Tight Fit

This city moves so fast and is filled with so many people that entertainment and bemusement is readily on tap at all times.  As trite as it may sound, it dawned on me last night that the wonders never cease…if you think you may have seen everything, you’re wrong.  There is always a new incident that will top the last. 

Within a 12 hour period, I was truly amazed at two seemingly insignificant happenings that really struck me with amazement.  To most, or to the average guy standing on the street it most definitely would go unnoticed, simply written off as ‘that’s just the way it is’, but for outsiders, it is a moment of true amazement.

Take the ‘parking guy’ down by the square today.  This particular guy, he works the strip in front of the bank.  I took notice to this guy a while back because he is one of these street guys who actually likes to color co-ordinate his outfits.  Many times he wears bright colored shirts to match his shiny, yellow high tops.  He’s also got his ear pierced three times, which to me, seems odd for a simple guy who bums change by telling you when to ‘whoa’ and when to ‘go’ with your car.

Standing in a doorway, I was watching him hail down cars and direct them into a place to park, as well as helping them pull away and drive off.  In between his commandeering duties, he lugs a bucket up and down the line of cars parked along the curb, and pulls one of two dirty rags out to ‘wash’ the selected car.  He’s got two rags, one for the tires and one for the car.  I watch him wash 3 cars, and start to take note of his current system of cleaning.  I glance away to watch some of the people drifting through the square, then look back to the guy washing cars in front of me.  For whatever reason, I was just watching him dip his rags in to the bucket of dirty water, and he would stand with a somewhat strong and proud stance, and wring a rag over and over, then pop it in a certain way, then lay it on the car if it was not the right rag for the job.  I was amused at the way he wrung his rags and the ‘dance’ he did with them.  As I was watching him do his routine again, I saw that split second moment when it all pays off.  He cleans the tires, and then drops the rag into the bucket.  He takes the other rag and wipes off the windshield and hood, then drops it into the bucket.  He leans over, grabs rag number one and rings it out over his bucket.  He leans over grabs his second rag and does the same. 

He doesn’t drop the rag back into the bucket though.  He reaches up and removes his hat.  This is not part of the routine…what is he doing?!  I cannot believe what I see.  He takes the dirty rag he was just washing either the tires or the car with, and starts to wash his face.  He wipes it over his head, then his brow and then rubs carefully under each eye, then his chin. Did he just do what I think he did? Yes, he did.  That filthy rag, used to wash at least those 3 or four cars I saw him do, was dipped back into the septic water and though wrung pretty good, used to cleanse away the dirt and grime on his face.  I suppose replacing dry grit and grime with pre-used, wet filth is refreshing in an odd sort of way.  I am guessing this what a Mexican on the street does, and to others…nah, no big deal.

The other incident which made me shake my head occurred the previous night.  We had to go and eat out because the maintenance guy at the house forgot to turn the water on.  Of course, we had no idea until it came time to cook and…the faucet handle is turned and we stand staring at absolutely nothing.  “F*ck it. We’re eating out”, was the simple statement Tonya said as she shows me the faucet that does nothing.

It is dark, and we are driving up one of the main streets in the neighborhood.  It should be no surprise at the fact that the size of streets varies wildly here. A single street can easily stretch and squeeze, drastically changing its appearance and accessibility within a few short meters.  This particular street we have to slowly drive up is an old stone street.  It is not big enough for two cars to pass.  If you come head to head with another car, one of you must pull over hoping your mirror doesn’t get crushed against an old stone wall, and hope that as the other guy passes, his mirror doesn’t hit you either.  In most case, when two cars pass, it is done very slowly, and usually one of the drivers has their head crooked to the side on which the pass is taking place, to monitor the delicate move.  What really sucks is when you pull over and wedge yourself into a tight spot to let the oncoming guy pass, and then some chump behind you thinks he will take advantage of the situation, and blast through leaving both you and the oncoming car looking like retards.  Worse still, is when there are a string of cars who breeze through with total disregard to the two original drivers trying to politely make way for one another. Mexico.

The notion of the tight squeeze was nothing new.  It is typical here.  If you drive at all, be prepared for this.  Yet last night was a first.  What happens when two guys and a car all need to share a tight part of the street?  I witnessed this very scenario first hand.  I was the driver.

We are slowly working our way up the dark street.  Bouncing along the old stone road, the headlights catch a figure moving slowly along the wall to my right.  I slow down so as not to make him think I am going to run him over.  He throws a glance over his shoulder to take a quick assessment of how he will allow me to pass and how much time he has.  I spot another face coming towards us, on the same side.  He is walking down the street.  We are all closing in on each other.  The street is lined with big stone walls.  There are no driveways (per say) to step into.  This is like a narrow cattle run we are all in.  I know I can’t do anything so, I slow to almost a crawl, and I watch.

The headlights are providing an impromptu spotlight on tonight’s two stars.  They are watching one another as they get closer and closer.  Each guy is waiting to see what move the other guy will make first, just like an old west gun draw.  They are within a few feet of each other.  I can clearly see the guy’s face that is coming in the opposite direction.  He is looking directly into the face of the guy we are behind.  They both start to slow, waiting for someone to sidestep.  We are now almost stopped as this precise moment occurs.

They are face to face. They both come to dead halt. I am stopped too, with my headlights shining on the squeeze.  For a moment, all is still.  The two guys twitch, each unsure of which way he should move so they can pass, and eventually allow me to pass.  The guy in front of me stands totally still.  He’s carrying something but I can’t tell what it is.  It is the fella coming the opposite way who makes the move.  He looks over the guys shoulder in front of him to make sure I am stopped. He notices the car dead still, and then does an awkward sidestep, as if he is somewhat embarrassed or perhaps conceding he is the weaker for making the move aside.  He skirts passed the guy in front of me, then turns sideways with his back against the wall and scoots slowly passed us.  I start to move slowly, and Tonya utters a very quiet and concerned, “Careful.”

I continue to move very slowly behind the guy on my right.  After a few feet, the street expands only slightly, due to the next house building their wall a bit closer in than their neighbor.  When I say “a bit”, I literally mean a stones width, only inches.  Perhaps a four inch difference.  It is obvious that the guy in front of me is somewhat relieved.  He now has a chance to let me pass, thus proving that he is not actually being followed.  He peers over his shoulder back towards me.  He is smiling.  I see him motion with his hand down by his side, to pass.  I inch up and we see one another face to face.  He smiles, and I do the same.  He too, is almost prone with his back against the wall to allow us to pass.  When we do, both Tonya and I laugh about what just happened.  “Poor guys…no one knew what to do” she says.

That was great.  I thought this was genuinely awkward moment for these two guys passing one another on this dark, tight street.  It was obvious from their actions that they had no idea on what to do because there was a car involved.  We all know the saying about ‘this town ain’t big enough for the both of us’, but now I am taking a new one with me.  This street ain’t big enough for the three of us.  It also just reaffirmed my feelings that I think I like this neighborhood.

Independence Day

Things are gearing up for the big celebration tomorrow.  It is the first Independence Day celebration since Mexico’s Bi-Centennial last year.  In what might be considered typical Mexican fashion, many of the celebratory flags and banners from left year were conveniently left out to weather for a whole year.  One might think they were on such a high that they want to celebrate 200 years all year long.  It is time to celebrate again, so all the weathered and forgotten remnants are suddenly in vogue again.  Suddenly though, as I write this a storm has descended on Mexico City.  Perhaps the revelers who have been getting in the party mode for tonight may have their parade rained on…literally.

This could be a good thing though; it may mean we are not subjected to the constant sound of a never ending array of fireworks all night long.

This will be my second Independence Day to observe during my time here in Mexico.  Thankfully, I was fortunate enough to be here when they celebrated their 200 years of independence. It was nice to see how proud these people were (and always are) of their country.  Silly me, I always thought that May 5 was a big deal.  No.  May 5 is only important to college students back home, or to anyone looking for an excuse to get legless.  Why should they make a big deal over a battle with the French, when they could save it up and celebrate being free form Spain, the people who destroyed their ancient civilizations?

The sudden storm knocking tangerines off the tree.

In truth, as the sudden storm sets in and the party people in Mexico City have their evening filled with a downpour of rain and hail, I stand at the door watching ice bounce off the stones and look over to see Tonya, standing in the other doorway with a towel draped over her laptop.  She is trying to keep it dry as she is finishing downloading the season finale of ‘Damages’.  She pulls back inside, pulls the towel off her computer and smiles as she says, “Awesome!  I got it!”  It appears that we will be celebrating tonight too.  We have the final episode of her favorite series. Tonya is thrilled at her photo finish with nature, ‘That was awesome.  I wasn’t getting wet, but I was standing there watching the hail and feeling it bounce up”

I have been questioning myself lately, asking “How do I really feel about being here…and what is the purpose?”  I am tired of this question because it plays on an endless loop inside my head …constantly.  In truth, I think I feel kind of numb.  It dawned on me the other day that I am an observer here.  I move through the city and mingle with the people.  I don’t have any real friends and no real conversations.  I feel lonely when I think about it.  It is odd being away from the people you know and the relationships you have established.  Now, I am just the outsider.

It is the language.  I won’t say it is a barrier, because it isn’t.  I choose not to take it to heart.  A few days ago Tonya asked me, “You have been here over a year and still don’t speak Spanish.  Why not?  Why haven’t you learned?”  For a brief moment I felt stupid at the fact of spending so much time here and not interacting more.  I sat quietly as I drove and thought of her question.  “You know why?  Because I tune it out”, I replied when I came to realize the truth.  “I dislike it so much, that I am able to be immersed in it all day and I just tune it out”  I explain to her that for my whole life in Texas, that being constantly surrounded by Mexicans who refused to speak English you just learn to ignore them.  You shut them out.  Growing up, it was the Mexican kid who held everything up in class because he would not speak English (yet he would funnily enough be in the Spanish class).  It was the non-speaker who got the boss mad, because everything would come to a halt to find someone who could translate.  It was instance after instance of a self-imposed language barrier from the other side that has helped to reinforce the ability to ‘tune it all out’.  Year after year it adds up.  After over 40 years, it is not so easy to change your attitude.  Also, this is definitely not the Spanish you learn in school.  This is 100 mph stuff with ‘R’s that are rolled with such ferocity that it is intimidating.  It is really intimidating for a kid who had to take speech therapy in school because he could not say his ‘R’s properly.  This language is a huge elephant laughing staring at me from the corner of my room.  It is true, I never had a desire to come to this country…and I have already clocked in over a year and a half!  The whole thing seems like some crazy dream.  “Never in your wildest dreams...” could not be truer.

I tell myself I will do better.  I tell myself I will start taking the language seriously.  I want friends.  I want to be able to talk to the tortilla guy, flipping his stacks of hot tortillas into paper, and folding them in a neat stack for his next customer.  I want to talk to the pimply guy who stands on the street and prepares corn in the midst of traffic, horns and in a haze of exhaust.  I want to know what is going on around me.  Instead of just smiling at the cop on the corner and saying ‘buenos dias’ everyday, I want to be able to stop and have a real conversation and laugh.  I really would like to be able to talk to the one-eyed Indian who sells his wares at the market.

Sitting in a café the other day I meet a girl who is a native.  She’s studied abroad and lived in London.  Her English is fine, though she says shyly that she is not that good.  She is amicable and a group of us are talking about all sorts of things.  The conversation turns to “Why did you come here?”  (Believe me, this is a question almost everyone asks…not even counting myself)  Before the answer is given, she is asking a more pointed question, “Why don’t you speak Spanish?”  She cannot understand that I come from Texas and don’t speak Spanish. “Why should I, coming from Texas?  We speak English there.  In America, we speak English…”  Her simple question irritates me to no end.  She adds plainly, “If you are living here, you have to learn Spanish” She seems a bit perplexed.  She cannot see my volleyball sized eyes rolling at her comment.  I pose the question back to her, ‘Why then, don’t the millions of Mexicans in the States speak English?  If they are going to live in America, why don’t they speak English?’  My reply seems to ruffle her a bit and she seems a slightly upset at my retort.  Tonya tries to diffuse the situation in a hurry.  It sets my mind reeling again, and immediately my impenetrable linguistic wall goes up.

It is truly amazing at the number of Mexicans who really don’t know how it is in the States.  They seriously cannot believe it when you tell them signs are hung in Spanish in almost every department store, signage is in Spanish and even recorded messages on the phone telling you what number to push if you want to carry on in Spanish.  At home, in the USA, it is a never ending battle to keep your own language alive on your own soil.  It is disheartening and surely understandable why one would be at odds with ‘wanting’ to speak Spanish.

I carry on as the outsider.  I am the ‘Guero’.  I am used to hearing that everywhere I go.  At least I understand that!  I acknowledge the semi-derogatory term used affectionately.  I am OK with being the ‘guero’.  It is what I am and who I am.  I am the ‘whitey’ in amongst the darker ones.  I am the guy who gets his car keyed.  I am the outsider who gets “pig” scrawled on the windows of his car.  I know what it is to be the one who doesn’t fit in.  I smile and I say the few things I know how to.  I treat those around me friendly and warmly.  I respect the fact that I am on someone else’s turf.

Then something happens that makes me smile, like when the friendly one-eyed Indian smiles and speaks some English to me or when the guy in the market who sells all the spices smiles and waves at me.  I may not know how to talk about soccer with these guys, or how to share a joke with them, but their simple smile and wave does wonders for me.  It is those simple moments which make it all seem OK.  I am not such an outsider after all. 

We walk out of the grocery store the other day and I spot something written on the back window of the car.  I don’t pay too much attention at first.  I am used to the Mexicans writing on our car.  However, as I pull my keys out and start to open the door, I laugh.  I tell Tonya to look at the window.  She glances at the message, “That’s nice” she says.  I can’t control the huge smile breaking across my face.  There, scrawled into the dirt on our back window is a simple message; Buenos Dias Texas

It is an instance like this when I think, “It’s OK”.  I look around to see if perhaps the detective in me can figure out who might have done this, but in a parking lot full of Mexicans going to and from, it could be anyone.  Maybe the author left long ago and just felt like being friendly.  Maybe they have relatives in Texas (good, very good possibility).  Maybe they just saw our car and thought, “Geez, I feel sorry for the miserable gringo sod who has to drive that thing around” and in a brief, fleeting moment they scrawled a simple message that would have a resounding effect one me.  The strangers passing greeting made my day.

To the Mexican who wrote on our car; Thanks for brightening my day, and causing me to pause and rethink my thoughts about your country. You made my day.

Turbulence

It is time for another quick trip home, and another chance for me to get all whigged out about flying.  I’ll say it again, I hate having to fly. Oddly enough, I think I flown more since I have been in Mexico than I have in my whole life…at least it feels that way.

The mission this time is simple, to collect a few much needed items which include my new tennis shoes.  Mexicans (as a rule) have little feet.  Trying to find shoes to fit me here has proven to be quite a chore.  I resort to much time wasted on line pouring over assorted shoe sites eyeing up potential perfect matches for my feet.  I regret to say it, but I have passed over the apt Rod Laver Adidas for other less than compatible shoes.  I have learned my lesson.

It is also important to see my dad, as he had just undergone some surgery.  Completing these two tasks will make this a successful trip.

Oh, and I am still gunning for that amazing pizza I had when I was there the time before last (a simple pomodoro job) and a decent burger.  Again, these items are scarce in Mexico.

The airport here still bothers me.  Not only are there no water fountains anywhere, but it always seems a bit stuffy.  Our wait for this flight out proves no exception to the rule.  I do not know why, but I play this game with myself, that if I try different newsstands, I may stumble upon a hidden gem, loaded with all the recent magazines so rife in popular culture. No. The newsstands in Mexico City’s airport are pretty bland.  I brought a left over MOJO I had bought on previous trip and left the main story, about Paul McCartney, for the trip back home.   Tonya picked up a few gossip magazines, so she is thrilled.

Typical of flights out of here, an announcement comes over the PA telling us the gate has been changed.  We grab our bags and head further into the series of hallways to our newly appointed place of departure.  When we get there, I do my typical scan of the other passengers to see who we will be saddled up with.  They all look OK, but I have yet to fly with a plane full of Mexicans without some Indian from some Podunk village getting on, or some lofty uber-rich hag making a scene.  After the amount of flights I have racked up, I think it is safe to say that Mexicans are not good flying partners.  My point will be proven again on this flight out.  No sooner are we on the plane than we get the typical “What am I doing here standing in the aisle and what do I do with this bag and what do those numbers above the seats mean…” type of stuff from some inexperienced flyer.  Everyone in their seats huff and puff, as do the people standing behind the lost soul as they have to get themselves sorted out so everyone else who happens to be flying on this same plane can try to get as comfortable as possible in the crammed cabin in impersonal seats.

I take an aisle seat and stretch my long legs out.  The girl across the aisle from me is a well to do, snobbish-type Mexican.  She’s had her nails done and is chatting constantly on her ‘smart’ phone.   She is with her parents and her husband is somewhere else (she has got a huge stone on her finger that is how I know she’s married).

The plane fills up and the pilot says we are ready to go.  After sitting on the runway a bit, we actually start our taxiing.  Tonya hates taking off and landing.  Me?  I hate leaving the ground period, but upon finally feeling all wheels planted evenly on the runway again, I am always happy.  In actuality, I think I hate sitting in any airplane cabin and having some guy cough or sneeze in close proximity to me.  That bothers me more than taking off or landing.  It really geeks me out when the said offense is followed by the smell of a lozenge or a medicinal scent, then you know it was not a dry cough on a crowded plane, but it really is some germ infested, sicky thing that an idiot is spreading onto all these innocent passengers.

We took a later flight than usual, leaving after 5pm. This will put us on the ground a bit after 7pm, Houston time.  I have my magazine and once we are up and flying high, I read all about McCartney’s dubious ‘McCartney II’ album.  Tonya reads about poor J-Lo’s crumbling marriage to that greasy, slimy looking Marc Anthony.   I randomly look over at the snobby girl across the aisle to see what she is reading, but can never get a good look.  I do know that she did not eat her weird chicken sandwich served on a strange orange bun though.  Didn’t even touch her chips either.  The guy in front of her ate two of the sandwiches though!

Time flew quickly.  It seemed like no sooner had the orange sandwiches been picked up than the announcement comes on that we would be starting our descent into Houston.  It is hot; the pilot says about 100 degrees.  They have had a drought and it is taking its toll.  This is a prime example of one reason I am grateful to be in Mexico City and not suffering at the hands of overbearing heat and humidity. 

That is all about to change though.  As I near Houston, so does the freakish thunderstorm out of the north.  It seems both of us are due to be in Houston at the same time.  I would much prefer the crazy winds and lightning lord over Conroe where the pilot said it was, but God sees it different.  For whatever reason, we are honing in on our target, moving in fast.  A flight attendant comes on the PA and starts an announcement about buckling your seatbelts because of turbulence and coming in for the landing.  He suddenly stops and says he will return shortly.  I gaze out of our window and see darkness out there somewhere…hopefully not over Houston.  We are supposed to be making our descent into Houston, but I feel the plane rise.  My brain opens the doors to the safe which tries to keep all my rampant, paranoid thoughts at bay.  I think things may get hairy, but try lying to myself anyway.

A few minutes had passed and the attendant comes back on the PA, “Ladies and gentlemen, as I was saying previously, we had been re-routed to San Antonio…” No!  He had not said anything about San Antonio.  I tell Tonya what is happening and I don’t like it.  On a trip back from Philadelphia a while back my brother and I were coming into Houston when a major storm hit, and we were diverted.  Now the scenario is playing out from the other direction.  My palms start to get sweaty and I feel emptiness in my stomach.  Tonya tries to dispel the thought, saying “Maybe we won’t have to.  The pilot said something about the storm in Conroe, not Houston” I know, but we are about to run head on into one another.  I fear the worse, “No, it’s gonna happen.”

The voice continues to crackle out over the speakers, “…we were re-routed to San Antonio, but now the air traffic controllers say they have a space for us.  We will begin heading back to Houston.  Please stay in your seats and keep your seatbelts on.  We should be landing in about 20 minutes”

The closer we get, the darker it gets.  Looking out my window, it looks as if there is a bright orange sunset.  When I look towards the snobbish girl with the fancy nails, it is solid black.  Everyone on that side of the plane is sitting quietly looking out their windows.  I do not like this, but there is nothing I can do.  I have already finished reading my McCartney piece and now I have to face the reality of the situation.  Another attendant is making the final trip down the aisle to pick up trash.  I hear her tell a passenger it is going to be rough, it is a big storm.  I relay this to Tonya, but she thinks I am hearing it wrong.  By the time the attendant had passed my seat, the plane starts bouncing.  I look at Tonya and say nothing, hoping that my face in glaring bright white and cold sweat speaks volumes instead.

The plane gets rough very quickly.  Tonya gets extremely nervous, grabs my hand and puts her head down.  I try to calm her and myself by talking to her.  She barks back, “Don’t talk to me!”  As the bumpy ride is immediately amplified, some passengers start letting out small yelps and screams.  The plane does a sudden drop, and more than one loud “OOOOOOHHHHHH” is uttered from up and down the aisle.  Out our window, it looks peaceful, but looking out the other windows we see the truth.  It is black and menacing, and now we are getting buffeted to and fro and getting brilliant flashes of lightning thrown in just to keep us more disoriented.  It I so bad that the snobby girl has put her book down and looks me straight in the eye and grimaces.  I flash a nervous smile back across to her.  She holds her hand up over her face to cover her view of the lightning and eternal black void that is just outside her window.  I am transfixed, and wonder if we will know when the lightning pegs us.  The novelty has worn off, as several passengers on the other side of the plane pull their visors down and stare blankly at the bounding seats in front of them.  This is definitely one of the scariest moments I have had flying. I dread the thought, but I wonder if my trip “home” has a double meaning.

We break through the clouds and as we toss from side to side, I really believe that we will make it out of the mess, but the pilot will let slip as we are coming in, the wing will clip and that will be it.  I don’t know how this guy will get us to land evenly and squarely on the runway.  I am not a pilot, but I am betting we will bounce down the runway.

I hold my breath as the landing lights draw nearer.  The plane is still going right to left, up and down.  The ground is right below and he has not evened out yet.  Had I placed bets, I would about to be collecting my booty.  One wheel touches, then the other, then back to the previous.  We wobble as he tries to bring the front down.  When it does, it hits hard and the rushing sound is incredible as he fires up the afterburners to slow us down.  This brings another round of yelps from the passengers, not of relief, but fear.  When the rushing noise stops, and the plane slows down it is obvious that we made it through the storm.  Tonya raises her head and says, ‘That was horrible…”.  The Mexican guy who has been sitting next to her is relieved to, and bows his head and does the sign of the cross, then kisses the charm on his necklace.  I know what he is feeling, and Tonya says the same.

I look at the snobby girl.  She smiles to me.  We made it ok.

“Gross!” Tonya says in a low grumble, and she nudges my side. “Did you just see that?”  I look at her and ask, “See what?”.  She nudges me again and casts her eyes over the aisle, “That girl.  She is flossing her teeth with her hair.  Disgusting!”  I turn to look at the snobby girl, who is now fusing with her hair.  Obviously, she is getting ready for whoever she is about to see.  It may have been a hair-raising flight, but she does not want weird stuff in her teeth when she steps off the plane.  Every single passenger on this plane could not wait to grab their bags and get off.  Thankfully, we had only brought two small carry-ons, so I reached up, pulled the bags down and hurried off.

As we get into the car for the ride home, we are told, “Man.  You guys picked a bad time to land.  The radio said the winds were hitting over 60mph.  The emergency alarm was even sounded on the radio…”  You’re telling me?  We just lived it dude.  We clear out of the passenger pick up area and make our way towards the freeway.  Once we are in the clearing, we see the dark clouds already drifting further away from us.  Why couldn’t the storm have waited…or better yet, sped up so we did not meet at this point at the same time?  “Oh well, you can’t even imagine how much we needed the rain” a voice says.  Maybe so, but it doesn’t make our flight into hell any better. 

I was extremely thrilled at the surprise encounter at The Gap.  Tonya was trying on jeans and asked me to fetch another size.  Like a good boy, I head straight back out to the shelves ot get her another size.  There was a woman standing in front of the place I needed to get to.  She is in my way, and I am in a hurry.  I stand for a moment looking at the woman form behind and think, "I hope this lady doesn't think I am freak, I'm going for it...", and I step beside her, then lean forward and start rummaging.  I am a bit self conscious about my abrupt invasion of her personal browsing space, but I have a job to do.  While hunched over I hear what I think is my name.  A brief second of rationale tells me Tonya is away in a dressing room, no one else knows I am here therefor I must be hearing things.  I hear it again.  I realize I am not hearing things, but someone is actually saying my name.  I stand and turn around.  It was the lady I had worried about thinking I was being intrusive by squeezing her out of the way so I could find jeans.  Turns out, this 'lady' was an old friend from high school.  I don't really care about my high school 'friends' but she is one of the few I have actually thought about over the years. Now, after almost 30 years   We are standing face to face.  I have no idea how long we stood and chatted, all I know is that it was rapid fire. There is so much I would like to know and no time to be able to.

After our 30 years of catching up in a flash, she said she had to go, and Tonya was finished too.  I said goodbye to Kirsten, gave her a hug and told her to come visit.  She smiled and started her way out, flashing that wonderful smile of hers.  As we walked up to our car, I notice that the car pulling out that was beside us was Kirsten.  I motion to the two cars being parked beside one another.  She rolls down her window and says, "Weird, this is really weird"   It was, but it was great. I was truly thrilled to see her.

Regarding the trip back; perhaps it is an unknown phenomenon, but on the way back, as I sat in my aisle seat again, I look to the guy across the aisle from me.  He has his Blackberry or some other modern, square shaped phone out and he’s typing away like a mad man.  The, he takes his tiny typing tool used for his virtual keyboard, and he starts picking his teeth.  Is this a previously unnoticed trend among Mexican flyers?

The Blue Hairs (PT 2)

When we ‘woke up’, I could barely get out of bed.  I stood and thought I would fall right back over, like an old fence post.  Actually, that is what my spine felt like, hinged together with another splintery piece of wood as my hips, held together by a very large, chunky rusty hinge.  I know it took me a while to stand up straight.  Tonya and I laughed at how slow we moved around the room.  After taking showers, we made our way out into the early morning Mexican breeze.  It felt great.  It was crisp and bright outside.

I just liked this building, especially in the morning light.

We walked around the streets, which were much quieter on a Monday morning.  Hellos were exchanged with almost every passing stranger.  The ones in bad shorts, sandals and straw hats would send out a chirpy, “MORNING!” as if it were any suburban neighborhood in any town USA.  Tonya had spotted an ‘Illy’ coffee sign at one of the cafes sitting on the corner of the main square.  “They have to serve good coffee there if it is Illy, don’t you think?” she asks as we approach her intended target. “I guess.  I don’t ant anything crazy…I would like some simple bread and butter with my coffee”, I reply.  We grab a table and sit.  The waiter comes and Tonya asks him if they serve good coffee.  He says he will make it however she wants, “Strong” she says.  He nods, and gets to work.  The menu is full of eggs with salsa, drenched in mole, and all sorts of savory goodies.  I am in the plain white bread mode though, so I frown at my choices.  Just then, another waiter puts a small basket of warm plain white rolls on the table, with two circular containers, one for butter and one for jam. Perfect!

I actually end up ordering eggs and ham, and Tonya asks the waiter what he recommends.  She falls for it.  He brings back a platter of scrambled eggs.  One side of the plates is swimming in green salsa and the other side in smothered under a thick brown goo…but not quite mole.  I look at her plate and then her.  She sits staring at me.  “You sure you wanna do that?”  I ask.  “If you haven’t gone to the restroom yet, I promise you you will be there very soon after that breakfast” She laughs and agrees.  The coffee is OK, and so are my eggs and ham.  The beans are fantastic though!

I liked the cacti on the window.

After breakfast we want to get a look at the life during the week for the normal resident here.  Again, we wonder up and down streets.  I am amazed at how many people just say “Hello” or comment to you in English.  On a side street, I stop to take a photo of something and I hear a voice ask, “Is that a greyhound?”  I hear Tonya talking as I frame up my shot.  When I turn around, she is talking to an older couple.  The guy is from California and has braces.  It takes me a few minutes to get over this…a guy his age with braces.  He is nice though, and we start chatting away when another American stops and chimes in about Winston too.  The conversation turned to the couple we started talking to, and the inevitable question came out, “So what do you do in San Miguel?”  The guy laughed, “Real estate-like everybody else!” he says with his braces gleaming in the morning sun.  Great, now we know all the retirees here are all real estate agents.   We continue standing in the street and talking, and trying to grab as much insight as possible from these brief encounters.  Their number one tip, “Do Not Open A Restaurant”. Got it.

Each time out, we have taken a different route, going down new streets and seeing the place form a different angle.  As we are crossing a street, a voice reaches out, “That is the first time I have seen a dog like that in San Miguel,” it says.  We stop and smile at the grey haired guy walking carefully up the sidewalk.  He’s wearing bad shorts and his t-shirt is tucked perfectly into them. He’s got on some super fancy running shoes and a bruise on his knee.  He walks up and introduces himself.  This is Larry, he’s from Michigan.  Turns out Larry used to work for a Greyhound rescue there, and would shuttle dogs all around the Midwest.  He loves them, but never owned one.  He leans over and pets Winston.  Once more, a new conversation starts up.

A street...where friendly people meet!

Larry moved here in November, with his sister. According to him, she is a new-age freak who vibes off ‘energy’ here in San Miguel.  Larry says he’s not buying it, but his sister seems quite content and happy.  The usual questions are asked; weather, jobs, daily life.  Larry says life is pretty simple here.  You get up, meet friends for breakfast and then wonder around.  You always bump into a friend and while away the day with lunch and bumping into more friends.  During the summer months, you beat the heat by taking a siesta. “Oh man, I love it!  I go home and nap from 1 until 4, then I am ready to go” he states with enthusiasm.  Larry says as the suns starts its retreat; you head to the main square and see whom you see.  There is always something going on there and always familiar faces.  It seems as if you do not have to worry about working, this is a pretty ideal place.  It is also no wonder why we have been told that many of those who live here take up drinking as a hobby. 

Earlier, while having breakfast, Tonya overheard the table behind her.  They were a group of Mexicans and they said amongst themselves that a good bar or wine bar would be key here.  According to their conversation, the gringos here like to eat well and drink well.

We stand on the corner and let Larry entertain us for quite a while.  He is a likeable guy, and seems quite genuine and warm.  I ask him the obvious question about feeling comfortable and safe.  At first, his reply is the typical one, “Oh-the press blows everything out of proportion.  It is great here…”, then I get specific.  What about those three murders last fall that all happened within a few months of one another.  “Oh yeah, those.  Let me tell you about those” he says.  He states the same thing again, about the press not getting things right or knowing what is really going on.  “You know, there is quite a large community of those who live alternative lifestyles here.  I don’t mind, they can do what they want and I do what I want,” he says. “The Mexicans are OK with it too, as long as they keep it among themselves.  You don’t take those things into the Mexican community if you are an outsider.  The guy found with the bag over his head and stabbed 30 something times in his living room?  He was a pedophile.  It was well known around here that that was what he was in to.  Obviously, he messed with someone he shouldn’t have.  That is the thing, you don’t mess with the Mexicans…especially with their kids” Good point Larry.  What about the 41 year old found shot 9 times and dumped on the side of the road? “Oh, him?  I forgot his name…” he stands quietly for a moment trying to recall the guys name, “Well, he had a drug record in the US.  Not sure if he was running from the law, but he had a rap sheet for drug offenses.  He was tied up in some drug stuff.”  Then Larry dispels the rumor of the other ‘murder’.  “He was an older guy.  He had heart problems.  He had a heart attack and in the process, stumbled over and grappled with furniture.  I don’t know if you know this, but sometimes when this happens you kind of convulse.  He did this and in the process they found bruising on his chest and over turned furniture.  It was no foul play, just an old guy having a rough heart attack”.

Larry seems to be keyed in on the goings on here.  It makes sense that the underlying gringo community is well aware of what fellow gringos are doing.  Then Larry tells us of the lady who was stabbed repeatedly. “I thought when you asked initially, that was what you meant,” he said.  I was shocked.  I had not heard about the lady stabbed crazy style.  “Oh, I heard about that one” Tonya says, and she looks at me as if Mr. Paranoia forgot to read the latest in the bizarre happenings in Mexico news. “Wha…?”, I don’t even get to finish before Larry lets it roll.

“Oh Yeah, that was big news.  Actually, we had invited our nephew to come and visit.  We set him up in a house to house sit for a well to do woman here who was gone for a few months.  He loved it!  He said he wanted to come back and stay.  Anyway, the lady came back and he went home.  Two days later, she was found stabbed to death in the house.  My nephew was a bit shook up by the whole thing…”  I completely understand why. “Good timing for him” I say.

“Well, what it was was this.  The woman was a real bitch.   She treated her help, who were Mexican, like crap.  She had just accused a former housekeeper of stealing form her and fired her without any compensation” he says. Tonya chimes in, “Oh no, you can’t do that.  Those maids and house workers take that stuff seriously”  “Right” Larry says, “You know how it is with the law here.  Anyway, the housekeeper wanted revenge.  She watched the house for a few months and when the lady returned, went in and took revenge.  Like I said, it is not wise to cross the Mexicans.  If you gotta do something like that, do it the legal way, don’t just throw them out and be mean.”

Wow.  The knowledge learned from standing on a street corner talking to a guy named Larry with a bruise on his knee.  He is wound up now and is ready to lure us into the typical day in San Miguel, talking, coffee and chatting away the day.  I would love to listen to this guy give us the low down, but check out time is in 45 minutes.  I discreetly tap Tonya and point to my wrist.  We tell Larry how nice it was to meet him, and thank him for all the tips. He smiles and says how nice it was to meet us and to see Winston.  We exchange goodbyes and start on our way, he yells out across the street “Hey!  Maybe we’ll bump into each other later in the week…OK?”  I raise my hand and wave and give him a big smile.

We walk back to the hotel and both comment on the folks we met this morning. “I Liked Larry” I said.  “Me too” Tonya says. Back at the hotel, we start to quickly put our things together for trip home.  I laugh and ask Tonya, “Hey…by the way.  We have been out walking the whole time since breakfast.  How are you holding up?  I know those eggs have got to be working some magic on you…” She starts laughing and cuts me off. “I know, I am going now” the bathroom door shuts firm and I pack up things in a flash. Our brief time here has given us plenty to think about and to talk over on the drive home.