Last weekend, my dad make the trip down from Atlanta to gain some insight into my life in Mexico. My dad writes a seriously humorous christmas letter about what our family has been up to for the last year – it really is good stuff, let me know if you would like to subscribe. When I was trying to think about how to sum up the experience of my dad visiting, I made the maverick decision to let him do it. Here is what he had to say:
I prepared for this trip by brushing up on my very limited Spanish language skills. I thought I was reasonably well prepared, but reality hit when I got to Monterrey. Sample exchange at the marketplace:
Me: Bweyness Tardies, Senoir.
Shopkeeper (grimacing to hear his native tongue mutilated by this gringo): BuenosTardes, Senor.
Me: (picking up a T-shirt): Kwando Questas?
Shopkeeper: shakes his head to indicate he has no clue what I’m trying to say
Me: Cuando Cuesta – how much is it?
Shopkeeper: doscientosyvientenuevepesos, senor
Me: (deer in headlights) um….mass dispatchio poor favoor?
Shopkeeper: dos…cientos…..y….viente – nueve….pesos,……senor.
Me: (headlights getting closer) um…….
Shopkeeper finally writes “229” down on a piece of paper.
Headlights swerve around the deer. Deer scampers away from highway.
Before going to Monterrey, I read some news articles about powerful narco-terrorists waging vicious gang wars in northern Mexico. The Mexican army was sent into some cities to battle the gangs, and the gangs allegedly organized “citizen protests” against the troops. This must have been in the back of my mind when I went jogging and took off up a dirt road that climbed into the hills. I found myself running on a rutted dirt road through trash-strewn fields, well away from any houses or buildings. (The kind of place where bodies get dumped.) After a mile or so of this, I noticed a helicopter landing pad (with helicopter) and a Benz, BMW and Jag parked nearby. There was a nice house with a half-dozen muchachos standing around in front of it and watching me with great interest. When I realized that the path I was running on was the driveway to this house, it seemed like a good time to make an abrupt u-turn and head back to town. No point in getting be-headed by narco-terrorists my first day in Mexico.
I also found that my rudimentary Spanish was good enough to ask a passerby for directions, but I was totally incapable of understanding the response. I would just listen until they pointed somewhere, and then walk in that direction until I found what I was looking for or felt lost again, when I would repeat the drill.
The first thing you notice in Monterrey is the gorgeous mountains. These rugged 5000 footers of the Sierra Madre Oriental range surround the city. They are stark and jagged like the Rockies, not rolling and tree-covered like the Appalachians. As soon as you see these beauties, you know you MUST climb them.
We visited Chipinque Park to see the mountains up close and personal. We rode a bus about 30 minutes from town to the park entrance. Everyone got off the bus and we purchased tickets to enter the park for a very reasonable 20 pesos. We grabbed a trail map and started walking. After 2 hours of walking up some really steep trails, we arrived at a big clearing and a big parking lot. (Then we realized that everyone else had gotten back on the bus and and RODE up here.)
We knew from the website that there was a trail to the top of the mountain. The website said you could not hike to the peak without a special permit, and that you had to start before 10AM. (It was now after noon). The ranger at the park entrance told us we could not hike to the peaks. The sign on the trailhead said that we could not hike to the peaks. I was willing to overlook these warnings that were obviously meant for other less competent people, but then we noticed there was a locked gate blocking the entrance to the trail. We were trying to find a way around the locked gate when I experienced a rare attack of good judgment/maturity/common sense and we decided that maybe we shouldn’t hike to that peak after all. Instead, we hiked to a different, more accessible peak (El Pinar), which was steep enough, thank-you. But the view of Monterrey was outstanding and well-worth the 20km trek.
The house where Randall is staying, Casa Azul (spanish for “the house of empty bottles”) is wonderful. There is a beautiful courtyard with an inviting hammock strung between two palm trees (Randall’s work area). There is a rectangular swimming pool in the courtyard, which the landlord thoughtfully filled up when I arrived (It was 95 degrees. In February!). Inside is a small living room with a few chairs centered around a TV that spoke mostly Spanish. The kitchen looked like the kitchen in a fraternity house the night after a big party, but not as neat. The only way from the living room up to the bedrooms is a two story circular staircase with little triangular steps and a metal framework that always seemed like it was an inch from your head. Not something to be trifled with when drinking or hungover.
“I really want to go back to Arkansas”. This was from one of our Mexican taxi drivers talking about the good old days when he lived in Ft. Smith. Randall and I looked at each other and resisted the urge to tell him that Arkansas is considered one of the worst possible places in the whole USA. If he likes it, why crush the man’s dreams?
Another cultural surprise came from the auto mechanic’s shop / outdoor saloon next door to Randall’s house. I would have expected Mexican ranchero music, but the whole time I was there, these guys were playing 1970’s classic rock, in English! Creedence, Doors, Eagles, I felt right at home. Muchas Gracias, Amigos!
If you go out Randall’s front door and make a left, the next door is a little convenience store, like a Quick Trip without any gas. The store was centered around 6 huge coolers full of ice cold single beers. They would give you half off the price if you brought empty bottles back. If you went out Randall’s door to the right, there was a small bakery where you could score a half dozen tasty Mexican pastries for the equivalent of one American dollar. Beer and pastries -what more could you need?
Randall speaks Spanish very well, but he is never going to blend into the crowd in Monterrey due to his height and his curly red hair. While walking down the street, I glanced through a window to see a semi-conscious man laying on a sofa, who looked at Randall and shouted “GUERO!” in the same tone of voice you would use if you saw a ghost. We walked down the same street a few days later, and the same man on the same sofa shouted the same thing: “GUERO!”. (Randall told me this means “handsome foreign person”). Once this happens a few times, you just have to accept the fact that you are a GUERO, and just be the best GUERO you can be.
My “final exam” in Spanish language survival was to take a bus downtown by myself while Randall was in class. I did great. I found the right bus, took it downtown, walked a dozen blocks to the shopping area, and picked up some souvenirs. I was feeling so good I decided to treat myself to a cold beverage. We had been eating Mexican food all weekend, even food from roadside stalls, with no ill effects. So I didn’t give it a second thought as I purchased a large “melon punch” from a vendor on the street. By the time I walked the dozen blocks back to the bus stop, I knew something was terribly wrong. Suffice it to say, this gringo was greatly relieved to make it back to Casa Azul.
-Charlie Bourquin
Tuesday morning rolled around and it was time to see Pops off to the land of the free and the home of the busy. I was sad to see him go – it had been a really fun weekend. This, however, I say in hindsight because my genius of a father booked a 7:00 AM flight, which means at the moment of goodbyes -4:30 in the morning – while waiting for a taxi that may or may not show up, all I really felt was a burning desire to return to my bed.
randallbourquin
Mexico, Dude. 
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