I was supposed to arrive in Mexico City on Saturday morning; I actually arrived on Sunday evening.
I was supposed to depart Sunday night, but I was still there on Tuesday morning.
This body o’ mine has a preference for footwear of the open toed variety. This personality o’ mine has a preference for wearing tools out of function before I replace them. Those two preferences brought me to the streets of Mexico in sandals that I imagine would have made a wild, straight outta the desert Rabbi preaching on the cobble stoned streets of the ancient Roman province of Judæa say, “C’mon, bro, just buy some decent shoes, already.”
My American comrades had already caught their flights home, so, I was hanging out with two very large, very badass luchadors.
As we were about to leave to head out to do some shopping, one of these gentlemen looked at my sandals and said something I didn’t comprehend. I shrugged my shoulders and looked at the promoter/translator.
“He ask if ju need to go back to jur room and put jur shoose on?” The promoter informed me.
“These are my shoes.” I said.
The promoter looked at me confused and asked, “Did ju forget to bring shoose?”
I laughed and repeated, “These are my shoes.”
He shook his head and translated.
Both of my large lucha friends looked at me in alarm, then, in an act of compassion, one tried very hard to get me to accept a pair of his shoes.
“Please, tell him I’m very thankful for the kind offer, but I like wearing my sh__y sandals.” I said to the promoter.
His translation brought a round of laughter and my strange ways were accepted.
Just before heading out the door, to head to the city center street market, the promoter pulled me in close and told me, “Stay with these guys. Don’ wander off. Keep jur…” He pointed to my fanny pack. “...Bag in the front. Dis is tha real f__kin’ May-he-co.”
I appreciated his concern, but I was also half-offended.
“Can he not sense my good-in-any-hoodness?” I thought.
I wandered the largest flea market that I have ever perused with my larger than life companions; seeking out Dragon Ball Z merch, which I found in abundance.
Upon returning to the hotel the promoter took me out for dinner, again. Which was nice because I was almost out of the pesos that I had collected from a previous, more profitable, Mexico trip.
Part of the problem with eating in Mexico is not knowing what the f__k I’m eating. Like when I’m loading veggies on my tortilla and a stranger who is watching me says in heavily accented English, “Be careful, gringo! Very hot!”
I appreciate the concern, but I’m half-offended.
“Don’t you dare call me a p__sy.” I think.
Then I have to pretend that it’s not the most brutal act of sadism that I had ever enacted on my tastebuds.
Luckily, the promoter bought more of the best donuts in the conceivable Fractal-Multiverse to appease my wounded palate.
While I was reeling from the savage violence I inflicted upon my digestive system with the spice and sugar overload, the promoter said, “I still no find any cheap flights. Ju mind staying another night?”
“Sure. No worries.” Said my face.
“I’m not sure we’re ever leaving Mexico.” Said my brain.
“It all works out.” Said my heart.
The next day my big buddies had taken off, too. It was just me and the promoter. To save on expenses, he asked if it would be okay if we consolidate into one room.
“He can’t afford two rooms; we’re definitely never getting out of Mexico.” Said my brain.
Against the promoters pleas for my safety, I spent Wednesday wandering around the streets by myself.
I accidentally walked through a porn heavy flea market on a crowded sidewalk; interesting.
I turned a corner and realized that I had haphazardly begun a walk through a tent-city; interesting.
“Well, this is it. We’re definitely not leaving Mexico if we don’t turn around, right now.” Said my brain.
“I grew up poor, around poor people; why the f__k should I be scared?” Asked my heart.
“Because you weren’t this f__king poor.” Answered my brain.
“Fair enough, but we’re still not going to be a p__sy and turn around.” Said my heart.
“Fair enough.” Said my brain.
I got a lot of what-the-f__k-are-you-doing-here looks but passed through without so much as a head nod.
Good-in-any-hoodness reconfirmed, I started making my way back to the hotel.
Another, cheaper, dinner. More mind-and-body meltingly good donuts and another, “Could ju stay?”
Another “Sure. No worries.”
“F__k it we’re Mexican, now.” Said my brain.
“It all...works out?” Said my heart.
Upon waking Thursday morning, I had a message from my buddy Eric and he asked me if I was going to a backyard music festival/wrestling event. I said, “I most certainly am not.”
He said, “Well, me and Chase are riding up from Nashville. It’s only like a half hour from your house, you should come by.”
I looked at my half naked promoter friend and said, “You think you could find a cheap ticket to Nashville?”
“Lemme check.” He replied.
He checked and said “Yes. Nashville is cheap.”
“Please, book it.” I requested.
“It’s booked.” He confirmed.
“Thank you!” I said.
“Sure. No worries.” He said.
I went down the street and spent my last thirty pesos to purchase two gleaming, chocolatey, creamy, soft-bready, warm cones of potential diabetes.
The mix of joy-filled-contentment and psychophysical torment that the pastries brought me was a fitting last experience for my adventure.
The promoter thanked me for my patience. I thanked him for his hospitality.
It all worked out.
I caught a flight that was right on time, jumped in Chase Stevens topless jeep, and got ready to hit the road for my next adventure: the backyard insanity event called The White Trash Bash.
Since switching to a stricter diet, due to my monkish lifestyle, I’ll probably never have another donut: not today, not tomorrow, not soon, not for the rest of my life, but…
We’ll always have Mexico City.
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