Listen to your dad. I don’t care how old you are, where you live or even how tall you are. Your parent’s advice and wisdom is priceless…unless it involves possible dating partners, stylish clothes and most of all, cool music. Everything else is of utmost importance. I received a quick email this morning form my dad. It was one that had been passed on and was one of those ‘inspirational’ ones, about how little things mean a lot; like the guy who stopped to buy donuts on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001. A lot of people are still alive today from petty occurrences that hampered their morning that day.
I read it in a hurry and carried on with my pancakes. I must admit, it seemed half-hearted because there was no bacon or sausage, but they were good pancakes anyway. Tonya was hell-bent on sightseeing today. Her daughter is here and she’s been whining about going and seeing things. I told Tonya that I didn’t want to go the regular way we go to get to our chosen destination. She called her friend and her friend said the other way was under construction, so it is the way I did not want to go. (Mistake #1)
As we were walking to the car, I ask Tonya if she would drive because I didn’t want to. I wanted to be a passenger and take photos. She grimaced and re-iterated her fear of driving here. I made a deal, if I drive going then she drives coming back. (Mistake #2)
Of course, like a typical kid, not even 10 feet onto the road we start out on that her daughter asks how far and how long it will take. They can’t tell, but this really makes me excited about the whole thing. I inhale deeply and sit back and we grab our place in the winding line of traffic and begin inhaling tons of exhaust.
It is taking a while. I look at the clock, because I want to time how long our trek will take. I know it will be at least an hour or more, depending on how many people are out today. We crawl through small neighborhood after neighborhood. I glance at the shops almost within arms reach. I see a butcher, who has all his meats on display out onto the sidewalk. I imagine how tasty the meat must be for the guy who grabs a few pounds on the way home, after it has sat in the sun and gotten a nice film of carbon monoxide basted all over it. The line of cars ahead looks eternal. I resign myself to trying to spot all the oddities I can along the way as we inch slowly along.
Soon enough, the cars thin out and we get up to about 20-25 mph. This is flying for today! We carry on and slowing as we push through another small neighborhood. This is the system all the way to our destination; slow, crawl, slow, crawl, wait on a bus, wait on the bus that the driver parks in the street and decides to wash it in the street!
We are slowly making our way and going around a bend in the road. All of a sudden a junky old truck cuts across the turn. The brakes are hit and so is he. We hit the side of his truck. It has been modified, so the back is a flatbed and can haul junk. He gets out, we get out. A fender bender at best, one could barely tell where on the piecemeal battered truck that he was even dented. Our ride however, looked like Freddy Kruger took a swipe at the corner of our hood. The Mexicans get out and immediately start saying it’s our fault. I ask Tonya a question and the driver says, “What! He doesn’t speak Spanish!” Tonya starts arguing with him and there is a line of traffic building up behind us on the curve. The Mexican says to move our car. I hop in and do it, thinking ‘Great. Now the accident scene has been tampered with’. Looking at Tonya argue with the Mexicans made me realize that this was an uncool situation. The driver said he didn’t have insurance (Ha! Imagine that!) Tonya asks to exchange info and we get his info and he gets our info. He refuses.
Fact: He was crazy and cut across the lane without a signal or any notice. It could have been worse but wasn’t. We are innocent, on our way to do some sightseeing and we get way laid by a pair of Mexicans driving like bats out of hell (or, simply Mexican laborers).
As he calls his boss, Tonya makes the observation; he is at fault, has no insurance and won’t exchange any information. Tonya tries to make an exchange one more time, and the worker refuses. Tonya marches back to the car and says “Get in, we’re leaving” She hops in and grabs the wheel and leaves in defiance. His is a great situation for me leaving the scene. I could care less about any sightseeing; I am a nervous wreck now. All I want is to go home and curl up and whimper like a baby. My stomach is instantly in chaos and we keep driving.
Why? I ask Tonya why are you driving on the same road? Isn’t it silly to be roaming around? “How much longer is it?” her daughter asks. Seriously. I sit and watch each passing neighborhood just as before, but this time keeping an eye in the side mirror in case those goons follow us or the man tails us. We make it to our destination. My insides are sloshing around like a giant barrel of sludge. My nerves are frayed. I hope Tonya and her daughter are happy. We are officially outlaws now.
Part of the place we are visiting is closed. Great, it is the part that has the main attraction for us. Still, we walk around and her daughter gets to see this and that. She admits to being happy getting out and doing something. Tonya seems happy now too, out and walking around. I feel sick.
Our visit doesn’t last long because the part we want to see is off limits. Tonya suggests something to eat. I can’t even think about it, in fact I can’t even utter the words, I just shake my head, “but you guys get what you want”. I am kind of miffed, because this place she wants to go to has some good food. I think that barrel inside of me is sloshing so much it is about to spill over. I politely tell Tonya I have to make a pit stop. She says they will have a smoke and wait for me.
They will wait a long time.
I had seen a group of people sitting on a bench right outside of the men’s room when we got there. I was hoping that they had left by now. It would be a complete embarrassment to do what I think I have to do, and an audience right outside the door and below an open window. As I walk up, a man is standing outside and puts a sweater on a woman who walks out. I walk past and through the sweet smelling wall of perfume the woman leaves behind. Straight in to the restroom I am thinking that it is probably going to be a typical public restroom with no toilet paper. As I turn to the stalls I see paper dangling out of the dispenser on a wall in front of all the stalls. The door is closed to my desired stall. I grab some paper quickly, and step inside the last stall. The toilet looks clean but there is a mini sized toilet seat instead of a proper man size. This is not going to be nice.
An old shabby stall is all that separates me from the pee-ers at the urinals. In fact, as soon as I sit down as best I could on the kiddie seat, someone walks in and goes to the urinal. I am gripped in fear. This is mind over matter, because I do not want to give in to what my guts are demanding and I do not want to be that guy who gives the pee-er joke material to tell his pals or girlfriend. I sit quietly, teetering on the bowl, leaning to one side because the toilet seat doesn’t even fit properly. As soon as I think he leaves, I surrender.
I try to mask it with a flush. All my angst, pain and turista fears are unleashed. Personally, I am weakened by the atrocities being committed here. I would have cried, but that would make it even more pathetic. I sit embarrassed, hoping no one comes in and peers below the stall and sees what shoes I am wearing. “Look! That is the guy who made it impossible for us to do what we had to do!”
As I sit teetering ever so fragile on the thin plastic kiddie seat, I hear a woman say something loudly into the restroom. I look at the stall door as if I could see the culprit. I sit frozen…but a little to the left. I hear a whistle, then what sounds like little footsteps. I can’t see though the door, but I can tell the little guy is wandering around, taking his time to get to where he needs to be. I wish I could share the same joy as he does. As soon as he finishes, he starts humming a little song and I hear his little feet get further and further away. He must have gone across the hall into the ladies room because I hear a woman talking and then the hand drier kick on. It is echoing all over the place and my chance to face my fears again. I flush, brace myself and let loose. The kiddie seat gives way and slips folded into the toilet. I gasp and grab the walls. I am in a very compromising position. I cannot rescue the seat and Satan has yet to finish his game with me. I lean further left and wonder what Tonya must be thinking. My side hurts from my awkward seating position. I sit in shame and wonder why they could not have put the proper seat on this toilet.
After my ordeal has ended, I am scarred man. I just went though hell so Tonya’s daughter could sight see. I walk to the sink in denial of what I would face. No soap. After all of this, no soap. I stand and let the water runs over my hands. I look into the mirror and see a ghost of a man. I walk back to the toilet roll dispenser and pull a bit off and as I try to try my un-soaped hands; the paper peels off and makes little balls all over my hands. I throw the wad into the toilet in which I had just suffered. As I round by the sink again I rinse my hands yet again, and wipe them on my jeans. I don’t care; I just want to go home!
I step out and look up. Tonya is walking up, “I was worried. Are you OK?” she asks. I nod yes, but don’t say a word. She knows though, and asks if it was bad. Too ashamed to recount the horrors, I acknowledge her query. I walk silently behind her as we go to the restaurant.
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| Not pleasant to see after my 'situation' |
“Do you want to eat something?” Tonya asks politely. I shake my head no. The other two order up their food. Tonya orders her huitlacoche quesadilla (corn fungus). The thought alone almost makes me cringe. Imagine scraping the sludge off any standing puddle of water or any given pond. Spread the black sludge on a blue tortilla and throw a dab of cheese on it, voila! The food arrives and those who can eat, do. I look up and see the huitlacoche oozing a black mess onto the plate below. This reminds me of something…, I think it best to stare the other way and watch the waitresses try to hustle every single person that parks in the lot to come in to their restaurant. Again, all I want is to go home. I don’t need any fungus, no beers, no collapsing kiddie toilet seats and no horse rides either.
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