Sad news

The phone call came at a decent hour.  Perhaps it was noon.  It certainly wasn’t the middle-of-the-night phone call that we all dread.  But the news would have been more appropriate for 3 a.m.  My niece’s voice.  Casual. Almost happy.  But maybe it was merely nervousness.

“Aunty, Judy, Mary has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”   I felt a moment of shock.  Then a second of relief.  Followed by shame.  For more than a year whenever I’d called my sister, Mary, she was quiet.  No gossip about our mutual friends.  No funny stories.  She responded to my questions with a simple “yes” or “no”.  I suspected that the four thousand miles that had separated us since Alex and I had moved to La Paz in 1996 had finally dissolved our relationship.  That she had become indifferent or angry.  But this wasn’t about me. 

I booked a flight and as I flew from San Diego to Boston, my mind and emotions flew faster than the aircraft.  I grabbed my pen and on my napkin I wrote:

Big sister where have you gone?

Each day you travel further

To a world I cannot enter,

You’ve been handed a one-way ticket,

Photo ID required – just in case

You can’t remember who you once were.

Older sister, where does your mind travel?

To a vanilla ice-cream, sugar-cone world?

Where you lunch with long-dead friends,

And you remember how to use a fork?

Big sister, what memories do you carry aboard?

Your childhood cut short by Depression?

A marriage killed by cancer? And indifference?

Your only child paralyzed by anxiety?

Maybe forgetting isn’t so bad.

Dear sister, you’re my little sister now.

How can I

                   Ease

                             Your

                                      Trip?

New Year's Eve

I had planned the perfect New Year’s Eve.  Alex would meet my flight at 6:30 p.m. in San Diego and we’d pick up Thai food on the way to Escondido, where we were housesitting.  Alex would lay wood in the fireplace and I’d set the “good” china on the glass coffee table.  We’d sit on pillows and the fireplace and  candles  would illuminate our dinner. The dog wouldn’t beg for food and the cat wouldn’t jump onto the coffee table and knock over my wine glass. And at midnight, we’d kiss in the New Year. Instead, at 11:55 p.m., I stood among strangers at the Hertz Rent-a-Car parking lot in Los Angeles, praying for a rental car.  

Things had begun to go wrong early that morning. My niece had said, “Auntie Judy, be careful; the front steps are icy and the driveway looks like a frozen lake”.  I’d spent an emotional week with my family.  My sister, Mary, had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and I had flown back east to help out. Driving to Boston’s Logan airport on icy roads merely added to my stress. We arrived with barely enough time for quick hugs and promises to keep in touch.

The flight departed on schedule and for some reason the pilot seems overjoyed at the prospect of spending the last day of the year flying us from coast to coast.  He said, “Folks, I anticipate landing in San Diego by 6:25 p.m. – a few minutes ahead of schedule.”  I felt exhausted and his cheerfulness irritated me.   I dozed.  I dreamed that my sister wouldn’t recognize me the next time I visited.  I awoke and forced myself to visualize a happy scene – Alex and me toasting the New Year.

At 6 p.m. the pilot announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, San Diego is blanketed in fog but we’ll circle for a while; let’s hope conditions improve.” He didn’t seem upbeat anymore.  I heard a collective groan.  Passengers pulled out cell phones.  Although I had my phone, I had no way of reaching Alex because we’re a one-cell-phone family.  I imagined him pacing at the airport.

Conditions didn’t improve.  We headed to Los Angeles and flew in circles, waiting to land.  The pilot hinted that the airline might make arrangements to bus us to San Diego.  I felt relief.  But all around me passengers muttered, “They never supply ground transportation.”  Text messages flew into cyberspace.  But I had no one to call.  I willed Alex to call me, but my cell phone sat mute in my purse.

We landed. There were no busses.  Some passengers deplaned.  I pictured myself renting a car and then getting lost in East L.A.  Alone.  With no way to contact Alex.  I sat paralyzed in the plane. Two women sat next to me.  For hours I’d overheard them chat.  At first their honey-sweet voices had been pleasant but with each passing hour the lilting sound began to grate on my nerves.  I had hoped that they would deplane in LA but they didn’t.  Their conversation affected me as if they were inconsiderate toddlers kicking the back of my seat.  I changed seats.

Later, the pilot said that the fog was lifting in San Diego.  But by the time we got clearance, took off, and flew back, San Diego was fogged in again so we turned around and, at 11 p.m., we landed at LAX for the second time.  

Customer service agents announced that the flight was cancelled, they had no bus transportation to San Diego, no hotel rooms and the flights the next day were completely booked. “We are very, very sorry.  Happy New Year.”

I followed the crowd.  A woman asked me where I lived and after I answered she said, “Those ladies live close to Escondido.”  She pointed – toward my two seat-mates!  Desperation humbled me.  I took a deep breath, approached them and asked, “Excuse me; I heard that you’re heading toward Escondido.  Are you going to rent a car?”  I heard the sugary voice say, “You’re welcome to drive with us.”  My eyes smarted with gratitude. 

I looked after Diane’s 86-year-old mother and their luggage while she called several rental car companies.  Most didn’t have cars available but she was persistent and at midnight she was signing a rental agreement. And as I stood with her mother in the Hertz parking lot, fireworks lit the sky.

 I reached into my purse, took out my cell phone and a moment later it vibrated.  I had somehow set it on vibrate mode so, although Alex had called me, I hadn’t felt the vibration through my purse!  I assured my panicky husband that I would be home in a few hours. 

I had planned a romantic Thai dinner; instead Diane, her mother and I hungrily wolfed down “In and Out Burgers” while driving south. And miraculously their conversation no long annoyed me.  In fact, as we got closer to Escondido, my shoulders relaxed.  Diane’s mother said, “Will we be late for church tomorrow?”  Diane replied, “Mom, I think God will forgive us if we miss Mass just this once.”  I thought, “Amen.”

At 2:45 a.m. my Good Samaritans dropped me at our front door. I opened my wallet and they shook their heads.  “We didn’t go out of our way and we enjoyed your company.”   I hugged them “goodbye”.  Then Alex hugged me “hello”. 

Fifteen minutes later, at 3 a.m. Alex and I sat on the couch in front of a cold fireplace sipping sherry wine from thick juice glasses. The dog rested his head on my lap and the cat sprawled on the back of the couch.  Together we snuggled into 2012.  This wasn’t the New Year’s Eve I’d planned but I’m sure it will be one of our most memorable.

Don't Get on the Dreaded Scale ~

The average person gains eight pounds during the Christmas holiday.  Eight pounds!  Eight pounds is nearly one dress size. Eight pounds feel like your jeans were washed in boiling water and then dried in hell.  Eight pounds is groaning climbing up the stairs and grunting when you bend over to cut your toe nails. Eight pounds won’t be ignored.

For us who add Mexican celebrations to our already food-laden holidays, those eight pounds might turn into ten because in La Paz holidays are stretched far beyond our willpower.  Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Evening, Dia del Santos Reyes (Jan 6^th…think hot chocolate and sweet bread with plastic babies hidden inside), and finally on Feb 2^nd,  Dia de la Candelaria (a tamale party hosted by those who cut into the baby on Jan. 6th). And, of course, we can’t forget the sweetest day of all – St. Valentine’s Day.

 But don’t despair, help is available.

Starting in October women’s magazines offer advice, first on how to avoid the weight gain, and then after the holidays, when readers are lugging around those extra pounds, they publish diets that they guarantee  will melt away the newly acquired weight.  And we buy the magazines.  We’re hopeful, desperate, and finally disappointed. Because there are two major problems with their approach:  first, the diet articles are sandwiched between photos and recipes of irresistibly gooey, sugary desserts, and second the suggestions only work if you’re anorexic.

Here are a few tips I actually found on the internet – honest-to-god:   

1.      To shave calories, go easy when adding nuts, cheese, cream sauces, gravy, butter, and whipped cream -- additions that don't add much to the meal. Don’t add much to a meal??? Who are they trying to kid? Turkey breast can’t be swallowed without gravy.

2.      Hold a mineral water in your dominant hand so it won't be so easy to grab food. No problem; I’m ambidextrous.

3.      Be a food snob. If you don't love it, don't eat it.  Great, I won’t touch the Brussels sprouts.

4.      Eating sensibly throughout the day will take the edge off the appetite and empower a bit of restraint.  Sensible eating just primes my appetite for decadent goodies.

5.      When you arrive at the party wait at least 30 minutes before eating. What??? There won’t be any food left.

6.      After dinner, try a spirited game of charades, or rent an instructional dance video followed by a dance-off. The only exercise our men want is going to the buffet table for seconds. 

7.      Skip the appetizers. Or choose veggies and fruit. Let’s see:  Blue cheese wrapped in filo pastry or celery sticks?  No contest.

8.      Put only two items on your plate at the buffet table. Return as many times as you like, but only take two items each time.  Pecan and Pumpkin pie – every time!

Can you see how nutty these suggestions are? But don’t despair. After losing and gaining the same eight pounds hundreds of time, I’ve come up with my own practical advice:

1.      Don’t stay home during the holidays.   Travel.  To a deserted island where nuts, cheese, cream sauces, gravy, butter and whipped cream aren’t available.

2.       Forget cookie exchanges.  Instead have a fruit exchange. Every person brings a piece of fruit for each guest, and at the end of the exchange, everyone will go home with enough fruit to give them the runs for a week.

3.      Go on an Overeater’s Anonymous cruise for 14 days. Where steamed veggies are the main entree and the plates are the size of a baby’s palm. A cruise that confiscates smuggled treats upon boarding and doesn’t allow land excursions.

4.      Find a doctor who will prescribe some old-fashioned diet pills – just enough to get you through the holidays.  You’ll be the hit of every party; not only will you rattle-on like a Carnaval blanket hawker but, long after the other guests have gone home,  you’ll scrub the hostess’s kitchen cabinets, linen closets and bathrooms.   

5.      Find a doctor who will sell you lithium – why not sleep through the entire holiday season?

6.      Check yourself into a hospital.  The red Jell-O and dry chicken breast will ensure that instead of gaining weight, you’ll be so weak when you leave; they’ll push you out in a wheelchair.

7.      Start a really big argument with your husband or your best friend.  Bring up the ugly past.  Guaranteed to ruin even the best appetite.

8.      Avoid friends who say, “Oh, I’m always forgetting to eat; look how lose my jeans fit.”  Or, “I’ve stuffed myself all season and haven’t gained a pound.” You know who they are.  Ignore them completely.

Get real, friends. You’ve got two choices:  You can remain slim but feel deprived or you can simply embrace the eight pounds you’re going to gain.  Enjoy each bite of special holiday food.  And be really nice to friends that are one size larger than you.  Ask them to borrow some of their clothes until you shed those extra pounds…sometime in April.  Or May.  Don’t feel timid; after all, they’ll need to borrow clothes from friends that are even larger than they are.

 Happy Holidays!

Merry Christmas, Feliz Navidad

Feliz Navidad, Happy Hanukah, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.  I recently conducted a scientific survey to determine how my friends had felt about the recent holidays.  After careful analysis the data clearly showed that 51%  had looked forward to holiday season, 52% wished they could sleep through it, and 27% were undecided.  (Please note there was a 30% margin of error). Like the agnostic I am, I fell into the third, and least popular, group. And, of course, like most children born into dysfunctional families, I blame my parents for that and everything else.

How can I describe my family? Remember the movie “My Big Fat Greek Wedding”?  That was us – with a twist.  Like the movie, my parents were born, raised and got married in Greece.  They immigrated to the U.S. and within one year they managed to bring my grandmother from the Old Country (she lived with us until she died).  We owned a family-run restaurant, and I even fell for a non-Greek but, unlike the movie, my family did something very unorthodox shortly before I was born – they left the Greek Church and joined a rigid, rule-loving, religion that shunned all holidays. 

I was a Greek raised on lamb, garlic and pride.  It’s easy to be smug when you believe that your religion is the only true one. Then, as happened to Eve in Eden, one day temptation slithered into my life. But while Eve succumbed to an apple tree, I was lured by an evergreen.

I wasn’t in a garden when temptation hissed at me.  I was merely walking home from school, when a classmate invited me to her home to see her Christmas tree.  I slunk past my house and, in one city block, broke 100% of three family rules: always come directly home from school, avoid (whenever possible) contact with people who don’t belong to our church and do not, under any circumstances, participate in pagan holidays.

 When I entered Janet’s house, guilt tiptoed in behind me. The pungent odor of cedar reminded me of my mother’s closet. I hesitated – but only for a moment. The tree nearly touched the ceiling and the tinseled limbs obscured the living room window.  Janet’s mother flicked the switch and a happy explosion of colored lights converted that humble room into a fairyland.  We sat on the floor, drank hot chocolate, and listened to Johnny Mathis croon carols. My hand trembled when I reached for a reindeer ornament; I was 92% certain that my “jealous God” would send a lightning bolt to strike me dead Instead, I was destined to lug around a heavy secret: Pagan or not – I was 100% sure I wanted to celebrate Christmas.

Twenty one years later, when I was 33 years old, I got my chance. Alex accepted a promotion which included a transfer to Minneapolis.  I kissed my parents good-by and sped away from the straight-laced religious life I’d known.

Late on Christmas Eve, 1997, Alex and I drove past the local hardware store.  A huge handwritten sign read “Free Christmas Trees”. Alex looked at me and raised his eyebrows.  I refused to leave the car but he quickly grabbed a scraggly specimen and wrestled it onto our roof rack.  I smelled the pine all the way home and I could see the tip of the tree jiggle through the cold Minnesota night. My nerves felt as jittery as the tree; I searched the sky for lightning but the heavens were indifferent.

We pulled into our driveway and our neighbor, Tony, helped Alex carry the tree into our house. We didn’t own Christmas lights or tinsel.  Tony said, “Francis and I have boxes of extra decorations; I’ll be right back.”  They returned with boxes piled high.  Although I remained a safe distance from the forbidden tree, I was excited.  This was my very first Christmas!

 Then Francis said, “Tony, don’t just fling the tinsel onto the tree in handfuls.  You’re supposed to hang it one string at a time.  No, no, Alex, the lights are too far apart.”  No, don’t put two green stockings so close together.”  Something was wrong.  This wasn’t anything like Perry Como’s Christmas family. At midnight, finally alone with Alex, we switched on the lights and, although I “oohed and aahed”, my excitement was as artificial as Rudolph’s red nose.  

I decided I needed to try harder to catch the holiday spirit. We were given another opportunity to celebrate on New Year’s Day. We joined my co-workers for a Rose Bowl party. The women were in the kitchen doing all the work; the men drank too much, ate with their eyes glued to the TV and screamed at the referees. The women watched the children – and the clock.  On our way home Alex said, “Well, that was a complete waste of time.”

But I’m tenacious.   For the last three decades I’ve pretended my way through the holidays always hoping to experience the same Spirit of the Season that I felt at Janet’s home when I was a child. And this year I’d been very, very good, so I though that maybe, if there really is a Santa, he’d bring me the one gift I’ve been waiting for – a 100% enthusiastic holiday season.  But then there's always next year.      

Let's Buy a House Today

March, 1992.  Vancouver, Washington.  It was bitter cold.  Bitter as a betrayed lover.  We’d already endured five months of rain and it wouldn’t stop for three more months.  So Alex did what any sane man would do.  He went fishing.

Alex came home from work wearing a drenched raincoat and a big smile.  He and his co-worker were going fishing.  In Cabo.  For a week.  I asked, “What’s Cabo”?  He showed me a fishing magazine.  I tried to ignore the man-sized fish hanging from a scaffold.  Instead, I focused on the blue ocean and the sunny sky.  I forced my lip to quiver.   I quickly developed abandonment issues.  It didn’t matter that I abhor fishing (I feel guilty about killing cockroaches).  My “abandoner” was going to sunny Mexico and leaving me in soggy Washington.  No way!

 I looked for a hook:  “You deserve a vacation, Alex.” I threw out the bait: “Alex, why don’t you and John go to Mexico, fish for a week, then John can return and I’ll join you in Cabo?”  I trolled guilt in front of him: “It will be like the honeymoon we never had.”

Two weeks later we landed in San Jose del Cabo. By Portland standards, the Cabo terminal was a mini-airport but there was nothing insignificant about the periwinkle Baja sky or the ochre dessert.  After two nights in Cabo, we rented a car and drove to La Paz looking for a more laid-back town and calmer beaches.  

Balandra Beach

We checked into a bay-front room at the Los Arcos Hotel, strolled on the Malecon, gawked at the sunset, and fell asleep to a symphony of Mexican music emanating from cars cruising by our window.   The next morning we grabbed our towels and headed toward Balandra beach.  The parking lot was empty and the beach deserted. We dropped our clothes on the sand and waded far out into the clean shallow bay.  Sargent majors nibbled our toes. We were living a scene from a movie.  Then, Alex turned and hurried toward shore.

“Where are you going?”  I yelled.   He yelled back, “I hid my wallet under a rock.  And there was a person jogging on the beach.”  Alex lifted the rock and – his wallet was still there.   I told him a dozen times he’d worried for nothing.

On our drive back toward La Paz we noticed a palapa restaurant. Our stomachs growled in time to the Mexican music that lured us in:  sand floor, wooden tables and chairs painted Aegean blue.  And the aroma of garlic and butter.  We ordered, and then went swimming.  The waiter waved us back to shore.   Our grilled red snappers hung over his large tray.  When only the skeletons remained we asked for the bill.  I was thinking, “This is paradise.”  Then I heard a crash.  The table leapt.  I looked at Alex and knew our honeymoon was over. His wallet was empty. More than $800.  Gone.   We considered returning home early.  To cold rainy Washington.  Instead, we bought a house.

But first we spent an entire day at the police station filling out reports in the hope that they’d find the thief.  Next, American Express loaned us $200. If we were going to stretch $200 until our departure date, we needed to be creative and find very inexpensive entertainment.

“Alex, let’s call a real estate agent who’ll show us the city.  I’d love to peek into some authentic Mexican houses.  It’ll be fun.  Maybe she’ll buy us lunch (she didn’t).” We frequently reminded each other that this was a lark.  We walked through houses larger than the Cabo airport.  And derelict houses.  And weed-filled lots barricaded by tall walls. But on Saturday, the day before our flight home, we parked in front of a small house one block from the Malecon.  It was well-maintained and well-priced but it was the Mexican fountain that hooked Alex.

That night we argued until the exhausted moon sank into the bay.

I pleaded my case: “Alex, I’m only 48; I can’t retire for 17 years.  We can’t afford a second home.  This was supposed to be a lark.”  I repeatedly insisted that his logic was flawed.

Alex’s logic: Judy, La Paz is warm and sunny.  It will be an adventure.  And I can fish all year.

The next morning, rummy from lack of sleep, we wrote a check as a down payment on the house. That afternoon we flew back to our normal life in Vancouver.  But six months later our lives changed.

Alex was diagnosed with lymphoma.  He endured months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments. We shifted priorities and reconsidered our retirement schedule.   We made double mortgage payments, sold our Vancouver house, and in March of 1996, four years after discovering the empty wallet, we drove away from the rainy Northwest and headed to La Paz.

Today, if the police apprehended the person who stole our $800 nineteen years ago, I would thank the thief for the gift he inadvertently gave us – a journey that began when Alex said, “La Paz is warm and sunny.  It’ll be an adventure.” Alex was right.

     Let's buy a house today!

Ramblings of a Wise or Perhaps Foolish Older Woman

My brother Timmy came home from Korea in 1953 and did something wise, and perhaps something foolish. He enrolled in accounting school, and he bought a bright yellow 1949 Chevy convertible.  (this photo looked similian to Timmy's car)

Like the dutiful Greek son he was, he took our mother and father for the first ride. Then his girlfriend. Finally, my two older sisters and I got to jump in. The Boston evening smelled of springtime. I tilted my head back and watched the tree branches zip overhead, and I promised myself that some day I would own a yellow convertible. I was nine years old. 

After graduation from accounting school, Timmy got a job at a large insurance company and wrote lists of numbers on large sheets of “eye-ease green” paper. He also got married and had a son. His dream car got left behind along the staid pathway of his mature life. The blood that stirred him to buy that car drained out of him a drop at a time. But without his knowledge he’d planted a dream in my heart.

I was 21, newly married, pregnant, and poor when my new husband totaled his big Buick. I can’t remember why we went to the junkyard, but I’ll never forget the moment I saw it – a 1960 Nash Metropolitan black and white convertible. (the photo below looks exactly like our car but ours had lots of dents and scratches) We paid $125 cash. We drove him home, proud as any new parents. The car had only one major problem – a manual transmission that was reluctant to shift from first to second gear. But if you played with the gearshift carefully, it could be done. The other problem was strictly mine – I’d never learned to drive a manual. Like many girls my age I was an expert in shifting my boyfriends’ cars, but I never actually touched the clutch pedal. One day I wanted to go grocery shopping and Alex didn’t.  I called his bluff.  

“Then I’ll just go alone,” I said. “Give me the keys.”  He handed them to me.  Stunned I sat behind the wheel wondering how I’d gotten myself in this mess. “Okay, Judy, you’ve seen him do this at least 50 times,” I told myself. “You can do it.”

I drove the two miles to the grocery store in first gear. People stared and cars honked. Two hours and $30 later I was bucking my way back home and there was Alex walking toward me.  He hollered, “Judy, you’ve been gone forever - are you okay?” 

“Of course I’m okay – climb in.”  

In 1965 $30 bought six bags of groceries, so the only place for Alex to sit was on the trunk with his feet hanging into the tiny area behind the seats. Those bags held Alex’s legs steady so he didn’t flip over backward as I jerked all the way to our apartment. With hours of practice, I learned to smoothly slip through the gears of the Nash as well as my first year of marriage. But once our daughter was born and she outgrew the car bed we’d wedged into the back, we sold the car and bought a sensible Oldsmobile 98. 

My dream was put on hold until 1984 when we could afford to become a two-car family. It was May in Minnesota. The snow was melted and spring fever hit me hard. The newest incarnation of my dream was the color of root beer sprinkled with flecks of gold. An MG Midget. So small I could easily roll down the passenger window from the driver’s seat. I was 35, going on 17. I took the straight Minnesota roads as fast as that brave little car would go. And then winter came. Minnesota winter was unlike anywhere I’d lived. Weeks of 30 degrees below zero. Little car was no match for that climate. Most mornings he couldn’t start. In April I admitted defeat. We sold that baby car and once again I followed my brother’s path and bought a practical car. 

Fast forward to my 64^th summer. We are on a “fixed income” – translation semi-poor. And, although my dream never died, I decided to be content test-driving small convertible sports cars. I have photos of me driving 12 cars that summer, and in each photo I’m wearing a huge toothy smile. It was a very good summer. 

For my 65^th birthday, Alex bought me a 2006 Mazda Miata, automatic, with air conditioning. (The photo above IS my car but I've added a few scratches since we bought it!)  I’m in love. Zoom is quick and cute. He loves curves. He zips up mountain roads. But he’s not yellow. He’s shiny black. The salesman said we could have him painted. The cost would be between six and eight thousand dollars. My husband said, “Judy, you look sexy in black” – translation “Are you crazy – we’re not paying eight thousand dollars to paint a perfectly good car.” Most days I agree it would be foolish. But at times I return to the original dream that was born the day I first sat in my brother’s yellow convertible.

Did Timmy do a foolish thing when he bought his yellow 1949 Chevy convertible, or did he do a foolish thing when he sold it? His wife has died, his son lives far away, and there are no grandchildren. Timmy is 81 years old. He still drives a sensible big car. Maybe I’ll suggest that he test-drive a yellow sporty convertible. And, of course, have his photo taken as he sits behind the wheel. I’d love to see that picture of my brother wearing the smile of the young man I remember.

Friends say that we should drive Zoom to La Paz but when I called to see if Mazda stocks a cattle guard to attach to the front of Zoom, the salesperson thought I was joking.  Zoom might deflect a chicken that’s crossing Route 1but if we hit anything larger than a rooster we’d all be in trouble.  So, Zoom spends his winters in San Diego and while we’re in La Paz every time I open my computer, I’m greeted with a photo of Zoom  that proves that this  older American woman has made a wise decision – I’m living the dream that my brother planted in my heart many years ago.

What Kind of a Place is This???

Living in a foreign country is a life-altering experience.  Different customs, unusual foods and a new language challenge our ability to adapt.  We try.  We really do.  But sometimes we mess up.  Humility and the capacity to laugh at ourselves can help.

When Alex and I visited mainland Mexico it was as if we’d entered a different Mexico.  We stuffed our Honda full of clothing, our pillows, goose-down comforter and a coffee percolator.  And lots of maps.  With a flexible agenda and no hotel reservations, we felt prepared for our two-month adventure. 

We have photos and good memories of Carnaval in Veracruz,  pyramids, cenotes (deep sink holes) in Yucatan, and Alex being cleansed by chanting Aztecs outside the Cathedral in Mexico City.  But super, 3-D memories require being shocked.

We’d had a long hard day.  We approached Puebla at midnight.  Our eyes were unfocused and our stomachs growled.   The beltway that hugs the city was so dark we couldn’t read the signs.  Or our map.  We’d circled the city four times. Traffic whizzed by.  We felt frustrated and scared.  Alex said, “I’m exhausted.  Let’s forget Puebla.”  We took the next exit and luck was with us.  We spotted a motel. Alex unclenched his grip on the steering wheel, and I threw the useless map into the back seat.

The motel entrance was barred. We stopped at the barrier and a tired voice greeted us through a speaker system similar to McDonalds.  That speaker should have been our first clue.  I leaned across Alex and asked the cost for a room. “$200 pesos ($16.67 U.S.) por ocho horas.”  That was the second clue.

She said that she’d send someone to collect the money.  Third clue.  We drove into the private garage and lowered the door.  Our accommodations were huge and immaculate – although, it did seem strange that the ashtrays were glued onto the tables.   

The doorbell rang.  But the only door led into the garage. I yelled, “Hola” from inside the room.  A female voice yelled back, “Hola.”  I asked, “Donde estas?”  “Outside”, she replied.   I lifted the garage door and saw a shock-faced woman looking at me.  I yelled for Alex.  He came, paid her, and asked for a receipt. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline.  She said they didn’t have receipts. Fourth clue.   

Alex said what he always says after a long trip, “I’m starving – let’s go eat.”  I lifted the phone and requested a taxi (we weren’t going to risk getting lost again).  A familiar voice asked if we were checking out.  We’d been in the room for less than ten minutes!  I explained that we were hungry and asked for a restaurant recommendation. She said, “If you leave, you can’t come back.” Clue five.  But sometimes when you’re tired you’re clueless.  

I said that my husband was hungry and we wanted to go for a walk.  I imagined her rolling her eyes.  She mumbled to someone then said, “Okay, no problema.”  

I hung up and looked at Alex.  He didn’t need any more clues.  “It’s a no-tell motel.” he smirked.

After dinner, we hailed a cab and I realized that I’d have to give the driver the name of our motel.  My face felt hot.  I felt like the “other woman”.  Our eyes met in the rear view mirror but, to his credit, he didn’t crack a smile.

In the morning, with twenty minutes left until our eight hours departure time, we sat in bed sipping coffee. I noticed a device protruding into the room.  Alex went to investigate.  A small door slid open.  On the other side was a revolving shelf.  Coffee flew out of my nostrils.  We were supposed to put the $200 pesos on the shelf and close the door.  That way we would be invisible.  No wonder the woman looked amazed when I opened the garage door.  It was a “no-see-no-tell  motel”.

But I’ve learned that La Paz has everything that the mainland has.  Including No-Tell motels.  On a day when we were feeling adventurous, I sat in the car, grabbed my 29-zoom camera and Alex went to investigate. The prices were listed. I think that $350 pesos for a four-hour adventure is cheap. Particularly if we split the cost with another couple. No, it would be so much more fun if I invited four women friend.  We could have pizza delivered.  And play Mexican Train for a few hours.  Now THAT would be something we could talk about when we get old.  So, if you see my white Honda pulling into a “no-tell motel” with four women, don’t gossip because I’m merely doing research for a future article.