Drive to Mexico: Friday Evening 2/10/06

On the way to the caves this morning our route took us around the North side of Monterrey. Now we decide to go straight into the city on the east/west freeway near the south side. For one thing, it will take us through a residential (i.e., "bedroom") community. We are interested in seeing how the citizens of Mexico’s most prosperous city live.

Deb, trooper that she is, drives us. Again, it is a fascinating to be immersed into yet another side of the culture. This time the houses are a little bigger than those in the Villa de García…but of the same shape and endless rows. Apparently it is how all but the very rich or the very poor live.

Shops of all colors and types surround us. Often the line between road and buildings blurs. There are still four lanes and a median, but it is much more of a free-for-all, with traffic lights, turnarounds, and intense cross traffic.

At one point we hear the glaring squawk of a police horn. It is blatant and edgy, unlike any sound we have heard in the U.S. Immediately, a motorcycle cop swings around our right (we are in the left lane), and back left past the car ahead of us. Immediately he stops and forces that car to swoop into the right lane. Deb hits the brakes for a panic stop. We look down over our hood at a large driveshaft on the pavement at his feet. No disabled vehicle…just a driveshaft.

Deb merges into the right lane, goes around him, and a couple of hundred yards farther along we see a huge U-Joint also lying on the pavement. Looks suspiciously like it matches the driveshaft. Still no dead vehicle in the area, though. I dunno…maybe they do the Fred Flintstone thing through the floorboards here. Somebody got that vehicle out of the area before it lost any more pieces...

We try to find the Alfa Planetarium, but miss the turn. Being pretty hungry now, we really don’t care: Time for cabrito!

Debbie threads us expertly through many merging and unmerging roads, until we arrive at the same area where we were just last night: in front of The King of the Goats! We park and walk down the side of the restaurant, looking as we go through a long window at a row of roasting baby goat carcases dangling from hooks above a long charcoal fire pit. Yummm! But I worry they won’t be serving yet…it is only 4 pm.

The King of the Goats does not disappoint. Apparently all Mexican waiters wear suits: Ours ushers us into a room filled with stuffed lions and various other game that no doubt once faced off against a Mexican Teddy Roosevelt-equivalent. Bright-red boxes holding tequila are stacked beside the front door. It is a curious mishmash of quality and kitsch.

Having overcome the trauma of the previous night, I take another shot at employing the Spanish word "mejor." This time I use it to ask the waiter which goat dish is "mejor" or best (the menu is filled with enough subtle variations on the theme of "goat" to make Mozart envious). He points to the goat leg (there is an English page in the menu, so we actually know what he’s talking about!). We order two, and soon our eyes are following two sizzling plates of goat hind quarter as they make their way down from shoulder to table top.

Next arrives a plate of shredded lettuce, sliced onions, and tomatoes. Two types of salsa—one red, one brown—are presented with a flourish. A dish of goat cheese comes along with something at its edge that looks like a finely ground meat puree in a tomato sause. And of course, there is the de rigor round flat-bottomed bowl of piping-hot fresh tortillas. We look at each other and exclaim at the same instant, "We’ll never be able to eat all this!" Fifteen minutes later we have to (ahem) "eat" our words. It has been the most delicious Mexican food I’ve ever tasted, and surprisingly mild...unless you’ve made the mistake of dumping too much red salsa on your goat.

All too soon we finish. We decide to walk along the Gran Plaza, in spite of the fact that Debbie is fading fast from the strenuous day. But who knows when or if we'll be back. Once again I am so proud of my intrepid wife…she’s always "game" (sorry, I couldn’t resist that one either) for a challenge.

The Plaza starts just north of the restaurant. We’re a bit disappointed to see that for the most part it is just a rather plain garden. There's lots of concrete, and some grass and bushes: Still, it’s a nice break for the people at the heart of a big city. A couple of blocks of it are built on a giant deck that spans roads below. We reach one edge and look out over a beautiful old palace.

Eventually we reach the end, with the Mexican history museum and its next-door "artificial river" which we considered visiting this morning. It takes about one second to realize we made the right choice.

The "river" has almost no resemblance to the words we read this morning. It is a glorified swimming pool; a little interesting perhaps as sculpture (it is very long and makes a right-angle turn), but way overhyped as a river. It sits, not flows, is all concrete and hard edges, and you can clearly see its flat hard bottom a few feet below the surface: A sort of giant Beverly Hillbillies "cement pond," but without the interesting curves. You reach it by descending over stepped sides that double as sitting ledges. There are no paddle boats. The best thing about it are some quaint little bistros along its side.

On one of the steps a pair of lovers kiss. On others, children are playing. Walking along its bank a woman is staring vacantly but fiercely into the air at some wildly and randomly moving invisible target, speaking with the passion and ferocity of a street preacher. She is completely disconnected from the now nervous-looking people around her. A young girl giggles and gives us a wordless look: "crazy!" Or more likely (and sadly), possessed.

We walk back and I gallantly insist on driving the rest of the way home: "You’ve earned a free ride!" It will soon become obvious that I've done her no favor.

While most of the trip back is uneventful, I miss two consecutive exits and soon lead us into completely new and unfamiliar territory. The map isn’t much help on this part of town. It is definitely seedier. I decide to try a route that should eventually intersect the road on which our hotel is located. It takes us through some pretty rough territory, but it is well signposted by Mexican standards.

At one point I exit on a one-way merge road that goes to the road we want. There are no dividing stripes, but it seems about two lanes wide. I move to the outside to get around a slow vehicle on the right. It edges left and blocks my path. Without my consciously registering it, I see a white truck zoom up behind me…but mostly I’m trying to figure out the situation I'm facing ahead.

Since the car has moved in front of me, this must not be a lane. I move back to the right behind the other cars. ..unfortunately, right in front of the white truck, which without my noticing has just moved right to pass me there.

The provocation is more than they can stand. The white truck now whips violently around our left and flies past. A woman leans out the window, eyes bulging, face red and darkening by the second, screaming and swinging her arms together wildly from side to side, apparently in imitation of their view of my driving motions. A big fellow is driving. For a moment I have a vivid daydream of him yanking his nose back in front of me and slamming on his brakes, forcing me to stop, with him then jumping out, yanking my door open, pulling me onto the pavement and beating the living daylights out of me!

Depending on your opinion about yours truly, I hope you will be glad to know that the driver instead punches his accelerator and pulls away. I finish merging from the right lane. In the distance ahead the white truck is still accelerating. It is swaying rhythmically from side to side within its lane as its occupants make their final point: From the driver’s window a brawny arm rockets up and proudly presents me with the proverbial order of the winged messenger. On the opposite side another, thinner arm flies out and shakes its clenched fist. They then quickly disappear into the distance…gone, but not soon forgotten.

I guess not everybody likes Texas plates.

Though it is a strange and unexpected epitaph, the incredible positives of the rest of the day far outweigh it. We make it back to the hotel with no further problems, again still in the daylight. We quickly check our emails on the downstairs computer, and retire up to the room. A few Olympics previews and we turn in for an early night. Ah, sometimes the best things in life are the simple luxuries. Tonight we are so thankful that we don't have to stay up until all hours, just to get up too early the next day!

Drive to Mexico: Friday Morning 2/10/06

With both us and our camera recharged, we take on some new experiences. (Still working to upload our pictures; I'll try again later.)

Mmmm...Beanie Weenies

Yesterday the challenge was in getting everything done that had to be done. Today we have no time demands. The challenge now is that we have only one full day left here, but at least two weeks worth of possible things to do. Which to choose?

One thing we've already decided: We'll do all the driving today. No matter if it's in downtown rush traffic, or on potholed mountain roads. In the end we do a little of both.

We consider our options over a complimentary hotel breakfast of eggs, sausage, cereal, pastries, fruit yogurt, and refried beans. Lots of refried beans. Picking the sliced hot dogs out of our eggs (guess which part we eat), we pull out our guides and maps. Time for some heavy thinking work.

Option one is to ascend several thousand feet of steep, twisty road to the top of the Chipinque Mesa. It is south of town, and has a spectacular view across the whole Monterrey basin. Along the route back is the Alpha Planetarium and Science Museum, with IMAX. This is supposed to be the best of its kind in all of Mexico.

Option two is to go to downtown Monterrey and walk the Gran Plaza…the second-largest city park in Mexico, surrounded by at least a dozen top-notch museums and tourable historic buildings. One museum tells the story of Mexican history, and it features tours in English. Alongside it is what one of our guidebooks call an "artificial river" that commemorates the river that still ran through this valley when it was discovered back in the 1500’s. The real river disappeared long ago. The Guide shows pictures of happy families riding paddle boats up and down its waters.

Option three is to travel towards Saltillo, another major industrial city to the west of Monterrey. This would take us further into the mountains, and is reputed to be a prettier drive than anything we've yet seen. It would also take us closer to a typical part of Mexico that is more typical in the authentic, native crafts we've been hoping to find. We have a guidebook chapter full of bargaining phrases, and are eager to try a little serious bartering.

One of our travelogues says not to try option one when it is wet. The forecast shows a possibility of rain. Scratch number one.

Option two looks interesting, but neither of us is in the mood to stay in a city.

That leaves option three. I read to Debbie the section of the Sanborn book covering this area, and she suddenly leans forward when I reach the "Grutas de García:"

"GRUTAS de GARCÍA (GARCÍA CAVES) IS A TOP ATTRACTION, with spectacular formations of stalactities and stalagmites, 40 minutes from town toward
Saltillo at Villa de García. Caves close at 4:00, so leave early! The drive
is beautiful. There is a playground for kids and swimming pool. They now
have a little tramway to take you to the illuminated caves."

We have a plan.

"West to Saltillo, South of the USA"

Setting off from the hotel, we know we have to find again the autopista that loops around the top of town. Beyond the section we were on yesterday is the path to Saltillo. Today Debbie is driving and I am navigating.

We follow the signs to Saltillo and end up at a pay booth for a road headed north. Because we want to go west, and because the road signs have up till now been so consistently misleading, I become convinced that we have taken a wrong turn. We pull up to the only open booth. Using my translator, from the passenger seat I try to express that we are on the wrong road. The road has been completely empty until now, but now of course several cars immediately pull up behind us. Debbie tries to hand-signal that we just want to go forward and come back around through the return booth. The problem is, the road ahead is divided and there is no way to get back to the return lanes.

The lady motions to her supervisor, who is sitting in the next (closed) booth. He walks over and I manage to make our predicament clear. He steps back and waves the cars behind us to back up. Then he motions for us to back up, and points to a chained opening between us and the return lanes. Unclipping the chain, he gestures for us to move ahead. I say "Saltillo," and he stops. "No,"and points to beyond the booth, where we were just heading. "Saltillo?" I ask. "Sí." He clips the chain back, and has us turn around and get back in line for the toll booth. Despite all the confusion, soon we have paid our toll, and are on our way. (Not for the first time or the last, Debbie and I say to each other "we’ve got to learn some Spanish before we come back!")

As with yesterday’s autopista, there is almost no traffic. Soon we begin to see more of the devastated housing you expect in Mexico. Set well back from the autopista, the structures are mostly concrete…perhaps because there aren’t enough trees here to build with wood. For roofing these "houses" have strips of sheet metal perched crazily on the tops of bare block walls, leaving what often appear to be open holes to the sky. Other walls have no covering at all. We see nobody; perhaps because it is now mid-morning.

We can just make out the hazy outline of mountains to our west; close enough they should be crisp. Air pollution. You don't see it further to the east; perhaps prevailing winds push it towards where we were headed. Maybe it is because most of the heavy industry is in this area. No way to tell.

Villa de PC Computer Cases

Thankfully we have soon driven out of most of the pollution and begin to see the mountains more clearly. For once, a Mexican exit is well marked: "Villa de García." We take the turn, and it carries us to what will become one of my most interesting and vivid memories of Mexico; a village that has grown up around the concrete industry.

Passing the tall cylinders of a concrete plant and many large transporter trucks on the road, we soon approach what seems to be worker housing. Aside from a rather messy area of roadside work, it looks very neat and clean; prosperous by Mexican standards. Before the subdivision is a billboard with a man backed by his smiling wife and two children. He has just paid 175,000 pesos ($17,500 U.S. dollars). From the adoring expressions of spouse and offspring, it is clear he has made "the right decision."

Organized like the containers in a well-run warehouse, the development holds row after row of masonry boxes. The two-story ones resemble personal-computer tower cases: Narrow, deep, and tall. The effect is antiseptic and unique, like nothing in either a typical American subdivision or a slum.

We drive slowly through the village, and come upon our first tope of the trip. A tope is a series of rows of tall metal domes crossing the road. They work a car's suspension like the torture-test section of a Detroit test track. We come to a near stop as the front wheels rise, then drop, then up come the rear wheels and back down again. Good job, Deb! Undercarriage still intact; only a slight scrape in the middle.

Now we enter the zone of sensory overload: On one side of the road is one hut after another, fronted by tables and chairs that could well have been rescued from a nearby dumpster. In a way they resemble the cafes we know in the U.S., but with a healthy extra dollop of "official-looking pink slip on the door" chic. Nevertheless, we smell the most delicious odors of our whole stay in Mexico.

Finally we draw alongside two houses that look at least vaguely familiar to Americans; closer to 1950’s California Ranch than anything. I wonder aloud if one of them belongs to the mayor. It has several orange trees in the backyard, each sagging under a full load of plump bigger-than-regulation-softball sized fruit.

In five minutes we are through the town and moving on towards the caves, perhaps 5 miles away. Though the road is small, two laned, and heavily trafficked by large clean dump trucks, it is in fairly good shape. Steep cliffs rise just a short walk away on both sides. Far up the wall on the left side we see a circular hole of unnaturally-perfect roundness. Yet we can see no obvious way for people to get there, nor any sign in the slope below that they ever did. We can't imagine why or how it is there, or anything useful that one could do with it.

Coming up on the right now is a graveled turnout at an especially pretty narrows. We stop to shoot pictures. Opening my door we hear the musical clattering of bells. To our right a dog is driving a group of goats straight up a steep rocky slope. Their bells are clapping as they scamper upwards. There's no shepherd in sight.

I work myself through a partial circle to snap a set of shots that my software at home will stitch into a 270-degree panorama of the surrounding cliffs. I have just one more shot to take when…the lens retracts into the body and the camera shuts itself off. Battery dead again, and there's still a whole day of adventuring ahead.

(Click on this picture to see a larger version. Hold the cursor over that version and soon a symbol will appear in the lower-right corner. Click on that to see a HUGE version.)

We drive on and soon reach the parking lot for the caves. At the entrance is a booth where you pay a couple of dollars worth of pesos to park. I reach out to hand the lady our money. She says the word "teleferica", which we know from the sign up the road means the tram up to the caves, and then something about an hour and fifteen minutes. It seems to me she is saying the tram is not operating today, and it will take us an hour and a quarter to walk to the caves. The nearly empty parking lot ahead of us confirms this interpretation. Debbie and I quickly confer and decide to press on. We've come too far to turn back now! I pay and we pull into a neatly-lined spot.

This is the most beautifully-manicured place we have yet seen in Mexico…neatly landscaped, with retaining walls that look professionally formed instead of seeming hand-molded with playdough, sculptured grass, trimmed plants, and a sign done in artistic black metal. We stop at the little souvenir shop at the beginning of the path to the main section of the park, and buy a disposable odak camera. Then we walk up the hill to where you buy attraction tickets.

Leveling out, we turn left and enter an area as nice as Six Flags, only on a much smaller scale. More than anything we've yet seen, everything is neat and clean and pretty. Even the restrooms are pristine. At the ticket booth I see the prices for going to the cave: 60 pesos each with tram ride, 45 without. Using Jon’s translator, I attempt to ask about the tram and the walk. This time we hear "thirty minutes." That's not too bad...and neither of us want to leave without seeing the caves. Our eyes follow the overhead tram cables to the distant landing dock where you enter the caves, far up a nearby mountain (the picture really doesn't capture the distance). Wow; thirty minutes seems pretty quick...but they're the experts; they should know!

I pay and we set out. As we get closer we begin to see that the path zig-zags its way up the face of the mountain. The first zig is brutally steep. We both stop to catch our breath (it’s been months since either of us have been well enough to do much physical). That's when we are suddenly startled by a little old lady blowing by us on her way back down the mountain, fresh as a morning flower. "Hola," she says. "Ho ho ho la" we pant.

As soon as she disappears--which is really all too soon for us--we start on another zig. Thus we go for awhile, climbing a couple and stopping, panting, dizzy, but determined. About fifteen minutes of this is all that Debbie’s stomach wants to hear about: Like a good protest marcher, it begins picketing. When that doesn't work, it escalates the warning to nausea. Deb still presses on. Now the stomach is really hacked off. Deb has had her opportunity to comply; now nothing will do short of corporeal punishment. First comes the watering mouth, then a quick walk off the trail to the bushes. Bye, bye breakfast. As I hold a comforting hand on her back, yet another little old lady burns by us, power-walking like she's on team Mexico, Beijing 2008. "Hola," she says brightly. "Hola," I smile back weakly. We'll have three more of them pass us by before this walk is done.

Debbie feels much better. I ask repeatedly if she wants to go back, but she has already paid the price and is not about to quit. What a trooper! Her stomach having played its ultimate hand and lost, now seems ready to play nice. On we go, endlessly tracing out the same pattern: zig, sit, pant, zag, sit, pant, repeat. What a beautiful day! 75 degrees or so, dry, light breeze, shaded by the mountain we're climbing. We feel both challenged and fulfilled.

Halfway up we hear and then see the tram undock from its moor above and head down the mountain. It runs close to our trail, so we can see that inside are a couple of park workers. They must be doing a little troubleshooting so they’ll be ready for the crowds another day.

Now we are a little further up, and the tram returns. Loaded with people. What in the world?! Visitors! We figure out that the ladies below were trying to tell us, not how long it would take to walk up the mountain, but how long the wait would be before the tram started running!

A little later, just as we reach the top, a second load of tourists arrives. Debbie and I are sweat-soaked and drooping. They all look crisp and wide-eyed. As they chatter away in Spanish, everyone collects into a single, large tour group.

Immediately the guide begins speaking at length of the glories of the cave, in Spanish of course. Soon an older gentleman from the group of tram cheaters—I mean, riders—turns to a younger couple alongside him, and says in impeccable English, "do you think they might want to know what the guide is saying?" To which the younger couple replies "oh yeah, they probably do." I had no idea we are so obviously gringo.

The younger couple, Jaime (pronounced "Hi May") and Michelle, seem to be roughly in their late thirties. She was born in Ohio, and they with their children have spent the last few years in Iowa. They just moved to Texas in May of 2005. Their group is on a weekend marriage retreat from Faith Church, near McAllen Texas. With their pastor and his wife they’ve spent the previous night at a hotel on the Chipinque Mesa...where we’d considered going this morning. Now they were at their next stop, the caves. Most everyone in their group speaks English.

What has started as a visit to a natural wonder has suddenly become a divine appointment. We enjoy the caves so much more with our new friends, with whom we talk more about the Lord and our families than we do about the admittedly spectacular crystalline formations surrounding us. The whole group is chattering away now, stringing out more and more over the path and falling progressively further and further behind the guide, who is still at the front. At one point he chastises us all for not keeping up; Jaime shoots back good-naturedly, "if he wants us to keep up, he’ll have to move everyone in front of us out of the way!"

At the "Christmas Tree" formation, a tall tree shape in the middle of a large half-domed room topped 300 feet up by two openings to the clear blue sky, I take a group shot of the McAllen folks. This way their pastor can be in the frame. And they shoot a picture of Debbie and me as well, which unfortunately comes out almost completely black. Oh well!

The last two venues in the caves are "glory" and "inferno," as in heaven and hell. Glory is a little grotto with a shrine to the Virgin Mary. I'd always pictured heaven a little grander, but it is pretty in a kitschy sort of way. Hell is a narrow slot heading down into unseen depths, first horizontally and then tailing over. It is all backlit with an underworldly glow by an unseen red lamp. We all laughingly agree that none of us would want to go there.

As we exit the cave, I ask Jaime if he would mind putting in a word for us with the tram operators. Would he explain to them that we thought the tram wasn’t operating today, and are willing to pay the difference so we can ride down instead of walk? He speaks with them a moment in Spanish, and they quickly agree we can ride…at no extra charge. Hallelujah! We are about to officially join the tram-cheaters club!

As we wait for the tram to load, we look down the side of the mountain below the overhead lines. There are parallel railroad tracks, leading down to the main recreational and ticket area at the bottom. Apparently the way to get up and down was once a little train. I remark that this would have been a fitting conclusion after viewing hell, knowing that you were about to get into a train headed straight downhill! Looking at the near-vertical angle, I still can’t believe that anyone would have ever ridden it.

Riding down on the tram we look over onto the path we’d climbed a short while earlier. From this angle it is so long and steep that we can't believe we’d made it. Then somebody notices the placard on the tram is for a Swiss company, and wisecracks about how it took the Swiss to get us all safely up and down a Mexican mountain.

We trade addresses and contact info with Jaime and Michelle, inviting them to come to our place in Fort Worth. They return the invitation, asking us to come see them in south Texas. Everyone sits around for awhile in the park and visits. As we talk, a Mexican lady who is not with their group speaks a little English, and asks Jaime "Christian?" I could somehow tell she isn't asking about denomination or cultural Christianity, but being an authentic follower of Jesus...though don’t ask me how I can tell. He says "Sí," and they say a few more words to each other in Spanish. She seems somehow comforted by his reply.

It is time to go, so we wave goodbye to them all and say we might come see them sometime, perhaps even at their church. They all smile, wave, and bid us well. Down the walkway and to the car we retrace our steps; opening doors, stepping inside, backing out, and pulling away…feeling very blessed through the Lord's little flock from McAllen.

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.

Drive to Mexico: Thursday Morning 2/9/06

We have been using another blog named "The Sutton Sanitorium," but though we act pretty crazy at times, the name didn't seem to fit us quite right. So this is our renamed place...

We've been promising all of you an account of our drive to Monterrey Mexico two weekends ago (February 9-11 2006). I've broken it up into two posts per travel day (as with doggie years, one day of Mexico-trip time equals approximately six days of regular time!). I'll put them up as I complete them over the next couple of days. Not to worry; nobody will be shortchanged: Each post will still be ridiculously over-long.

So without further ado, we present...(drum roll)...the first part of our first Mexican day!

Down the rabbit hole...

As I sit writing this account on the first full day of our first trip to Mexico, it is late and Debbie and I are back at our hotel. It is an exotic Mexican place they call a "Fairfield Inn." Actually, it's kind of nice to get back to a little piece of the USA, to anchor us in the middle of our truly Mexican experiences thus far. Let me recap a bit...

Last night we finished with our marriage class at the church, and then drove to below San Antonio. We stopped to sleep at 2 am. This morning we got going again by 9 am, and reached Laredo by 11.

Crazed gringo couple in the (American) Walmart

We had just picked up Debbie’s prescription at the Wallie pharmacy and were doing some last-minute pre-crossing shopping. We had just arrived at the toilet paper aisle (all the books say to BYOP…get it?). A man and woman--both obviously Anglos--turned the corner. I said something to Debbie, not paying any attention to them, and he turned to me and with a half-crazed look in his eyes said (this is my translation, including both his actual words and his body language), "Thank God…you speak English."

His wife turned towards us just as he asked "Are you going to cross the border?" I said yes, and Debbie asked them if they had gone into Mexico before. They said yes, though only at an entry point three hours away. He said that Laredo used to be the place to cross many years ago, but now there was an average of one killing there a day. He practically got on his kness begging us to make the three-hour drive.

Well, we smiled and bid them adieu, and walked out wondering "what in the world was that about?" We couldn´t quite figure out if God had sent them to warn us, or if the devil had sent them to put us off. So, we went on to the Sanborn auto insurance place.

You must have Mexican insurance to drive in Mexico; American insurance doesn’t work. We talked to an agent about the situation in Nuevo Laredo (the Mexican side of the town). She said "there's no danger to tourists; but it's not good for the people who live there...drugs." We walked out with our car insurance plus a Sanborn-branded travel guide of detailed information about driving routes in this part of Mexico. It turned out to be our most valuable reference for the trip, though I’d researched, bought, and carried several other guidebooks along with us.

On to the next stop, the International Bank. From a young Hispanic lady teller we collected some pesos and a restaurant recommendation for Monterrey. She was in love with being in love...but with nobody in particular at the moment. In fact, she was looking for a man who was as in love with being in love as she was. The restaurant would be perfect for this, she reassured us. Thanks, we said...and skeedaddled for the border.

Border crossing

As we are pulling up to the border guard station, Debbie looks at the insurance documentation and reads "anyone entering the country with guns or ammunition will go to a Mexican prison." At this point--about 500 feet from the crossing--we say "hmmm...I wonder if Jimmy left any of his ammo in the car" (knowing Jimmy's fondness for bullets, like the one hanging around his neck right now). Deb reaches into the little pocket in the dash, closes her fingers, and--lo and behold--pulls out a bullet.

We furtively pull over to the side of the road--unfortunately, under the direct gaze of three Mexican border workers--and start asking innocent questions, like "where was that border again?" Meanwhile, I crack open the door on my side and slip the bullet out onto the pavement (a flattened, previously-fired slug with no casing, so no danger to innocents when a truck rolls over it later…but still jail bait). All on the US side, thank God, so we weren't in immediate danger of going straight to Mexican prison (as Deb is saying "without collecting $200").

We reach the border and the Hispanic guard asks for our $3 toll. We hand it to him, and I ask him to confirm that we should go to the next street, turn left, etc. etc. as we had been instructed at the insurance place, to get to customs. He says "Oh no! Customs is right there," pointing to his left and just behind all of us. "I can have them open the gate (just ahead of us on our right), and let you go through. But customs is closed for lunch." That much was obvious even to us, by the long line of people standing at the door to which he had just pointed. I asked him, one last plaintive time, "it's not at the next street, turn left, etc. etc.?" And his eyes open up and he says "Oh! You mean Mexican customs! Yeah, that's where you go. Have a good day."

That moves us ahead about 50 yards to the Mexican guards. They wave us to a lane where a traffic light turns red indicating that we are to be searched. But there isn’t anybody around, and I am a little confused (yeah, and the Titanic was a rowboat), so I slowly pull forward. Initiating a guy running out and screaming behind us. I pull over.

He looks in the trunk, and says "OK, go on" (or what sure seemed like it, since I'd never heard the words before). We pull out onto our first Mexican street.

Held up by rubber-strip wielding desparados

At the first intersection we are supposed to turn left, but two guys with squeegees rush to surround our car. Doesn’t matter that the light has just turned green and the two cars in front of us are going through...no, one guy steps in front of our car, the other goes to the driver's side, and they both begin madly gesticulating across the windshield with their tools. Occasionally the one on my side stops wiping and moves his right hand with extended fingers towards his suddenly-wider mouth...in and out, like he is holding a Big Mac and trying to wolf it down in four bites. Then he regales us with the only English he apparently possesses, saying " Quarter, quarter, dollar, dollar?" I give him a dollar (couldn't find a quarter fast enough).

By now horns behind us have wound up a Beethoven symphony. But, good fellows that they are, as soon as they have our dollar the other guy moves away from the front and allows us to move on. It seems like the light has cycled five times, but it has all amazingly happened in the same green.

We finish turning left, etc. etc. and halt at a stop sign with a building built up to the very right corner of the intersection. I look, don’t see anybody, pull out and nearly kill my wife! There is a car--artfully concealed just out of sight beyond the building, tearing down at poor Debbie's door. Ayyyy! I hit the accelerator, and we move on. Have I mentioned yet that Mexicans love to use their horns? Well, I heard another one then. We haven't stopped hearing them since.

Mexican customs

We pull up to the customs building, a low warehouse-looking building about a block long, and go in. We are met by a Mexican auto insurance guy, who tells us that we paid too much for our insurance (interestingly, they play this game on both sides of the border: the American auto insurance worker told us to go exchange for our pesos in the international bank on the US side, because it had better rates than found in Mexico. We haven't found rates that high yet anywhere in Mexico!)

We walk up to the window for the first step in the customs process, and the official on the other side looks very disgusted (Debbie's word; fits perfectly). He hands me two forms and asks a couple of questions in passable English. I say we want to get the longer stay approved, since we might like to come back. He says to fill out the forms, which I do (Deb doesn’t have her glasses on). One place on the form is for "length of stay", for which I put "3". Unfortunately, I don’t notice the section's small print in English, "for official use only."

To make a long story short, he stamps the forms and tells us we have to leave Mexico on Saturday (3 days isn't "the 24 period from now until tomorrow the same time, etc. etc.;" it is "today, manana, and manana after that"). I say "oops; I got confused" (did I mention that this happened to me a couple of times in Mexico?), and he looks at me with a combination of vindictive justification, resentment, and boredom, and manages to convey it all in his delivery of a single word: "No." Translates into something like "toooo bad" in English. Still holding the paper receipts in his hand, with a wastebasket 5 feet away.

I figure I better get out of there while I am still a free man, so we walk on to step 2. Debbie and I have a nice conversation about what we are going to do with our extra day back in Texas this weekend.

We finish the rest of the customs process with little trouble, and I use Jon's amazing translator (thank you, Jon!), and go back to the first official guy and say "Estoy arrepentido. Buenos tardes." Meaning, of course, "I'm sorry. Have a nice day."

Well, you'd think I'd just kissed his baby. He breaks out in a big smile, his co-worker does likewise, and he says "you can extend your stay at the government offices in Monterrey, just by calling. Enjoy your stay!" Sheesh...talk about your classic bipolar personality! No, actually I really think he had probably had it with one too many "ugly Americans," and was surprised that I cared enough to say anything.

Cruising the countryside

We get back on the road to Monterrey and do fine for the next 15 miles. Then we hit the first checkpoint…a wide spot in the road with a collection of earnest young men in camo, dangling at from their hands least one M-16 each, lounging against pristine Hummers (I guess they knock down all their game on the first shot).

But other than experiencing a slightly surreal feeling of disconnection from reality, we make it through that just fine, too. Soon this road splits into two: a libre, or “free road” (libres are known for heavy traffic, potholes, and various other dangers), and an autopista, or toll road. These are supposed to be as good as American turnpikes. We pay the 185 peso ($18.50 US) toll, and merge onto the autopista to Monterrey. Thus far we’ve had perhaps a little too much adventure for our tastes. We’re ready for a little predictability…at least, for awhile.

Almost no Mexicans use the autopistas; we have the road almost completely to ourselves. It’s in pretty good shape; it’s usually four lanes (occasionally two), and all the potholes have been filled. Stretches are first class virgin asphalt. Pretty nice.

Northern Mexico is really bleak and brown. No trees, only lots of small cactus and brush. Also, thankfully, no billboards or advertisements. Only an occasional road sign like “Retorno A La Izquierda, 500m,” meaning turnaround to the left 500 meters ahead. Occasionally we see abandoned homesteads just off the road. They are small houses with attached animal shelters, from which the roofs have long since been lifted. They are only walls now, and who knows where their families went or why. We are intrigued.

No bull

An hour before reaching Monterrey we start seeing mountains. They rise higher and higher, closer and closer to the road. We come through a pass, and then we see it: A giant sculpture of a Mexican bull. It stands tall with the pride of thousands of years of Mayan, Incan, Toltec and other native artistic forbears. We squint into the brilliant haze. I’d always heard the Mexicans were famed for their sculpture. I had no idea they would go to such ends however; creating a work of art on a truly stupendous scale, in the middle of a bleak road through nowhere. These people are truly dedicated to their craft.

It is awe-inspiring…towering over the surrounding cliffs as if to say to all passers-by, “The Spaniards were not able to assimilate us, and neither will you.” We comment back and forth about how privileged we are to be seeing it. I quickly reach for our digital camera. (Debbie is now driving.) Good thing Debbie charged it up the night before. I focus once and shoot. But the sculpture is still tiny in my viewfinder. I zoom in to get a better angle…and the lens retracts into the body as the camera shuts itself down. The battery is dead.

No matter. We’ll be back through here in 2 days and can take all the pictures we want. People lose touch with the world around them by trying to see it all through a lens. Now we can fully drink in the experience.

We draw closer. We are now both leaning forward over the dashboard and gazing upwards. Our necks rotate as we draw near…almost alongside now…oh the anticipation…Wait! Why does this wonderful work of art suddenly look so…er…two-dimensional? And what is the meaning of those two poles we can now see projecting beneath the body into the ground? We flash past and I twist to look back through the rear window. The intense light still makes it difficult to see, but on the backside (which turns out to be the front side) of the animal I believe I can make out letters. It looks like…“Wayne.”

It's a billboard. We can't stop laughing at ourselves. On the trip home we will see the writing more clearly and discover that the brand on our bigboy's side is the name of a local beer: “Magna.”

Hmmm…I wonder if that’s Spanish for “Wayne?”

In another half hour we reach the outskirts of Monterrey. We pass one American factory after another. It is all surprisingly modern. I am following our map, yet I somehow allow us to drive almost all the way into downtown before realizing we have missed our turn (an unmarked exit for the International Airport). We throw in the towel, reverse course, and stop at an exotic Mexican "7Eleven". Yep, just like an American one. Just down the road from the Wal-Mart. Reminds me of the joy I’d felt a half an hour past the border back in Nuevo Laredo when, after seeing an unbroken string of nothing but Spanish slogans on trucks, we passed a semi displaying that classic Anglo-Saxon word; "Werner."

Now is my chance to try my first real "pidgeon Spanish" interraction, to hopefully find a way for us to reach our hotel before dark. It is 4:30 pm, and the one common factor in all the reading I have done in preparing for this trip was that every book said “whatever you do, don’t drive after dark.” Among the hazards listed were frequent deep potholes, big rocks placed in the middle of the road by helpful motorists to “warn” other drivers of a breakdown ahead, giant mutant speedbumps called topes that are placed seemingly randomly and without any warning and are known for literally ripping out the undercarriage of vehicles that hit them at speed, free-ranging black cows taking nighttime strolls on unlit blacktop, local cars flying low without headlights, and (very rarely) highway robberies. One quote completed this list with the final disclaimer “and if you choose to disregard all of this and drive in the dark anyway, then later on just remember that you were warned!” (italics in the original). The sun is getting close to the horizon and my mouth is getting dry.

Well, I use my two words of Spanish, and the old gentleman uses his two words of English, we both wave our hands a lot, and Deb and I end up back on the right track. A short while later we pull into the hotel. Just before dark.

Life is good.