I think I may be the last idiot in the world who reads instruction pamphlets.  I also notice, and often obey, warnings and instructions posted on signs.  For someone who is skeptical to the point of paranoia about everything else I read or hear, this is a curious blind spot indeed.  Maybe it’s my innate mistrust of mechanical things.

Anyway, what to do with all that popcorn?  It was twice as much as I could reasonably eat.  I valiantly tried one time — bad idea.  I guiltily threw away half another day, but that just felt too wicked.  I tried to think of other uses for the extra — string it into curtains or door dividers?  Save it for packing material in case we move?  The specter of attracting rats dampened my enthusiasm for these ideas.

As usual, it was the Mexigringo to the rescue about the fourth Saturday on, as he was making his guacamole while I whined about him leaving me in the popcorn lurch.

MG:  So just make half the amount.

Me:  But the instructions say you have to…..

MG:  Just – TRY – it.

Me:  (snivel, grumble)

Well, guess what folks?  The instruction book lies!  The machine will pop half of the prescribed amount with no problem at all.

You know, it was bad enough getting used to the news being all lies.  But the freaking popcorn instructions?????

We saw our first Mexican circus a dozen years ago in a small Sonoran fishing village.  Everybody gathered round the trucks as they rolled slowly into town, gazing at the tigers through the bars of their cages.  The animals looked sad, except for one tiger who peed on a little boy who ventured too close, to the delight of the rest of us.  That circus was a tiny operation, with everything as if in miniature — the tent, the single ring, the bleachers, even the featured attraction, The World’s Tiniest Horse!   The show had an equal mix of animal acts, trapeze work, and clowns.  The animal acts were impressive,  from the tigers to the World’s Tiniest Horse to a very slick troupe of dancing dogs.  The clowns were a bit heavy on slapstick for my taste, even for clowns.  The trapeze artists, like all of their kind, were amazing, performing death-defying feats above our heads, close enough in that tent that you could see the holes in their stockings.  The poverty of that circus was so evident that pathos at times threatened to overwhelm the show.  The threadbare costumes were the least of it — one prayed not just for the skill of the performers, but also that the ropes and pulleys and things would hold.  At the end of the show, the emcee announced they were hiring.  We were almost tempted.  (BTW, if you ever have a chance to see the 1980s film Bye-Bye Brazil, I recommend it.  That circus and that movie are forever linked in my mind.)

The circus we saw a few years ago in Yucatan was much bigger, better financed, and altogether less memorable.  There were several shows a night in a huge tent and they were all packed.  It was all pretty professional-looking, and they kept a brisk pace backed by deafening, annoying techno music.  The most-hyped attraction was some people riding motorcycles around spherical wire cages — undoubtedly dangerous, but it somehow lacked that old romance, and the bikes filled the tent, already stuffy in the tropical night, with swoon-inducing noxious fumes.  Sitting on the beach later, we agreed that bigger is not always better, and traded fond memories of that other, smaller, poorer circus.

Our most recent circus was a small one featuring a giant anaconda whose fearsome visage adorned all the publicity posters.   In a fit of enthusiasm the Mexigringo decided to spring for palco, front row seats, which turned out to be rather unnerving on a couple of counts — everyone else in town was in the bleachers which made us feel horribly conspicuous (nobody chose luneta, the next section out), and when they brought out the tigers I’d have preferred to be a little farther away, despite my love of cats.

A Mexican circus is a family affair; everybody works.  The 90-year-old granny sells popcorn, the under-10’s are hustling those glow-worm things and taking pictures for keychains in the bleachers, and the girl with the huge false eyelashes and glittery makeup who takes your ticket at the door is one of the trapeze artists.  There was even a tiny tyke who had to be under age two performing a small bit with remarkable aplomb.

This circus featured a big focus on the kids in the audience.   Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters appeared at regular intervals with lots of kid-oriented patter and humor. What’s more, two of the animal acts were actually interactive.  There was a pony (apparently of the same race as The World’s Tiniest Horse) who didn’t do much in the ring, but following his performance was made available for pony rides at 10 pesos a shot.  And when for the final act they brought out the Giant Anaconda (which was a good half-meter shorter and rather less fearsome than the long-departed one on the poster) well, it didn’t do anything at all, but the kids were then invited to come up and touch it.  They all rushed up immediately, to the accompaniment of much squealing, laughter, face-making, and hand-wiping.

The other animals had an almost perfunctory role.  The best parts for us were the trapeze acts and the clowns.  The undisputed star of the show was a hunky 20-something with classical features of Mexico City, who wowed us with fully half of the trapeze performances and did the backstage work while his wife and sisters performed.   The clowns were outstanding, timeless, real theater, their humor hip, wicked, and clearly emanating from the capital.

But none of  this conveys the true essence of the Mexican circus, which is magic.   What makes it magic?  It’s magic because it is so real, so raw, qualities we never encounter  in our endless diet of canned, mechanical distractions.  Real human beings sweating real sweat and risking their very real lives, ten feet in front of your face.  It doesn’t get any realer than this.

The Mexican circus.  Now that’s entertainment.