Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Today I am grateful for hamburgers and fries. This is more in the series of stories from when I was in Mexico with my friend David. In past stories, we have listened to beautiful wind chimes, swilled pails of margaritas and bought more Mexican furniture to open a restaurant. (catch up at http://heartprintsdotcom.wordpress.com/)
We were the kind of happy that only margaritas can provide. Margaritas are glorified Kool-aide, aren’t they? Apparently we thought we were hilarious because we couldn’t stop belly laughing. Eduardo laughed, too, each time he rang up another item, giving a hundred “new” angels their wings. By the time we bought the furniture we didn’t have any problems in the world. None. It’s a miracle we didn’t wind up in some Mexican jail or brothel. I might still be there. . .an aging “working” girl. Okay, stop yucking. You never know.
Anyway, we were just over-served and clueless Americans. Who hadn’t eaten. For something like 10 hours. Since somewhere in South Texas, before we drove the rental truck over the Mexican border. Eduardo did not offer food, only margaritas. Smart guy. I’m telling you this guy knew his “gringos” and we didn’t disappoint.
By the time we left his store, Las 2 Republicas, it was still brutally hot and humid, no one was on the streets and it was so dark you couldn’t see your feet even if you hadn’t just swilled margaritas. What happened to the Matamoros night life? I guess we were it.
We checked on the behemoth rental truck in the parking lot a block before we got to the hotel. David wanted to assess if all we bought would fit in it. We bought a lot. There was pottery, too. BIG pottery. It was cheap and I bargained and. . .too much? We bought like we were rich instead of just stupid. He opened the back and declared, “It’ll fit!”, then slammed the hatch. Yeah right.
We laughed like hyenas all the way back to the hotel, still hysterical when we plunged through the front door like we were in an old western movie. It’s amazing how funny you are. . .ah, think you are. . . when you’ve been drinking and haven’t eaten. No one was in the gorgeous atrium lobby, so we plopped down on the furniture to soak in the air conditioning.
“I’m starving,” David said and I agreed. “We’ve got to find the hotel manager and see if he can find us some food.” I went to the ladies room and David found the manager. On my way back down the long hallway I saw David begging for food in English and the manager saying, “No, No abierta.” (Not open) David was in full drama mode, waving his arms, gesticulating and he even danced a little. The poor guy looked scared to death. Good thing I had already peed. My sides were sore.
“There must be something open. Someplace we can get food. Do you have a kitchen? We’ll cook it ourselves,” David pleaded, pantomiming cooking and chewing.
“Cierre! No, mas.” the manager said. I don’t remember much Spanish, but it was clear they weren’t open and neither was the rest of the town. By now David had his arm around the guy, like they were lost brothers. He was stuffing US dollars into his shirt pocket. Sometimes dancing just won’t do. Cash works. A half an hour later burgers and fries appeared from I don’t know where. They could have been goat meat and come from the kitchen of the manager’s mother. We didn’t care.
Today I am grateful for hamburgers and usually savor them, but not that time. We devoured those burgers in Matamoros, Mexico, like shop-vacs sucking up a basement flood. Best burger ever.