Insights & Observations

By Joe Stuver

My idyllic several months in Mexico flashed by in a flurry of friendship, wonderful food, soft, sweet smelling hugs and happy people.

I stopped downtown to my favorite street side restaurants to say farewell, and exchange hugs, with owners Sarah and Carmen, eating yet one more wonderful, traditional Mexican meal.

My final evening was spent, then, with my family of friends, at a very good sushi place just down the street from my home. Sushi is actually very popular among Mexicans, and of course the fare comes directly from the sea to the table.

The menu was in Spanish, so as usual, I had Natalie and Flor order for me. We shared from each plate, and it was indeed delicious.

Two years ago, we had gone downtown Puerto for a sushi meal, a first for Mony. Patti’s cousin Botso from Alaska was also present, and Mony asked him what a certain thing was in her dish.

“Seaweed.”

“Seaweed???!! I no eat seaweed!”

I always managed to seat myself next to two-year-old Leah, thief of my heart, who had finally became my little buddy. We entertained ourselves playing hand games, with a few tickles thrown in just to hear her giggle.

Mony had wanted me to stay on, rent free, at her home but Montana was calling me. After a couple months, or even weeks, I find myself longing for a breath of cool, fresh air. That bit me in the bottom the last two years, as I returned to a frozen, snowy landscape.

For the first time in my memory, and in the memories of her family, Mony actually drank a beer, explaining she was upset over my departure.

A few weeks before, at Vicky’s birthday party, a rich, California gringo pal of Angel’s, insisted we all try a special wine he had brought with for special occasions. We knew it was special because he told us three or four times.

When he wasn’t looking, Mony poured hers out and replaced it with grape juice.

We departed in a quiet sadness, all hoping we could be together again.

I had already packed, and was ready for an early departure. Sweet Flor called just before I was leaving, and asked me to wait to give her a chance for a personal farewell. She rode the bus for a half an hour, just to give me a very special goodbye, with a few tears shed by both parties. I wished I’d have enjoyed one last el desayuno with my breakfast buddy.

It’s a bittersweet thing for me in having such fine people, who really do care for me as much as I for them, live so far away. But social media also keeps me close with happy, family type texts and messages.

One great thing was I saved over $2,000 in dental bills. I had broken one of my front fangs, and my dentist wanted to first, pull it, and then give me an $1800 partial plate. I think the original break came while I was happily seated in one of Orvie Hough’s old Pastime row chairs. I saw Joey Sterling rise up in front of me, and launch a jaw breaker missile. Except he misfired, and it knocked the bottom off said fang.

His face drained in color as he discovered, in absolute horror, who he had smacked in the kisser. His head quickly disappeared as he slunk down in his seat

I actually thought it was kind of funny; something I might do myself. Except deliberately. Also, such things were pretty common in our beloved old theatre.

Natalie took me to her mentor, whom she hopes to work for and then with upon her graduation as an orthodontist.

She usually drove me there in my jeep, and we enjoyed each other’s company. She was my first family pal behind Mony, who used to drag her along with for happy company during our adventures. I think she was about 12 when I first went there.

His office was clean, and he was very gentle and friendly. Plus, I got to joke with Natalie, who took over as his assistant. I made three trips at a cost of about $160 (2500 pesos). First, he gave me the glorious news that he could save the tooth, and then, WITHOUT needles, proceeded to go into and clean the root. The second trip, he reviewed his work, cleaned my teeth, and built a temporary bridge to secure a nearby loose tooth. The third and final trip, he filled in the hole in the broken tooth, and repaired a spot broken out of another.

There’s a lesson here: do NOT open beer bottles with your teeth!

I fled up the coast, feeling a bit too self-satisfied in that I had not had to pay off a single cop. When I turned off the main highway for a less-traveled route, I did so on a green light. Except the center light was not lit, and I looked behind me to see a Federale with his own lights flashing.

Dang.

Transit cops are one thing, but even the Mexican populace are afraid of the Federales.

My first drive down, I had contributed $5000 pesos to one greedy Federale. That was how I learned I needed a vehicle pass, and forced me back to the border. That was also when my back was at its worst and it was a grueling trip.

Getting stopped for a traffic violation in Mexico brings with it a certain tradition, which the officers enjoy much more than do their gringo subjects. First, they ask for your drivers license, explain your violation, and tell you to follow them to the police station to pay up.

“Or,” and I always found this a bit amusing, “you can give me $500 pesos.” Five hundred seems to be the going rate.

You have to fold the money, and put it in a piece of paper.

Otherwise it’s “No, no senior. Do not hand me the money. People will get the wrong idea.”

It obviously behooves them to learn English.

(Continued next week)