About Finches

It all started when I was talking on the phone.  My cell phone, that is.  Just sitting on a black bench on University, next to that Cereal Box place (I need to review that place one day, who goes out for cereal, right?) when I saw a finch.

Now, this finch was fucking cute.  I mean, it was just one little guy: light brown, soft, the size of an egg.  And the way he bounced!  It was as if the gray, bleak concrete was a giant trampoline for him.  He hopped on his two brown-stick legs from cereal bit to cereal bit.  Probably saying to himself,

"Hmm, Captain Crunch today!  Well, not my favorite, but hey--free food!"

When his other finch friends decided to join him, I lost interest.  He became a little less special to me, in a way.  As if all the finches are just mooches who constantly hang around campus restaurants.  And good for them, they should partake in some freebies.  Better than going through the grueling food stamps application process, my dear finchies.

So after seeing these finches made me think, "Does anyone else around here think they're just absolutely adorable?  Or is it just me?"  

Apparently, not (and more so).  I actually found a website called, "The Finch Niche!"  That's right, there are people who are obsessed with these birds!  I have to say though, I can see where they're coming from.  I had no idea there were such a variety of finches!  So beautiful, too. Here's a listing of some of their varieties:  European Goldfinch, Long-Tail Grassfinch, Owl Finch, Lavender Waxbill, Orange Cheek Waxbill, Cordon Bleus, African Red Head, and even one called The Zebra Finch!  Who new, right?  

 

These birds belong on the Galapagos Islands.  And actually, I'm right on target there.  That's where they were originally bred and how they diversified as a species so much.  Charles Darwin sexed those birdies up and out came 13 new species.  The website specifies that these birds "evolved from a single species similar to the blue-black grassquit finch commonly found along the Pacific Coast of South America."

DARWIN'S FINCH

 This is all very intriguing to me.  I had no idea that these little, brown humble bumble birds had such a history--were so diverse!  How humbling for me to realize that these birds have been around for so long.  I often forget that birds have histories, much much longer and more interesting than my own.  But I wouldn't have known it, unless I looked. 

My little finch friend hopped on, oblivious to my ponderings, and chirped,  "Oh!  Fruity Cheerios!  What a delight!" 

Sing to Me, Make me Dance

The scene opens with a man, just one man.  He has penguin, peppered waves, studied tan skin, and sweat lightly sprinkling down his face.   

Without asking, a tall and gorgeous Hispanic woman with a strong ponytail dabs at his face with a paper napkin from the bar.  

"Gracias, muy amable," he whispers to her between lyrics.  

On a tiny, cheap wooden box below his feet--barely big enough to fit two people--he taps his feet.  His red-worn cowboy boots seen many a gig.  But he taps on--fluid and strong.

"Quiero vender mi amor como yo era un pescador..."

He sings about love, mostly.  But isn't that what makes Spanish guitarists so attractive?  Even if he is a sheriff, old enough to be my young abuelo.

The club is tiny, intimate.  Exactly how it should be for a night like this.  A singer like this.  A crowd...like this.  

The night starts out timid enough.  We, the white audience, are amazed and in awe.  But, at most, we move our heads, maybe even tap a few feet to his mesmerizing rhythms.

Enter the Hispanics, the Mexicans, the Spanish, the Latinos, the Chicanos.  Whatever you want to call them--they are full of pura vida!  They show us guerras up big time.  To my front is a man scooting like an elegant choo-choo train across the room.  A crisp white shirt, dark pants, and a glass of vino that he holds in a relaxed grip, like he's dancing with a waif-like fairy.

I pinch myself for a minute: this is all really happening.

The women--in varying shades of spice--whoosh through the crowd!  Hands clapping, hips swerving, bodies twirling, spinning, shaking.  A younger man with shoulder-length black hair is to my left.  Hand on his heart, eyes closed, he taps in unison with the guitar, with the night.

Never one to be a wall-flower, I can't resist any longer.

I dance.

I dance with new friends.  The spicy ladies draw me in.  I borrow their dance moves like tight black shirts--they don't fit me quite right, but I still look pretty good.  Smiling, laughing, sweating--this is a great night in Tucson.

And it's only just begun.