giving birth among field animals is probably optional.

Across the street from the marchers, Gwyneth Paltrow looked on from a large poster on which she hawked Estee Lauder perfume. There was nothing low budget about Ms. Paltrow, whose gown cost more than a city in Mexico. She was wearing Van Cleef & Arpels diamonds instead of a shawl.

A few blocks away, three Santas were stranded on a street corner. They were exceedingly thin Santas, also young. One of them had forgotten to put on his white beard. They were not carrying sacks of toys, nor did they have sleds or reindeer.

One of them was reeling as he yelled at passing cars, "You don't like us."

Well, all right, then. I'm not leaving cookies for these guys.

I'm holding out for the mariachi band.