That Guy.

My tendency to look at others and size them up according to the simplest things is something I need to work on.  As much as we should  not pre-judge, we all do it anyway. If someone has on the wrong shoes, the wrong haircut, a stain on their shirt or whatever it may be – they are immediately categorized and filed into whatever compartment our little minds choose.  Such was my assumption with that guy.

I had no idea who this guy was, only I had seen him around town and something about him seemed odd.  The way he walked and his footwear was what first got my attention.  This guy is a gringo.  He walks very stout, with his chest puffed out and arms swaying sluggishly at his side.  That alone is no crime, but no one can take a bad-ass seriously when gazing at his feet you see he is wearing cheap flip flops.  Who wears flip-flops on a daily basis on rough streets like these?  Perhaps he takes the ‘easy livin’ creed a bit too serious.

Recognizing that walk, and the stiff puffy posture, I had been able to start spotting this guy all around town.  Once on my radar, I began to notice the rest of his attire.  Camouflage knee length shorts.  This is another faux-pas here.  We are not hiding in a jungle, and to the best of my knowledge there is no urban warfare going on.  Anyway, those shorts are null and void when paired with flip-flops.  No one is ready for full on ass kicking wearing flip-flops and knee length shorts.  Wait-there is more, the Rambo style headband he always has on too.  To me, he gives us gringos a bad name.  He looks like he’s lost and somewhat of a clown.  Mind you, I have not even gotten to the big, biker sized sideburns he sports…

I see him in the ice cream shop, outside on the street talking to girls, walking ever so proudly through the main square.  That guy is everywhere!

It was only by chance that I actually found out about that guy while sitting at our neighbor’s house.  Her daughter was spilling the beans on a resident New York hipster who was thrilled to be at a naked acid party when she referenced this weird guy who hits on every girl he sees.  More to the point, she had just been hanging out with this weird guy a few nights before and after he was striking out with every single girl that crossed his path, he turned and hit on her.  She asked why he would do such a thing, and he simply replied that it was a game of odds.  If he asks 100 girls, at least one will say yes.  Our neighbor’s daughter said she told him that even though this is Mexico, asking a total stranger on the street for a date can only get you a firm “No” and cement your reputation as a freak.  I was quite happy with this, because I knew nothing about that guy except my perception already sensed he was a bit wobbly.  Of course, he could be getting constantly turned down by his daily uniform, knee length camouflage shorts, headband and flip-flops are not typically things that get women hot.

After the mother and daughter discuss the antics from a few nights earlier, the mom starts to tell how she met the strange fella.  They were in the bank, waiting for hours (as you do in Mexico) and thus struck up a conversation.  It turns out that though that guy is a bit weird, he is a real sweetie according to the mom…and the dad, as a matter of fact.  He actually has carried groceries for the mom, replaced the dad’s beer after he helped himself to a little too many of the brand new case that was just purchased.  He is also somewhat of a gentleman, walking home the daughter and others when a woman should not be alone.  It appears he has some admirable traits.  The mom gives us the brief lowdown on the guy I have been seeing around town.

Turns out he is an Iraq war veteran.  According to the story he told the mother, he did his turn of duty, saw some things he wasn’t supposed to see and went through some traumatic situations (no doubt about that).  He is on meds, but the daughter says that he confessed he doesn’t want to take them, and frequently skips his dosage.  The guy showed up in Mexico via bus.  He had his duffle bag and flip-flops, and why he chose here, only he knows.

Leaving the States he took the bus over the border and in to Guadalajara.  The bus ride allowed some of the passengers to size him up.  After the long and grueling bus ride, he was totally unaware of the snare laid waiting for him when the bus stopped.  Getting off the bus and passing through a few customs agents, he was accosted by two guards with baseball bats.  It was not a pretty sight.  They beat him up real good, and only the nearby crowd stifled the beating.  The two assailants fled and left him bleeding and beaten on the bus station floor.  The cops came and as he got himself together, he was determined to press charges on the two assailants; after all, there was a crowd of people who witnessed the beating and he was sure justice would be served.

The cops took him to the station and began the lengthy chore of Mexican paperwork.  (Mind you, this is Mexico so filing a report is probably a waste of time because the cops won’t do anything anyway).  There was a mole in the midst, because as the guy is filing his complaint and charges, the father of one of the assailants shows up with cash in hand.  He tries to buy the guy off and get him to drop the charges.  According to the tale as it was told to me, the guy was confused as to why this was happening in a police station.  He insisted on the charges staying in place and wanted the assailants arrested.  He denied the money from the father and sent him on his way.  He was battered and tired, and this process was taking way too long.  Finally, after all was said and done, the police returned that guy back to the scene of the crime, the bus station.

Imagine it; you ride on the bus for countless hours to s strange land and first thing that happens when you get off is you get beat to a pulp by two guys with baseball bats.  Bloody, bruised and sore, you then have to go to the police station and try to communicate with the police what just happened…and also have a stranger come in and try to bribe you to drop charges.  There is no doubt this poor guy had been through the ringer and was dead tired.  The robbers took his bags and rifled through his wallet, so he was left with nothing but a beaten body.  Returning back to the bus station, he had no idea what to do next.  Exhausted, he sat quietly and drifted off to sleep.   He was unaware and had no idea of the time frame, but while he had dosed off asleep, two men came in to the bus station and searched for him.  When they found their mark, they began taking photos of him.  Obviously, these guys were not doing this for curiosity, but these images would quickly be dispersed to some rough characters that would see to it that this lowly gringo who insisted on pressing charges would be done away with.  As the two men finished their photos and left, a thoughtful and concerned passenger in waiting nudged the stranger and told him to wake.  They relayed the instance of what just happened and told him to leave immediately, or else.  Obviously, the beaten foreigner knew what would happen if he stayed any longer.  With no bags or anymore belongings, he grabs the first bus out of there.  Guess where he lands?

Like I said, any guy who walks around in camouflage shorts and flip flops and matching headband must have a few screws loose.  After the story was told to me about this guy, I soon understood why, and yes, my heart felt for the guy.  What does one do after fighting crazed Arabs in the dusty Middle East and then coming here and as soon as your feet touch the ground you get a thorough ass kicking by two crazed Mexicans with baseball bats?  Anyone would suffer from a few screws getting knocked loose after that. 

So here he is, trying to start a new.  I now know a bit more about that guy, and have a bit of reverence for him.  Who knows, maybe he is just a loose canon who deserved getting the living daylights beat out of him-maybe not, who knows?  I can at least understand some of his kooky behavior a bit better, even though I question a bad case of shell shock being the cause of asking out every single girl you see in hopes that a single one says yes.

In his defense, how many young guys today will carry a stranger’s groceries for them?  Better yet, how many punks these days know that when walking with a woman, you take the outside of the sidewalk?  Not many.  Perhaps that guy isn’t such a bad apple after all.  I know that I will end up talking to him sooner than later, and then I will know if my pre-judged opinion was right, or if I totally missed the mark.

The Professionals

I am constantly in awe of how this once great civilization has decayed into perfectionists in half-assedness.  Truly amazing.

In recent weeks, Winston has been having problems with his heart again.  It is not good news and the end result is inevitable.  I try to enjoy our time together every day that we are both still here.  I love him immensely, what more can I say.  I want him to be as healthy as possible, and if his health is failing, I want him to be as comfortable as possible.

We visited a vet who had come highly recommended.  She seemed nice enough, and very accommodating.  Standing in her office as she viewed Winston’s x-rays, I was a bit confused when she said she would send Winston’s tests to the heart specialist…in Argentina.  “In Argentina?” I asked, yes, in Argentina.  With this type of system, I knew immediately I would never get a quick answer regarding Winston.  I went with it though, and trusted those with degrees in medicine.

The following night, Winston appeared to be getting worse, and he lay on the couch with a heartbeat as fast as the bullet train and breathing to match.  We called the doctor to ask her what may be happening.  She simply replied that she still had not heard back from Argentina, and perhaps Winston was having a reaction to the new medicine.  I did not need my dog dying on the couch in front of me because a guy in Argentina had not replied to a woman in small town Mexico.  Luckily, Tonya had the idea to call his doctor in Mexico City and ask him what we should do.  Thankfully, he took time out to talk her through what we should do.  Another day passed and still no word from our new vet or the guy in Argentina.  Finally, the phone rings and the vet calls to tell us she heard back, and would send us the results.  Tonya told her what had happened and how since she could not answer us, we went to a doctor who could.  With no malicious intent, this simple seeking of help caused a riff with our new vet, and it appears to have been short lived.

We went back to the public to ask who we should use as a vet.  We get another tip, and follow it up.  This guy seems really nice, and tells us of a heart specialist who visits another nearby town once a week.  The neighboring town is much closer than Mexico City, so we decide to follow the lead.  Tonya calls the specialist and he takes his time to discuss Winston’s situation.  He sets aside time to see him on his next visit.

On the given day, we drive to the neighboring town and meet the specialist.  He seems very nice and professional.  He is standing at an examining table with the resident vet.  They ask questions, look at Winston and ask for any previous results, which I hand over on a USB stick.  They both move to a computer and view the results, talking back and forth with their opinions and observations.

The specialist comes to us as tells us he will do an ultrasound to view Winston’s heart.  As he talks over the current situation, he asks about the doctor we had previously seen.  When we tell him of the situation, he says he knows of the doctor in Argentina, and he is a God-like figure to those in the same field here in Mexico.  Had we only known we were dealing with such a figure…

The specialist pulls out a manual and asks how much Winston weighs.  Tonya and I look at one another and shrug our shoulders.  I tell the doctor I think he weighs 13 something kilos, “Does that sound right?” I ask.  He says he sounds about right.  He insists on knowing the exact weight, because the diagnosis and medication and following procedures would need to be exact-and it is all based on weight.  He asks the other vet to weigh Winston, and he disappears downstairs.  He comes back a few minutes later with an old bathroom scale.  He sets it down next to me and proceeds to stand on it.  He says his weight to all of us standing there, and then reaffirms his findings to say that the scale is accurate.  He motions for Winston.  I pick Winston up from the table, and begin to try and put him on the slightly rusty bathroom scale.  The vet motions not to try.  He touches my arm and pulls me toward the scale.  The specialist speaks up, “You get on the scale, not Winston”

I hand Winston to Tonya and look at the scale.  It is not zeroed out.  If all of this is to be exact, why am I getting on a scale that is not correctly set?  I stand on the scale and the vet looks at the weight.  He says it aloud to the specialist.  He then tells Tonya to hand Winston to me.  I am now standing on the scale with Winston in my arms.  Unbelievably, this is how they get to an exact weight in order to make life saving decisions in situations like this.  The vet tells the specialist the difference in weight.  I was right!  It was right at 13 kilos!

The specialist then asks for Winston to be hoisted back up on the table and that he will now do the ultrasound.  He tells the other vet to shave off some of Winston’s hair.  The vet opens a drawer and pulls out a pair of electric shears, like a dad about to give his son a homemade haircut.  He plugs it in, taps them on the counter and turns it on.  He touches it to his palm to make sure the blades are working.  Knowing that everything is functioning, he asks where he should trim.  The specialist tells him and he leans over Winston and starts the trimming.  Every so often Winston flinches, but the vet keeps at it.  It is not until after the ultrasound I see a whole series of gashes and cuts along Winston’s side.  The shears work, but are incredibly dull…or the vet is ham fisted with electric trimmers.

The specialist now says he is ready for Winston.  He says something to the vet, and as soon as he puts the shears away, he pulls out a large bag of dog food and plops it on the examining table.  He grabs a dirty pink towel and lays it out nicely over the large bag of dog food.  “Winston will love this, he is going to be so comfortable…like at a spa” the specialist says as he drives his fist into the bag to shape the bag for his purpose.  He looks up at me and with both hands pats the newly formed bag of dog food draped in the pink towel, “OK, let’s go!”

It takes a while to do the ultrasound, first Winston on one side, then the other.  When he finishes, he raises his hands and says, “OK, we are finished now”.  The other vet turns the lights on and the specialist is digging in his bag. “I am going to burn these images to a disc now”, he says and pulls out a blue CD writer, with scotch tape all over the top.  As the disc is whirring away on the table, he explains what he has seen and what to do next.  “Now, we will take x-rays of Winston”.  I dread this almost as much as Winston.  He hates getting put on his side under the strange machine with men in lead jackets holding him down.  It is like ‘Marathon Man’ all over again.  When the vet and his assistant have prepped the room, he comes out and asks for Winston.  I take Winston and lead him into the room, feeling like a guilty parent of selling out my kid to some heinous event.  The vet takes Winston in and we continue talking with the specialist.

The specialist informs us that we are doing all that we can given the situation, but thinks Winston needs a different diagnosis.  “It is not really anything too different, but just for technical reasons we should change it” he reaffirms.    Winston comes walking out and all seems OK.  Seeing Winston, the specialist realizes that now all the necessary steps are completed.  He sits and discusses the possibility of some new medication and asks some more questions about Winston’s recent behavior.  The vet pokes his head around the corner and gives the specialist a sign that the x-rays are ready for viewing.  Tonya and I sit on a small dirty couch, and watch them view the newly shot images.  They are not touching them, and they are holding them on the corners with a pair of tongs.  One of x-rays slips out of the tongs and onto the floor.  Obviously, they are not dry enough.  They look around for somewhere to hang the x-ray to dry a bit more.  They come back to the examining table and look around the room.  The vet sees something.  He walks to the corner of the room.  He takes the x-ray and attaches it to a fan which has been hung upside down from the ceiling, in the corner.  Ingenious.

I can’t believe it.  These are the professionals.  I feel like I am in good hands.

Blood in the Sand (pt.2)

After a few minutes another cheer goes up.  It is the main man, Pablo.  He is out and making rounds on his horse.  He makes the horse trot sideways as he rounds the ring and waves at the crowd.  The people love him.  The old lady in front of me has her camera out and his snapping a load of pictures.  After he does the rounds and a few tricks, he goes to the opposite side of the ring and sits, poised attentively staring at the entrance from where the bull will come charging.  The crowd cheers and another bull is in the ring.  Like the previous, he makes his rounds, charging various toreros.  As he rounds my way, he charges a few of the fighters behind the wall.  He stops and stares the fighters down.  He lowers his head and starts ramming the wall.  The crowd goes nuts.  Perhaps its revenge, it is payback time for what those lousy fighters had just done.

Trapped

Pablo in action

It is interesting to watch this fighter on horseback; after all, he is the world’s best Rejoneador.  He does almost all of the fight himself, from the lance, to the banderillas, to the final stab; all done from atop of his horse.  He’s suave. The horse is trained to perfection. Often times throughout the fight Pablo rides with no hands, steering the horse with his legs or by yelling commands.  It is something to see, and whenever he has a chance Pablo likes to show off, and do some stunts purely for the ‘wow’ factor.  Pablo charges the bull and the bull charges back.  They go at each other head on and at the last moment the horse is pulled aside and the brush past one another.  The crowd loves this   and Pablo raises his hand to massive cheers.  It’s not always fun and games, as sometimes the bull forces Pablo to make a quick decision, causing his horse to jump and gallop sideways and after breaking away from the confrontation, run to the opposite side of the ring.  This gives both the fighter and bull a chance to rethink the situation.  Pablo and the bull charge one another a bit before one of his assistant hand him a long lance.  He raises it overhead to massive cheering, like some great warrior.  He parades the horse around the ring, waiting for the right moment.  The bull is watching intently as he circles.  Almost in unison, they both go full speed at one another and Pablo raises the long spear above as he rushes toward the bull, as he thrusts it down you can hear the sound of steel into meat.  The crowd cheers.  His lance has a white banner at the tip, and he trails it along so the bull chases it.  He is using this instead of a cape. The dance between man, horse and bull goes round and round and Pablo does all he can to tire the bull. The bull makes his move and sends Pablo and his horse leaping sideways again.  His hat flies off and the crowd screams with delight.  Pablo leans out almost perfectly vertical and pats the bull on his head, a gentle but obvious taunt. His brazen stunt ignites the crowd. Everyone is in a rabid chatter about what they have just witnessed.  Now I understand the fascination of watching a very intense and intimate fight.  Both Pablo and the bull are adrenalized, and it is time for one them to spill his life out onto the dirt for all to see.  Pablo takes his turns with his banderillas and then the final plunge.  He wins, the bull falls and the crowd is ecstatic.

The first fight was traumatic.  Pablo’s was real showmanship and some genuinely tense moments.  He definitely raised everyone’s spirits and the energy level.  It will be hard to top a guy on a gallant horse.  The clean-up crew is in the ring hauling out the dead bull, spreading out the dirt and then the sign guy shows up. I am scanning the floor wildly because my camera just broke. I forget about the fights for a moment and get absorbed in finding the part that has fallen off my camera.  How can this happen?  It's a Nikon!  He holds his sign up so the crowd can see what’s next. He disappears below me and a few seconds later the cheers ignite again as a new bull is running rampant in the ring.

Almost immediately the bull’s horns grab one of the torero’s capes and he leaps over the wall.  The bull drags the cape into the center of the ring and repeated shoves his horns into the cape and into the dirt. ‘Toro, Toro, Toro” the crowd is chanting.  Some are already on their feet!  For the third fight things are already off to a wild start.  The bull charges each fighter, sending them up and over the wall followed by huge cheers from the crowd.  This particular bull does the one thing that sends everyone over the edge. With all the toreros hiding behind the wall and a lone cape in the ring, the bull sets his sights and starts kicking up dust with his hoofs.  It’s like all the stories you’ve heard. It is thrilling to see this.  At least for this very moment, the bull is in full control and no one is willing to tempt him.  The crowd keeps chanting ‘Toro, Toro” and applause breaks out around the whole ring.  When the matador finally makes his way into the center of the ring, both the bull and the audience are keenly focused on any movement across the sand.

 

This matador is on his feet, no horse to gallop away on.  This is the type of matador you want to see, a true professional.  Though not as graceful as the ronjeador, he still commands the utmost respect.  The interplay between he and the bull is obviously more intimate and truly at ground level.  There are some hair raising moments as he is charged and has to dodge the horns, swirling his cape and becoming engulfed in a cloud of dust.  Things move slightly off center to the left of the ring.  Man and bull are now truly face to face.  The two are trying one another’s skill and patience.  As they are swirling in their dueling dance, each close call and scrape gets a loud “Ole!”  They come one after another, in a constant scream form the crowd.  It’s hard to tell who is getting the cheers, the matador or the bull.  Both are doing their best and both are splendid.  The bull trips up and his front legs give.  He falls to his knees.  The matador walks away and gives the bull time to regain his footing.  Staring at one another, the matador closes in and slowly goes to one knee.  They are both panting and looking one another in the eye.  The matador stands and turns his back and walks away.  Everyone goes to their feet and cheers.  When he regains his strength, the bull charges across the ring at the matador and everyone cheers again.

Taking aim for the last stab...

...the final blow and the bull falls

The 'finisher'

I am struck at the dazzling array of color and blood. It is thrilling when the bulls stand majestically and catch their breath; the glistening crimson flow across their muscles, topped with the brightly colored banderillas is quite a sight.  In those intimate moments when the bull and fighter are side by side, and brush by one another, the fighters’ bright capes take on a totally different look when they are flowing through the air now streaked with blood.  It is magnificence with a cost.

This matador did a good job and the crowd is letting him know by the loudness of their cheers. It’s non-stop.  He is worn and sweaty, and walks a victory round around the ring with a few of his toreros.  Someone throws a hat into the ring and the matador halts his step and catches it. They audience goes wild and he rears back, takes aim and sends the hat flying back into the stands.  As he rounds the arena, people are throwing souvenirs, hats, scarves and anything they can get their hands on into the ring.  He stops, waves and throws them back to make them even more frantic.

The matador with an audience member's hat.

I turn back to check on Tonya.  She is distraught and has not been able to cast her gaze into the ring.  She has been trying to sneak peaks through the screen on my camera.  I ask if she is OK, and she says that she is not doing well, but she is sticking it out.  I turn to the annoying boyfriend and look at his girlfriend, “How are you?  You OK?”  She shakes her sweaty head and gives two thumbs up.  I look back to Tonya and pat her on her back.

“Oooh, he’s a big one” I hear a voice say followed by a cheer.  ‘Buena Suerta’ is 490 kilos and is charging into the ring with wild abandon.  He chases all of the toreros out and he too, locks in on a few and starts banging the wall they are hiding behind.  He backs off, and then darts across to try jabbing some other fighters.  This bull is big and mean and not putting up with anyone’s nonsense.  You can sense it from the way he moves and his stature that he is a real badass.  Every torero that tries to make his way into the ring is immediately sent running back.  The crowd loves it but the fighters don’t.  No one can get near him.  The bull is holding his ground without any problems.  Tension is high.  No one can really get close enough to do anything, so they call out the Picador.  The crowd moans its disapproval that man and bull have yet to face off.  The picador comes out with his spear raised.  Not only does the crowd disapprove, but the bull does too.  As the picador is taking aim the bull charges, the picador misses and the bull hits the horse broadside.  The picador is thrown off the horse and all the women gasp.  The crowd screams with fear.  All of the toreros have been kept at bay and no one can get to help the downed picador.  The bull chases him off, then locks in on the horse that is wallowing in the dirt, trying to get back on its feet.  The bull charges full on and starts goring the horse.  It is relentless and jabs and jabs and jabs.  It retreats then head down and in for another stab.  The horse is kicking wildly but the bull has found its weak spot, beneath its padded protection.  All of the toreros have jumped into the ring and are trying frantically to get the bull’s attention.  He doesn’t stop, he keeps stabbing.  The sand is getting muddied with blood from the horse.  Women are screaming and the crowd is on its feet.  A torero grabs the bull’s tail and tries to pull him, but to no avail.  The bull turns and chases him, and back into the horse.  “It’s horrible!  This is horrible!” the women are screaming in front of me. “Get him off! Help the horse!  Get the horse!” people are screaming.  “Help him!”

The picador gets charged...

He is knocked off the and bull goes for the horse

The bull is goring the horse repeatedly. Note torero pulling his tail

...still attacking the horse

The picador remounts his wounded horse.

With all of the fighters in the ring, the bull is finally distracted form the horse.  There is no movement from the horse and many of the women are screaming. Everyone imagines that it is too late and the horse is dead.  Several men jump the wall and get into the ring to help the horse.  There is chaos all around and everyone is stunned from what they’ve just witnessed “This is not normal, this never happens” someone says.  “This is crazy” I hear the annoying boyfriend say out loud.  The crowd starts a different kind of sound as the picador appears.  He comes over the wall and all I hear is “Noooooo!”  I don’t understand what is going on, I can’t see what is happening.  I look to the bull and the fighters, but nothing.  It is a total stand-off.  I look back to the horse and they have gotten the horse to stand, the picador approaches his horse and the crowd gets louder and more defiant, “NOOOOOOO!”  The picador mounts his horse and raises his spear.  The woman in front of mean screams, “Oh my God!  The poor horse is bleeding to death; his legs are covered in blood!  Don’t do it!”  The picador is determined to take revenge on the bull.  His horse is unsteady.  Beneath its armor you can see blood running down its hind legs.  There is blood all in the sand where it was laying getting the bull’s horns repeated stab into its underbelly and hind quarters.  The horse cannot walk a straight line and is stumbling.  ‘He’s going to die!  He’s going to die!  The horse is dying!” someone is screaming.  The crowd is completely confused and is screaming at the picador “Booooo!”  The picador is visibly shaken and upset, and leads his weakened horse out of the ring.  It is too much for some.  Several people are so upset they are leaving.  The woman in front of me is pushing her friend away who is trying to calm her down, “I’m leaving.  I cannot stand this. Its horrible!” she is yelling at her friend almost in tears.  There is disruption all through the crowd and I have lost focus of what is going on in the ring.  People are stepping over people to leave.  I feel a tap on my shoulder and Tonya looks sick.  She is shaking her head and saying out loud “I’m leaving-I can’t see this” I tell her to wait a moment and gather my cameras.  The annoying boyfriend grabs my arm, “She is not doing well. You going to go with her?”  I shake my head to affirm his guess.  The woman in front of me grabs me and asks, “Is she OK?  This is horrible, just horrible.  Its not supposed to be like this, two horses in one night” I lean over and tell her we are going.  As I step down from the seats there are many more that have been shaken by the scene and are leaving or at least turning their backs and trying to get away from the chaos.

Leaving the ring, a view behind the scenes

We walk down the ramp the way we came in and there is a lot of commotion outside.  We walk passed the loading gates and there are the big horses that drag the bulls out.  There is blood everywhere and a guy is trying to hose it all down.  There is something going on further ahead of the horses but I can’t see what it is, but it has people hurrying about behind the scenes.  Tonya won’t stop; she’s several steps ahead of me shaking her head. I am limping, almost hopping to catch up with her.  She cannot get out of the area fast enough.  When I get by her side she looks at me with glassy eyes and fear, shaking her head “I shouldn’t have gone…” she said, “I shouldn’t have gone”

Me?  I still can’t make up my mind.  Death is not a fun thing to watch.

Blood in the Sand (pt.1)

This is my first bullfight.  I am thrilled. The odd thing which seems to be an underlying theme through the whole affair is that it falls on Good Friday.  The question on everyone’s lips is, “Can you kill a bull on Good Friday?”  I don’t know I am not Catholic.  As far as I can tell though, there is no biblical law against bullfighting on Good Friday.  For me, this is a big day.

The fight is not until 8pm, and we are to meet some new ‘friends’ at a small cantina which is famous for seafood.  I hate seafood.  I agree to go under the condition that I eat a big late lunch and just sit there and smile when we meet our new friends.  There are more important things at hand though, like making sure I get film, charge my cameras and unpack some boxes in the house.

House chores first, and my first duty is to undo a table lop from the legs.  I ask Tonya to lend a hand and we flip the table and start to dismantle it.  The seasoned handyman that I am, I had forgotten to think about my feet below the table top.  As I am reaching over the table standing upright on its side, I undo the screws holding the top.  As the last screw is coming loose I hear a loud bang and an incredible pain across both feet, straight across all my toes.  It takes a second or two to realize just what this pain is; the table top has fallen right on top of my toes.  I look at Tonya, drop my screwdriver, wedge my feet from beneath the table top and plop down to the ground.  Not saying a word, I pull my shoes and socks off expecting blood and guts.  “Are you OK?” Tonya says from behind the table.  I am wiggling my toes to make sure all is ok, and she asks ‘What happened?  Did that just fall on your toes?”  My silence and her seeing me on the floor answered her question.  “Let me see your feet.  Are they bleeding?  Are your toes OK?” she asks as I raise my foot to show her.  My big toe looks like a plum with blood beneath the nail. It’s gross, but not as gross as I expected. What the hell-I have a bullfight to go to.  It’s Pablo Hermoso de Mendoza, the greatest Rejoneador (bullfighter on horseback), and now I have throbbing, bruised and battered toes.  Is this God’s way of saying ‘No bullfights on Good Friday!’?

I limp away to the den and prop my throbbing feet up.  Tonya comes in with some ice and says that is it for my house duties today.  I put my busted toes up and stare at them and hope they don’t let me down this evening.

Our appointed time rolls around to go meet our new friends at the seafood joint. I have gotten my cameras together and grabbed my camera bag and we start our evening.  Out the front door I ask if we should walk or take a cab.  “Look!  There is a cab coming up the street” Tonya says as she points down the street.  As he gets closer we see that he has a passenger.  He rolls passed and we look at one another, “I guess we’re walking then” I say as I hobble alongside Tonya.  Our journey is across the town center and all uphill.  With a bruised and throbbing bulbous big toe, it is no fun. I feel like peg leg or something slowly making my way up the cobblestoned streets. 

We see our friends in the corner and they wave at us as we walk in.  The hellos are exchanged and we sit down.  They are already eating, and Tonya orders up some food.  We order a round of drinks and start the drivel of what everyone did today. “I dropped a table top on my feet!” I said. 

We met our new pals a few nights ago and we both agree that the boyfriend is kind of a jerk.  He’s come here to be a screen writer and he has a small blue stoned stud in his left ear.  When he talks, he kind of talks out of the side of his mouth and it is usually rubbish; like some sort of philosophy or New Age crap. He informs us that he’s giving a three part talk of the three major stages of Yoga.  Good thing he can’t read my mind, because I would have just told him he’s full of sh*t. He likes to inform everyone that he’s a practicing Hindu. Whatever.  The girlfriend is sweet.  If it were not for her, we wouldn’t be sitting with this guy now.  I have no idea why, but as Tonya is eating her food she asks if I want some. It’s pointless because she knows I hate seafood.  The talk bounces back and forth as plates come and go and we wind down the clock until fight time.  As it nears 8pm, the boyfriend and I are arguing over slavery in American history versus Mexican history. He’s one of these lefty-types who think America is the blight on the world and I disagree.  I call him out on some of his misinformation about the great Mexican culture and notice that his girlfriend is hanging her head and Tonya keeps wiping her face with a napkin.  She’s sweating and very uncomfortable.  I do not want this to blow up, so I agree with some nonsense he’s spouting off and find a way to change the subject.  After all, it is 8pm and I do not want to be late to my first bullfight.  We pay up, get up and get out.  As we stand in the street his girlfriend is taking some snaps of the surroundings and I make some small talk to ease things over.  Thankfully, the bullring is not far away and it is downhill.

We bought ‘cheap seats’, or as the girl at the ticket place politely informed Tonya, we bought tickets that are for “the lower class”.  Our friend told us that the ring is so small that any seat is a good seat.  As we walk into the ‘lower class’ section and up the ramp I see the whole ring. It is small. It looks great and I am excited.  We make our way up to our seats, which is really just a series of concrete rings.  The high priced seats are the same, just closer and bent rebar is the only thing which separates each seat.  I get my cameras together as a lady sits down in front of us with her friends and I over hear them talking. This is the second oldest bullring in the whole of Mexico. Nice to know.  I am seeing the ultimate horseback bullfighter in the second oldest bullring in the country.   Still, I wish I could have seen a fight in the biggest ring in the country in Mexico City. 

The house band.

I turn behind me to talk to the annoying boyfriend.  I ask him questions about the fights and some trivial bits.  He says the matadors have 15 minutes to kill a bull, and each one takes on two bulls. I don’t say it, but that seems like a lot of bulls in an hour an a half. “There will be six bulls killed tonight” he says proudly.  Nothing has even happened and Tonya is already nervous.  She has been to a bullfight before but when she was a kid.  She doesn’t know if she can stomach it.  The people around her reassure her that everything will be fine and to just concentrate on the horseback rider. “He’s marvelous!” the lady says in front of us.  She turns and says she has seen him several times, “And he’s so handsome. He’s gorgeous” Everyone in town has said this guy is something to see; even people back in Mexico City speak of the fame of this fighter.  I feel privileged, even if I am sitting on concrete with a throbbing toe and a nutty Hindu from the Midwest.  A band starts playing across the ring and everyone starts cheering.  I suppose it is almost show time.   I have no idea what is about to unfold in front of me but I have been looking forward to this night since I fist arrived in Mexico.

The Matadors (or Toreros) parade out as does the bullfight queen. I suppose she is the bullfight queen because she is adorned in a special costume and the only woman in the ring.  They come out and the crowd roars.  They‘re waving and slowly make their way around the whole ring so the crowd can get a good look.  These are the toreros, the guys who will face the bulls tonight. The ‘matador’ is the master fighter, or the main one who will kill the bull.  After they parade around, the queen goes away and the chosen toreros take their places around the ring.

The Bullfight Queen and Toreros

Sign guy

A guy walks out in the middle of the ring with a sign.  He looks kind of sloppy…at least in the sense that he wears no special costume or anything that separates him from anyone of the crowd.  He holds the sign up.  It shows the bull’s name, his number and his weight.  The first bull is named ‘Pasion’, and he weighs a hefty 480 kilos.  Our seats are above and a bit off centered of the main entrance into the ring, so we can’t see the bulls coming.  A cheer goes up and then a bull is seen running into the ring.  He runs around the ring, charging at the scattered matadors who are spread out around the ring.  If he chooses a certain man and charges him, the crowd cheers with delight.

I am immediately struck with a sort of uneasiness watching this newly released bull.  He runs around the ring confused. He is disoriented. He runs aimlessly then stops and takes in all that is around him.  In a strange way, I feel sad for this confused creature.  There are bright costumed figures all around him, many more watching from above, and he has no clue what is about to happen.  Everyone is yelling and he doesn’t know what to do.  A random fighter steps out and waves his cape to get the bull’s attention. He just stands and stares.  Sometimes this works, other times it doesn’t.  It doesn’t take too long before the seasoned participants realize this bull is going to be a bit ‘difficult’.  He won’t charge. He won’t run.  This is my first fight, so I can’t tell if he is scared, stubborn or really sly.  Different fighters step out and wave their capes.  He looks at them but doesn’t budge.  A fighter gets brave and walks closer to the bull.  He reacts and it draws a cheer.  The bull runs a short while then stops.  I watch his head and I can see him scanning the ring, looking at almost every spot where a fighter is standing.  “This is not good” says the annoying boyfriend from behind me. “He won’t charge. He won’t fight.  This is not going to be good” His sentiments are starting to be echoed by those surrounding us.  Even the lady in front of me says that they should get a different bull, because this one will not fight.  The men in the ring get more assertive and try to get closer to the bull to draw him out and get him going.  It is their job to start wearing him out so that the featured Matador can do his job, but they are making a sloppy show of it.  The beer has emboldened the crowd and they start taunting the men in the ring, yelling insults.

Placing the banderillas

The Picador comes in to the displeasure of the crowd

After a few minutes a Picador comes out into the ring.  He rides a horse that is covered in protective padding and will take his ‘pica’ or spear, and stab it into the back of the bull’s neck to start the weakening process.  This picador seems anxious, as he is out and at the bull in no time.  The crowd hisses with disapproval.  The picador doesn’t mind.  He stabs the bull and the crowd boos.  He goes again and stabs the bull in his side, which elicits a huge disapproval form the crowd.  The bull is wounded and disoriented.  He’s obviously angry and makes for the picador.  In the blink of an eye, the bull is at the horse and trying to gore it.  The rider has fallen off and the crowd is screaming.  The horse falls and the bull is at it with its horns in full force.  The women in front of me are frightened, and are saying that they have rarely seen this.  Toreros run into the ring and rescue the horse by distracting the bull.  It is unsettling for all.  This bull is not making it easy for the fighters, and the crowd is upset because he has been unfairly wounded.  He wonders the ring in a daze, and pools of blood stand where he stops to gaze around the ring. A torero comes to confront him and the bull charges, taking the cape from the fighter.  The crowd cheers, “Toro, Toro, Toro”.  I too, feel a bit excited that the animal is getting back at the fighters.  He makes his way around the ring and a group of three toreros converge on him.  He’s very confused, tries to charge and stumbles and falls into the dirt.  The crowd lets out a gasp, they are obvious upset that the bull is having such a hard time and many patrons are yelling that this is an unfair fight.  People around me are saying this is not right, and they should kill him quickly and not make him suffer.  The crowd almost goes silent, with a subtle muttering floating above head. This is not enjoyable and it is not the way a fight should start.  The bull stumbles around and without much of a fight; he is taken down with a stab.  It was quiet enough to actually hear the sound of the sword punching in behind the bulls shoulder.  There is no cheer, but just a layer of mumbling of disapprovals.  The matador raises his hands in victory and the crowd boos.

I am confused.  I thought these events were full of pageantry, majesty and showmanship.  This is off to a rough start, like it is hackneyed amateurs and a cruel game.  The bull falls and the toreros surround him.  Another torero in blue comes out with a knife of some sort, he walks to the bull that is lying in the dirt, and he takes one last stab into the bulls back (into the heart).  He walks away with no glory.  This has been a messy affair.  The crowd is disgusted with the first torero and it all ends in shambles.  As the slain bull lays on the side of the ring with blood pooling around it, the concession men suddenly appear and yelling begins for ‘beer, wine, tequila, snacks’ and others are waving cushions, calendars and other souvenirs.

Dead bull aside, it's time for snacks!

The whole thing was messy and disappointing. I feel very uneasy and somewhat sick.  There is no respect for this bloodied bull in the dirt. He’s gone, done away with, and now its time for beer.  I can’t believe that after this very disheartening affair that the huge animal just lies dying on the side of the ring and everyone is back to business.  Tonya has gotten up and turned her back to the whole affair.  She would remain this way for the remainder of the event.  The women in front of me shake their heads and the annoying boyfriend says this was “not good”.  Some men run out into the ring and prep to bull to be hauled off.  Two more men in big sombreros come out with two giant black horses.  They go to the bull and tie him to a small triangular wedge of wood, and before I realize it, they drag the sweaty, muscle-bound corpse disgracefully out of the ring.

Removing the bull

What next?  What am I suppose to feel?  Where was the majesty, the elegance the pageantry?  I turn to the boyfriend and say, “That was crap!  I have never been to one of these before, but those guys were hackneyed amateurs.  What was that?”

I stare at my feet and my cameras.  There is dust all over my camera bag now.  I have no idea what to think, all I know is that there is an empty feeling in my gut. I feel sick…but from deep, deep inside. I feel dirty, like I have just seen something you are not supposed to see.  I feel like this whole night is tarnished already.  I turn back to Tonya and see if she is OK.  She shrugs her shoulders.


(...continued )

Drunks & Toothless Canadians (pt.2)

The springy haired woman is correcting the drunk over something I have missed.  It turns out the drunk is saying she wants to go dancing at the Cuba Fest in the main square. ‘Listen that is Cuban music” she says pointing her finger in the air. She is wrong.  What she hears is the corny ‘Best of Dave Brubeck’ that the restaurant has been playing.  I keep eating and don’t bother correcting her.  The springy haired lady is complaining of her lack of sleep.  On a sad note, she admits that today is the fourth anniversary of her husband’s death.  The drunk tries to debunk the validity, but the woman with man hands reaches over, places her hand on the drunks and sternly says, “No. It is four years to this very day” and she settles the argument with that.  She raises her eyes and looks at us, and apologizes for her tiredness.  Tonya expresses sympathy to her and then we get a surprise.  “It’s not that.  I just have some horrible renters that I want to get rid of.  They are keeping me up all night.  I can’t get any peace with them here” she says. 

“Oh, they’re horrible people” the drunk adds.

“Have they been with you long? Tonya asks. “No, just a few days.  They are from Canada and they should not be here.  They signed on for two weeks and I don’t think I can take it.  I have to find a way to get them out of my house” the springy haired lady says.  Tonya asks the obvious question; what are they doing or what have they done that is so awful.  The two ladies look at one another and burst out laughing.  Perhaps it is an inside joke that we were not meant to get.  They are laughing so hard that it is hard to understand them; all I get is something about “teeth”. 

The springy haired lady gets her composure back and says, ‘Look.  They just shouldn’t be here.  One of the women is like 250 pounds.  It is not that they are bad, they are just relentless.  The first thing the fat lady says when she arrives at my house is, ‘Where’s the safe?’  I looked at her and said, ‘What do you mean ‘the safe’?  I tell her that I don’t have a safe, but I keep valuables in a locked dresser and that I will happily put her valuables in there if she needs me too” She smiles as she relays all of this.  She raises her hand as if to halt us from saying anything, and she cocks her head, “What valuables do you have?”  The drunk knows the punch line, so she starts laughing. “I have my driver’s license, my passport and my teeth”.  As if on cue, we all start laughing.  “The next morning the fat lady comes down and says, ‘It’s OK.  I solved my problem.  I put all my valuables on top of the wardrobe.  It is too high for anyone to look there,’ she tells as she shakes her head.  She holds up a finger and adds; ‘Now I am worried that one of them is going to die.  I don’t want them to hurt themselves on my property.  I can’t afford a lawsuit.  That wardrobe is very tall.  This is a very fat lady.  She is putting her things up there and standing on old wooden, wobbly chairs to do so.  I just know she is going to fall and hurt herself!”

I ask how old these women are.  One is in her 70’s and the other in her early 60’s.  According to the springy haired lady, one of the women sits on the porch and smokes over 2 packs a day while the more agile Canadian wonders the town. “It’s just not good.  I do not understand why they are here.  It makes no sense.  I know one of them is going to die while she is here.  I have to figure out a way to get them back to Canada.  The one…the poor thing that sits on the porch and smokes, she can’t eat!  All she does is drink water, and it drives me crazy!”

I am curious, and not quite following the story, “What do you mean she can’t eat?”

The two women burst out laughing again.  In perfect unison they yell out, “She left her teeth in Montreal!”  Tonya shakes her head and utters a simple, “Poor thing”.  The drunk beams as she adds, “I know there is a song in there some where!”  As she starts to sing the springy haired woman reaches over and pats her hands to quell the episode, and she continues to tell of how she has been babysitting the women non stop since they arrived.  “As soon as they got here and unpacked, they realized they left the one woman’s teeth behind.  All she does is smoke and drink water.  My maid tried to make her a three day supply of soup, but she will not eat it.  I told the women that I have triple filtered water in the house, but if need be, I would get them a big 20 liter container of water they could keep in their room during their stay.  They said it was ok, and no need to worry.  The second day they were here, at 6 in the morning I hear a scratching at my door.  I could not believe it.  My lover was there with me and he looks at me and asks, ‘What is that?  Is there some sort of animal in here!?’  I had no idea what it was.  It just kept scratching.  I got out of bed and went to my bedroom door to see what it was.  I slowly opened it to see the fat woman standing there saying she was thirsty, and would like for me to get her some water as promised. Oh my!  I could not believe it!”  The springy hair just shakes form side to side.  This is unbelievable.

“I can’t believe this!  They should not be here!  Now I have these two old Canadians who have paid for two more weeks of vacation-but one of them is going to die!  What is she going to do without eating for two more weeks?!  The other one can’t go buy her food or soup, because she had a breakdown and started having a panic attack while trying to find them food in the grocery store.  I can’t go do their shopping for them too!  They just have no business being here-but I can’t let them stay and have the toothless woman die in my house!”

I like the springy haired lady with the man hands.  She is funny, she is polite and she is partial Texan.  She says she likes us too.  She says she wants us to be in contact with her because she thinks we will like her friends who are coming to visit soon. “I just know you all will get along!”  She grabs a napkin and rips off a piece like a cheap floozy does when she wants to pass her number around.  She writes her name and number down and says we must call her and come visit.  She lives up in the hills, but says dinner together would be fun.  We say we will visit for sure.  The drunk grabs the ripped napkin and rips off a very small piece and scrawls down her info as well.  I have no idea what she said because by now it is all slurred.  She waves at the waiter to come over and as he approaches she says, “You’re South African!” as if this is a great revelation.  He just tries to get them all paid up and out of his hair.

The two older ladies finally get their money squared away.  The springy haired lady says she will not be going to dance in the Cuban Fest in the square.  They say how nice it was that we joined them at their table.  We partially agree, and again get invitations to visit both of them.  We say goodbye and they leave out under the stone archway into the night. Whew! Glad that’s over. “My salad was horrible” Tonya mutters. I look at her and say, “Well yeah, what kind of salad is cubed mango on top of sliced tomato anyway?”  “It was supposed to have pesto and all sorts of stuff on it.  Not at all what they brought out, I should have sent it back.  Now I am hungry” she grumbles.  What do you expect from a place called Mandingos’?  The waiter is no where to be seen.  I do not want to sit here all night waiting on him either.  We have had our fill and are ready to go.  I decide to get up and start searching for the supposed South African.

I walk in to a little bar in front of the restaurant.  A group of older Americans are walking out.  They smile and say ‘hello’. I peer in and there is the lanky waiter behind the bar.  He is wearing a hat now.  He is talking to two young ladies at the two-seater bar.  One of the young women is the leggy, braless one who was instructed to go into the men’s room.  I completely understand why service sucks tonight; the waiter thinks he is going to score with one of these two younger women, and I know exactly which one he thinks he is getting too.  I walk in and up to the bar.  The two girls stop talking.  I have totally just poured down on their little party.  I ask to pay up.  I want out of here.  The waiter fumbles for change and knocks over a stack of tickets.  He knows that I know what he’s trying to do.  He hands me my change almost as if embarrassed.  He should be. 

Drunks & Toothless Canadians (pt.1)

Back amongst the greyhairs, one has to be on their guard.  At times, this can prove difficult, especially when tired and hungry.  One of the few places we know and trust here is out of pizza (?!), so we have to forge on to a secondary choice which we had received a second nod of approval on just earlier this very evening.  As we do our about face, I am muttering not such nice words while walking down the cobble stone street. “Mandingo?  What kind of pizza could possibly be served up in a place called ‘Mandingos’?”  In a country where nearly anything goes, it is obvious that this applies to any sort of business too.  No thought in correlating names and goods, just call it something and serve something.

We walk in to Mandingos into an open courtyard with only two couples occupying a few of the tables.  It is quiet, and from the looks of it, terribly slow (or, unpopular).  We stand and look around and aside form the four patrons visible, there does not appear to actually be anyone working in this place.  My patience is already threadbare, so I walk over to peer inside the kitchen. Nothing but dirty pizza pans.  I walk back and tell Tonya that I don’t see anyone.

“Hey!  Come sit with us!  Have some pizza,” a voice says from a dark corner.  We look to the table of two grey hairs and their pizzas; one is raising their hand as if we were trying to spot them amongst a huge crowd.  I smile one of those polite, forced grins and give a gesture of ‘thanks but no thanks’.  “Here, have some pizza!” the voice bellows out.  Now, instead of a waving hand it is a hand held high with a piece of artichoke and olive pizza. “We won’t eat all of this.  You two come site with us!”  I shoot the death ray glare to Tonya, but she brushes it off and smiles and happily approaches the table of older women, and like a seal trained to fetch a cold fish, she reaches out for the piece of pizza and pulls up a chair.  Now we are in for it.  I put another forced smile on my face and pull up a chair.  Me?  I get lucky and sit next to the drunk one who is pushy and obnoxious.

The woman to my left is drunk.  She can barely keep her head out of her hands, except for when she is trying to hand us pizza. “Here, I won’t eat it all…you have some”.  The constant offering of artichoke pizza is getting on my nerves.  I decline once again, politely. The woman opposite me has a head full of springy, flowing grey hair and a big smile. “It’s so nice to see someone here without grey hair” and she laughs nudging the other drunk who bobs her head in accordance. “Hi!  It’s nice to meet you, what are y’alls names?” She says with a smile.  I turn my attention to the springy haired woman with manly hands and start in on an introduction.

“Have a piece of pizza” the drunken lady says, putting a piece right in front of me.  I decline again. ‘No thank you.  I am going to order a fresh one for myself.  Thank you though.” 

“Why won’t you eat my pizza?” she says annoyed.  Her eyes are barely open, and I don’t even understand how she can see me. “I don’t like olives…and I don’t like artichokes, that’s why”

“Why don’t you like artichokes?” she says.  She points at the artichokes and then her head wobbles to the side, “Look you can take off the olives…” and she starts to remove them.  I want this to end, so I grab the piece from her to save those fingers from going all over this thing and then being handed to me.  I will save us both the agony, I will sacrifice and I will eat a piece of the drunk’s pizza.  I smile and take a bite.  “Is the service always this sh*tty here or is it just a bad night?” I ask without hesitation.

“Oh…you have not ordered yet?” asks the drunk.  Suddenly she looks around, and then clumsily pushes her chair out, “Oh, that is horrible.  I will get someone here so you can order” and she gets up and wonders around the courtyard and peeps into the kitchen.  As she totters around the courtyard, a lanky man comes walking out and I wave at him, and ask for a menu.  It will still be a few minutes before he makes it over.  In the meantime, we continue on with our polite introductions and brief tale of how we ended up here.

As one would have guessed, the springy haired lady with the man hands is an ‘artist’.  Likewise, the drunk is an artist.  She says she has taught art for over 25 years.  I hope she did so in a sober state.  Perhaps it was all this art talk which actually drove her to drink.  The springy haired lady does a good job at trying to keep the drunk in line.  She corrects her, she reminds her and she politely chides her.  She keeps smiling at Tonya and me, as if to say ‘You know I have my hands full’.  Our smiles back let her know we understand the chore she is undertaking.  The waiter shows up and hands us two small laminated menus.  He quickly disappears.  I fret that this may be an all-nighter trying to get some dinner and getting sucked into a drunken folly with these ladies.  I make up my mind in moments as to what I want.  Now if the waiter would ever return…

As we are chatting about life here, the slender waiter returns. “He’s from South Africa!” the drunk with the bobbling head proclaims.  I smile.  I don’t like South Africans.  If he truly is from there, his crappy service is yet another reason to add to my ongoing list of why I dislike South Africans.  Tonya and I order immediately.  I don’t want any more time wasted.  ‘I’m sorry, but we are out of wine.  We only have beers, would you like a beer?”  He asks politely.  Odd.  He doesn’t sound like a South African.  “Ok, sure” and Tonya agrees as well.  He’s off and we are back to dealing with the drunk.  A young hot thing walks passed the table.  She’s braless, she has long slender legs and the cool night air works wonders with her choice of dress.  She too, appears to have been boozing, as she trips back towards our table, “Do you know where the restroom is?” she asks.  The drunk flings her arm back and burps out, “There-behind you!”  She points the girl to the men’s room. “You just pointed her to the wrong restroom” I say to the drunk. “Wha…?  I showed her the restroom…”she slurs back.  No need to get into semantics.  I smile and try to pay attention to the springy haired lady and her conversation. She obviously took notice of the young hot thing too, and says, “Isn’t it nice when women are at that age when they realize the power they have with their bodies and flaunts it to their advantage?  Did you see her long, sexy legs? Wow, she was in full control” Perhaps, but she just locked herself in the men’s room thanks to the misleading drunk.

The other couple at the table beside us gets up and starts to leave. “Good night!  Ya’ll have a great evening!” yells out the drunk next to me.  Yes, this lady with the small chubby face and slits for eyes sitting next to me is truly annoying.  I think that couple thought the same, as they grimaced as they glanced back to the drunken hostess and said not a single word.  The old man just stands and pulls out a small flashlight and shines it on the check.

The pizza arrives!  It looks great.  Goat’s cheese, cherry tomatoes and arugula on a nice thick round wooden platter.  The waiter sets it down in front of me.  I am hungry and can’t wait to eat.  Tonya gets a ‘salad’ which is a ring of tomatoes and some orange chunks on top of it, and a few pieces of basil.  “What’s that?” I ask.  She replies back the fancy name the salad has been given. “No, what’s that?” I say pointing to the orange squares on the tomatoes. “Mango”. “Does mango go with tomato and basil?”  Her salad looks like a disaster.  Taking a bite of my pizza, I realize that I made a great call.  For a joint called ‘Mandingos’’, it is surprisingly good pizza.  The waiter suddenly materializes out of thin air at my side.  He’s holding a wine bottle in his hands and two champagne glasses. “I know I told you we were out of wine, but I just found this fantastic Malbec which I think you will like very much. Would you like to try?  It will be nice with your dinner.  You do not have to take the wine now if you do not want it, you can still have the beer” he says.  I look at Tonya and she immediately says, ‘Yes, the wine is fine”. “I know you will like it” he reassures us as he pours it into the wrong glasses.  I take a sip and it tastes good.  I just wonder how much he will hit us up for this suddenly uncovered gem when it comes time to pay. I shant be a party pooper, so I keep my mouth shut and get on with my pizza eating.

...to be continued