Three Times A Day

Certain things we are told growing up to do three times a day, I completely agree with.  As a grown up, some of the things I encounter on a daily regime, I am not too sure about.  There is an alleyway near where we live which is used for a myriad of things.  As one can easily imagine, it is layered in graffiti, filled with trash and broken glass, with its most basic use is for people going to and fro, amidst the typical filth and debris you come to expect living in Mexico City.  We use the alley daily, as a means for quick access to the next neighborhood. 

Likewise, in our constant usage, we have become familiar with others who use this alleyway on a daily basis-albeit, or their own very personal reasons.  Three characters are a given, each doing his thing, at least once a day, everyday.  The trash man, the pooper and the doper.

It is customary here to pay for everything.  Living may be seen as cheap, but when you realize how you get nickled and dimed to death, you come to realize that what you save in some areas, you spend in the most stupidest ways paying people off…like the trash man.  The trash man gets paid by the city, but ironically enough, he won’t pick up your trash if you don’t pay him too.  At first, it may not seem so obvious, but if you do not put change in his hand, you will not see your trash disappear.  Our trash man is not exception.

Initially he seemed very friendly and talkative.  He would ring the bell and ask if we had any trash to take.  He would also ring the bell and ask for his ‘tip’.  If we happened to be changeless at the time, he would smile and walk away and leave our trash until he got his tip.  Fair enough.  We would sit on our trash until we felt like giving him his tip.  When the change flows, the trash goes.

One day I stepped out with the dogs and saw the trash man walking into the alley.  I stood and watched, telling myself that he was not really going to do what I thought he would.  He was picking up the trash, taking it into the alley, ripping the bags open and dumping the trash.  Depending on what kind of trash it was, he may even start a fire in the alley to burn it off. Now I am not a Mexican, and I do not have the ‘anything goes, manana, manana’ attitude, so I found this intolerable.  I was so mad and in a state of disbelief to think this chump is taking peoples trash and just basically dumping it behind their homes, then stands smiling with his hands outstretched, asking for a tip.  It re-enforced the notion I was already building of the people here; as a rule, they are very clean…they just throw their trash and debris anywhere else but in their yard or home.  The trash man is a perfect example.  I tell Tonya what I just witnessed and she can’t believe it.  A few days later, she gets her own chance to see him lugging bags into the alley, and dumping the contents into a huge heap.  As the bits of trash were falling out, the decision was made that from this instant, no more change would ever transfer from our hands to his. 

Now, we just wait to hear the daily ringing of the bell that tells the street that the roving trash truck is here. Yes-we still have to tip too.

As with any secluded space, some prefer to use it for nefarious activities, such as drinking and smoking dope.  Just the other day, the cops were swarming on the street, man handling some young kid who was casually slopping around in a haze from his recently finished smoke-out in the alley.  Though, not a daily occurrence, it is multiple times a week that we walk through a haze of pot smoke as we travel through the alley.  After a few passes at a certain time of day, we began to recognize a familiar face; The Doper.

The doper works nearby and everyday at break time, he goes to the alley to do more than snack.  He is easy to spot…but usually you can smell his presence before seeing him.  He sits on an old log and smokes his dope. Everyday it’s the same.  For him, it is like he is wearing a uniform.  He wears a red ski-vest and a white visor cap, and big giant sunglasses to hide his eyes. He is a dark guy, very dark.  He has no front teeth, on the top or bottom.  He’s young-ish, and medium build.  He has a very deep voice, and usually slurs his words when he speaks.    

At first, he would sit very still (in a cloud of smoke) and did not move as we approached.  It was like he thought by being completely still, we would not recognize the smell, the smoke, or even him sitting on the old log.  After several chance meetings, we exchanged the ever-so slight nod to one another.  Knowing that I had gained his confidence, I would then pass by and wave, or does a combo nod-cum-salute type gesture.  One day, I started to point at him and move my thumb, like the dad making the ol’ pistol move.  I hesitated.  My own paranoia caused me to think, ‘What if he is linked to the cartels, and me doing this simple gesture he takes great offense to and sees it as a death threat?’  So, with hand outstretched and fingers ready to be cocked, I just made an awkward, arthritic move, and decided to pull back on the gunslinger greeting.  We see each other so much now, that we actually exchange verbal greetings.  I suppose, when he doesn’t want a ‘buzz kill’ he just nods and doesn’t spoil the moment.  I know everything is ok, when his dark face cracks a grin, and the white teeth blatantly point out what is missing, as he smiles and growls his greetings.  Once in a great while, the doper even attempts to raise his hand to acknowledge us.

Bums like dark, private places too.  Our most common friend in the alley is the old crazy guy.  Neighbors say that this old fella has been using this alley as his hangout for years.  He used to have another bum who he’d bum around with, but his buddy passed away and left him desolate and shattered.  I have no idea what his name is, but just call him ‘pasale’ because that is what he utters countless times as you walk by. (Pasale is a friendly way to tell someone that it is ok to pass).  I call him ‘Pasale’, but in truth, he is the pooper.

Pasale is a regular fixture in this area.  He’s lost his mind, and wonders the streets in his ill fitting clothes, a worn and frayed jacket, several times too big for him, and an old dirty straw hat with holes in it.  Some days, when he is ‘dressed up’, he buttons what buttons are left on the jacket.  Pasale is usually found in the alley with a handmade broom, cobbled together from trash, and sweeping the dirt path in the alley way.  I am not really sure what it accomplishes.  It just seems he clears the path, and pushes all the trash the trash man has dumped form side to side.  You can see when Pasale really cleans though, because the berms of trash are noticeably higher.  Every time we pass, he mumbles incoherently, steps aside, bobs his head up and down and says, “pasale, pasale, pasale”.

Sometimes Pasale is seen with a huge bag of trash, he goes down the pathway and fills the bag.  I have no idea what he does with it…but have noticed large trash bags filled to the brim, piled nicely on the already mounting mounds of trash.  Personally, I think this is what Pasale does to keep busy. He tends to the trashy alleyway.

The downside is, all this time cleaning and moving trash from one side of the path to the other, one has no time to find a restroom.  Pasale likes to clean up, but he also has no problem of dropping his pants and leaving big piles of poop there too.  One day, while walking the dogs, Tonya and I both reeled in horror at the site of a very human looking pile of messy poop. We looked at one another and asked the same question, “Is that from a person?’.  The more we passed through, we began to notice these piles here and there.  One day, Pasale had been seen walking away and as we walked down the alley, the smell of fresh poop was very near a fresh pile.  We could only assume…

I mentioned Pasale to the neighbor across the street.  He filled me in on the history of Pasale, and how everyone knows him.  He also added that it is Pasale who does his poops in the alley. “Oh yeah, it is him.  One day I walked out of the house on my way to school.  I turned to walk down the alley, and as I looked up, I saw him squatting with his pants around his ankles.  There is no doubt about what he was doing, but I didn’t actually see the process.  I turned immediately and walked the other way…”  My neighbor’s comments made it painfully obvious. Pasale was no longer the suspected pooper, he is the pooper.  Things must be going good for him though, as the other day we noticed a fresh pile, complete with a bit of used toilet paper.  I suppose we should be happy he is using better hygiene now.

While sitting in traffic a week or so ago, Tonya and I spotted Pasale walking down the street.  We sat at the red light, and as he got closer, he crossed in front of us.  As he neared the car, he recognized me.  He took his ratty hat off, smiled and issued a bonus greeting as he waved, “Buenos Dias!”.  He was excited.  I smiled back and waved.  I then realized that everyone standing at this intersection was witnessing the exchange between the guero and the pooper. Tonya laughed, she commented on how excited Pasale was.  “I can’t believe he noticed you in the car!  Wow, you made his day.  You have a new friend now…I think it is sweet”, she said while smiling.  We smiled at Pasale as he wobbled down the road on his way to who knows where.

No doubt, it is quite amusing of the acquaintances you can make here in this city, just from going about your daily routines.

Coffee, a cruise and the most beautiful breasts.

Monica is a busy lady, especially if you go by her appointment book that is lying open on the table.  She had recently gotten back form a cruise around the Mediterranean and had been wanting to sit, chat and catch up.

We were late though.  Half an hour before we are due to meet, I decided to do the typical guy routine of the three S’s.  This set us back about five minutes, however, it did illicit a comment from Monica that I was nice and clean, and making progress in being presentable.  I graciously accepted the compliment, but still felt stupid because of the two festering pimples that decided to suddenly show up on my face. I may be clean shaven, but I feel like the two embryonic pimples are flashing neon red, screaming “Look!  He’s got pimples!”

Wasting no time, I ask Monica about her trip.  She starts off telling us how she had seen some wonderful kilims in Turkey…but they were too expensive.  $18,000 to be exact.  “Well, the food must have been good though” I say to highlight the good parts of her journey. “I don’t know.  I think I must have been eating at the wrong restaurants.  I did not enjoy any of the food I had in Turkey” she says quite deadpan.  Other than bad food and expensive rugs, she did say she totally enjoyed Istanbul and the other places she visited.  She was quite disturbed by the amount of women she saw wearing burkas though.

“The best food was in Italy” she says as she rolls her eyes and leans back in her chair.  She rolls out an instance where she and her son ate and the food was so good that as soon as her son finished his plate, he ordered a second of the exact same thing, “Yes…it is that good!” she says laughing.

We had come for coffee and to chat, hearing all about her trip.  She happily tells us about how handsome the Italian guys are and how she had quite a crush on the manager of a small hotel she stayed at.  It was all for naught, when she tells us the following, “Every night I would go to the bar and they would laugh at me.  I would sit and look at all the people and talk to everyone…and I would order a glass of milk”.  We laughed out loud.  There is a method to her madness though.  She says that she was eating so much that she decided not to eat in the evening.  Instead, she would go to the bar and drink milk, then go to her room and use the rest of the milk for her cereal.  She acted out how pathetic of a scenario it was, as she slouches down in her chair and slowly acts like she’s spooning cereal into her mouth.

I like Monica.  She is a good natured lady and always seems like she is up for a laugh.  She likes to laugh at things you shouldn’t, so that immediately appealed to me.  I enjoy hearing about the trip. I really enjoy hearing her tips of what cruise lines to take and to “always ask if it is a new ship”.  I ask why and she immediately answers, “Because old ships are horrible.  They smell and they usually have horrible staff”

Monica spins the tales of her trip, but stops again to ask the question, ‘Why do those women there want to dress like that.  It’s horrible the way they are treated’.  She then changes the conversation to tell a wild tale of her experience working for the Iraqi Embassy.

Most important parts first; food.  Monica said that the Ambassador and his wife were very nice, and they would invite her to lunch almost every day at their own residence, “I was the only one at the Embassy that they would invite to lunch” she reiterates with great pride.  She rolls her eyes in ecstasy and leans back in her chair and she described how well the wife cooked and how they ate like kings. “I really like their food, very much…but I did not know that Iraqis ate with their hands like the Africans did!”  We laugh as she tells how she felt a bit embarrassed by the ordeal, but said she respected the way they ate, but said she could not eat with her hands, and asked to be allowed to use a fork when they dined.

She told us of how the visiting dignitaries form other Arab countries would come to visit.  “Whenever the people would come from Saudi Arabia, or Iran or any of those Arab countries, the Ambassador would always pull me aside and ask me to go upstairs and read.  They did not want the other dignitaries to see a woman near the Ambassador” she said.  She admitted that he always would have magazines and books for her upstairs, and was very courteous to her and apologized for having to ask her to leave.  She shakes her head as she says, “You know the worst of those Arab people?  The ones from Saudi Arabia.  They are animals! The Saudis are the worst.”

We did not expect this; but Monica comments about how the Ambassador and his wife always asked her to sleep ‘between them’.  I glossed over it, thinking it was a simple mistake in her English.  It would prove to be the correct usage, as we learned when she told the story of the Cadillac.

Monica says that the Ambassador wanted a Cadillac, and it was her job to find him one. “This was a time when they did not sell Cadillacs here” she starts off, “so I had to find him one.  I found him one in Houston, and told him that someone would have to go get the car and drive it back to Mexico.”  The Ambassador was ever so grateful for Monica’s hard work that he suggested that he and his wife and Monica all go to Houston to get the car and drive it back.  Monica was thrilled, and thought the trip would be fun, so she agreed.  Of course, it makes perfect sense she goes because the Ambassador did not drive.

They all go to Houston and according to her, it was a blast.  They got the car and he was very impressed.  One of the first things he insisted on was being driven around, like a typical big shot. “It was such a nice car…I loved driving it, it was solo nice” Monica says.  As they were driving around Houston, the Ambassador says that they should celebrate by all going shopping.  He asked Monica if she knew where to shop in this city, she smiles a big smile, “Of course I knew where to shop- THE GALLERIA!” she says laughing.  She then tells how she immediately drove to the Galleria.  The Ambassador told Monica and his wife to go wherever they wanted and to buy whatever they wanted.  She laughs as she tells how she and the wife had a heyday, holding up dresses, asking one another for advice and buying everything in sight. ‘It was a very good day” Monica says in all seriousness.

After having such a fun filled day, they all retire back to the fancy hotel they are staying at.  They have dinner and as they go back to their rooms and the Ambassador ask Monica if she would like to come ‘sleep between them’.  She says she is a bit embarrassed, and politely declines, citing the early trip and long drive they faced tomorrow.  He understood, and they said goodnight.

They drove from Houston to Mexico City.  According to Monica, the trip was a breeze in the big brand new Cadillac.  Obviously, the Ambassador loved riding in the car too, and somewhere in the middle of nowhere, he told Monica to drive faster.  “No, you cannot drive as fast as you like in Texas!  They have laws.  We will get stopped” she told the Ambassador.  Hogwash!  He tells her to step on it.  The Iraqi government will pick up the tab if there is any trouble.  She laughs as she says, ‘I do not know where it was, but yes- deputy did pull us over.  We had to go in front of a judge in some small town and pay the fine.  He did not know what was going on with these Arabs and Mexicans all around” and she laughs it off and continues the tale.

They drove quite a while and decided to stop in Saltillo.  Monica says they were quite tired, but were obviously treated to the best that money could buy, thanks to the Iraqi Saddam Hussein.  As they retreated to their rooms, the Ambassador and his wife asked one more time if she would like to come sleep with them, “I don’t know why he always asked!  I think because they are so used to having so many wives over there, that here they think they can do the same”  This time Monica feels a bit uneasy, because they have loads more Mexican bodyguards since they are back in Mexico.  She tells the Ambassador that there are so many guards, that he himself would be the focus of a huge scandal if he is seen going into a room with a Mexican woman.  He agrees, and once again they say their goodnights.  Monica says she makes a point that the bodyguards see her retreat back to her room alone. “Can you imagine the trouble…?” she says as she and Tonya gossip about the way Mexicans love to over-dramatize everything. 

She gets back to her room, gets in bed and starts watching TV.  She says a while later, a knock comes at the door.  It is quite late, and she can’t imagine who it is.  She goes to the door and slowly opens it.  The Ambassador’s wife is standing there.  She asks to come in, and Monica obliges.  A bit concerned, Monica asks f everything is OK.  The wife reassures her that everything is fine, but asks if she could stay with Monica for a while and talk.  Monica says that over the time she worked for the Embassy, she and the wife became quite close.  After enough girl talk, the wife asks Monica if she would like to go back and sleep with them.  Feeling more at ease with the wife, Monica politely declines in a gentle manner, as to not offend.  The wife still seems a bit hurt by the constant refusal.  Monica assures her it is not for lack of beauty, but because she just doesn’t do those sort of things.

The wife says she understand and gets up to leave.  She says Monica’s name, to draw her full attention.  Monica looks up and the wife opens her gown to reveal her naked body.  Monica acts out the scene, by motioning standing up and stretching her arms wide open.  “Look at my breasts!  Do you like them?”  The wife asks Monica.  Monica hangs her head as if to catch her breath.  She rises back up and looks us in the eye and says, “They were gorgeous.  Her breasts were the most beauuuutiful I have ever seen.  They were perfect!” she says as we start laughing.  She says the wife tells her to touch them, to see how firm and nice they were.  Monica said she did, and was just amazed at the perfection, “Oh, she had such a wonderful body.  Truly beautiful.” She says without shame.  She then leans in as to tell us a big secret, “You know why she had those lovely breasts and such a wonderful body?  Because she had never had children”.  She then follows up with a very matter of statement that had there been any kids, her boobs would definitely not be the definition of perfection.  She then laughs as she and Tonya have a brief discussion of the effects age and children have on boobs.  Then, finishing her story, she says very plainly, “Maybe that is why they always asked people to sleep with them, because they had no children and they just thought they could live like that”.  We are all having a good laugh.  Monica is laughing quite hard too, and has proven to be quiet a good story teller.

As the laughter starts to soften, we glance at the table next to us where a woman is talking loudly and quite excited.  ‘I will eat you!  I will cover you in hot sauce and eat you up!” she is saying loudly while shaking her head.  Her legs are outstretched and her feet resting in another chair.  She is balancing her baby who is standing on her mother’s legs.  They are both laughing.  Every time the mom yells that she is going to douse the kid in hot sauce and eat her, the baby roars with laughter.  We do too.  The mother realizes that more people are laughing and turns to look at us, looking a bit embarrassed and flushed from her acting up with her child.  We smile and the ladies exchange some quick baby comments, and she goes back to the threat of cannibalism with her chubby baby.

We had come to hear all about Monica’s glamorous cruise and got so much more.  She is a good laugh.  It was fun hearing dish on all the stuff that happened while away for a month.  How and why it led to the story about the Ambassador, who knows…but it was a great laugh and a great tale.  Reminiscing about old times, she and Tonya talk about ‘old’ Mexico and certain figures that were prominent at that time.  She got quiet and told quite a lengthy tale about one such official, who decided to ransack her friends home, tie the family up take them out to the garden and hold a gun to their heads, saying that if the husband said a word about this…well, you know the rest.  They both shake their heads about the corrupt officials and how things used to be.  Personally, it appears to me nothing has changed since the ‘good ol’ days’. The only thing different now is that these ruffians carry Blackberries and iPhones along with their guns.

Oh the chores to be done.  Monica talks of how her landlord recently moved in above her, and how he purposely takes her neighbors paper.  She says she called him out on it just yesterday and the landlord stopped, look her in the eye, grabbed the paper with gusto and walked back into his apartment, “I have to move” she said, “he’s horrible.  After my vacation at the beach, I will start looking for a new place” And with that, we say our goodbyes.

My birthday with the Conqueror and Rebel.

 

I wasn’t paying too much attention to my approaching birthday.  It could be denial, but I think it was really do to all that is going on around me.  Tonya asked what I wanted, and I could not answer.  Anything I would want, the prices will be much higher here than back in the US.  I told her what I really would like is a giant steak, a thick red wine and mashed potatoes with goat cheese.  That sounds great to me!  I proposed that we go downtown and wander around and see a few sights I had wanted to see.

Of course, the day gets off to great start.  I hear Tonya complaining in the other room.  One of the dogs had gotten on the newly reupholstered couch and had a lick fest.  This left a big wet spot, and got Tonya off to a great start.  I tried not to get too worked up over it, and just carried on with my rather boring breakfast of two English muffins and that pomegranate jelly which I am going crazy for.  I check my emails and receive two birthday greetings.  One subject line was from The Rolling Stones, the other from The Coral.  I suppose signing up to your favorite bands mailing lists has some benefits, as they were the first greetings in.

I am not too keen about these ‘lonely’ birthdays away from friends and family, so I have to make them count. Today’s celebration would be one of historical significance and it would also prove to be a first for both Tonya and I.  I wanted to see the resting place of Cortes, the man who almost single handedly destroyed the Aztec empire and definitely changed Mexico forever.   I understand that his place of burial is not a big site for the Mexicans.  Why should it be?  He ruined their country.  Still, for me, it is something to see.  The other main attraction will be the famous La Opera bar.  It is lost in time, and it is famous for a visit from Pancho Villa and him getting carried away and shooting a hole in the ceiling.  Of course, one cannot visit this place without having a tequila to boot.

We park in our regular spot downtown and as we get out of the car, Tonya complains aloud, “Oh no, it’s Monday!”  I am a bit perplexed by her comment.  Yes, of course it is Monday, and it is my birthday.  Why the angst ridden sigh?  I ask her, “Yes, and what is the big deal about it being Monday?”

“All the museums are closed, we won’t be able to get in” she says.

“Cortes is buried in a hospital.  They can’t close that off.” I say back.

“I know, but if we want to go into any of the other places, like the photography museum, we won’t be able to” she says bluntly.  I pause for a minute and realize that a few ‘extra’ stops today may be futile.  Still, I am determined to go see where Cortes is buried.  Who cares about museums?

We start the trek towards the Zocalo.  As we wonder down through the historical part of downtown, we both notice that although it is busy, it is not chaos like it usually is.  We wonder aloud why this is, and deduct that it must the fact that it is Monday and perhaps a bit grey overhead too.  The Zocalo has a makeshift barrier around it and posters promoting an upcoming book fair.  The square is such a great place; it really sucks when they cordon it off for silly events.  As we round the south end, we look across the magnificent plaza and stare at the giant flag waving in the air.  It is a magnificent sight.

It doesn’t take long to get to the Jesus de Nazarene hospital.  Ironically, Cortes helped to create this very hospital way back when.  Mexicans aren’t too jazzed about paying homage to the guy who ruined their culture, so I am not expecting any crowds whatsoever.  We find the hospital, but can’t figure out how to get in.  We stand in an old hallway, staring at a nice courtyard form behind metal bars. “Maybe they’re closed.  It is Monday, remember?” Tonya says. I look at her with frustration, ‘You can’t close a hospital.”  Just then, a man in the courtyard tells us to go all the way around the block to get it.  In no time at all, I am whizzing around the block brimming with anticipation. (It is amazing that as you age, things like this can really get you going).  We find the entrance and walk right on in.  I was always told that ‘If you look like you know what you are doing, no one will question you’.  I put it to practice and walk straight past the nurse’s booth and towards the courtyard.  Tonya asks if I know what I am doing.  I tell her that all I know is he is in the courtyard just stick by my side.

You can find Cortes' bones here.

It is a nice big courtyard.  We are both amazed that such a nice courtyard would be part of a hospital.  As we walk around and take it all in, I wonder what this hospital is all about.  I peek down some hallways and watch a guy refinishing some benches underneath a stairway.  There, right in the middle of the courtyard, facing a huge stairway, is the memorial for Cortes.  Tonya stands and looks at me, “Is this it?”  “I guess so” I reply.  I point to the wall, “There is a bust there and a huge inscription on the wall, so this must be the place” I stand back and look.  Of course, I take a few pictures.  Interesting note;  Cortes had requested to be buried in New Spain, and his bones were moved several times before they came to rest here, taking over 240 years to finally end up where he wished to be.

Across the street is the museum of the City of Mexico. On the corner of the building there is a giant serpent’s head.  I had read that somewhere around here the Aztecs had a glorious avenue, where ornate serpents lined the street.  I am not too sure if this is where it begins or not.  Tonya is willing to walk down a few blocks to see if my historical trivia is correct.  Not too sure, as all we see are loads of shops selling foam stuffing in all shapes and sizes.  This is definitely the place to come to shop for all your stuffing needs.

We wonder the back streets working our way back towards the Zocalo.  Each new block is filled with stores for certain needs.  One block is all underwear, one is all shoes, and one is all hair accessories.  After several blocks of cheap looking junk, Tonya says she wants to cut back to the main strip.  Working our way through the hustling backstreets, she comments that she feels like she is in Bangkok.  She says she is getting hungry and I reassure her that we are working our way to La Opera.

Just to see if the ‘Monday theory’ is in full effect, we detour behind the main cathedral to the photography center.  The doors are shut.  As we continue on down the street I conclude, “I get it.  There are not as many people out today because there are no museums open for the tourists to go to.  If we want to come downtown and wander around, we definitely have to come on Mondays”  Tonya doesn’t say anything in return, just a blank stare that reads ‘Sure thing genius’.  

The blind band...the drummer was great!

As we walk down Tacuba, there is an impromptu concert going on.  About a block from one of the subway stations, a group of blind musicians have set up and are playing to the crowds.  I didn’t realize they were all blind at first, but I did notice an awkward guy standing next to the drummer, with a strange grin on his face and he never opened his eyes.  When I saw his fingers fidgeting and they way he had his head cocked, I finally realized he was blind.  I tell Tonya I want to stop and listen.  When I walk around the crowd to view the band head on, I see they are all blind.  They finish a song and immediately the bassist grabs a taco and eats while the drummer explains what is next.  He jokes about the band being ‘Univision’ which gets a nervous chuckle form the crowd.  A woman who was sitting at the back eating during the previous song slowly works her way into the group.  She feels for a mic and says aloud, ‘I want some orange juice.  Someone get me some orange juice’ and she stands poised while she runs her hands over a small electronic drum machine.  I watch her as she stares straight ahead with no sight.  Her hands are delicately adjusting controls and switches as she prepares her sound for the next song.  When she gets the sound she wants, she makes a few sounds on her pad, and the band strikes up again.  I smile at the whole sight.  I admire them doing this, and this brief moment makes me realize how fortunate so many of us are…especially me, and I am so thankful to be able to walk around on my birthday and see all these things.

As we walk into La Opera, I am glad to see that it is not swarming with people.  In fact, there are only a few tables occupied.  A waiter stands up from his stool at the bar and comes to greet us. He shows us to a great booth right in the middle of the bar.  I shake my head, and ask for a booth over against the wall.  I keep staring up, looking for the famous bullet hole.  What am I really looking for?  I am doing quick scans of booths and the ceiling.  I think I spot the famous hole, just as he points at the booth right to the side of the hole.

That's it!  The famous hole.

Inside La Opera

We slip into to the old booth and look around the whole place. It’s great.  I can see why anyone could get all wound up and want to shoot the ceiling, especially crazy rowdy Mexicans.  Our waiter is small but carries a big welcoming smile.  We order a few tequilas.  I notice another couple come in and wonder of right beside our booth. They are pointing to the ceiling.  This is undoubtedly the most common scenario in this place, day in and day out.  Everyone walks in staring up, looking for Pancho’s bullet hole.  It is an easy way to tell a ‘regular’ from a sightseer.  Tonya laughs and says, “Is that it? Everyone comes in to see that?”  Our tequilas arrive, and then we order a few appetizers. 

The queso y chistorra, tequila and yummy green salsa.

I truly enjoy sitting in a sea of red velvet, sipping this tequila and just reflecting on the day.  This is a historic day for me, and I am digging my time in these historic places.  Our dishes arrive.  A plate full of melted cheese with sausage and a tortilla soup.  The food is so-so, but the green salsa is worth mentioning…as is the small plate of pickled onions and wrinkly jalapeno.  These simple pleasures make this place worthwhile.

After we finish up, we walk around the corner to go see what exhibition we may be missing at the national museum.  We stand and look at the banners.  Looking at each other, we ask “Ever heard of them?”  No.  Oh well, guess we aren’t missing anything, especially since half of the banners are just advertisements for the museum itself.  The sky is getting really grey, but we decide to stroll through the Alameda and see if there are any good bootlegs DVDs to buy.  We come across a guy sitting on a stool, with a flimsy plastic table.  He is selling dog tags (literally) and pressing them with your choice of slogan by hand.  We get three small bones, one for each dog.  It’s my birthday, but they are getting treats too!  After he’s pressed the three tags, we get back to the car and start back home.

Perfect timing.  We get home and take the dogs out, and as we unlock our door on our return, it starts raining.  The rain and gloom starts to take hold, and what was a somewhat good mood starts to fade.  I feel a bit down.  The prospect of my big steak and thick hearty wine is getting washed away.

I talk to my dad for a while, and do some internet chatting.  I actually end up arranging Ultravox albums on iTunes to pass the time.  I get worked up if the right pictures of sleeves are not coordinated correctly, along with the proper release dates.  This actually takes up quite a bit of time, since it is their entire 80’s output.  Sadly, to add insult to injury, after I complete getting everything in order, I randomly click on songs to see if the correct image is shown.  For some reason, they are not.  I’m frustrated.  I think back to what my brother said today, "Listen to some Van Halen today.  You share the same birthday as Diamond Dave!"  I tell myself I have to blare some Van Halen before the day is done. I go to the bedroom and plop down on the bed and just lie there listening to the rain.

At 8:30, Tonya comes in and says we should go to a nearby restaurant for a meal.  We do.  The place is empty.  We ask to sit on the porch and are both horrified to be sat in the middle of a ring of flat screens showing Monday Night Football.  Tonya insists that I eat a steak.  I eventually breakdown and order a New York strip, served on a charred wooden platter.  It comes with another platter of sides, including potatoes, peppers, corn, garlic, chimichurri sauce and a few others.  Tonya orders fish.  It was not what I had envisioned, but it is OK.  Without a doubt, we could have done better at home.  Tonya says we will do it right whenever I want.  We have a nice long conversation, and finish up with a piece of corn cake.  

I didn't get the steak I was longing for, but then again, I didn't expect the Mexicans to do it 'Texas style'.  It was still a nice day and we both got to see some things we had never seen before.  Now-we are going home to watch some crappy episodes of a pathetic TV series that we love to watch.