Margarita Wednesdays

by Deborah Rodriguez

  “One hundred pesos!” I shouted.

  “One hundred pesos?” He stopped and shook his head again.

  “Five hundred pesos!” I stuck my head in through the passenger-side window. “You give me a full connection in the next thirty minutes and I’ll give you five hundred pesos. Cash.”

  The truck zipped away from the curb. “I’ll be right back.”

  I have no idea where that man went, but I do know that he came back with everything. As the sun went down that night, and the rest of the neighborhood took to the street, I gleefully settled onto my couch with You’ve Got Mail (in English!). The light from the TV seemed to draw passersby like moths—my neighbors had no qualms about peering through my gate whenever the inside was bright enough to make out the details of the renovations. They were curious to see what I had done to the house, and even more curious about me. After the part where Meg Ryan tells Tom Hanks, “You’re nothing but a suit!” I got up to make myself a sandwich. I was just cutting the bread when suddenly I heard someone moaning. Oh baby, that’s it, do it to me, do it now. Odd. I didn’t remember that happening in the movie, and I seriously doubted it could be coming from my ancient neighbor’s room on the other side of the wall. I rushed back into the living room, where full-blown, full-volume porn was pouring from my TV, in full view and earshot of all those passing by. I frantically dived for the remote, and in my nervous fumbling pressed the volume instead of the channel button, the raunchy sound track now blaring out onto the sidewalk. Before I could reach the door, I spied a group of kids beginning to gather, so I dived onto the floor and yanked out the plug. That cable guy had obviously been hell-bent on coming through with more than I asked for, as soon became apparent by his frequent drive-bys just to see if I “needed anything.” I even twice caught him climbing the pole outside my door. When I told Karen back in Michigan the story, she instantly dubbed him my Porn Fairy.

  NOW THAT MY DAYS WERE finally free, I quickly fell into a routine that forced me farther away from Carnaval Street, down the narrow streets out into the rest of Centro Histórico. First I’d head to the Plazuela República, where the cool vaulted interior of the cathedral offered a welcome respite from the heat outside and the thoughts within. I’d sit in an empty pew under the crystal chandeliers, intent on conjuring up a Deb who would be fun to spend the day with, a Deb who was strong and secure and perfectly happy to be on her own. On more than one occasion I’d succeed, only to burst out into the blinding sun in the beautiful old square to be confronted by a sea of love, where couples of all ages, lacking either time or money for a no-tell motel and with, no doubt, a mother standing guard at home, would sit glued together in a marathon lip lock. It might have been funny, if it didn’t make me feel so alone.

  Sometimes, when I first started exploring, I’d catch myself navigating the brick sidewalks head down, as I had learned to do in Kabul, where eye-to-eye contact from a woman is a dead giveaway for a foreigner, even one wearing a veil. Here, even with my head up, I’d still feel like a guest on the streets, and would politely step aside to let the locals pass, as though I didn’t really belong.

  From the square I’d cross over into the Centro Mercado, where I’d stare in wonder at the severed pig heads and chicken feet and giant prickly cactus leaves, and try to imagine what the hell I’d do with those in a kitchen. Coming from a family whose big treat was gas station chicken (yes, literally fried chicken you’d buy at the gas station), my culinary skills were a little limited. My favorite part of the bustling old market was the far corner in the back, where they sold vitamins and dietary supplements and brujería—black magic. There were potions for everything. Soaps that promised prosperity, rattlesnake sperm incense to bring rapid good luck, pheromone powders to improve your sex life, salts for a better business, oils to ward off the evil eye, water to make you a better student, double reversible lotion potions to protect you from hexes (and send them right back to the hexer). And if you needed a little extra help? A full array of business cards advertising local professional brujas (witches!) was displayed under glass on the counter near the cash register.

  If I wasn’t too scared to mess with that stuff, I might have been tempted to try a spell or two, maybe even a love potion to find myself a partner for one of those park benches. But then again, that would probably not have been a great idea. With my history, I’d no doubt be better off finding a spell to keep men away.

  The shopping area of El Centro never failed to cheer me up. The crowded sidewalks, honking horns, the smell of street food and car exhaust blending together in a stinky urban perfume, all made me feel alive. The stores chock-full of tacky T-shirts, plastic hair clips, clingy tube tops, and cheap jewelry called to me like a dinner bell to an empty stomach. And the shoes! It killed me that I was cursed with size-nine feet, apparently a size nobody in Mexico ever had a need for. But my favorite discovery was the place that sold princess dresses. Seriously. Rows and rows of big, poufy, shiny, sparkly dresses in every color imaginable—hot pink, lime green, bright orange, and against the wall, virginal white. There were tiaras and crowns and wands. This was a store for me, if only I were about two feet shorter and ninety pounds lighter.

  I could feel myself becoming a little more comfortable every day. Yes, I still got lost every time I left my house, but the flashing beacons atop the jumble of radio and TV towers littering Icebox Hill, above Carnaval Street, were always there to remind me that I wasn’t far from home. Having the ocean nearby didn’t hurt, either. I’d simply look at the little compass I kept on my key chain, find west, and off I went. If I hit the water, I’d know how to make my way home, where I could always start off again in another direction. After taking a quick shower and downing a gallon of water, I often did.

  BY DAY, THE PLAZUELA MACHADO took on a whole different aura. Honking cars inched their way through the streets where I dined by night, and ballet students scrambled to class at the Teatro Angela Peralta, where a never-ending melody tumbled from the windows as aspiring opera singers from around the world practiced their arias, over and over and over. I had become oddly drawn to the theater, fascinated by the tragic story of the woman for whom it was named—a poor, not-so-attractive girl from Mexico City who grew up to become known around the world as the “Mexican Nightingale.” Apparently she was a feisty young thing who, after a sad, brief marriage, started both an opera company and an affair with her manager, Don Julian. Her Mexico City patrons, scandalized, did everything they could to ruin her career, even going so far as hiring hecklers to interrupt her performances. She vowed never to sing in Mexico City again. In 1883, at the age of thirty-eight, she began her final tour. One of the first stops was Mazatlán. Her Mazatleco fans greeted her boat at the dock and escorted her to the Plazuela Machado, where they were rewarded by a spontaneous balcony performance of “La Paloma,” a famous Spanish song that’s all about the triumph of love over death. Little did they know that this was to be her last performance. Yellow fever had hit the ship’s crew and quickly spread throughout the entire company, including Angela Peralta. One of the few who didn’t contract the disease was Don Julian, who quickly arranged for a deathbed marriage ceremony. As his bride-to-be supposedly had plenty of money and no heirs, his motives remain a matter of debate. Witnesses reported that by the time it came time for the “I do’s,” Peralta was completely unconscious, and maybe even already dead. One account says that another surviving member of the company supported her limp body by its shoulders, literally manipulating her head up and down in answer to the proposal. Another says that it was a woman hiding under the bed who uttered the assent. Well, at least she didn’t die alone.

  ON SOME DAYS I’D FIND myself drifting along the waterfront down the Malecón, which to me felt like a boardwalk without the boards. I’d cut back and forth across the palm-lined median, dodging the buses and cars and motorbikes as I alternated between the salty mist splashing up from the seawall on one side and the smells of coffee and shrimp coming from the hotels and restaurants on the o
ther. The old Hotel Belmar held a particular fascination for me, with its crumbling blue balconies, tiered Spanish fountain, and cool fifties-style logo. I’d read a bit about its history, from its debut as the elegant lady playing host to society balls and elaborate weddings in the 1920s, to its heyday in the 1950s as a favorite hangout for John Wayne, who would arrive on his yacht for a vacation of marlin fishing and card playing. Rumor has it he used to get a kick out of taking a turn behind the registration desk, surprising visitors as they came to check in. His fifth-floor room is still there, available for rent like any other in the hotel. But now the Belmar is more decrepit spinster than faded beauty, half of it inhabited by budget-driven tourists and expats, the other half full of empty rooms crammed with discarded beds and shattered toilets and, supposedly, ghosts of guests past.

  Often, my wandering would end before sunset at Mamita’s, an open-air spot near the ocean, where Analisa the bartender would greet me with a dazzling smile and a glass of red wine. Analisa made me laugh, as she proudly paraded her big fake boobs back and forth behind the bar, with visions of big tips dancing in her head.

  “You like my chichis?” she asked me once. “My last boyfriend, he pay for them. Only good thing to come from that relationship.”

  I loved Analisa and her chichis. I also loved her accent, and the way her sunglasses always matched the color of her nail polish. I envied the fact that even in this miserably hot Mexican summer, she never seemed to sweat.

  When the bar wasn’t too busy, Analisa and I would chat. Before long, I knew all about the string of bad boyfriends that made my own history look like a Disney movie: the cowardly Mexican one who left her pregnant after his mother deemed her too low-class for marriage, the violent gringo one who had turned on her one too many times, yet another jealous gringo with pockets deeper than hers, the one who footed the bill for her boobs, later complained about their watermelon-like size, and was apparently the only man in the Western Hemisphere to feel that way. But I also quickly learned that Analisa was devoted to her teenage son and, as an unmarried Mexican woman, was culturally chained to her mother’s household. No matter how old, in Mexico single women don’t move out. It just isn’t done. And for Analisa, that meant living in a household that included not only her elderly mother and her own son, but also a brother, a nephew, and a sister with Down syndrome. It was clear why she needed those big tips so badly, and needed them now. Those hot-mama looks weren’t going to last forever.

  As the sky would start turning from orange to pink, Analisa would turn her attention to the English-speaking regulars who’d fill the place up with their booming voices and enviable familiarity. I’d remain at my seat at the bar with my book and my phone, raising my eyes to watch when I thought nobody was looking. More than once I caught a man getting kicked by his wife under the table, another casualty of Analisa’s excellent chichis.

  One evening I spotted a familiar face, a guy I had been introduced to at Roger the Realtor’s office when I first came down to Mazatlán.

  “Bodie,” he reminded me with an extended hand. “Bodie Kellogg.”

  I slipped my book back into my bag. “As in cornflakes?”

  He laughed. “Yep, great-grandson of W.K. And this is Snickers.” A sweet-looking pup was glued to his side.

  “Nice to see you again.” My memories of elementary school field trips to the Battle Creek factory made this guy an instant celebrity in my mind. Over the next few months I’d learn Bodie’s story. How this scion of one of America’s richest families had drifted down to Mexico in a pickup truck a few years ago, looking for a place to live. How, as a self-proclaimed refugee of the sixties, he got involved with ecotourism in the jungle, jaguar-calling in a remote village at the base of the Sierra Madre, anthropological digs in places where kids would giggle at the first gringo they’d ever laid eyes on, tours for the adventuresome traveler into the secluded mountain countryside, where one wouldn’t dare go alone. Bodie got by doing all that, with a little construction, photography, and writing thrown in on the side. We weren’t talking Richie Rich here—Great-grandpa’s millions went directly to the Kellogg Foundation, save for an educational fund for his heirs, which Bodie milked for over ten years, five campuses, and no degrees, which explained why he seemed to know everything.

  But that evening what was most apparent to me was that Bodie seemed to know everyone. And as the sun disappeared, I somehow found myself agreeing to join Bodie and some of his pals on a Sunday excursion to a place called Stone Island.

  HALF OF ME WAS EXCITED to meet new people. I was flattered that Bodie thought I’d fit in, since fitting in was something that had eluded me over the past couple of years in Napa. But the other half of me was a nervous wreck. Sunday morning came quickly and started early with a phone call from Bodie.

  “Hey, Deb. You’re still in for the beach, right?”

  I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m in.”

  “Great! Meet at Macaws at noon, and we’ll take the panga over to the island.”

  I didn’t want to sound stupid, but I had no idea what a panga was. More crucial was the fact that I also didn’t know where Macaws was. Bodie rattled off a ten-minute set of directions. As in turn west at (something that sounded like Generalmente Chichomicholambariña Street) and go east at (another unintelligible street name), follow the street ninety degrees around the traffic circle until the (iglesia something) is at two o’clock, and head straight for the (what sounded to me like bathroom in Spanish). I was just grateful I lived on a street I could pronounce and spell.

  “Bodie, would you mind giving me the same directions again, only this time in girl talk?”

  He laughed and switched to a strained falsetto. “Walk to the big white house, turn left at that adorable pink building with the blue door, and then right again where all those hunky car-wash guys are. When you see the ocean, take your first left, look to your right, and voilà. Macaws.”

  “Bodie, just one more thing, do I turn left or right when I walk out my front door?” I could just hear him wondering how a woman who had been all over the world could be so helpless when it came to getting around.

  I packed up my beach bag with a dozen strengths of sun block—I seriously doubted they called this the Tropic of Cancer for nothing—tied up my hair in braids under a big floppy hat, and checked myself out in the mirror. Then the terror set in. I swear I stopped breathing for a minute or two. Being introduced to a group of strangers in a dark, smoky room, fully clothed, is one thing, but at a beach, in unforgiving sunlight, half naked? What had I been thinking? I ran to the phone to politely decline Bodie’s invitation, then hung up, dialed, and hung up again, and finally sucked it up and headed to the closet.

  Do I wear the big cover-up or the small one? In Afghanistan I had personally embraced the tradition of covering one’s entire body. Those big baggy clothes could hide a multitude of sins. I began to rethink my move to a tropical destination. Maybe Iceland would have been a better choice. My mind was racing. Are these skinny people or fat people? Are they old or young? Shit, this is not the way I want to meet new friends. Have I mentioned I am a fan of the burqini? It’s a wonderful invention. Sort of like a full-length wet suit with a hood, only way looser. Anyway, that day I settled for my most modest bathing suit and my largest cover-up, and off I went feeling naked and exposed, vulnerable in a way that brought back way too many feelings I’d rather not feel.

  Bodie was nowhere to be found under the churning ceiling fans in Macaws’ open patio. I turned around, anxious to leave before anyone saw me.

  “Debbie? Is that you?”

  An ethereal blonde in a flowy blue dress stood and went behind the bar, uncapped a bottle of tequila, and started to pour. She held out her hand.

  “I’m Sharon. I’ve heard so much about you!”

  I must have looked as mortified as I felt. She smiled a radiant smile and said, “Girlfriend, we all need tequila to go to the beach.” I appreciated the empathy but wasn’t so sure I should be
going down that slippery slope so early in the day, especially in a crowd of new faces.

  “Better make mine a double,” boomed a hearty Texas twang from the sidewalk. I turned to see a very tanned woman wrapped tightly in a bright blue cover-up. “Bonnie. Pleased to meet you.” She helped herself to a glass from Sharon’s hand. “Cheers, y’all.”

  All I will say is that over the next five hours I came to realize why God invented tequila.

  THERE’S SOMETHING ABOUT BEING AN expat that sets a person apart from the rest of society. And I don’t mean geographically apart from their forsaken home, nor do I mean culturally apart from their new neighbors. I saw it when I lived in Afghanistan. They’re just a different breed. Are they born that way? Or does living as a stranger in a strange land make them that way? I think it’s a chicken-and-egg thing. Sure, I know all too well that life circumstances are often behind the metamorphosis from pat to expat, and that quite often those circumstances involve money, or lack thereof. In Afghanistan it was all about making a buck; here it was all about stretching one. But still, it takes a different kind of person to not just sit still and let life happen to them. I’m not sure how to define it, but all I know is that they just aren’t normal. And in my book, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.

  But there was a major disconnect between what I had experienced among the expat community in Kabul and what I was finding here. Unlike over there, where personal history and credentials are an expat’s calling card, to these folks yesterday was yesterday, and today is today.

  Let me explain.

  That Sunday on Stone Island, as I sat at Lety’s surfside restaurant around a long plastic table under a palm frond roof with a dozen mismatched people of all shapes and sizes knocking back buckets of beer, margaritas, rum pulled out of someone’s beach bag, and of course, straight tequila, I learned a lot. Here’s how the conversation went:

  ME: How long have you lived down here, Barb?