The tour led by two high school language teachers, skirted the less wholesome neighborhoods of Mexico City for our eye-opening benefit. We saw rampant filth encircling the street vendors and gutters which ran foul with the discarded carvings of meat markets. In such areas a rotten stench ruled over the otherwise pervasive fumes of car exhausts, creating what seemed a playground for the generation of a killing plague. No one looked surprised as a man ran half-clothed through the crowd, his hair a matted mass which could not conceal the madness evident in his wild eyes and hideous grin.
After such sights, a taxi would slash its way into the traffic and whisk us away on a perilous drive to more hospitable places. Busses would carry us to major sights where we viewed the country-side, the pyramids, and museum artifacts. We marveled at the splendor of Catholic churches, caressed by the many offerings of peasants whose coins beautified the altars and columns with gold. No where else had I witnessed such awesome wealth amidst such utter poverty.
One sight which seared my memory was a church wherein a funeral was taking place. Undaunted by the mourners, a Mexican tour guide led us through the church as if death and grief were impersonal matters, unworthy of respect. I hesitated at the doorway, not wishing to enter, then realized that I knew nothing about the city and might find myself lost if I did not follow. I narrowed my eyes in disgust for the awkward situation and, head lowered in a token of sympathy, filed quietly past the aisles of darkly clothed mourners. No wonder people hated tourists; the incident could have been avoided altogether with a sensitive guide.
Taxco was the most enchanting of the tour's three cities, for it facilitated a preserved glimpse of old Mexico. Here the streets remained narrow corridors of brick, twined up and down the hillside between stucco buildings like wildly frolicking vines. Palms soared toward untainted, blue skies, and red tiled roofs basked in the warmth of the sun. Evening was an enchantment, a brief step into the past. The stars crept slowly from behind their sapphire blanket as the sun's last rays set on fire the gleaming dome of a church. As the night deepened, many of us made our way down to the main street where an Easter procession was to be held. There we witnessed a reverent celebration of faith, silently watching a line of worshippers as each guarded a candle, sheltering its life as their savior sheltered their lives. In a world of uncertainty, these lovely people were content in their faith; it was beautiful, but it was not for everyone.
The final stop of the tour was Acapulco which most resembled a city of the United States. No one scoffed or gestured comically in our direction at our "different" types of apparel as they had done in Mexico City; there, slacks were not considered proper attire for women, nor were shorts for either gender. One episode in the zoo made all of us smile when a little Mexican child, curious to see blond hair on a pair of man's legs, walked up to one in our party, felt his legs to determine their validity, and then gazed up at him wonderously.
In Acapulco white skin and blond hair was still the exception, yet it was no spectacle. Moreover, shorts and "American" attire seemed to be the rule, which made everyone more comfortable. Personally, I wanted to make a good impression or leave none at all, for when traveling in a foreign country, one may offend without the slightest intention; custom and language differences can create barriers and eventually, prejudice. Having encountered one "bad egg" in a dozen, it is far less involved to condemn the entire batch rather than to survey them as individuals; certain people are more prone to this attitude than others. This apparently was the type of philosophy which ruled an unforgettable ice cream parlor patriarch, for when five of us respectably waited to be served at his busy establishment, we finally realized that we were not being overlooked but ignored. The man sat motionless behind the counter with his legs splayed widely and arms folded on his rotund belly, intently watching the progress made by his employees until one waitress looked at us and inquired with her eyes. "Maria!" The patriarch spat the name with agitation. "No!" The girl looked down and sought another customer.
This was a new experience; so deep was his hatred that it overruled the typical lust for profit. We turned from the counter, smiling at each other. Once outside we all shared a hearty laugh. The stupidity of the situation was incredible to me, for not only had the patriarch's attempt to belittle and demean fail, but he had also lost money. I pondered the scenario, asking myself why it did not bother me, and concluded that it was because self-satisfaction was of more importance to me than the manner in which I was viewed by others. One must like himself; self-love is the core from which all else grows, including the ability to give and to accept. And, in an ice cream parlor in Acapulco, I found that self-love is also the best defense.
Acapulco was the grand finale of an exciting week; white sand beaches above a frothy surf, cool draughts beneath rustling palms, tempting meals and flea market sprees, and a special evening roving the quiet shoreline after sunset. It all seemed an incredible fantasy, especially in retrospect, having spent a week apart from familiarity. Only one aspect of the days in Acapulco could have been channeled into a category other than fantasy; after days of careful food consumption, the inevitable curse of Montezuma fell upon me. Luckily, I was not so horridly afflicted that it made any appreciable difference in my plans; perhaps after so many years, Montezuma's need for revenge had become less poignant. Or it could have been the Kaopectate. Of course, I do not support superstitious curses as being the cause. . . but when the affect is of such magnitude, I bear arms to combat the siege.
On Easter Sunday we boarded a jet and headed for Chicago. Between shifting positions, stretching, peeps out of the porthole windows and in-flight snacks, the hours drifted past. Somehow, the holiday itself was lost. I simply was not accustomed to spending spring break away from home, let alone Easter in mid-air. It reminded me of the Christmas my family spent in Florida; I felt cheated even though I had fun. My mild depression left with the landing in Chicago, where we deplaned and motored the remaining distance.
Norm met me in his old Belvedere. He and his fish car were a welcome sight as I stepped into the frigid air. It had even snowed since I was last home. This was reality, I thought with a smile. The trip ended as suddenly as it had begun, taken in the wintry gusts and buried beneath the joy of homecoming. I watched the others as they turned and whirled, anxiously seeking their families and securing their luggage in a wild flurry of activity. This was the world I knew; Mexico was far away, and soon its memory would be a distant, clouded image, destined to share only the past.