Each of the Ginas – in addition to the general detritus of purses and the hair dryer that had been brought to be exchanged – carried with them a dangerously thin, yellow plastic bag overstuffed with something that looked fairly perishable, and in danger of springing a fairly sizeable leak. The organs of other unsuspecting gringas?
They each contained, I soon learned, an entire rotisserie chicken, tortillas, pico de gallo, lettuce, tomatoes and cheese. “It’s for tomorrow,” they assured me, “because all the stores will be closed and we need to have something to eat.”
Well…sure. Should we get those into a…fridge, or something…sometime soon? Ish? My inner epidemiologist was horrified. The half maverick part of me was thrilled – let’s ride THIS train and see how long we can survive room temperature chicken! Huzzah!
“And now,” Gina One explained, marching us down the sidewalk (to where?), “wee wanh take you to my freen’s house for dinner tonight. Is okay? You can come? You have…otra plans?”
I wasn’t sure I had much choice in the matter as they flanked me and ushered me down the street, in the opposite direction from the car. “We need take some theens to da deener,” they explained, which seemed appropriate. “Maybe we can take some bret, and, how you say…pasteles? Cake?”
Sure, sure, I nodded. Guess I’m going! “I could bring some wine or champagne?” I suggested, wanting to contribute. I mean, for all intents and purposes my immediate fate was sealed, so I might as well throw my hat into the ring and offer to bring some hooch.
“Ah, si, si,” The Ginas agreed. “And grayupps!” One exclaimed, nodding her punk hair vigorously. How I loved her hair. “We need the grayupps for meednight! We go now to the pastellerie, and then after to my friend Graciella’s house. She is – how you say – depress, I theenk, and she needs to get out and” here Gina One shook her shoulders Gypsy Rose style, making the rotisserie chicken bag jostle dangerously, “have fun.”
But before we set out on that adventure, and while I desperately tried to figure out what the hell a New Year’s Eve “grayupp” was, The Ginas allowed as how they were hungry, and was I? Seeing as how I hadn’t eaten all day I agreed I was, and that I was also their guest, had no place to be, and was totally along for the ride. Whatever they needed to do was what I needed to do. Just please let me keep my kidneys for a few more hours.
Turns out we went to Graciella’s restaurant (sans Graciella) where I was introduced to another lesson about American Time – it’s best to forget it and go with the flow. Just as Carmen and Xochitlj were not operating under the same American strictures in terms of the temporal realm, neither were Graciella or our dinner hosts, it seemed. Show up when you show up. We’ll be here. Or not. Cosmic shrug. It will all work out. Here, have an avocado that actually tastes like an avocado and enjoy life, you over-wound gringa.
We ordered our food leisurely. (Gina One enthusiastically ordered a puh-PIE-ya salad…which on the menu was “Ensalada Popeye.” Good, old fashioned, spinach salad. Ginita and I each got the enmoladas, a small gift straight from the Kitchen of God to the mouths of Mexicans. Chicken enchiladas without all the Tex Mex sour cream sauce and crap, but smothered in a dark, smoky, regionally spiced mole sauce that I would happily have smeared on my face like a baby with frosting at her first birthday party. The food was both brought and consumed at a leisurely pace, during which the The Ginas shared their marital and child history, and we delved deeply into the recent dating history of Gina Two…who had just broken up with a boyfriend yesterday!
Telemundo, right at our lunch table.
About the time I thought we were wrapping up, and I was ready to grab the check, Gina One allowed as how she could use a cappuccino. So we ordered coffees all around, tacking on another good half an hour of sitandchat. I was getting itchy and antsy, which was, in retrospect, completely pointless – where the hell did I have to be? I had no car, no means of communicating to ride a bus, wasn’t remotely sure in which direction I should even mount a bus – provided I could even find the bus stop – and I had two new friends willing to dish emotionally and deeply with me about shared life experiences.
Cool your jets, Gringa Chica. But I’m a slow learner. Still trying to sort out New Year’s “grayupp,” too.
When our cups were drained, the good old American cue for “we’re done here, garçon, let’s have that check and be gone, I’m terribly busy and important and in a huge hurry, here, can’t you see that?” Gina One decided she needed some cheesecake. I glanced at my watch, and saw we were pushing five-ish…and we still hadn’t gotten our bread or cake or wine or grayupps. Not to mention visiting Graciella…driving back to San Miguel…and the most important task of all: showering and getting ready for the evening’s New Year’s festivities.
And then that little voice in my head reminded me, once again (slow learner, still): Sit tight, girl. We’re on Mexican time now. Please ALSO recall you’re on vacation and have zero place to be. Sit there and admire your new Tijuana Talons and enjoy the ride.
And so we did. After what felt like a three hour lunch, we gathered up our roast chickens, hair dryers, purses and other detritus and headed out for our errands. Dolores Hidalgo is – like many Mexican towns (I’m learning) – built mostly around a main square. There is a park-like or grassed-over ‘jardin’ area, bordered by the requisite Catholic Churches and escuelas, and then rimmed by businesses ranging from bakeries to transmission-repair shops. Everything you need, from New Year’s grapes (finally got it!) to a new set of tires, is entirely within walking distance. We got bread (one shop), champagne and grayupps (another shop), and planned to return to the bakery to get a cake on our way back to the car. But first, Chella’s house!
Graciella – “Chella” – was a notary public, and a long time friend of Gina One, who was very concerned about Chella’s mental heath. Aside from Chella answering the door (close to six pm) in her pajamas and robe, after being ill for a couple of days, I found her to be delightful, welcoming, humorous, and not at all depressed, but what do I know? If I could find a good excuse to never get out of my pajamas and robe, I would, and I don’t consider myself especially depressed. Just with a strong tendency towards comfort and, well…sloth.
At one point, Gina One excused herself to use the baño while Chella ushered Gina Two and I into her living room so we could admire her Christmas tree, beautifully appointed table, and SWEET MARY MOTHER OF GOD is that a SNAPPING ALLIGATOR TURTLE in the corner???
Why yes, yes it is. Chella was quite proud of her “tortuga muy peligrosa,” the shell of which was slightly larger than a basketball, and which languished stolidly in a dirty fish aquarium half full of water on the floor. Chella proudly fired off some rapid Spanish to Gina Two who translated for me, “If the tortuga….emmm…tyur-tell….bites your manos….emmmm…feen-ger…you have to” she made a machete motion with her hand, “keel eet for eet to ledgo.”
Chella beamed at me from behind Ginita’s diminutive shoulder. I’ve never seen anyone so proud. How could she possibly be depressed? She had a reptilian natural born killer right in her living room. I could only imagine the threats she imposed on her grandchildren if they misbehaved.
Just then Gina One charged into the room, brandishing before her an item held in both hands, arms outstretched and elbows locked, as if she was proudly offering a hot casserole at a Baptist potluck.
“Look what I found in the baño!” she exclaimed.
And damned if it wasn’t another turtle.
Technically an actual tortoise, and not of the snapping variety. The volleyball-sized shell was highly domed and a light, sandy color, and, in my limited zoological knowledge of tortoises, it could easily have been between fifty and a hundred years old. Gina One set it on the floor beneath the Christmas tree where it passively and phlegmatically turned and began inching towards the back of the tree.
What. Even. Dafuck.
Where was I???
After more fusillades of Spanish and several hugs and air kisses, we were released back to the street with our rotisserie chickens (two), hair dryers (one), good luck grayapes (two hundred and forty), bottle of champagne (one), and zero tortoises. Unless we had a stowaway of which I was unaware. I saw another one in the foyer as we were headed towards the front door…Graciella had an interesting taste in domesticated house pets. I found myself wondering – can you house train a tortoise?
It took a good fifteen minutes to migrate back to the car, and would be another thirty to get back to San Miguel. By now it was quite dark, and there was much discussion about the evening plans and the timing of such. Oh….now we’re worried about timing?
Shortly before we reached the highway, after a lot of discussion in machine-gun Spanish between the Ginas and prolonged conversations on Gina One’s cell phone, Ginita swung our teeny white Jeep into a dirt field across the street from a PetroMex. Just as the Mexican municipal governments save money on traffic control by eliminating traffic lights, so do they save on the electric bill by radically limiting the use of streetlights. While we were still in a big city, still well within the city limits, and right across from the Latin-version of QuikTrip, it was blacker than the inside of a cat, we weren’t parked anywhere of use, and I couldn’t understand what the Ginas were discussing.
I felt my kidneys start to tingle as I ran through a mental checklist of defensive maneuvers for self-protection.
Turns out Gina One’s kids lived in the “apartment building” across the four-lane, divided road, and they were going to run across the street and say “hey” to mom. Which means I got to say “Me llamo Katie,” and “mucho gusto” a lot.
Always happy for an opportunity to practice my Spanish.
After another harrowing ride back to SMA (seriously, try being a passenger in the backseat of a vehicle being driven in the pitch darkness on a 2-lane highway that everyone treats as 3-4 lanes. For someone with significant control issues like myself, it was almost worse than having my kidneys harvested), they dropped me off at La Comer (Mexican Costco) at about 7:50 pm, whereupon I discovered that Uber actually does operate in San Miguel (huzzah!), and managed to get back to my casita by about 8:15. In this order I jumped into: the shower, a glass of wine, my dancin’ pants, fancy hair and false eyelashes, and was then carried back to Gina Two’s house in another Uber operated by – no kidding – Enrique Martin.
Who. Was. Gorgeous. And also the tallest man I’d met yet in Mexico, aside from Rodrigo, who is in a class of human by himself.
Aye carumba.
And this night was just getting warmed up!
Half Maverick 
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