Elvis lives. Elvis lies! Presley promised “fun in Acapulco” and “romantic nights in the moonlight” in Guadalajara. Never trust the words of a Tennessee mountain boy singing a Mexican song. Hell hath no fury like a sorrowful senorita punishing the King of Rock ‘N Roll. Channeling the youthful guitar-toting stud, not the white-jumpsuit version (although I look more like the old fat one), I steal his most famous song titles to tell my tale.
Follow That Dream. First mistake…trading a six-hour plane ride for a four-day Amtrak train trip. “But I saved $40 (make that 3200 pesos)!” I bounce and jiggle 1850 miles from Florida to Mexico on tracks Santa Anna rode to the Alamo. 6-hour layover in New Orleans, 20-hour layover in San Antonio–I did meet a cute Army Private and got to tour HemisFair 1968. Whistle stops at every cuidad south of Nuevo Laredo. Would-be lotharios offering this 20-year old Besame Mucho. Crammed into the final train car on my journey, I hum the 12 Days of Christmas: fifteen screaming children, four squawking chickens, two baby pigs and one gregarious goat in my lap–best seat mate since GI Tom. So begin my mis-adventures South of the Border.
Heartbreak Hotel. I muddle through a culture-shock week of graduate studies at University of Guadalajara. My reward… a blind date with Pablo. Six of us crammed together in his one-seater truck, three native amigos, three student gringas, seeking international relations. We bound one-mile down a steep mountain to the most luxurious resort in Puerta Vallarta. I am introduced to the local delights of Gazpacho, Ropa Vieja, Flan and Margaritas. Then a swim in the heated Olympic-size pool. “Let’s go down the slide!” I yell. The wet slippery bathing suit hastens my decent into a huge chunk of rusty metal. My left foot is sliced like the shredded beef at lunch—no OSHA regulations here.
All Shook Up. My hero removes his Corona Beer t-shirt and wraps it around my bleeding foot, red as a salsa-covered burrito. He half-carries, half-drags me to the on-site doctor. A bespeckled man used to treating sunburns and mosquito bites, unwraps the crimson cloth. “No, no, no! Cruz Roja!” Doc Holliday drops my foot like a hot tamale. A harrowing ride to the Red Cross Hospital on roads goats fear to tread. ER walls covered with flies, caked-on blood, and other unnamed bodily fluids. The last thing I remember before passing out, asking, “Come se dice ‘Tetanus’???”
You’ll Never Walk Alone. Clint Eastwood’s blockbuster western defined the next four months. The Good: Aztec temples, Orasco’s murals, historic sites, tequila; Latin American Studies at University all week; Studying Latin Americans on the weekend. The Bad: Wobbling on crutches to protect my mangled foot; Daily sulphur treatments to my oozing wound; Weekly hospital visits to drain and re-bandage. The Ugly: Doctor’s deadly diagnosis, “Senorita, tienes gangrena.” Green… always my favorite color.
Love Me Tender. Pablo pursues me with all the machismo of a coyote on a nocturnal prowl. Sexy phone calls, night club excursions, introductions to jet-set amigos. Bored with his fame and wealth as heir to all the coffee plantations in the state of Jalisco, he is an out-of-work psychiatrist. I resist Dr. Lecter’s attempt to hypnotize me with a faded “I ‘heart’ USA” medallion twisting on a silver chain. “Marry me. I get green card. Practice medicina in Estados Unidos. Divorce me. Everybody happy.” Don’t give up your day job, Juan Valdez!
It’s Now or Never. The melodic strains of Adoro wake me at 3:00 am. Flower bouquets of every hue and kind, dozens of arrangements fill my bedroom. Did the gangrenous infection cause my early demise? Fifteen mariachi play romantic songs beneath my window. Peaking through a pink bougainvillea bush is my would-be hubby, bouncing like a Mexican jumping bean, waving a red heart balloon. “Casemonos! Marry me! Casemonos!” No way, Jose…a fate worse than untimely death.
Jailhouse Rock. Note to self, and others: Don’t fall asleep on a bus in Mexico or it’s Hasta la vista, Baby! I open my eyes and peer out of the autobus. Cactus, tumbleweed and burros, oh my! The bus driver is snoring beneath a frayed sombrero aka I-95 South of the Border sign. Just him and me at the edge of a desert where the pavement abruptly ends–very Stephen King-ish. “When are we going back to town?” I ask. “Siesta break. Next shift in quatro horas.” A state-wide APB, ride in a black and white, visit to a policia station, then back at the hacienda by midnight. Arriba…The King has left the building.
Don’t Be Cruel. So many problemas…I am my housemother’s worst nightmare. Nursing my rotten green foot. The nasty proposal episode. Bribes to a Western Union hombre to get my wired money from Daddy. Weekly purchases of Kaopectate for my lingering case of Montezuma’s Revenge. Did I mention my forbidden date with Pablo’s first cousin and a few unforgiving ones with Jose Cuervo? And cops. My last day in Mexico and La Senora is completely loco. “I wanna try a Chiccharrone.” Final lesson learned: Never eat greasy pork rinds from an open basket at a rodeo in Chalupa. Back to the ER. Caramba! No mas American students allowed at the Casa de Carrion.
Always on my Mind. My Mexican excursion has all elements of a great novel…exotic destination, tragic intrigue, love and betrayal, twists and turns. Maybe not the plot of a novel, rather a Lifetime movie. Forget the book or movie idea. Think episode from the antics of my red-headed namesake, I Love Lucy, telenovella version. Mexican husbands–my housemates’ souvenirs. My lasting memento–ugly cicatriz under my left food. This faded scar charts an exciting summer of unfortunate events. But as the Latinos say, “Vale la pena!”
Yes, Elvis, “When there was doubt, I ate it up and spit it out,” (not just the Chiccharrone) “The record shows, I took the blows and did it…My Way!”
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Living my personal mission statement, “Each One, Teach One,” my greatest blessing is being the mother of two, grandmother of three and a lifelong educator. A graduate of UF and UNF, I am the former principal of St. Paul’s Catholic School in Jacksonville Beach, Florida and executive director of Tree Hill Nature Center in Jacksonville.
Since retirement my avocation is now my vocation – freelance writing. The technical writing of past professional life evolved into more creative genres of poetry, short fiction and memoir. My goal is to invoke the entire spectrum of human emotions in my reader: longing to laughter, pain to promise, despair to discernment.
