Every October it’s the same. I try. Really, I do. I force myself to stay in my seat with my seatbelt securely fastened until we come to a full and complete stop but then I’m infected with group hysteria. I jump up, hit my head on the overhead compartment and the jolt reminds me that pushing won’t help. I see a few passengers still seated. They look so relaxed but I’m positive they’re so self- medicated that they couldn’t bolt if they wanted to. But for the rest of us – we want OFF now.
I adore deplaning in La Paz. I love standing at the exit door at the top of the stairs and taking my first breath of Mexican air. …a combination of jet fuel, dust and a few particles of solar magic. I’ve never fallen down the stairs but I worry about it any way. Until recently I was concerned about bruising my ego but now I don’t want to break anything - like an arm or the perfect set of espresso cups I stashed in my carry-on.
Every year I say to Alex, “Let’s not unpack; let’s just go walk on the Malecon”. And every year he says, “Okay”. But, even though he agrees, we find ourselves unpacking until there’s stuff covering every surface in the house and we’re too tired to decide where one more thing needs to go and then he says, “I’m hungry…… Rancho Viejo”? I say, “Let’s walk.” And he looks like I’ve stabbed him with his own dinner fork but he knows how much I need to stroll the Malecon so we pull on our tennis shoes.
Saturday is a perfect evening to return to L a Paz. Parents, children, lovers with Super Glued lips, and older couples holding hands compete for sidewalk space with joggers, bicyclists, in-line skaters and both street and pure-bred dogs. Great blue herons observe the action from pogo stick legs.
For the first time in four months we run into friends. They describe the stifling La Paz summer but they don’t know I’ve endured a friendless summer. I can’t let go of their hugs.
We hear more music (live and recorded) during our walk to Rancho Viejo than we’ve heard all summer: Tailhunter, Bismark’s, Adrianna’s, Kiwi, the Kiosk, Jungle…you get the picture. My steps match the beat and our “stroll” becomes an aerobic workout. I feel justified to eat with gusto: three greasy flour tortillas piled high with tender arranchera beef and a tall glass of tangy jamica. I wash my hands in the well worn shallow pink cement sink and try to remember what possessed us to fly north in June.
Our evening walk and our dinner has satiated us so we ignore our suitcases, take showers and stretch out on our own bed for the first time in months. I squish my pillow just right and close my eyes. Can I be any happier?
Then I hear it. The music that made me smile an hour ago sounds like it’s right outside my window. Cars are whizzing by. Dogs are barking. And car alarms are blaring. There’s another sound, too. I look over and, illuminated by the streetlight, I see that Alex’s eyes are closed and his mouth is open. He’s snoring! I try lying very still. I turn. I thrash. I head for the medicine cabinet and remember the zoned out passengers on the plane. I want one of their pills but I have nothing stronger than a Benadril. I swallow one and wait for sleep. The last time I look at the clock it’s 3:45.
At 7:15 Trinidad, the newspaper hawker blares by. And, as he invites me to buy the newspaper ahorita ahorita, I recall that, what seems like ages ago, I wrote a piece for the Baja Citizen complaining about the quiet in Escondido. I grin, pull on a pair of shorts from my “give away pile”, take my cup of espresso to the patio and imagine that the sparrows are squawking about our return. Ahorita, ahorita…my day has started.
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