By Thursday, the highway on the coast was beginning to resemble the road to the dump with every type of garbage known to man strewn along the road.
All the small abarrotes were crowded with more shoppers than during Navidad, so I darted in just for the bare necessities, 2 liters of Oso Negro vodka, 3 cartoons of Boots and a few cans of frijoles charros and some Pinguinos for tomorrow’s breakfast. Next stop, the botanero down in the barrio. They were cooking up some much-promised grease-oozing tortitas de papas.
Friday morning I start out, appropriately dressed in my LL Bean chinos with a smart Land’s End polo, with a jaunt to the mini-super for some toilet paper, (the tortas were kicking in), but somehow I found myself sidetracked by some “compas” that were drinking cagaumas on the corner. Oh well, the last tour bus of chilangos had left enough toilet paper laying in front of the house I’ll be able to find a few usable squares if it becomes critical. So I sat down to a breakfast of warm Modelo and freshly squeezed lime juice.
Friday afternoon I turned down an invitation to Pepe’s house for comida, the vodka was playing enough havoc on my gut. His vieja, Lupe, who cooked at the botanero for years, is a reigning ruiness of fine cooking, her specialty being manteca drenched enchiladas with just the right amount of ptomaine. So instead I opened another can of beans and heated up a few moldy tortillas (hechas a mano, por supuesto) from some forgotten repast ! Dessert was the last of the Pinguinos.
Feeling energized by the sugar rush of the Pinguinos I decided on a walk to the beach , I meet up with the Procession of the Oblivious. The ‘hood had been a dead zone, just the usual strains of ranchera music. Now at least two thousand mortals carrying ice chests and blasting boom boxes, marched, well, in complete chaos, dodging the cars of a few idiots who were determined to find a parking spot closer to the beach . Now, some of those walking along were locals whom I recognized and sort of expected, but along with them were a few cholos, scores of screaming babies, and several drag queens. In a strange way, they were part of the community for this small slice of time.
Well I soon found out this was not the time to be working on my tan. It took me nearly an hour to fight my way back home against this horde of humanity, something that on a normal day takes all of a couple of minutes. On the way home I stopped to restock the liquor cabinet. Wrong! Not a bottle of Oso Negro left on the shelf of Santiago’s licoreria!! And he had marked up the Absolut to 450 pesos! The thieving #$%$@ !! After all the business I give this guy throughout the year! So I settle for the last 6 bottles of Padre Kino and hope I can make them last until Monday.
Safely back at home I settle into the hamaca with a glass of Padre Kino, its intense aromas of lychee, mango, gooseberry, and passionfruit lead to crystal pure pear, lime and mango flavors with just a little characteristic grassiness. I slip a J.J.Cale cd into the stereo,
“Just below San Diego
Tijuana, land of broken dreams
Señoritas dancing in the moonlight
Flashing Spanish dark eyes to everyone, it seems
They say "Hey, gringo
Can you take us across the border
Just tell them I'm your daughter.”
I think I’ll use the rest of the weekend to polish my Spanish skills, the subjunctive can always use some work. I promise myself I’m spending next Semana Santa in a non-touristy burg like Ciudad Guzman!
