Drive to Mexico: Thursday Evening 2/9/06

Because the camera's battery is dead, there are no pictures for the below. Hopefully the words will give you the picture.

San Francisco South

We park at the hotel, enter the lobby, and check in. The young ladies at the desk speak a very little English, but enough to arrange for a taxi to pick us up later and take us to dinner. One suggests we try the regional delicacy, baby goat. The best goat in the city is at the "El Ray Del Cabrito." This translates to "The King of the Goats." The place has all sorts of heads on its walls. I say we'll think about it. Deb and I go up to our room and take a short nap.

When it is time to leave again, we come down and meet the cabbie in the lobby. Instead of King of the Goats, we decide to go for "El Tio," the fancy restaurant recommended to us by the young lady at the International Bank. I want Debbie to have a special and romantic meal, and the Goat King somehow doesn't quite ring true...

The desk clerk explains the change to the cabbie, he holds the cab door for us, and quickly we are off.

What a beautiful ride, past green ridges running through the middle of the city, and hills that back up to mountains with houses built on impossibly steep slopes. Much like San Francisco. We are so glad we’ve taken a cab so we can just watch and connect with this lovely city.

Occasionally I look up a Spanish word in Jon's translator and try to ask a question (the kind of question that has no verbs, articles, prepositions, tense, sense, context, or anything else except an object noun inflected upwards). The cabbie then waves his hands, says something in Spanish (also usually inflected upwards) and I make assumptions about what he means. You know, communicating.

Hot Cuisine

Too soon we arrive at the restaurant. The place looks closed. It is only 6:30, and Mexican nights don't really rev up until around 8:00 (as we are soon to learn). But the restaurant turns out to be open. The cabbie somehow makes it clear to us that he will wait in the parking lot until we come out. That is a relief, though I expect it will cost us a fair amount. Still, it will be a lot easier than figuring out how to get the cab back afterwards.

We step through the door into a classy but understated elegance. There's lots of stained wood, a subdued atmosphere, waiters in suits who pull out our chairs, and an expensive ambience. When we order, I ask "Pardon; mi esposa es muy allergico en cilantro," pointing to Debbie and her menu item, and no doubt slaughtering the language on the way to warning him about the need to avoid cilantro in Debbie's selection. It apparently works: The waiter says "No! No cilantro!" And there isn’t any.

We eat a very nice meal. Debbie has a steak, which is seasoned differently than in the States (though neither of us can decide on the difference), a baked potato, and a grilled cactus leaf. I have a "beef heart steak" (no, it’s not really a heart: Don't you know anything about Mexico? It's true that, to communicate with the waiter, I point to my chest and shake my head as if to ask "is it *really* a heart?" But that has nothing to do with it...I have a good excuse: I truly *don't* know anything about Mexico!). It is actually just a 2+" thick cut. I also have a baked potato, with some lightly-steamed and actually recognizable vegetables. Very nice. Nothing like the cactus leaf, which has a slightly bitter flavor unlike anything we've had before; though it too is good.

Debbie is full after this and wants nothing else to eat. But even though I've just put down about 1 1/2 times as much as I had just before my last big opportunity to repent for oral excess, I have to look over the dessert tray. No harm in getting a cultural education about another country, is there?

Mmmm...mango mousse. Now, anyone who's ever tasted a juicy, ripe mango knows that, of all its many virtues, subtlety is not one. But this was the lightest, most effervescent taste you could imagine...a blend of sunshine, the beach, and a warm wash of nostalgia. Debbie comes out of hibernation long enough to try a taste. Not to worry: She only gets in a couple of bites before I succeed in beating her back with my spoon.

When the waiter presents the bill, I give him my Visa card (they accept our cards at most restaurants), and he returns shortly with a receipt. Unlike American receipts, however, it has no "tip" line. I point and try to ask if I can add a tip to it. He nods and says in English "10%." I say 15, and he looks confused. Another waiter comes up and indicates to him that it is OK. So I guess 10% is customary here.

We walk outside and our cab pulls up to the door…commencing our final adventure of the day. The cabbie wants to show us the nightlife downtown.

Monterrey News, Live at 8

The streets where we go now are thronged with people: People everywhere, talking in groups, talking on cellphones, laughing, going nowhere in particular for they have arrived where they want to be. Neon lights tinted of flamingo and the sea flash and frame every shop and stall. Loudspeakers boldly tell passersby how good and bright it is of them to shop there: Though we do not know the words, we get the message.

One in particular finds 500 ways to present us with the word "especiale"…every fifth word is "especiale," though the sounds between are always and infinitely varied. It is a hypnotic chant. My mind is dazed. I instinctively reach for my wallet. I must spend my money on an especiale. How can I get an especiale. Alas no! They have tied me to my cab with a seatbelt! I buck and lunge, but like Odysseus straining for the isle of the Sirens, all I can do is listen longingly and pass by. Soon the drone dies out and the spell is broken. My hand pulls back out of my pocket, my heart broken, an older and wiser man.

Perhaps not all is lost. The streets and the people are still fascinating. It is now 8:30 pm, and there are more cars now by far than when we left the hotel. I am more glad than ever that he is driving.

First left, then right. Soon a new sound is drifting through our open windows…a joyous, rhythmic pulsation. I glance forward and the cabbie has released the wheel to fold left hand to chest, elbow high, right hand stretched past the rearview mirror. With half closed eyes he smiles, rhythmically swaying and saying "baile, baile." For once I don’t need Jon’s translator. We turn another corner and see a large building the entire first floor of which is an open-air pavilion, where it seems that families from across the community have gathered.

Latin dance is flowing wave after wave from a big band. Couples from young children to the aged are holding each other and ratcheting in circles. I am overcome by longing for a totally unfamiliar experience. In that moment I feel as if what I am seeing is something important that I lost long before I could have known its value. Something that should have been my birthright. I teeter on the edge of having the driver stop so Debbie and I can join in with the great family of Monterrey, with whom in that moment we feel related too. Our hearts are bonding with human beings whom we have not only never met, but who are of a culture completely alien to us. Yet we belong with them, dancing the night away…

It will have to wait for another time. We are both tired, Debbie almost to exhaustion. We motion the driver on. But we will someday return.

Clear as mud

In a couple of blocks the driver points out that we are passing the front of the El Ray Del Cabrito. I ask "mejor?", meaning "the best?" I want to know if he thinks it is as good as we’ve heard. He shakes his head no, and says "Ancerno" (to the best of my recollection) and then surprises us both by pulling out an English word: "fish." Then we pass by an adjoining restaurant, and are surprised to see the name "Ancerno" (again, to the best of my recollection; it was the word he’d just said, but I wasn’t writing any of this down at the time).

He merges us onto the big road headed back to the hotel. I'm in the mood for conversation. In reading up for our trip, one of my guidebooks had said it is always better to try to talk using a little bit of Spanish, than to stay quiet with years of classroom Espanole. Let's give it a try.

I want to know if his favorite food is fish. I ask "Fish mejor?" (Thinking it means "fish, best?"). He gets visibly excited and says "Fish? Fish?" Yeah; now we're talking! I say "Si!"

He swings the car over to the left side of a quickly-approaching two-way fork in the road. Suddenly I realize he thinks I want him to take us back to the fish restaurant...evidently, to have another go at supper. I quickly say, "No! No fish! Hotel!" With panic spreading across his face as quickly as spilled grape juice floods a cream carpet, he shoots his eyes to the right side of the fork. Apparently that is the path to the hotel.

It is too late. The concrete divider flashes by. He is already committed.

Spanish from earlier in the day now comes in handy. "Estoy Arrepentido!" (I’m sorry). There is forgiveness in his eyes, but also confusion. He holds up his finger in a tiny orbit, motioning that we will have to circle the city center again to get back to where we need to be. I’m relieved that at least we won’t have to sit through another meal.

Approaching the end of the left fork, it becomes clear that this is not a street but rather an exit ramp. A policeman is standing in front of a curb blocking our path, waving the cars in front of us to turn right…only right.

Of course, the cabbie must turn left to get us into our return circle. So, he moves to the left. The policeman sees this happening and begins waving frantically at our driver and toward our right. Our driver begins pulling the steering wheel to the left and arcing towards the left exit. Now the policeman is slinging his arms wildly towards our right. The cabbie is chatting merrily with us in Spanish while pulling as far left as possible to make sure not to hit the policeman. We execute a near-perfect left turn (9.8, judges' consensus) and re-enter city center.

I suppose there are no consequences when cabbies ignore police officers in Monterrey. It’s the only explanation I can come up with for what has just happened.

Home Again

From here back to the hotel is uneventful. We pass the dancers one last time, cover the same course as before, and now take the right fork. This time Debbie notices racetracks to the side of the highway. On one of them a beat-up old Chevy pickup, a new Nissan sedan, and a police car are driving lazy circuits…the Mexican equivalent of "cruising?" No way to tell, and no way to ask our driver. Again, fascinating.

At one point I tell our driver, in absolutely atrocious Spanish, "Tu es bueno hombre"…"you are good man." He really has been, to us. At first he looks at me blankly. I wonder for one awful moment if I have violated some sacred law of Mexican etiquette. Then he suddenly grins and gets very excited—"Si! Bueno Hombre!", bouncing up and down. Our friendship is cemented.

We are back at the hotel by 9:30. This is when I learn that he knows a little more English than I realized. Specifically, "Sixty dollars." I only have pesos, so ask "en pesos?" He tells me "six hundred" (I begin to wonder how high he can count in English!), and I pay him. Probably way overpay, since it is supposed to be 15 dollars each way, and 15 dollars an hour for him to wait; 45 dollars total, plus perhaps a bit for our detour.

But I’m not inclined to argue; I’m glad we’re back, and the driver has made the evening an experience for us. I reflect back on how I pay two-thirds that amount just to ride a taxi from Washington D.C. Reagan airport to the Beltway, with no good conversation or adventures along the way. By that standard, the fare just doesn’t seem that high. And our bueno hombre undoubtedly has a family to feed. He deserves his pay, whether it is the going rate or a very big tip.

In the lobby we stop at a cubicle with a computer, and email home about our experiences of the morning. Now we walk back up to our room and watch a moment or two of American television as we get ready for bed. I plug in the camera to charge. Upon lying down we fall asleep almost instantly.

It has been an amazing first day in Mexico.