I don’t mind telling you that as a 5-year-old, I spent many afternoons pretending to be a Mexican. Or at least I dressed up as Zorro, the hero of a Walt Disney TV show popular at the time. I strutted up and down my Northern California street in a black burglar mask and little vaquero hat, a plastic cutlass tucked confidently in my belt. I may have even worn a cape, but perhaps that came later, when I became a theater critic. With its Spanish Revival neighborhoods, my California Mission town, San Rafael, appeared like the very villages... More >>>