"Loco" March in Chapultepec Park, Mexico City: The jacaranda left a carpet of purple flowers here and all over Mexico.

“Loco” March in Chapultepec Park, Mexico City: The jacaranda left a carpet of purple flowers here and all over Mexico.

In Mexico, we say “febrero es loco, marzo otro poco.” In other words, February is crazy and March a little bit more. And now I know. In February, there is the wind and a roller coaster of hot and cool days, then in March, more of the same. But, it is always sunny with no rain. I didn’t find this so crazy at all, given that Chicago was still digging out of the snow in February, and probably in March, too, and suffering below zero temperatures while they were digging.

Maybe the “loco” business refers to other things as well as weather: the fireworks in the middle of the night for every saint in the book, ketchup on pizza, the refusal to stop at corners (when you are driving and walking), the urge to sell anything and everything at stoplights (garbage bags, mirrors, “relax” balls, windshield wipers, tamales, shoelaces). If you buy any of this stuff, the thanks is overwhelming; if you don’t, so is the smiling assurance that they are there at your orders whenever you are ready to buy that “relax” ball. This is a sales pitch, and attitude, that is, indeed, foreign to me. I love it.

As for the “loco” weather, Mexicans take their endless sol entirely for granted. They are sick of hearing me say how much I love their sunny days, cool mornings, thunderously-quick rains that freshen and start the cycle over again. Then, I tell them about Chicago. They look at me like I’ve just landed from another planet, which I have, and that would be Chicago. Most people here have never seen snow or temperatures that are lower than 40, and that is in the middle of the night, so it doesn’t even count. The houses don’t have heat and air conditioning. Who needs it? It’s perfect. When drug-cartel honcho, Kike Plancarte, ran out of his rented apartment here in Queretaro, fleeing the highly competent Mexican marines, he didn’t even wear a shirt or shoes, the weather is so mild. However, he might have had other things on his mind besides what to wear, or no mind at all.

It just goes to show you, you don’t have to worry about the weather when you’re running from the Mexican marines. Just go for it, loco or not. It’s beautiful here….

I love the weather, and the weather loves me. I just missed the worst winter in Chicago history, working in the Peace Corps in Mexico where it is sunny and 75 every day. Despite what you say (too much) about the drug cartels, Montezuma’s revenge and too many beans, you can’t beat Mexico for weather. Miles of beaches, cool mornings and evenings–even in hot weather–rains that freshen the air and dampen the whirling dust. They tell me it’s pretty much like that all over the country–pretty darn sunny and pleasant.

Here’s something else, while I’m on the topic of weather and how it loves me: I bring good weather with me. When I announce this, my sister Patsy looks at me sideways. Who do you think you are? Well, I’m nobody. Or just somebody who happens to  bring good weather. My brother Peter has affirmed this lately.

On March 22, in New Orleans, FJ and Amy got married under the Tree of Life. First of all, if you’ve never been to NOLA, it is worth a trip to go there and visit Audobon Park and see this tree. There is no tree like it in the world. It is an oak tree, that reaches farther than the base of the Empire State Building with a trunk that can hide a platoon. As if God were making a joke (which he does sometimes), the leaves are tiny, but the branches are the arms of Gargantua. Moss hangs from the branches. At the beginning of the wedding ceremony under this tree, FJ asked us to close our eyes and breathe. The last image I had was the tree, and then I took her in.

I mention this tree because one does not want to be under a tree when it rains.The weather forecast for the day of the wedding said  it would start raining at 3:45, precisely 15 minutes before the ceremony. I told FJ that, no, it most certainly would not. It did not. It was a glorious, sunny green and blue and gold wedding during which they pronounced the vows they had written. I looked up through Gargantua to the heavens. Thanks, once again, Pat, Mike, Fan, Mac, Roma, Margaret and all.

The next day, my brother Peter took us to an outdoor cafe for music on Bourbon Street. Pete has been to many places, but he had missed Bourbon Street. It is just as well, given the pink vomit (too many hurricanes and I’m not talking weather) and the number of weaving persons who are having a little too much fun, which they will regret. The consensus was that we should not go because it was supposed to rain at 1:30.

It most certainly did not.

Pete smiled at me, a good thing from a little brother.

Incidentally, on the day of Maeve’s christening, the weather was beautiful, blue and sunny, and crisp (very crisp–it was February). The forecast called for more of the same–ice and snow. Not if I, and Rosemary, could help it, which we did.

Cousin has invited me to Florida in October. I know I sound “loca,” but I cannot fail. No hurricanes, please. Do you hear me up there?

The views expressed here are not necessarily those of the Peace Corps.–Nancy Nau Sullivan is a University English Specialist with the Peace Corps in Mexico.