Hot Nights

It’s that time of year again.  In the summer, you expect it to be hot, but at night time, I can’t stand it.  I could never live in the tropics, and could care less about any vacation to anywhere hot and muggy…especially at night.

Last year at this time, Tonya just scoffed at my pleas to get a fan.  I think she was just trying to ‘get her Mexican on’, and act like she could roll with anything thrown her way.  Most homes here have no air conditioning or heating…which is fine for most of the year.  However, for a few months, you definitely need something to push the air around and cool you down.  Thankfully though, Tonya finally broke down and happily agreed that especially at night, a fan would be a great idea.

When the sun drops, it does cool down a bit, but not enough.  In our attempts to stay cool and comfortable I try and assist the cooling process in any way possible.  The first thing I do when the sun has disappeared behind the mountains is to open the windows.  Last year there was debate over the need for a fan.  This year the debate is to whether or not to open the windows.  Tonya does not want bugs to fly in.  I do not want to sweat and be restless.  I often debate this point with Tonya, and tell her to not leave the lights on near the windows.  As soon as I leave the room, she closes the windows.  It usually takes me a while and then it dawns on me that everything is still and warm.  “Did you close the windows?” is the standard question I pose. Her standard response is “I don’t want bugs to fly in”

This has brought another odd characteristic of Mexico to my attention.  Not only do the homes not have heating and cooling, they also do not believe in screens here. Why is that?  How can a country not understand the value of screens?  Thankfully there are no mosquitoes here in Mexico City, but there are plenty of moths, June bugs and other assorted flying insects that love to come crash your party on any given night.  This time of the year means I have to try to relax while trying to constantly battle Tonya to keep the windows open and air circulating while hoping we don’t get to many bugs joining us for our nightly film viewing.

Bedtime is the real challenge.  I don’t even know why during summer one should even bother making the bed.  The first thing that happens when you crawl in is the covers and sheets get thrown off immediately.  My neurosis gets the best of me though, because I think there is something odd about sleeping on a mattress with no covers.  Because of this, I usually have a section of sheet on me somewhere, but not too much.

I think of my childhood and sleeping with my grandmother at her home in the country.  She had to have been a woman of great patience to deal with restless kids at night.  We would lie in her bed next to the window.  The window would be open and you could hear cars drive by at night on the gravel road.  You could hear crickets.  You could hear the still heat of a Texas night. “Just lie really still” she would say.  She would insist this was the best and quickest way to cool off and stay cool.  I think she also said this to make us be still so she could drift off to sleep.  Who wants to lie in bed with some twisting turning whining kid constantly rattling on about being hot?

Nothing has changed.  I am a grown man and every night of summer I get in to bed, I throw the covers off and make a comment about being hot. “This sucks” is a pretty common utterance from me, or a moan of disgust.  I usually stare up at the ceiling, looking at nothing.  I suppose it is just ritual.  I do though, think of what my grandmother told me as a kid, and I lay very, very still.  I lie there and the sound of the fan is my lullaby.  I am usually fine as long as nothing touches me.  I stick to ‘my’ side of the bed with a vengeance.  I am beginning to believe it is now custom molded to my nightly stiff pose to beat the heat.  When sleep comes, it is truly appreciated.  No one move, be perfectly still and I may get a half-decent night sleep and remain at least, tolerably cool.

If I am woken up at night, it is not usually because of the heat, but more likely due to the dogs.  Winston usually sleeps in the bed, but now it is even too hot for him.  He may jump up at some point during the night to get cozy, and then is usually upset because I kick him off because I can’t stand him sleeping against me.  Sometimes he gets too hot and jumps off on his own accord.  Sometimes it is the clattering sound of Sunny, having gotten stuck in or under the desk and is thrashing around trying to get loose (he is a wild sleeper).  However, it is usually the quieter things that are the worst; dog farts

You do not have to be scientist to understand the physics of how smells seem to hang for an eternity in warm air.  Factor in the aspect of a very big dog on both sides of the bed and it spells trouble.  Many a night I manage to finally drift off in a very fragile sleep, only to wake up gasping for breath from the slow creeping noxious gas rising from whichever dog is sleeping beside the bed. It is a strange phenomenon, but it does seem that dog farts linger a lot longer in the still warm air between the hours of 3 and 5 in the morning.  Worse still is the fact that once the dog is relaxed and letting loose, the constant stream of ‘gas’ can keep you up for quite a while.  Many mornings I wake with an overwhelming concern that I too, smell like the dog farts that were constantly bombarding me in the sticky night air. They may have no problem sleeping in warm summer nights, but I sure do.  I now have to be prepared at a split second’s notice to pull sheets up over my nose or bury my face between pillows to avoid the nocturnal stink bombs the dogs let so freely loose while sleeping.

They are in the clear every time.  Just like in a fire, you are constantly told to stay low to the ground…that is where the clear air is.  Heat rises, as do farts.  They lay blissfully unaware of the hell they are sending out and up over the bed.  The night is cool and relaxing for them, spreading out and rolling all over the cool floor.

In truth, they win every time.  What good does it do to cover your head with pillows or seek refuge beneath a hot comforter?  Even if I choose to do these things, it is only a brief  respite, as the heat always wins.  I am soon forced back out into the heavy night air to face the volley of  farts let loose by the sprawling dreaming dogs. 

I suppose there is a silver lining to these restless, warm nights.  Sometimes the dogs let a good one rip, and it wakes me from my fragile sleep.  I have gotten many a giggles from the late night surprises.  On occasion too, they do such a winner that it wakes Tonya, and the sweaty bed shakes with a hearty late-night laugh from the both of us.

The rainy season is only a few weeks away, and I cannot wait.

The Law (...sort of)

She wouldn’t even look you in the eye as she was tapping ash off her cigarette.  She was determined and defiant in her actions as she took this opportunity to accentuate her point, “Laws are laws” she said quite plainly.  The talk concerns laws and the state of things in Mexico.  More precisely, the reference is to a French delegate who was caught in the middle of a kidnapping and smuggling ring and locked away here in Mexico.  This particular woman was in charge of overlooking kidnapped people and even deciding when their fingers would be cut off.  The whole ordeal even got Sarkozy petitioning her release.  It is making for tense relations between France and Mexico.

“I could not agree more” I say wholeheartedly.  However, I look her in the eyes and add, “Can we keep the same stern view when we talk about illegal immigration and all the stuff going on between Mexico and the States?”  This serious question elicits her to roll her eyes and exhale smoke, “Oh come on.  Let’s not start that again, you know there is a lot of stuff involved.  In fact, a whole new bunch of things just came in to light in the press”  I am serious though, and ask again why we can’t tow the line so tough when it comes to Mexicans scurrying every which way over the border.  This statement also brings the wrath of my girlfriend.  I will now be double teamed immediately after our nice dinner.

I am constantly amazed at how the whole illegal situation is viewed here.  I recently read a four page spread in an English language newspaper (The News) concerning the huge influx of smugglers taking to boats to get their human cargo into America.  Four pages and only once was the term ‘illegal immigrant’ used.  The rest of the mentions were a cleaner and friendlier ‘immigrant’.  I kept asking the simple question, “If they are a legal ‘immigrant’, then why must they come charging in on speedboats under the cover of night and be dumped off several yards out at sea and told to swim…hurry!”  It doesn’t make sense to me.  I am still baffled at how every Mexican I have spoken to about how the average person here views this topic.

It is the United States fault.  This is the usual reply, usually followed by a quickly added, “It is the uneducated, poor Mexicans who only go to America anyway”.  Oddly enough, I somewhat agree…not on the intellectual aspect, but on the view that America does not truly do its part to stop them.  A friend just told me last week how Mexicans often say “F*cking gringos are racist!” then laughed and continued to say that in reality, they themselves will not tolerate any other Latin American personage but their own.  He laughed at the fact that the gringos can carry that weight, and that the race card is wrongly played.

One cannot address the ‘immigration’ issue without it being overshadowed by the bigger, pressing issue; Drugs.

Most of the polite yet somewhat serious conversations that I have partaken in regarding these topics usually occur at a table or a coffee table.  They are somewhat relaxed and never allowed to get too heated.  Likewise though, the outcome is always the same.  The drug problem in Mexico is because of the US.  The Mexicans and Europeans who have addressed this point usually start with this simple statement, “All the weapons the Cartel has comes from the US.”  In short, one can conclude that all the violence and bloodshed is solely due to the weapons that come down from America.

In turn, I address this point alone every single time, “Are you telling me that Mexico never owned a weapon until Vicente Fox came into power five or six years ago?”  This is ridiculous and they know it too.  They laugh it off and say “Of course not…but not the weapons the Cartels are using” is the usual reply, or one of a similar fashion.  I then have to ask some simple questions to whoever is engaging me on this topic.  I am only a gringo and therefore racist and obviously ignorant. “How did Mexico fight a revolution without loads of weapons?”  Every picture I see of Zapata and his Zapatistas, they are all wearing the famous crossed over the chest bullet belts and usually brandishing a rifle or at least two pistols.  This may seem a silly question, but I think it makes them think a minute.  Forget that.  Let’s talk of all the ever-present problems that are synonymous with Latin America and the ever revolving door of revolutions and overthrows constantly in effect.  After said government is overthrown, where do the weapons go?  I then ask a very simple question, one that every Mexican here can relate to; Colombia.  “After the whole Colombian Cartel was ‘dissolved’, did they ship all the weapons immediately out of the country?  Where did they go?  Obviously, none were brought into Mexico…right?”  I think these are some simple and honest questions that can help shine a light on one aspect of the problem here.  Yes, my opponents sit silent for a moment then resume their constant stage of denial.  It is still not possible for these weapons to actually have been accessible already or have been provided by any other country.  When asked what kind of countries usually support other Socialist countries they shrug and still say the same three letters “U.S.A.” 

“If people in the USA didn’t buy so many drugs, then we would not have this problem” is the obvious other retort used in their defense of Mexico’s innocence.  In turn, my first reply is something along these lines; “Ok.  It is common knowledge that the Mexican government has been in a constant state of flux since the revolution.  Almost 100 years and nothing has changed.  The same ruling government had been in power since shortly after the revolution, for over 80 years, up until Fox was elected, and currently Calderon”  Every single Mexican this has been asked to agrees in a split second.  When I ask if they think that for over 80 years the government working hand in hand with organized crime is far-fetched, they immediately dismiss it.  There is no way the people here or the government would have anything to do with the drug trade.  Yes, they all admit the government is corrupt.  Yes they openly admit the government and organized crime worked hand in hand, but they cannot draw the line to the current drug crisis. 

“People here don’t use drugs…at least not like they do in the States” is a common reply.  This may be true, but just less than a day ago we walked passed an old guy in the park, smoking a Cheech and Chong size doobie with no qualms whatsoever.  I suppose that the stories here of the rise in meth usage go unnoticed, and all the users of cocaine from the 80’s have vanished.  I also assume most Mexicans here are oblivious to the fabled grass grown in their own yard, ‘Acapulco Gold’.  I know that none want to acknowledge that over 70% of all Meth sold in the US is manufactured in Mexico.  I also know it is just too crazy and far fetched to think that with the overpowering size of the drug lords and their gangs here, no one decides to partake in a little bit of the goods at hand so readily available.

I like to play dumb and agree to all of this.  ‘Ignorance’ is the usual defense as to why any Mexican would get involved or do drugs of any sort.  Personally, I find it hard to believe that a bunch of stupid people have managed to get such a deep seeded trafficking network set up across the globe and managed to strike fear in the hearts of millions.  Most cases of smuggling involve a respectable amount of intelligence to be able to come up with the ingenious ways of concealing dope in cars and in boats…even submarines!  Nope, only stupid and unintelligent Mexicans get involved in drugs.

Acting the dumb gringo that I am, I throw my last card on the table.  I understand the concept of supply and demand.  I try not to address the economical aspect of expendable income for the average chump in the States compared to Mexico; because the idea of money to burn is foreign to most here, and therefore makes understanding the larger amount of drug usage possible impossible for them to comprehend.  This is strictly a gringo vs. Mexican problem.  I implore an obvious agreement of good versus bad, and that criminal behavior is bad in any sense.  I also get an agreement that drug usage is undesirable too.  Needless to say, we are in perfect compliance.  I reach up my sleeve, and fling my card on to the table for all to see; “So, which is better then, the addict or the people who smuggle and sell the dope to the other weak individuals?”  Before they can answer, I rephrase the question, “Are the users the problem, or the suppliers?  Is it better to buy drugs or to make money from drugs?”  They stare at me like I am crazy. “One guy loses his money while the other guy is making it…who is the better man?  Who is at fault?”  Of course I am way off track and I only make myself look more stupid by asking, “If we are the problem, why do you keep the supply flowing freely?”  They do not understand this point.  They do not understand that even though there is demand, it cannot continue if the supply is not there.  Yes, people here may traffic drugs, but not use them; that is uniquely an American problem.  The Cartel is bad, but it only exists because Americans wanna get high.  No one else in the world does drugs, and the concept of ceasing exploiting drugs would diminish the Cartels’ powers.  According to Mexican logic, the manufacturing of drugs and the smuggling of drugs is not near as bad as the usage of drugs.  This explains why no Mexicans are bad because they do not use drugs, only Americans do and they are bad.

No matter how deep or far the conversation goes; it always ends the same way.  People sitting at the table, some smoking, and shaking their heads side to side in disapproval. I can’t understand why it cannot be acknowledged that the Cartels are vital to the whole scenario and that the ‘pushers’ are the innocent ones.  They can’t understand why I do not agree that it is all down to the fact that people in America want to get high, and thus it is Mexico’s burden.

All I know is that in most cases the same rule always applies:  America = the problem.  God have mercy if you are white and American.

Saturday Night at Alphonso's (pt. 2)

There is plenty of fun to be had, but he went on at length about how central Tepoztlan is.  He told of how when boredom struck, he would go to Cuernavaca to see some friends and eat at “a pretty nice restaurant.  This place is semi-fun, but not really” he confides.  At other times he would drive to Mexico City, and also further out south into the mountains. “I love the quite life in the country, where you drive down the small roads and you have to stop because there are 30 cows in front of you” he laughs and makes like he his honking his horn. “I like it.  One time I was driving and had to stop because all of these cows were walking across the road.  I was in my Porsche.  I got tired of waiting and starting to honk the horn.  This one bull would not move.  I got angry and really started yelling at him.  He turned and smashed my car with his horns” he raises his eyebrows while nodding his head, “Perhaps it was because my car was red” and then he puts his hands up against his head and makes like he has horns.” When I got to where I was going, I got out to look at my car.  There were two holes in it where the bull hit my car” and laughs at the incident and shakes his head, ‘I swear to you. Two holes, one from each horn smashed into my car.  I could not believe it!” The longer the tales went on and the more Scotch he downed, his accent became heavier and words slurred.

 “What do you want?” he would ask. “Do you want to make money?  Open business?  You don’t make money in these places” he said sternly while shaking his head. “The rich people from Mexico City go straight from their door at home, straight to their door in these towns.  They do not go out.  You do not make money”  I did get an earful from Roberto regarding these two towns.  A few times he called Tonya over and would repeat himself, and repeat the same question again, “What do you want?  You want to make money?”

Berto wanted to smoke.  Tonya was flagging me to come stand with her by the window.  It was warm in this apartment.  It is on the eighth floor, and typical of Mexican homes, there is no A/C.  The coolest spot is in front of the window.  Both Berto and I get up and refill.  Me?  I get a glass of soda water and a small refill of tequila.  Berto fills up on Scotch and we both go to Tonya.  Berto is well sauced by now, and he reaches out for Tonya and gives her a big hug.  He kisses her and tells her how much he has missed her.  Alphonso and Mordo are part of the window gang too.  They all start reminiscing about something and Berto turns to me and apologizes, ‘I’m sorry, I am going to speak to her now in Spanish”  I acknowledge with a nod and tell him to speak his own language.  They all laugh and slap one another, smoke and drink.  I am enjoying the sight and the cool breeze coming in.  I hear a name ‘Jose-Luis’ and they all laugh and make ‘whooooo’ noises.  They are telling of their crazy disco days and how certain people liked their ‘snow’.  Mordo pipes in and says, “Whenever anyone started anything in the old days, it was Jose-Luis.  He was crazy.  He was always the guy to turn you on to whatever was new”, Alphonso stands beside him nodding.  He recalls his first trip to Europe, where Jose-Luis met him at the train station in Madrid with tickets to a concert that night and a huge block of hash. Alphonso says, “Here in Mexico you smoke grass, in Europe you smoke hash.  Neither of us knew how much to smoke.  I didn’t even know you were supposed to smoke it!” he admits. “Anyway, we smoked half of this huge block.  That was a mistake.  We were so out of it, we forgot where we were” and he laughs about the adventure, shaking his head in disbelief.  He holds his finger up and instructs, “You know, with hash you should only smoke about this much…but we did about this much” and points to half of his finger. “He is crazy” Alphonso says.

I have no idea who Jose-Luis is.  They sure do.  They continue to laugh about certain episodes and they are all red-faced from their laughing.  Berto leans to me and says, “You know, Jose-Luis was Tonya’s boyfriend…and he was very, very jealous.  He was trouble”  I have just learned something new.  Berto nudges me and switches to English.  He is recounting a party at which they were all at.  They all nodded in agreement to the particular incident. Berto looks at me and the n points out the window, “I could not believe it..” he says as he tells of this party.  For whatever reason, Jose-Luis was mad about something.  He excused himself and went outside to throw a fit.  “We were upstairs, looking at him from the window” Berto says.  “He was so mad; he walked over to my car.  I don’t think he realized it was mine.  He started kicking it, the side of the car.  He then kicked off the side mirrors.  He even jumped on the top and started screaming and jumping up and down.  We were shocked.  And then, when he finished jumping on the top of my car, and he had broken the mirrors, he then peed on it!” he looks at me at hits me in the arm.  “Can you believe it?  He makes pee pee on my car while I see him do it from above!  He is crazy!”  Alphonso and Mordo recall the incident with the same hilarity.  For some reason, Tonya is not laughing so much. Hmm, I wonder why.  Maybe she wasn’t present.

Alphonso quietly slips away and changes the music.  He has put on old disco tunes.  Supposedly, the Mexicans took the whole disco scene quite serious.  This gang in front of me was notorious about driving to Acapulco to a famed disco “the best in the country” and getting wrapped up in their synchronized disco moves.  As the disco pumps, they all set their glasses down and start doing their moves.  They smile, laugh and dance together.  A few random yells and whoops are heard.  Bodies move across the living room to display a hip swing or a thrust, and then back across the room to the other group of revelers in the kitchen.  Arms kept going up at their favorite points of the song.

The brief dance moment calls for a new round of smokes and refills.  As we are still standing at the window Berto looks at Tonya and me and confesses, “Hey.  I was in Houston a week or so ago”  We both ask why.  He asks Tonya if she remembers another mutual friend, Charlie.  She says, “Charlie…yeah, I remember Charlie.  Where is he now?”  Supposedly this Charlie is in Arizona, and has made a load in gold.  Charlie and Berto went to Houston to buy a generator for Berto’s place in the Yucatan.  It turns out that Berto wanted to come to the States to do the paperwork for the generator and see to it himself that it would be shipped ok into Mexico.  This meant that the pair had to go to Juarez.  Everyone knows that Juarez is not a place to be for any amount of time.  Strangely enough, Charlie didn’t seem too bothered by it but Berto did.  He says that Charlie acted like it was no big deal, and just another city.  They stayed in a good hotel and ate at a nice restaurant, but Berto was frightened to have to spend time in Juarez.  Charlie was driving a yellow Maserati.

“Who drives a yellow Maserati in Juarez?” Berto asks looking us all in the eyes. “Charlie is just driving around like he is in L.A. or something.  He has the windows down and smoking a cigar” he mimics Charlie and then starts shaking to show how he was feeling.  He sinks down as if he is actually trying to hide behind a car door, as he shakes his ashes fall to floor, “Charlie.  Roll the windows up man!”   He says Charlie just looks at him and laughs, “They have machine guns.  What good will rolling up your window do?  A rolled up window will not stop a machine gun” Charlie said laughing.  “He told me not to worry.  Narcos only kill Narcos.  They will not mess with Gringos.  If they get Gringos involved, it becomes too messy and complicated. Yes.  He tells me this while he drives around Juarez in his Maserati!”  He cannot believe how ridiculous the situation was, and neither could we.  Without a doubt, this got a good round of laughs from all of us in our group.

“Come on Tonya, do you remember this?” says Alphonso, as he grabs her and pulls her out to the middle of the floor to dance.  They smile and dance.  The drink and disco is definitely allowing Alphonso to ‘let his hair down’…not that he has enough to let down.  His ‘brighter’ side is definitely shining now the disco is on.  Tonya and Alphonso stand in his study and talk of the old dances and who was hot and who was not.  Alphonso’s mother is from New York City.  They have an apartment there, and he declares he is a city boy.  He recounts his time in New York during the late 70’s and early 80’s, going to some of the more famous disco havens.  Tonya keeps asking me if I know this song, or that one.  She is baffled that my disco knowledge is rather paltry.  “In 1978 I was listening to the Cars and you guys were listening to this.  That is where I missed out” I said.  Alphonso immediately chimes in, “I listened to The Cars too!  I like The Cars!”  Yes, I actually do remember hearing some Cars playing at some point tonight.  We move on to the kitchen to see what is up and get something to drink.  The kitchen people are well plastered by now.  The bags of chips emptied and so are a number of bottles.  For me, my tipple of choice has been soda water.  It is too warm for me to be boozing it up party style.  Juanita sees I am perplexed when I scour the counter and there is no more water. “What is wrong Tim?  What do you want?”  she asks.  She opens the fridge, claiming there is water in there.  “How about a cold beer?” she asks.  I oblige.

Alphonso reaches over me and grabs a handful of gourmet wine flavored chips, “I love these chips!” I agree.  They are quite yummy.

Party people are starting to leave.  It is almost 2, and those with families are making their way home.  I tell Tonya we should leave soon.  Alphonso has had enough of gay times, and puts on the Ramones.  As he tells people goodbye, he yells out to me, “I love this song!” and he is singing “The KKK Took My Baby Away”.  He saunters back to the kitchen, bobbing his head and eating more potato chips.  Berto has found me again in the kitchen. He is pretty far gone.  He starts in on me again, “Hey. What do you want?”  he laughs and then buddies up next to me.  He says he doesn’t want to tell me what to do; he is only trying to help. “You should try both of those places.  Rent a home there and see what you think.  It is like marrying a woman.  You have to date her first before you ask for marriage” he says laughing.  Someone calls him out on the marriage statement and he gets quiet.  Earlier in the night, before the wild stories, Roberto had told Tonya and me that he has a 9 month old daughter and he loves her madly.  He had quietly gotten married and had a kid.  Now, he breaks the news to those left at the party and they all cheer.  He grapples for his phone and pulls up some pictures of his wife and baby.  As the revelers look at his phone, he smiles and keeps saying, “Aren’t they beautiful.  I love my wife and I love my daughter”.  He is obviously touched by just the sight of them.

He had handed business cards to Tonya and me earlier too.  He has a hotel in the Yucatan.  He now insists that we come visit and see the place where he lives now.  He gives Tonya hugs and kisses and keeps saying how he missed her.  He looks at me and says how much he likes Tonya but reassures me that their 30 some odd year friendship has been only that, ‘friends’.  I smile.  “Tim.  You must come to my home.  This is the most beautiful beach in the world.  I promise you, when you see the water, you will pass out” and he makes like he is falling over.  He’s serious, and says that many tourists, especially Germans, when seeing the clarity of the water and the beach, they have fainted.  Tonya and the others confirm that this particular area is beautiful.  “You stay at my hotel, and I will not charge you.  I even lend you my jungle home…” he says. 

What started out as a rough night has actually panned out ok.  Standing in the shower facing the prospect of left-over meatballs I had no idea of the people I would meet and the stories I would hear.  It was worth it.  I did notice though, no one had touched the wine.  All the bottles of Scotch were emptied.  It was time to go.  It was now a little after 2:30 and Tonya asked Alphonso to call us a cab. We make a slow circle around the kitchen and say our farewells.  Alphonso says he will walk us out.  “You are going down with us?” I ask. “Oh no, I am only taking you to the door” he says.  I tell Alphonso another thanks for the evening.  It was fun.  He stands at the door and confesses, “Those that are still here…I am gonna have a hard time getting rid of.  It will probably go on all night”  I reply back, “I hope you have stuff for breakfast” to which Alphonso simply rolls his eyes and huffs.

Saturday Night at Alphonso's (pt.1)

If you want to start your Saturday night party of right, first you must have an argument.  This is the best way to get yourselves in the mood and to get primed for your big night out.  It is also the best way to get your primed for the other stumbling blocks sure to come.

I was in the shower.  I had not eaten lunch, and as I showered I was thinking ahead to the nice pasta I was expecting.  I had even bought a new bottle of wine purposely to match the dinner tonight.  Tonya comes in, “Ok!  Change of plans!  Ricardo is in town and Kumar called and there is a get together at Alphonso’s tonight”  Great, but there are certain times of the day when I could care less about Osama being killed, a party, or even if there is tsunami on the way.  The big question at these times is: what is there to eat, I am hungry.  So, I turn to Tonya and plainly say, “Ok, what are we eating?  Is there food there?”  This was not the proper thing for a dirty hungry guy to say.  So this sets Tonya off and I am obviously oblivious to the party.  My dreams of relaxing and enjoying this nice pasta with meat sauce and special wine is now going down the drain just like the daily Mexican grime off my body.

Tonya comes back up a few minutes later, “I will make some rice and re-warm those meatballs…” That’s it?  I sacrifice a nice time in for left-over meatballs and rice to be scoffed all in a rush.  I grimace and probably groan and moan and comply, “Whatever.  Let’s just not rush.  This doesn’t have to be a big deal”  Tonya disappears.

By the time I get downstairs the air is stagnant with angst.  Tonya is preparing the pasta anyway.  “Do we have anything to take to Alphonso’s?” I ask, trying my best to be in a party mood.  “Take the wine we just bought for tonight…”  Now, this is insult to injury.  I try my best to keep calm, and just carry getting ready.  I go back upstairs and iron a shirt.

We sit down in seemingly calm moods and start to eat.  The dish is great.  I have been looking forward to this pasta and meat dish for ages.  As much as I am enjoying it, I am just dreaming of nice it would have been with salad and wine and taking your time.  However; none of that.  We have an appointment and will show up happy and ready to get our Saturday night party on. As we finish up, Tonya gets up to go get dressed. “Just leave the dishes, you can do them later” she says as she goes on up stairs.  I clear the table and start rinsing dishes and putting food away and I realize it is just as easy to wash them now.  I open the fridge and grab a plastic container to see what it is.  The lid is not the proper lid and next thing I know, the chicken broth is now all over the floor and the pieces of chicken are glistening on the tile floor.  I am cussing like no one’s business and the dogs are standing in a group, their eyes fixed intently on the chicken that just dropped form the sky.  Right now, at this very moment, I am so ready to start my party (as you can imagine).  Tonya comes down to see what all the commotion is about.  She is thrilled too, because mopping is always a party-primer.

Not too much is said as we finish our last minute grooming. The mandatory, ‘Does this look alright?” was about the extent of it.  A cab is called and we are soon on the way.  Tonya is excited, because some of the people who will be at Alphonso’s she has not seen in 30 years.  It is all the old gang in town at the same time.  The male side of the gang are heavy, heavy drinkers, so I am reminded that these guys don’t fool around.  At Alphonso’s, we arrive just as the first bottle of Scotch is opened.  Each guy who shows up afterwards, brings another bottle.  Obviously, they like Scotch and they are not joking around.  Personally, I am a bit let down.  There is not a lot of choice for a guy who doesn’t want Scotch.  There are three bags of potato chips on the counter, a can of peanuts and the bottle of wine which was supposed to accompany my dinner.

I know none of these people.  I stand there smiling, getting into the standard ‘I am the outsider who doesn’t know anyone and doesn’t speak your language’ mode.  I look around Alphonso’s apartment.  He works for the airlines.  He’s gay and his apartment is somewhat minimal.  There are some splendid black and white photos above his desk of old planes.  In the corner there is part of a propeller serving as a piece of sculpture.  Everything is perfectly placed and dimly lit.  The stereo is playing OMD’s greatest hits, to which I commend Alphonso.  He smiles.  It doesn’t last long though.  For some reason, as soon as Kumar has started downing Scotch, OMD is deemed to sissy for this party.  He goes to the stereo and puts on Creedence Clearwater Revival.  I breathe deep and tell myself it is gonna be alright.  As each new guest arrives, a loud cheer goes up and an accompanying round of handshakes, hugs and kisses.  I am still standing in between the kitchen and living room, and end up talking to a guy who came with a girl I am not too fond of.  Somehow, we end up talking about his upcoming vacation to Romania.  He is thrilled to know I have been there and we talk for quite a while about Eastern European adventures.

I seek out Tonya who is sitting on the couch next to Roberto.  I have heard about this guy.  There is a story which circulates back at home about how he was out drinking tequila until 4 in the morning, then drove some scared visitors around while never once looking at the freeway.  He was drunk, personable and spent his time behind the wheel with his arm on the seat, looking into the backseat and chatting to his new guests.  That was about 15 years ago.  Now he sits smiling, cigarettes and lighter waiting patiently on the coffee table.  His hair is almost white and he is wearing a bright turquoise terry-cloth shirt.  I sit down next to Tonya and him.  He smiles and Tonya introduces us.  He scoots towards me when Tonya stands up, “Ah, ok.  You are Tonya’s boyfriend…” he says as he gets set into place.  We would sit here quite a while.  This would be my main source of party-talk.  I had no idea what stories were about to be unwound;

Roberto had been in San Miguel the previous day; his friend threw a huge party.  400 people packed into his pal’s hacienda for a full spread, “The best barbeque” he says.  Rich Mexicans like to show off he confirms.  Obviously his pal practices showing of his wealth…there were 4 helicopters on the hacienda grounds…as well as a private bull ring and swimming pools.  This is an old friend of his so he felt he should attend the blow-out.  It was great.  He said that after the party he had to return to Mexico City.  He was supposed to bring some booty back, 300 bottles of Dom Perignon.  There was supposed to be 3 cars driving them back, one being Roberto.  The other two drivers passed and decided to fly by helicopter.  All the cases were piled into Roberto’s car.  He has a big smile on his face and his eyes are slightly glassy.  He says it was 3am and time to go home.  What should have been a three hour trip was cut in half. “There was no one on the highway…” he boasts about the speed in which he returned back to the city.  He acts out the drive home, like he is hunched over the steering wheel, and makes a wavy motion back and forth; with his hand and his eyes grow bright white, “I was so scared.  All those bottles in my car were making it sway back and forth all over the road.  It was frightening…” he continues laughing and hyping it all up.  He says he stopped only once, at a gas station full of whores. Fat ones. “Hey” they called to him, “Que paso…” he rolls his eyes.  He tells of how they are wearing shorts and heels, and their fat bellies are hanging out. He makes the shapes of their floundering bodies with his hands and shakes his head.

I would later find out that this Roberto is quite a character.  These tall tales I was hearing were not things of fantasy.  As the party progressed and different passing conversation came about and others eavesdropping in, they all had verification of the crazy life Roberto leads and shared their own hair raising tales of fun with ‘Berto.

The whole story of driving at 3am with a car swaying all over the highway filled with 300 bottles of champagne had nothing to do with braggadocio.   I had opened the gateway for this by asking him why he was in San Miguel.  So many people have recommended that town to us that I was just trying to get another person’s view.  It turns out that Roberto used to live there, and he was happy to give his view.

“It…is…horrible” he says as he hunches over like he is piled high with grief “Twenty years ago it was a beautiful place, but now it has grown and has become too developed.  The traffic on the weekends is worse than Mexico City.” He stops for a sip or two of his Scotch and follows with a few puffs of his smoke. “It is a nice place, but it is a weekend town.  All the people from the surrounding cities go there to party on the weekend.  They shoot off fireworks 24 hours a day, a constant party.  From Monday to Thursday, it is quiet.  There is nothing to do, but when late Thursday comes around, it all changes.”  He confides that if I want to be around Gringos, it is the place to be. “It is filled with old people…you know, retirees.  Old people are everywhere, it is depressing” he rolls his eyes and laughs again, “It is like going to Palm Beach or Miami.  You know how Florida is just old people, that is how it is”  Berto continues to tell that it is very dusty there, “no green”, and that it is windy.  He also says it gets very hot there in the summer. “For me, it is just not nice.  I know.  I lived there a year, but I had to move, I just did not like it”

I did not have to ask for advice on where to go, as he was going to tell me now. “You should live in Tepoztlan” he says plainly.  I like Tepoztlan.  Everyone likes Tepoztlan, it is beautiful there.  Roberto relishes in his time in Tepoztlan, “I was single then you know” and he stops for a moment to reflect, while a smile stays on his face.  He looks back at me and says, “It was great”  Berto lived in Tepoztlan for 7 years, and that was his previous residence before his new home in the Yucatan. 

Berto describes his home in Tepoztlan.  It was huge.  Amazingly, it had three wells inside the house.  A few times during his story others would sit down and get involved.  They all loved Berto’s house in Tepoztlan.  Several party goers made mention of the crazy parties in this huge place.  It has a tennis court, a soccer field, a basketball court, and a few swimming pools.  All the talk about hectares and square meters got me confused, but I know it was massive.  The views were magnificent.  Berto says his bedroom alone was over 1,000 sq. feet.  It was a sprawling mansion. “I loved it so much” he says.  “I had the best views.  I opened up the shutters on the bedroom and it looked straight on to the pyramid in Tepoztlan. The mountain was so beautiful” He stops and leans in towards me while lowering his voice, “Hey.  That was when I was single you know.  I had girls all the time.  You can imagine when I show them the room and open up the windows and when they saw that view…wow!  They got naked all the time, in an instant!” he says as he leans back laughing and raising his hands.  He says that he rarely went to the center of town, maybe 20 times the whole time he lived there.  “It was too nice.  I didn’t need to go to town…anyway, it is only Indians who go to the center of town” he says frowning with disapproval. His parties were lavish and huge.  One party goer reminds him of how the local paper would write about parties ‘to be’ at Berto’s, just to get revelers wound up and set it off at his place.  “Oh, it was too much. It was crazy I tell you”.

As he was telling me all of this, I was wondering ‘How does he afford it?  What does he do?  How did he find this place?’  It wasn’t long into the whole fairytale before Berto himself thought he should clarify this point; maybe I had a strange look on my face.  He says plainly, “It was a narco trafficker’s house”  Ahhh, so it is crystal clear.  I understood everything perfectly now and knew that this was not made up.  When you live in a Mexican drug lord’s house, you can imagine how over the top it must be.  I was a bit concerned though; how does one party and live like a king in a wanted man’s house.  Did he ever deal with the drug lord or any of his heavies?  Surely, if there is one landlord you do not be late with rent to, it would be a drug czar.  “Oh no, it was not like that” he reassures me, “He was dead.  He had already been killed. The house had sat vacant for quite a while.  His widow leased the house to me.  She wanted $8,000 a month.  I told her she was crazy…I would give her $3,000.  She said no.  I gave her my card and told her to call if she changed her mind”  he then leans forward and thumps me, “Three hours later the phone rang” and he makes like he is picking up an imaginary phone.  He starts laughing, “Ok, you want the house, it is yours…but you have to pay a year in advance” and he laughs and makes like he is signing a check.  “It was great” he says again while shaking his head.  

To be continued...

The Sh*tty Weekend: Pt. 2 (Keys & bumps on the head)

This weekend was a spectacular one for things to go wrong.  The toilet seat incident, the fender bender were starters.  Now it is Sunday and time for some more fun.  Fair enough right?  If there is more disaster to be had, why not spread the wealth?

Tonya’s daughter wanted to go shopping for some souvenirs.  We head to one of our favorite haunts.  This particular market sucks because it is booth after booth of cheap Bob Marley t-shirts, nauseating incense and those cheaply tooled leather coin purses that read ‘Mexico’ and have a corny cactus or sunrays on them.  I walk down aisle after aisle, having to walk like Igor, all hunched over beneath all the hanging scarves and other assorted flowing raiment.  This does give me a chance to get a full frontal of the slightly ‘worn’ middle-aged (or better) mom who walks by.  She is wearing a shirt that has two hands on the front, both giving the thumbs up, with the thumbs pointing slightly inward towards the position of her face. It reads ‘This girl is high maintenance’. Nice.

My head feels like it has been pounded incessantly by a brut in boxing gloves because of all the sickly sweet incense I have had to inhale whilst in this market.  I am thrilled when the final souvenir is bought and we walk out into the open.  They want to get an ice cream, but the over does of cheap nag champa has me saturated with exotics.  I stand outside the ice cream place and watch the hordes anxiously await their refreshments.  I notice the guys who are working don’t have the decency to rinse their scoopers as they do in more ‘decent’ ice cream joints.  Whatever the guy got before you, you get smeared all over your flavor, and so on and so on.

We sit in the park and Tonya and her daughter eat their ice creams.  I watch all the other people milling around.  There is a young couple across from me sitting on a fountain.  The guy is all over the girl, and it appears as if she is enjoying it and then has had enough.  She goes through these stages several times.  People stop at the fountain and snap a quick photo of their fun day out.  A small kid is put up on the fountain for a photo and slips in.  All her elders laugh as they pull her out.  She doesn’t think it is so funny, but I think she is just more frightened than anything else.

I hear thunder and look up at the grey clouds gathering.  I ask if the others are ready to go. We are stalled by two cigarettes that must be smoked before we can move ahead.

We pull up outside the house right as it is starting to sprinkle.  I put my keys in to open the gate to let the ladies in, and can’t get the key out.  Tonya takes over and pulls the key out as they walk passed. I get in and slide the lock to.  Tonya has already gotten to the front door and just opened it and the dogs come flying out like rabid caged beasts.  We go through our ritual and then they run back into the house.  “We should take the dogs out for their walk before it really starts raining hard,”  Tonya says.  I agree, and grab my hoodie to shield myself from some of the rain.  She calls the dogs and they step back out.  I follow up behind, grab the leashes and pull the door to.  As it is closing, I make that paranoid obsessive-compulsive move to where I Pat my pocket to insure my keys is there.  It is slow motion.  We are standing in the rain, the door behind me is closing and I am looking at Tonya.  She sees the panic in my face and at the exact moment we both understand what has just happened she says, “Do you have your keys?” Nope, I don’t.  I remind Tonya that she pulled them out of the gate. We are standing outside and it is starting to rain now.  I ask Tonya “Where are the keys?”  She starts laughing, “On the dining room table”  We all start laughing.  The dogs don’t think it is funny.  They are huddled together looking sullen and looking up at us like we should get our act together real quick.  We go back and forth around the house to see if any windows are ajar.  Of course not, I am worse than an old lady, I keep this joint locked up tight.  Tonya says she knows a way her mom has gotten in before and says she will try the same.  Luckily, we have a ladder handy. We set it up and Tonya says she will try and squeeze in to the little window.  She laughs as she is halfway in and realizes she can go no further.  I do the typical thing you do when someone is on a ladder and can’t defend himself; I poke her in the butt.

She comes back down and we all wonder aloud how we will get in.  We circle around again…as if somehow a window or door would have magically come open.  None had.  We are standing in the driveway slowly getting more and more wet.  I hear the sound of a ladder being moved next door. “Hey!  Go and ask those nerds next door if we can use their ladder!” I say to Tonya.  In a flash she disappears.  I wait a minute and when I hear a ladder being moved, I take off to follow her.  She is standing with the neighbor and they are getting an expanding ladder.  I say hello and quickly offer my assistance.  In no time at all we are back and ready to try another assault.  I left the bedroom window slightly open.  Tonya says she will go for it.  “Are you sure?” I ask.  She says she is, and she is smaller so she is the obvious candidate.

I expand the ladder to be tall enough so she can crawl in.  I steady the ladder and Tonya asks if it is safe.  I reassure her it is.  She starts her ascent and I anchor at the bottom.  She is up and in through the window, laughing as she gets herself inside.  Us chumps standing outside, let out a victorious cheer.  I quickly release the ladder and get it down to its normal size.  As I round the side of the house to take it back, Tonya has opened the door.  We exchange congratulatory comments back and forth and then agree to try and originally do what we set out to do, walk the dogs before it rains!  I tell Tonya I will be right back; I am going to return the ladder.

I muscle the ladder down the driveway and to the gate, “Watch the dogs,” I yell out as I sling the doors open and push the ladder out.  I walk it back to the neighbor and back to where they originally stored the ladder.  There is a bit of confusion for a moment, they are not sure if I should just leave it or help hoist it up onto their roof.  I stand there while it is discussed, then I get a nod and an “It’s ok”.  I say thank you and give them both a thumbs off, and hurry back next door.

As I close the gates I see Alexandra milling around in the rain like she is in trouble. “Where is Tonya?” I ask as I walk past looking for her.  I walk into the living room and call out her name.   Alexandra follows me in and says she is upstairs.  I hang around for a second and ask, “What is she doing?”  Alexandra mumbles something.  I ask her what she said.  She mumbles again, only louder but still indecipherable. “What?” I ask again, getting slightly perturbed. “She hit her head,” she says.  “How did she hit her head?” I ask.  “She slipped and hit it against the wall…” I am not clear on what has happened, so I head upstairs to find her.  Tonya is standing in the bathroom.  I walk in and ask what happened.  She is crying and holding her head.  I ask quietly what happened and reach out to see what is wrong.  She has a lump on the side of her head.  She hit it hard, that is about all I get.  Tonya is crying and she pulls back and says, “Leave me alone”.  I get the hint and quickly disappear back downstairs.  I tell Alexandra to grab a leash, we have dogs to walk.

The walk gives me time to figure out what happened.  Of course, it takes forever to get a straight story.  As it turns out, it takes a huge amount of time to finally get the story squared away.  From all the pieces I can put together, this is it:  As I was returning the ladder to the neighbor, Tonya was trying to straighten up a bit.  The dogs were going in and out, and Tonya bends over to move our ladder out of the way.  She loses footing on the wet stones, and falls sideways, her head being the main thing to break the fall, as it comes to a halt on the wall beside her. Ouch.

Tonya is sitting in the living room, visibly shaken.  She takes Head injuries very serious because of recent events.  She is contemplating going to the hospital.  I decide to call my sister, who is a nurse, and get some diagnosis.  I call her up and put Tonya on the phone.  My sister asks some basic questions and tells some basic steps.  To illustrate a point, she mentions Natasha Richardson…this is a bad move.  Tonya uses the same example all the time, and now she has been put into the same sentence as a comparison.  Rather than calm, this has the opposite effect and Tonya gets more upset and worried.  She is told to relax, and if certain signs come up…get to a doctor.

By the time 8 pm rolls around I know she is ok, because she is asking if we should watch last week’s episode of ‘Housewives of Orange County’, so that we can be caught up before tonight’s new episode.  It’s been an action packed weekend for sure, but now watching others pathetic lives sure takes the worry out of our own.