I had an American girlfriend in 1969. I was 15, she was 13.
When her father presented us his older daughter, he said, in Spanish with as heavy American English accent:
"This is T. my oldest daughter. She is 15. She went to Woodstock, but didn't smoke mariguana".
T. was softly rubbing her blue jeans with her hand. Her eyes were red, her smile was telling.
On 1969 it was the first time I smoked pot (but I didn't inhale
Mexicans are often late, you know.
We didn't have Woodstock. We had Avándaro, in 1971.
I went there. It was great.
The day after the megaconcert, the head of the Workers' Union, and the living symbol of the regime, said: "It was a bacchanal. Not a single worker went". The Secretary of the Interior gave medals to the cadets of the Military School. He said: "they represent the true Mexican youth".
I remember writing for an underground paper: "Hah!, 100 cadets are the true Mexican youth, 200 thousand jipitecas
* are not true... a whiskey sour hallucination"
: a combination of hippies and Aztecs)