Friday, December 09, 2005
11:41 AM

Mexico 2005. Day Two. Muchas cervesas, 11 a.m. - 3 a.m. Carlos y Gilberto muy boracho.

This is a common sight. Amigos playing cards and drinking right inside a store. That's Carlos, Aurelio, not sure about the old hombre, and then Enrique, the store's owner.

Aurelio with Gilberto's family right outside Gilberto's casa.

She's making my lunch yesterday, two quesadillas.

Last night's hot spot, el garage, in downtown Cuernavaca. Live music and cheap beers.

How cheap you ask? Two for one all night.

Our waitress, Vanessa. Carlos got her phone number. Good luck, juevon.

She wanted someone to dance with and Carlos was more than willing.

Thursday, December 08, 2005
10:47 AM

Pelon viva Mexico, Dia Uno.

Tony the Tiger's huge here.

Enjoying a Modelo on our way from the airport to Cuernavaca. "We can drink in the car? I asked Carlos. "Sure pelon, it's not America."

Me, Apolinar, Aurelio and Zoilo outside Zoilo's casa anoche. I will have a hat like his before this trip is over.

It is 8:20 a.m. on Thursday. Carlos’ nephew is sitting beside me asking questions. In Spanish. I have no idea what he’s saying. I know very little Spanish, enough to get me buy in a pinch. It’s mostly kitchen Spanish. I can ask for a plate or a spoon and then tell you to shove it up your ass or your sister’s ass. I must remember that now I’m around authentic Mexicans who speak only Spanish. There are lots of women – mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, daughters, so I need to watch my mouth. After a few cervezas I’m throwing out the Mexican curse words like my name is Jose Cortez and I was born here.

My flight here was okay. There were kids crying virtually the whole time. Mexican babies. The parents tried to calm them but did so in Spanish. It’s frustrating to not understand the crying but even worse when the moms and dads leave me clueless.

There were twin girls, maybe 8 months-old, directly in front of me. Mom and dad sat on either side of the aisle, passing the crying kids back and forth. Another one began crying behind me. I tried to peer through the seats to stare at the child, hoping it would shut up. No such luck. I put on my United-supplied headphones and began watching ‘Cinderella Man’ with Russell Crowe and Renee Zelwegger. Great movie. Made the flight go by much faster than had I been stuck reading and listening to the crying.

I started a new book, another one about a young kid, 23, addicted to drugs and alcohol. A former girlfriend said the guy was fucked up, so she suggested it to me. A bittersweet phone call that was. “Nice to hear from you. Thanks for thinking of me. I’ve never been addicted to drugs or alcohol yet you think this book is perfect for me. Flattering.”

It’s a long book, almost 500 pages. I have never read anything that long. I don’t even own a book of that size aside from the Bible and a dictionary or thesaurus. The author, James Frey, who is also the addict, doesn’t use quotation marks. He sets the conversations apart line-by-line. At first it’s kinda weird but I quickly got used to it. Page 70 is where I left off. James took a bad fall when really drunk and knocked out four front teeth. While in rehab he’s getting new teeth. He chronicles the pain, the horrible pain since he can’t have any anesthesia or painkillers. Instead he’s awake and grips tennis balls as they drill his face and dust collects on his tongue.

I arrived on time into Mexico City. After going through customs and picked up my luggage, I headed for the exit. A few hundred Mexicans were waiting for their friends and family, holding signs. Some were even looking down from the second level. For a minute I felt like a celebrity but then I realized than none of them knew who I was. I thought that maybe the Wrigley amigos would be holding a sign reading “Pelon de Chicago”, but they weren’t.

I removed my hat so they could easily see my bald head. I scanned the crowd and saw tons of the same faces. Young and old, male and female, all looking the same ultimately. I walked back and forth through the crowd expecting one of the guys to yell ‘pelon’. I figured it would be easier for them to see me than for me to see them.

It was hot in the airport. I had on a old mangled North Carolina sweatshirt turned inside out. My pants were cargo ones mom got outta the trash. Really nice ones, big pockets, lined with flannel on the inside. It was like 65 in Mexico City and I was overdressed. My t-shirt was gray and read Kansas Nursing. I picked it cause it was smaller, not cause I thought the Mexicans would appreciate it. I was sweating through the pits with my computer backpack draped over my shoulders. I began to panic when I didn’t see Carlos and company.

My cell phone said ‘roaming’ so I tried to call my voicemail. A message in Spanish came on. Again I was clueless. I tried to call the number Carlos had given me from my phone and that didn’t work either. I passed slowly through the crowd again. Maybe they missed me. Maybe they just got there as I stood off to the side.

There was an information booth. I asked the girl there about making a local. She told me I had to buy a phone card and pointed me toward where I could buy one. That girl told me the cheapest one was for $30. No way I said. I only need to make one call. Not for 30 dollars. Then a girl standing beside her who seemed to be working with her, said she had one for $10. Donde I asked, which means where. Aqui she said, which means here. And then the same lady who told me her cheapest card was $30 pulled out one for $10. I had successfully avoided my first Mexican scam and I hadn’t even left the airport.

I tried calling Carlos but it didn’t go through. (The nephew is back. He insists on pulling this computer cord outta the wall and outta the machine. I tell him no and he ignores me. He begins rattling off Spanish sentences in rapid succession and I know maybe three of 40 words. He jumps off the bed and again heads for the socket and unplugs the machine. I have enough battery life so it’s not big deal. Then he hits the power button on the computer and it turns off. My work will be fine but still, leave your fuckin’ hands off of it. But I don’t know how to say that in Spanish. With or without cussing. I can’t close the door to this room because there is none. No doors on any of the bedrooms up here. Not even a door on the bathroom, only a thing sheet, maybe a curtain meant to be hung over a window, but here it hangs to ensure some form of bathroom privacy. His mother, Carlos’ sister, just came to get him. I asked him his name before he turned into a menace and I never got it. Oh well.)

I called again and nothing. I then asked the girl who initially tried to job me for some help. Her guidance helped and the call went through. Someone picked up at Carlos’ house but they spoke no English. ‘Donde esta Carlos, por favor?’ Where is Carlos please. That got me no where. She hung up on me. I called back and again asked for Carlos, please. I also added ‘yo estoy amigo pelon from Chicago a la aeropuerta en ciudad de Mexico’, trying to say that I was a bald man friend from Chicago at the airport in Mexico City. She replied with some Spanish and I tried to speak slower, louder even.

Just then I turned to face the people passing by the phone card place where I was making the call. ‘Carlos’ I yelled. And there he was, walking right by with his cousin Daniel and former Wrigley amigo Apolinar. ‘Gracias, Adios,’ I said on the phone and hung up.