The Flight 'Home' : Texas!

I have been away form ‘home’ for six months now.  Fall is approaching, holidays will be here before you know it, and I have to get back to Texas to get my paperwork in order.  My brother had just been here for a visit and I was initially going to go back with him. We all know how well some plans work.  Instead, I am trailing my brother, leaving less than a week after he has left.  Yes, I am excited about going back to Texas.

My time away has kindled some longings for ‘my people’.  I have been subjected to an unwavering Mexican pride, in their culture, language and half-assed way of doing things.  It makes me question why more people at home don’t have the same pride in their language, culture and daily life. Confrontations after confrontation about the evils of America and our society have just strengthened my love for my country and its people (well…some of them).  I am going to have a chance to re-connect, and I am looking forward to it.

Up in the air and sprawl all around on the ground.

I hate flying. I hate flying alone. I get nervous.  I have to pee countless times.  I hate sitting in an airport doing nothing.  Yes, I take books and magazines to read, but it defeats the purpose of bringing them if you read them while you wait. So I wait and stare at my surroundings.  I save my reading and listening to music until I am on the plane.  While sitting in the airport in Mexico City something strange became apparent.  In the boring wait to board the plane, I get cotton mouth.  I know my breath is probably horrible, because there has not been anything passing through my lips for fear of even more peeing!  I am parched.  I look at the long blank walls and boring carpet.  It is so ‘modern’, almost like a wanky Art Guys piece.  What is missing?  My eyes go back and forth along the blank walls and runways of carpet.  There are no water fountains. I am dying of nervous thirst and there are no places to stoop and wet my lips. Odd.  It has just occurred to me that this airport as with any other public place in this city has no water fountains!

Mark down another point that gets on my tits about this place.  This is an odd inconvenience.

In my quiet boredom I keep an eye around me, running constant surveillance to see if the seats around me fill up.  The more people that start sitting around me means the more that will be on the flight, this in turn means the more restless I will be.  Luckily, it looks as if the room is pretty sparse.  I see no undesirables, no sweaty people and no one with an apparent breathing problem.  They charge $69 for extra leg room.  I did not pay, but I did reserve a seat on an exit aisle.  The fewer people around also means the better the chances that I have a whole row to myself, or at least be able to scam one of the extra leg room seats for free.  Comfort is of utmost importance with paranoid uptight travelers like me.

Mexico City sprawl

They call us to board.  Immediately after showing our boarding passes, we are given a second shake down right inside the gate.  Three card tables set up, and a guard flagging down a person to each table.  I put my bags on the table and the girl takes a quick look through.  I zip them up and am on my way.  Half way down the ramp a girl is standing smiling.  There are two bags at her feet.  As I get closer, she simply asks, “Duty Free?”  I shake my head and she wishes me a happy flight, and flashes a big smile.  This is nice, it makes me smile.  I walk away thinking how bored she must be standing there asking everyone if this is their smokes and booze in the bag.

As I walk on to the plane, I try to see who will be driving me up in the air.  I see a few smiling stewardesses and head on down to my seat.  I set my bag in the empty seat next to me, hoping to deter anyone else from sitting next to me.  I am on the aisle and ok.  A flight attendant walks down the aisle with a soggy piece of paper in her hands.  She is asking for a certain passenger.  I recognize the floppy, home printed ticket.  Some guy with curly hair and a baseball cap was holding it at the gate. Where did he go?  Why is he not answering?  Another attendant goes up and down the aisle counting heads.  He does this a few times over the next 10 minutes.  I am going to get nervous if they cannot find the guy the sweaty ticket belongs to.  I change my thoughts to the seat that costs an extra $69 to the left of me.  I decide to call it home, leaving my bag in the middle seat.  I pull out ‘Animal Farm’ and start to read…I do not want to be disturbed.

A lumbering guy is pounding his way down the aisle.  I look up from my book to see a very tanned guy swaggering back and forth.  He has very close cropped hair, almost bald and a small gold hoop earring in each ear.  He is dressed like a whigger, “This sh*t sucks!  I am tired of this crap!” he blurts out as he is bumping down the aisle. Anger issues, most definitely.  I focus my eyes back to my book.  A few minutes later a voice asks if I am ‘A’.  I look up.  A white haired business man is motioning to the seats. “No” I answer back, “I am ‘C’.  Are you ‘A’?”  He looks at me and says “No. ‘C’ is fine” and proceeds to sit down. “I am good here, with ‘C’” he says as he makes his final adjustments putting his briefcase under the seat in front of him.

At least I have a pretty decent guy sitting in my row.  We are about to take off, the captain has just announced. 

“Have you seen this” the business man asks, holding up the latest copy of the English language newspaper here in Mexico City.  He has it opened to the center, a two page spread with a blazing headline that reads “Mexican Immigrants denied proper health care in US” I know he knew what I was thinking by the look on my face.  I shake my head, “Don’t get me started”.  He smiles. He shakes his head.  He tells me of his wife, and how she manages several dozen health clinics in Houston and Harris County.  “She says they can’t take care of anyone else! 90-95% of all their patients are illegals who don’t speak a word of English!” and he folds the paper up and puts it in the empty seat between us.  We exchange pleasantries and then he closes his eyes and puts his head back for take off.

The great cloud divide; clear skies to the left, fluffy clouds to the right.

As soon as we are in the air, I break out my iPod.  I have been waiting to hear a new compilation of some German ‘minimal’ electronic music.  I put those hard little annoying iPod earphones in my ears and turn on the ‘pod.  I open my Orwell and resume reading. 

Do not try to listen to ‘minimal’ or ‘ambient’ music on a flight with these puny headphones.  All you hear is the sound of air.  Bad choice.  I suppose I could listen to some hard stuff, but I do not want to interfere with the reading at hand, and I want to stay cool and relaxed.  I let it play, boosting the volume a bit. Gazing out the window I see something I find very fascinating.  Just beyond the mountain ridge, you can see all the clouds huddled, like a nervous group about to crash a party.  There is a distinct line (the ridge) which has the clouds at bay.  As I look out over all the clouds passed the ridge, I am amused by the mountains which keep the clear skies and the clouds separate.  I know what is coming though, because I am higher than the mountains and I see the herds of puffy invaders waiting to come over.  Like loads of stretched cotton balls, they all wait patiently for their chance to move forward.

It doesn’t take long before they bring the snacks.  They ask if I want a sandwich.  I say yes.  I brought my own, but I take the potato chips and Ferro Rocher chocolate candy they have buried beneath whatever sandwich that is.  I notice the business guy next to me does the same, except he eats the cheese off his sandwich.  He asks for water, no ice.  I am sipping my coke with ice and thought flashes across my mind; ‘This is Mexican ice.  You may very well be doing the rest of your trip on the toilet.’  I man up, take a few more swigs and get back to my book.

I stop reading every so often to cast a sideways glance at the business man next to me and to look out the window.  I gaze across the tops off seats at the crowns of all the heads in front of me.  I am almost halfway through ‘Animal Farm’ and I want to get to the halfway point by the time we land…it won’t be too much longer.

I am often annoyed at the sound of people coughing and sneezing on flights.  I cringe at the thought of all the just expelled just swirling around up and down the cabin, falling like magic dust on all the other passengers.  Every time I hear someone cough, I want to turn around like an angry dad and stare down whoever the culprit is.

The pilot announces our approach. Perfect timing!  I have reached my desired halfway point in the book.  I put it away and sit back to gaze out the window for the remainder of the flight.  I notice the smell of something ‘fresh’. Odd, why would it all of a sudden have a ‘fresh’ smell on a plane when you are about to land?  I then recognize it; it is the smell of a lozenge or mint, wintergreen, fresh mint, arctic ice or whatever you choose to call it.  It must be a passenger a few rows behind me, because it is getting stronger by the second.  I am leaning on my arm rest looking out the window at Texas below me.  I feel a rush of wind on my shoulder and arm nearest the window, and then a rush of ‘cool mint’ is noticeable.  The sicko just couched straight on me.  I was so grossed out I could not turn around…and what good would it do anyway.  I had just the shower of germs; he’d given me his gift.  Futile as it was, I held my breath for a bit; it was all I could do in response to the invading cough.

As I gazed down on all the green lawns, and there are loads of green lawns. In fact, it is quite surprising at how lush Houston is!  I see the pools, the neighborhoods and all the orderly homes and I think that life is pretty ok here.  It may not be perfect, but the life we have in the USA is something to be proud of, it is a good life!  Even in planned neighborhoods of rows and rows of cookie cutter homes, for the average guy, life is good.  This thought keeps playing over and over in my head as we land.  I have only been away 6 months, but some cultural differences cannot be denied.

We land and we are early.  As soon as the wheels hit the ground I am elated.  I feel safe and sound, and I am home.  I am proud too.  As I sit and watch the runway slow down and the ground workers scurry by, the pilot tells us that we are so early that we do not have a gate.  We will have to sit for about 15 minutes until a gate is prepared for us.  The bright side is, we will be closer to customs, so we can breeze through!  When we do finally pull up to our gate and the wheels stop rolling for good, I feel excitement.  I know it is only Houston, but it is not Mexico.  It doesn’t take long before the rows empty out and I can grab my bag and make my way into the main hall and go home.  I may as well have been walking on clouds as I made my way down the hallways and stairs into the main room for immigration control and customs.  Like the rest of the herd, I walk through the maze of expandable nylon bands which divide the room.  There are a few people in front of me.

“Wooo” echoes around the near empty hall. “Oohhh man!”  A loud voice booms.  I scan those around me and see a guy a few rows over, squirming around and putting an over-sized Fubu style jacket on.  It is the guy with the gold hoop earrings and shorn head. The whigger.  He is shaking his head and smiling.  He stomps his feet and turns to announce to no one, “Man! It feels good to be home! It has been too long!”  He is all smiles and shaking his head.  I smile too.  He voiced what I was thinking.  My attitude towards the would be troublesome guy softened in that moment.  He was just like me, and now we both were home.  It was a joyous time, albeit, one of us chose not to yell out loud and stomp our feet.

The clerk at the desk asks me if I have anything to declare, nope!  The sound of a rubber stamp on an ink pad and then my passport makes its familiar thud.  “Have a nice day”, and he hands me my passport held between his first two fingers.  I walk away smiling, I just can’t help it. 

Damon picks me up and we head home.  I watch the scenery as we head back downtown.  Nothing has changed; I am not expecting anything new.  I am enjoying all that is familiar to me.  Thankfully, there is no traffic and we are back home in no time.  We run some errands, picking up some things I will need back in Mexico.  After a few stops, we decide it is time for a coffee.  We go to Starbucks and happen to bump into a friend.  This is a nice surprise.  We sit down with Matt and chat.  I am enjoying my coffee.  I am extra thirsty, and had asked for a cup of water as well.  In the middle of our conversation I am taking a sip of ice water and as I set the cup back down, I am amazed at this convenience.  I interrupt with my revelation, “Hey!  A glass of ice water in public.  Water fountains in the airport!”  They look at me like I am crazy.  To me though, this is a huge welcome home.  The thought of being able to drink water at any moment, what a novel idea.

A Stranger's Tears

Sunday was a sober day.  After a brief visit my brother was flying home.  Time flew by, but the time spent was stuffed full of things to see and comprehend.  Delayed flights, tacos, sounds, smells, ancient ruins, blue corn potato quesadillas, corn fungus, beers, Mordo and Lulu, boring films, real Mexican jumping beans, reggae history...quite a bit and then some.

It went too fast.

We dropped him off in the early afternoon and headed back into town.  I had started to become quiet early on, I suppose it was partly due to sadness.  Whenever people come and go, it leaves me feeling empty and lost.  Today was no exception.  My brother was on his way home.  At least it was sunny and a beautiful day.  We drove home in virtual silence.

After sitting around not talking for a while, we agreed we should get out and walk.  maybe we would swing by the market and see what was going on.  We strode down the worn path towards the market.  Sundays are different there, it is more crafts and goods than bad paintings and art wank.  We had a small laugh on the way down, wondering if the panicky coffee vendor would be scurrying around the square in his kidney belt, asking you in gruff  hurried tones if you want a water, soft drink or coffee.  He never stops to see what you reply, he just keeps pulling his small trolley with bent wheels, acting as if there is somewhere important he must be.

We strolled along the line of booths, stopping and looking at whatever caught our eyes. There were some cozy looking slippers and giant woolly socks.  I make a mental note to return and buy some for myself.

To add to the emptiness, we are eating leftovers tonight.  We have to get a few things so we go to the regular food market.  We stop and look at the pirate DVD vendor, but he's got nothing good.  Tonya grabs some cigs and asks if I wanted a coffee.  Why not?  We step into the tiny coffee shop and a man with no front teeth notices my t-shirt, "Black Sabbath!  Black Sabbath" he says in a heavy accent.  I give him a thumbs up and he looks at Tonya and says a little rhyme or joke.  It makes her laugh.  he laughs too, and that is when I notice he has no front teeth...just a black hole where white calcium once was.  He asks me something I don't understand.  I shrug my shoulders as Tonya tells him that I do not speak Spanish.  "You are an American?" he asks.  I shake my head 'yes'. "Which country are you from?"  I think for a split second, he must mean what state, so I answer him "Texas".  He nods in agreement.  "You are from Texas!" he says to confirm, then asks "Which country are you from?"  I look at Tonya.  "He means city" she says assuredly.  I look at him and say, "Houston".

"Aaahhhhh" he says, almost as if he is about to have a fit.  He shakes his hands.  He raises his hands up, holding something rolled up in them.  His 'aaah' starts to turn to a somewhat sinister laugh as he brings his hands down and unrolls what is in his fists.  "It is a beautiful place...Houston", and he unfurls a magazine.  It is a tourist guide magazine to Houston!  he tells me he has a very good friend there, who works for NASA.  His friend is the son of a famous Italian (makers of espresso machines) and he is a psychiatrist.  He deals with the astronauts pre- and post flight.  Sounds interesting.  He finishes his story and then says he must go.  He stands and says a polite goodbye to Tonya.  he turns to me, shakes my hand and says goodbye.  As he walks away he turns to me and leans towards me.  he pauses to think of how to say what he wants to say, "I welcome you to Mexico" he says.  I tell him thank you.  He turns and walks away and we head to the square to sit and drink our coffee.

Sure enough, after we sit for a while and people watch, the hasty coffee man comes up, giving us a sideways glance and announces he has drinks and coffee. We just turn to look at one another and smile.  A kid is kicking a soccer ball against the stage in the square.  Couples walk past, a man is sleeping across the sidewalk from us.  All of this augmented by the soundtrack of a salsa band at a nearby restaurant.  It is a nice way to while away your afternoons.

When the coffee is gone, Tonya asks is we should head home.  I have had a few smiles and seen a few more characters, all helping to lift my spirits.  We start off and take a back street to wind back homeward.  We talks as we walk, discussing some of the people we had just seen.  We talk of a huge house we pass.  I see a small man walking down the street.  Something about the way he is walking says he is not enjoying his stroll like we are.



The little man is lost.  he has been walking for hours, and has just found out he is hours walk away from where he need be; the airport. He fights back the tears, and hurriedly sticks his small dirty hands into his front pocket, and pulls out a dirty, sweat smeared note.  He shakes as he unravels it and hands it to Tonya.  She is visibly upset as she reads it.  He stands there, heaving heavy breaths as Tonya takes a moment to read the note written in pencil.  The handwriting looks a bit childish, or should I say 'simple'.  He looks at me while Tonya is finishing.  It is obvious he has been walking a long time, and crying in the process.

Tonya sighs and tells me briefly what the note says, 'This is a good man.  He arrived from Oaxaca.  He came on a bus and was robbed at the bus station. They took everything he had on him.  He was told he would have to pay money to get a bus back to Oaxaca.  Please help with directions back to the bus station.'   Tonya is upset and listens to the man as he continues to talk now that she has finished.  He is slightly shaking.  He stares at us like an abandoned dog.  Tonya tells him that we will walk him through the neighborhood, and he is relieved for the kindness of these strangers.  As he walks, he tells Tonya how they roughed him up and took his things.  His voice cracks and he tears up.  He looks at me as he tells Tonya and he motions at his wrists and pulls on his shirt.  We walk a short way with him until we get to s split in the street.  Tonya stops and points him down the street.  'You walk all the way down this street.  It will hit the freeway.  Then, you can turn right and follow the freeway...'  He shakes his head and repeats the directions.  He asks how far the destination is. It is far. Tonya stops him just as he starts his new journey along the freeway. 

"Here" she says as she opens her purse, "let me give you a little bit of money to help"  He is startled.  He uses a term that Indians from Oaxaca use.  His eyes are glaring, he stands as if he is naked and without a single possession and asks Tonya pointedly, "What?  How can I possibly repay you?  I have no money, I have nothing..."  It is ok.  Tonya tells him she wants nothing back.  She hands him some money humbly accepts.  His eyes are tearing up again.  He puts it in his pocket and nods his head.  Tonya says goodbye and wishes him luck.  He goes straight and we go right.  His head is low and his walk determined, but obviously somewhat forced.  He has been beaten, and is now having to retrace steps that brought him here.  He is unwelcome and  scared.  He moves straight ahead.  As we watch him walk away, Tonya says she is about to burst in to tears.  She expresses her concern and hopes he makes it.  I do too.


That simple encounter was a sobering thing.  It is not easy handling an obvious stranger, way out of place and obviously taken advantage of, as he stares at you with pleading eyes, asking nothing but directions.  He has no clue where he is, and all he wishes is to return from where he came.  He just wants to get home.  A little man on an empty street with tears in his eyes just turned my day upside down.  I felt an overwhelming urge  to share in his same plight. I just wanted to go 'home'.

Guts.

As I have said before, I love my local market.  Almost every time I go, there is something else for me to discover which I have missed countless times before.  Some discoveries happen by accident, and some by taking a closer look.  Some of these discoveries are made by just observing.  That is how this one comes about.

Honestly, I cannot tell you how many times we have traipsed through this market...countless times.  Every time we have a visitor, we take them to the market because it is such a part of our daily lives.  It is an easy way to entertain.  You have the mole lady, the butchers, the cheap plastic Chinese toy booth, endless half-assed booths selling this and that, the soap booth, apron booth, panty booth, loads of vegetable and fruit booths, cassette booth, the long line of chicken men, seafood guys, voodoo booths, herb booths, the embroidery booth, the bric a brac booth where we buy our peppers, and then the gut man.

I have stood and observed the gut man and his booth since the very first time I saw it.  I know it may seem 'uncultured', but who buys guts?  I know all about tripe and tongue and the obligatory pig's foot, but full on real guts?  This guy is the dealer for guts. he's got the market cornered.  There are no other gut stalls in the market...and in fact, I don't know if I have seen such a gut tradesman anywhere else in this city as far as I can remember.

He's got tongues, assorted feet, stomachs, intestines, brains, livers, hearts, heads, lungs.  He is the gut man.

My question remains.  Who buys the guts that keeps the gut man in business?  Every time I am in the market, he sits alone.  Many times I have seen his 'cashier', sitting down with her head in her hands, asleep from the lack of interaction.  As Tonya buys vegggies at the opposite booth, I look and watch the sleeping cashier.  I have tried time and time again to get a good photo of the guts on display, but i always feel she will wake to see me clicking away.  The other times, I happen to do one last glance and see the chicken men watching from their counter and sometimes the fish man staring straight at me.  One day, I did manage to snap a few pictures from the bean lady's stall. (see images)

What baffles me even more than who buys guts, is who buys unrefrigerated guts that have sat out all day.  They sit there, on top of the counter, so everyone can see, touch and sneeze on them if they please.  The flies love it, this is their golf green, so lush and full of proteins and sticky goo.  I have looked from across the aisle and seen the edges of guts drying out.  they wither up and turn colors.  Literally, what life was left in them has now gone away.  Still they sit, on an old tray and counter top.  I am not sure if it is carelessness or merchandising, but usually the gut man has his intestines draped over the counter, hanging in the aisle.  I wonder if kids ever tug on it when they pass.

One day while some visitors were here we were giving them the tour.  I asked if they wanted to see the gut man.  they did not believe me that guts were on display for all to see.  Even Tonya thought I was sensationalizing the stall.  The brave tourists said they wanted a closer view.  We wound through the aisles and then came to the aisle.  We started up and as we got closer, they screeched with horror.  They could not believe it.  Yes, it was like watching a car crash...they wanted to speed up and get away, but they were drawn to the guts, and found them selves clinging to each other staring as their pace slowed to a heavy plod.   In an instant, when they realized they were at a snails pace, another gasp was issued and it was double time to get passed the poor gut man.  It was at this very moment when I had a revelation.  I myself, had never taken this path, and stood in front of the gut man's stall and looked at it full frontal.  I also now understood why, in this brief instant it was obvious from the stench that you were standing in front of raw guts that sit out all day and no one ever chooses them to go home with them.  It stunk.  It stunk immensely...like rotting guts.

Is this why you never see any customers standing, casually chatting with the gut man?  Is this the reason why no one wants to buy guts-because they stink!  One has to feel a bit sorry for this field of work.  How does one get into this racket?  How does one decide to sell guts, rather than steaks?  Do you brag to your friends that your dad is the gut man?  Is he married?  What woman would want to be with a man who peddles guts and comes home stinking of dried intestines and hard tongues everyday.  Is this a profession to be proud of?  Is he lonely? Does he need a friend? Maybe he likes his solitude.  Maybe the gut man is truly happy, happier than us all, and he has all he needs.

Me?  I will keep my distance and stand next to the tomatoes and cilantro rather than next to the guts.  I hope he is ok and happy, but I will keep my admiration at a distance.

Foreigners

As part of our pledge to explore and get out more, the other weekend we decided to stroll down to the local weekend bazaar and take a look around.  Actually, we wanted to go there to get some crazy delicious nut rolls and candy that some weird guy sells from his stall.  He always looks drunk.  His eyes always glassy.  He always grabs the candy in an odd way…but he has the goods.

Back to the story; we were walking down some back streets when I spotted a couple with a baby walking towards us.  Don’t ask why, I just had a hunch they were foreigners and were lost.  As they approached us, the girl asked something in Spanish.  I looked to Tonya.  They were looking for the market we were on the way to.  She told them to follow us.  Totally out of character, Tonya then asked them where they were from.  They started speaking English.  She is from one of the ‘stans, Kazakhstan, Waziristan or something like that…but, she is actually German.  He is from Italy, Perugia to be exact.  They have a 2 year old daughter and they are out sightseeing.  We all walk leisurely to the market, asking this and that and just being polite.  It turns out, they have been here about as long as we have.

When we reached our destination, the girl said if we would like to have a coffee or something, give her a call.  We were open to the invite and she immediately started to write down her contact info.  Tonya scrounged for some paper and gave her our info.  We said our goodbyes and went on with our business.  Of course, we wondered around and on our way home, stopped in at the weird candy man to get the stuff.

Walking home, we asked one another what to make of this ‘lost’ couple.  They seemed alright.  The guy was quiet, the wife nice enough.  “I think it is good we met” Tonya says with confidence, “we should go out with them”.  I could not agree more.  Then Tonya added something that totally caught me off guard, “I think it’s good that you meet people who aren’t Mexicans”.  I laughed.  She did too. 

A few days later Tonya and our new friend, Cristina, were exchanging emails.  In one email, Cristina gives their address and says to come over one Sunday afternoon for tea, coffee or whatever. We decided ‘what the heck’, and Tonya replies back, telling her we will be there.

Address in hand, we did a quick look to Google maps to see where we were heading.  It was time to go and we were off.  Of course, on our way to their house we bounce thoughts off one another.  Typical stuff, I suppose, like ‘do you think they are freaks?’, ‘wonder what their place is like’; ‘I hope it is not uncomfortable’.  Me, as usual, ponders one constant thought no matter where I go, ‘wonder if they will have some snacks?’  In what seemed no time at all, we are exiting and driving down their street.  We park, pop open the umbrella and walk to the street where they lived.  As we got to the corner, Tonya saw the address and said, “That’s it!  Right there” It could not have been more convenient, literally directly across from where we were standing.

We got to the door of the mid-rise as another couple was going in.  They stood for a split second, holding the door open for us.  Both Tonya and I felt the same, without having to say a word.  We did not want to appear as slimy hit men, slipping in behind an unassuming couple.  We smile and say it is ok, we will buzz our guests.  No sooner did Tonya buzz than Leonardo replies and buzzes.  NO need, the guy ahead of us was still standing there with the door held for us.  Oh well.  We follow them into the other couple into the elevator.  It is small and smells odd, like some sort of cleaner and sweaty feet.  It is a tight fit.  Four people and two umbrellas.  The stranger leans to press his desired button, and I lean to one side so he can reach.  I press our destination. He reaches over again to unstuck our button.  I smile and feel like a nerd. 

Every time I am in an elevator, I think, ‘would I be able to stay in close confines with these people if need be? Where would I go pee if I had to?’  About as long as it took to replay these questions, the elevator stopped and the guy leans over and reaches out with keys in hand to unlock the door we are facing.  This is the front door to their apartment.  We look at them and smile.  We get a free peep into their abode while they squeeze past us to get off the elevator.  We say goodbye, and the door slides shut.  We start moving upwards.  I notice the elevator passes our floor.  I then think the worse, ‘What if the door doesn’t open?  Is there a code to use?  Do we need a key in case it gets stuck?  What are we going to do?’  The elevator stops, the door slides open and the apartment door opens.  There is a small white furry dog and a guy standing there with a smile.  As soon as he sees we are not who we should be, the smile disappears and he stiffens up.  Oops!  Sorry, we press the button and reverse the situation.  He closes his door and ours does too.  We head back down and then stop.  What is behind this door?

It’s Leonardo!  He is smiling.  He is shoeless and holding his daughter, Allegra.  Obviously he is at ease.  He invites us in and as we step in, Cristina comes to greet us, beaming and smiling.  We exchange hugs and kisses and get inside.  As we get inside, the tell us to sit down and relax.  Their daughter is staring at us, smiling.  As I put my coat and umbrella down, Cristina is telling us that their daughter is a bit grumpy, she is sick and doesn’t feel too good.  Not cool.  I came here to chill out and talk nonsense and get to know these foreigners.  After all, this is important that we build a friendship with this couple, they aren’t Mexicans!  Now though, I am thinking I will walk away with some child borne illness that is getting spread around some Mexican school yard like melted chocolate on two year olds fingers.  Actually, it would be some illness spread by this 2 year olds fingers!

We sit for a few minutes on the couch.  Leonardo is not saying much, and in these few brief moments I am starting to fear that he may be a tough nut to crack.  I survey their place.  I have a horrid thought.  We are up a handful of floors; I am in a strange building. Where are the stairs?  Where do we go if a quake hits?  I play cool by smiling though, and for some odd reason their sick, 2 year old is drawn to me (I know, I have this effect on women).  She is cute, very cute.  She has huge eyes and a wide mouth.  You could say she looks a bit like a frog, her head is kind of shaped like a frog’s head, but frogs don’t have that cute curly kid hair.  She stands in front of me, smiling.  Cristina is setting some stuff on the table, saying her daughter needs to eat.  She then says we could sit and have some tea, coffee and some cake she has.  If that won’t do, she offers to make some pasta.  I am at ease with this possibility, and I look forward to something to snack on.  Cake sounds great, I cannot agree to a coffee fast enough.  Turns out, Leonardo is the coffee guy.  He asks how I have my coffee, “espresso or like, uh, something taller, uh, like an Americano or…”he says in a very thick Italian accent. “Tall” I say, yes, just like an Americano.  I am kind of excited, because I want to see how this Italian makes his coffee.  I watch as he goes to the bar and walk up to a small machine and presses a button.  It is a Nespresso machine.  I am so let down.  He walks back and hands me the perfectly measured drink…it is pretty good.  After we all get our desired drinks in hand, we walk across the room to the table.   Cristina has put some stuff out for the kid, and a nice tart and some macaroons and biscotti for the big folks.  We sit and she offers up some tart.

The conversation flows smoothly.  Cristina is obviously happy to have some new friends in their home.  She tells of how horrible the parents are at Allegra’s school.  “They are all so elitist and rude”, she says placing the berry tart on our plates.   Allegra is less interested in eating, and more in sticking to my side.  Through out our whole visit, she constantly brings me toys and pulls the framed pictures off the book shelves and presents them to me.  I oblige, and asks her who is in the photos, and point to her in each one.  She smiles a huge smile, then shyly walks away.  Before too long, Leonardo is telling us about his job.  He is here for Benetton.  He says the Italians have no clue how to work with Mexicans, and the Mexicans do not know how to work for Italians.  It is a full day each day at work.  He says he is frustrated with Mexicans.  They are ‘yes’ men (you hear this complaint from loads of people).  He tells of situations where the Mexicans tell him they will have something ready for him upon the deadline, but of course, they never do.  “They are very hard workers”, he admits, “but they just don’t work the way that is needed for a big company.”  Of course, we have some laughs at the expense of others…who doesn’t?  He stops to take a bite of the tart.  The crust is thick and hard, and as he puts pressure on his spoon to break it up, blueberries and bits of crust come flying in my direction.  He laughs and apologizes.  Cristina is shocked at the food flying around from her husband and not her 2 year old.  We explain that it is the crust, and Leonardo motions a pile driver move on his crust to make headway.

Leonardo really started to loosen up.  It was nice hearing him tell of his experiences he has had around the globe.  According to him, the Dutch are horrible people to be around.  Being there a few years, he said he could not understand how one could be with your workmates or neighbors for such a long period of time, and no matter what, you are always kept at arm’s length, shaking his head he simply says, “It was terrible.  I had a horrible time, I do not like the Dutch”.  For a time, Cristina and Leonardo lived in far eastern Hungary.  According to her, it was great as far as their home and the small quaint town.  However, both of them agree that the only place people really speak English is in Budapest, forget about border towns on the eats with Romania.  Cristina said she went nuts there because she was home all day with her daughter, and trying to interact didn’t go very far in this town where no one really spoke English, German or Italian.

Allegra grabs this and that and brings them to me.  She brings a little car track that is like a puzzle.  She tells me to help her put the track together.  She plays for a few minutes and then wonders off.  A few minutes later she is on the other side of the table and pulls a book off the shelf and hands it to Tonya.  “Thank you” Tonya tells her.  Cristina spots the book and says that perhaps she shouldn’t be handing guests that book.  Tonya looks down at the book and says, “I know this book…”  I don’t.  Cristina starts to turn red with embarrassment.  Tonya says it is some butt book.  Obviously some kind of routine or exercise book to help you get an amazing butt. 

We exchange stories of where we were and why we are here.  Music comes up and we get a good run out of that.  Leonardo sits up and tells of a great jazz bar he had been to with some other Italians.  He pulls a book off the shelf and opens it to recommended nights spots in the city.  He flips through the pages and finds the jazz club.  “This is the one” he points.  He says he wants to get out more, and asks if I would be interested in finding some cool music places.  Of course I would love to!  Both he and Cristina say it is time to start exploring more of the city, but it is hard because they do not have a car and have only recently gotten hold of a babysitter.  We re-assure them we will help.  We will take them to some places and show them a bit.  They seem happy.

Leonardo sits and then asks a pointed question, “Do you miss home…do you want to go back?”  I explain to him that ‘home’ is Texas.  Any Texan will tell you it is the best place on earth.  I feel the same.  There are loads of neat places out there, but home is home, and home is Texas.  He smiles and seems curious.  He admits he has never met a Texan before, and is curious because he has heard about it so much.  I try to give him a good example, “I suppose it is like Sicilians…”  He smiles and nods his head as if he knows exactly what I am saying.  “Yes, like Sicilians” he affirms.  Of course, I have no idea what people back in the homeland think of Sicilians, but I just drew that comparison with Texans.

After a few hours, Leonardo was all smiles.  He offered some tequila, wine, ‘…anything?’  Obviously, he was just getting warmed up.  We had to go though.  Being our first visit, we do not want to wear out our welcome. Cristina asks if we do not want to stay and have dinner, “It is alright” she says.  We politely refuse and make the initial moves to head towards the door.  We stand by the kitchen and start to say our goodbyes.  Leonardo is holding his daughter, and she is waving goodbye.  She blows a few kisses.  For a few moments we laugh at the shyness and coyness of Allegra.  She makes as if she wants a kiss and hug, then pulls back.  The little one holds her arms out smiling, she leans towards us and we give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  She goes back and forth, this time it looks like she is going to give me a kiss.  As sweet as she is, the closer she gets I know I am going to be the target of the school yard sickness.  As she is cheek to cheek, she gives a small gentle kiss.  I now carry the kooties that some brat placed in the playground.  What can I do?  She likes me and is saying goodbye.  We all smile and laugh.  She is thrilled.  We hug and shake hands and walk to the door.  It has been a pleasant surprise.  I like them, Leonardo and Cristina.  I think they liked the visit too.  As we are waiting on the elevator door, I tell them to come have dinner soon.  They light up and without hesitation say they will.  A ding is heard and the elevator is awaiting. Once again we say goodbye and smile as we get on the elevator.  Yes, perhaps this is the start to what could be a great friendship.  I hope so.

The 'Mansion' on the Hill

It appears as if the rainy season may be over.  Like magic, all of a sudden the skies are clear blue and there is a nice crisp breeze.  It is exactly a day like this that makes one realize they have been seeking shelter indoors too much lately.  The immediate reaction is to get out and stay out!  Tonya feels this too, and suggests we take a drive to the old abandoned monastery that lies hidden in the hills above the city.

An old tour book says that it is less than 15 miles form the place to our local plaza.  We have tried to reach it taking the back roads, a long twisty drive up the Desierto de los Leones, but called it off after we thought we were going the wrong way.  We soon found out we were actually closer to reaching our goal than we thought.  I like this drive.  When you fly in to Mexico City or stand at a good vantage point, you see it goes on and on forever.  The sprawl is horrendous.  Yes, truly horrendous, not a figure of speech.  Most of the blight spreads out and up the mountains surrounding the city.  Talk about ghettos, it looks like miles and miles of dumpsters as far as the eye can see.  well, dumpsters and shredded clothes flailing in the wind.  One would never imagine anything but garbage up in these hills.  Take a closer look and you may be surprised. I was.

This old monastery is high up in the hills.  Yes, going up you look down on the blight and pass through several neighborhoods, or perhaps one-time Pueblas.  Some of it is gritty and gross, some just a bit forgotten, but there is loads of charm and color.  You twist and turn through all the mess and traffic and then you find yourself getting your vision obscured by ore and more pine trees.  The higher you go, you seem to immediately notice a change in the scent that is around you.  No longer is it exhaust and rotting garbage, but now it is cleaner, crisp and the faintness of pine can be detected.  This is one of those unexpected surprises, in no time at all, you look over the mountains and all you see are trees.  In this case, you can't see the city because of the trees.  The blight is gone, the smell is strong and now all one can hear are those odd and soothing 'forest echoes'.

You make a turn and there it is, this abandoned monastery in the middle of a forest, over looking the city.  It is so odd and yet such a relief.  It was wonderful and cool up here.  The sun shining and the sounds of birds in the air.  Of course, as soon as the people who work at the food stands see you, voices explode and echo all around you.  All these women yelling at you to come and have food from their stall.  You would think you had just walked into the middle of a bad neighborhood in the Gaza strip with all the commotion and yelling.  It dies down almost immediately when they realize you are here for the old ruins, not the food. "they do have good quesadillas", Tonya says.  We will definitely keep that in mind.

As we get to the entrance of the monastery, one notices quiet music playing.  Yes, this place is piping in stuff like Gregorian chants.  For a moment I think this is going to be a distraction and a bit silly.  However, as you start down the long, cold barren halls, it starts to just become part of your surroundings.  neither of us know what is here, as there is no literature to tell you anything and there are no guides.  We just wander and see what there is to see.  Somewhere, someone is burning wood.  It smells great in this place, the pine, the burning wood, the fresh air, the old wood in the monastery.  What a bouquet.

Side view of Monastery

The hallway leads to a large open courtyard.  Shrubs and assorted trimmed and shaped plants line the walkways and paths.  There aren't many people here, so it seems very quiet.  The music drifting overhead and the distant echoes of  the forest make for its own brand of serene silence.  We wander into another large yard.  At the end of a long narrow path is an obviously abused old building.  It looks like a small shrine, a large arched opening and 3 walls.  You can tell it was adorned at one time, now it is just old and defaced.  We walk up and look inside. Nothing.  As we turn to walk away a guy with a shorn head comes up to us.  he's got something on his forehead.  I can't tell if it is a tattoo or a scab.  he is wearing sandals and some eastern/Chinese style shirt (camo-green).  He tells us what this place is, and what to do.  He instructs us to go stand facing the wall, in opposite corners.  Tonya walks to the far end of the little shrine, and the bald guys girl steps into the place nearest us.  This is one of those whispering rooms.  The guys tells us it has something to do with the monks, their silence, their chants...and I suppose there one outlet where they could can stand in a corner and look like they are deep in thought, but actually whispering to their buddy on the other side of the room.  I try it out.  It is an acoustic wonder.  Seriously, why do they build things like this?  Why is it necessary to go and stand in opposite corners of the room, with your backs to one another, only to whisper? Old-timey people did strange things.

After our fun whispering, Tonya talks a minute with the bald guy.  He says he's been coming here for years, his grandfather used to bring him all the time.  All he knows is that this place was ransacked, but when and by whom, that is anyone's guess.  I am sure we could find out, but in typical Mexican tourist minded fashion, there is no literature and no info of any sort. Nice.

The yards are huge, and pretty.  We enjoy walking around breathing deep, taking it all in. We walk around the side of the old place and sit down on the edge of what was a platform of some type.  I lean my head back and close my eyes as turn my head upwards as if I was staring straight into the sun.  The light and heat feel great on my eyes.  Everything goes bright red.  It is nice to just sit in quiet for a bit and let the sun warm my face.

The side where I warmed my eyes.

We get up and wander through some more long hallways.  There are several doors with small plaques, but they are all locked shut.  Odd how there seems to be nothing to do here unless you come on the weekend.  We find ourselves back in the main courtyard.  I am a bit confused at the lack of info., and spot the ticket girl sitting in the courtyard.  As we near her, I ask Tonya to ask her about any books, pamphlets or any info.  The girl looks up at us and tells us that the monastery opened sometime in 1606.  Tonya forgot the exact date which the girl told her.  I thought this was odd too, no more and no less information divulged, just the opening date, and that's it. Have a nice day!

We head back up the small hill to where we parked, and are greeted by what could be the Palestinian grieving party. Wailing, yelling and waving of arms.  We stand and look at one another, "You want to get a quesadilla or something?" Tonya asks. Yes, I do. I am always up for food, especially if it is good and tasty.  We turn and head towards the group of ladies acting as the combination yelling/greeting committee.  We are met with a smile and a wave of the hand to show us we could sit anywhere.

Soup and butt cheeks not pictured.

I like it.  It is a simple shed like place with brightly colored chairs and ornaments hanging form the ceiling.  It looks like three main cooking areas along the back.  One in the center, and one in each corner.  An old lady sits at the table nearest the middle station, and she picks her food slowly and looks at the rest of the room.  From the looks of it, no one is working the center station, all the action is on the sides.  A lady sets a pad and pen down and tells us she will take our orders, but first do we want anything to drink?  She brings back our drinks and sets a menu down.  Tonya and look and choose two quesadillas each.  I am going for the cheese one and a potato one.  Tonya gets a cheese and a huitlacoche (the corn fungus).  She gets excited because she says you can only eat the fungus during the rainy season, then it is all dried up (so to speak) until the next rains start. So be it.

Soup seems to be popular, as the tables around us all have bowls of assorted soups.  As we wait for the food, I look to our corner cooking station.  Tons of clay pots of all shapes and sizes hang above the workers heads.  It is all white tiles, somewhat sterile looking.  There is a line of pots resting on the counter, and behind them you can see the women doing what they do best.  One lady stands alone, aside form the main counter and stares into the distance.  She has crazy eyes.  One is looking straight, the other...I don't know where.  Like a robot she just stares and her hands are fluid as they shred a huge mound of stringy cheese.  That is all she does, stands and pulls this cheese into tiny strands.   I see our waitress go to an empty industrial white plastic pale and put a ladle in.  Out it comes, full of salsa, and straight into a one of the small clay bowls which was hanging overhead.  She brings a red and a green one to the table.  She comes back almost immediately with our quesadillas.  Wow!  They look great.  This is my first time to eat blue corn too. 

Yes, the quesadillas are very tasty indeed.  As the table of crusty hippy types get up next to us, Tonya says they are all talking about how good the soup was.  The main hippy stands and his trousers are slung real low, and his shirt rests on his belly.  We get the full view of  two rounded brown butt cheeks falling out of some crappy old camouflage pants.  As he walks away, the two brown spheres rub back and forth, almost as if waving goodbye to us. "Nice" Tonya says. 

We both agree on what a great idea Tonya had to come here today.  the scenery was great, the air nice and clean, and the food was the perfect touch for a nice lunch out.  It was a good day to get away. This is definitely a place to keep in mind when you need an escape.