October 23

“Will that be all?” the cashier asked when I set a candy bar on the counter. She was tall and her heritage was Mexican. Her frame was solid and she did not resemble the birdlike señoritas that flit across movie screens. Her mouth was a straight line and you knew looking at her that it usually remained that way.

“Eighty-four cents,” she said.

“I’d also like two pieces of advice, if you don’t mind.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I’d like the name of a bar to visit tonight and a church to go to tomorrow morning.” She studied me for a moment.

A woman sitting behind her called, “The Alley is a pretty good bar. It’s in the plaza.”

I had already driven through the plaza of Taos, New Mexico and did not intend to return. The streets were choked with expensive art galleries set in buildings of pressure washed stucco designed to mimic adobe. Stained wooden posts jutted from the tops as though earthen roofs rested upon the logs. I turned to the woman to ask for another recommendation but I decided I didn’t really want to go to a bar anyway.

“Thank you,” I said.

The cashier kept her eyes on me. “What religion are you?” she asked.

“I’m not particular.”

In accordance with her recommendation tomorrow I will attend my first Mass. I had forgotten the Mexicans were Catholic. I wonder if I will be the only gringo there. Will the service differ greatly from Bible-belt Protestantism? How will the congregation stand politically? Will religiosity promote social conservatism, as with Southern Baptists, or will overwhelming minority status swing the congregation to the left? Will I encounter unspoken customs? Will I unwittingly transgress them? How long will the service last? How should I dress?

“Thanks,” I said. “Have a good one.” But she was already taking the next customer’s gas money.