Mexico; or, Dom gets to finally wear dignity-pants - Part One.

We'll get to that later.

***

Puebla; Or, Uh, Weren't We Going to Go Here?

Put on my open-toed shoes and I/
Boarded the plane/
Touched down in the land of tamale blues/
In the middle of the pouring rain

For the months and weeks leading up to my departure for the Land of the Ancestral Corn I tried to imagine what my first moments in Mexico would be like. This is because, believe it or not, I am a "first impressions" kinda guy. Essentially, my belief system synthesizes superstition with heavy reading from my dread/intuition center with not too small a dash of relentlessly uplifting fatalism. This means that I am often to be found divining signs from seemingly unimportant or patently irrelevant events. For example:

Friend: So, did you see the awesome sunset last night?
Me: No. What color was it?
Friend: Reddish-orange.
Me: We're going to die.

Or

Keith: I had a dream last night.
Me: What was your dream about?
Keith: A bird got into the house.
Me: We are going to die.
Keith: Don't be retarded.
Me: Let me rephrase: We are going to die. By bird.

Needless to say, this makes the "pleasure" of my company less than desirable if you are, oh, having a birthday party.

Anyway, I hurtle through space in a winged metal tube the size of a standard JuJuBee box from Indianapolis (Motto: Flat, But Also Dull) to Houston (Motto: Where Dreams Go to Perish) and, having met up with my Uncle Steve, his friend Tom and my cousin Mary, we board the Puebla-bound tin goose and strap in.

Now: I've been on flights where I'd wished I'd paid attention to the ennui-stricken attendant as s/he demonstrated the safety features of the particular aircraft I'd boarded with the gusto one generally reserves for emptying colostomy bags. I've been on flights where I'd hidden my pretzels or peanuts so that the other survivors wouldn't be able to find them. As the pilot - who had no doubt sucked down a sweet lungful of maryjane the moment we entered Mexican airspace - began to turn the plane in what appeared to be partially aborted barrel-rolls over the glittering expanse of the fifth largest city in Mexico without real signs that he intended to slow us to a landing speed, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I had repatriation insurance and hastily crammed the remaining half of my in-flight snack sandwich (turkey, wilted lettuce and a piquant e.coli sauce) under my armpit for safekeeping. As he threw the plane onto the tarmac at 500 MPH, I waited to feel all three wheels make contact before I began to weep openly in gratitude for my wicked life. We disembarked and I, eager to suck in a first impression, stepped out into the expectant warmth of a midsummer Mexican night to a light drizzle and immediately plunged my right foot into a rank, ankle-deep puddle with only a Teva sandal between my tender flesh and Mexico. Mexico, as I was to discover, always finds a way.

We were rewarded for being imperialist swine by being allowed to clear Mexican customs in less time than it takes to adequately recall that you,and everyone in the Western hemisphere, know all of the lyrics to the Fine Young Cannibal's song "She Drives Me Crazy." As I looked about in wonder, wet from the ankle down on my right foot, I noticed that Pubela International Airport is the size of a Trapper Keeper; after being guided to my "final destination" by a pilot who would have bombed a piss-test, I embraced the fact that I didn't have to gnaw my way through security checkpoint restraints or endure bathroom lines that throw ones kidneys into renal failue.

It was while Uncle Steve was trying to get the rental car situation sorted that a clot of very similar looking people began to cluster about Mary and myself, speaking Spanish and gesturing expansively. "Mary", I whispered, "don't take a baby if they give it to you." As she solemnly nodded, Uncle Steve returned from his foray at the rental counter and began to fawn over the gathered Mexicans, who greeted him with smiles, hugs and the Euro-cheek-kiss.

Ah. The Family.

As I wasn't aware that we'd be greeted at the airport, I'd assumed that the people who were milling around us were part of the larger picture of general airport lunacy; slightly abashed, I greeted them all and told them my name (Earl) as we made our way through more excellent standing water to the rental car. I didn't know what part they were going to play in our lives for the next ten days, but as we tailed the family out of the parking lot and onto the feeder road out of Puebla City, passing towns with names like Xoxotla (ho-HOHT-la) and Huatlamixtlapetlcatlpopotitlanpan (eye-juhst-MAYD-it-UP), I realized three things:

1) This family was going to be the crux of our stay in Mexico.

2) We'd not, as I was under the impression, be spending a whit of time in Puebla; the hours of Puebla research I'd done auto-archived into the part of my consciousness where utterly useless things live.

3) Ricky Martin is Puerto Rican, not Mexican.

At 11, the car veered into the town of Tlaxcala and rested in front of a lovely Mexican home. "We're here", Uncle Steve said. As I struggled to memorize the pronunciation of the (clearly indigenous) town name - tlaks-KAH-la- we were herded, weary, into a beautiful dining room.

A dining room. Set with the finest china.

With a four-course meal.

At 11 PM.

***

Next in the saga: will Dom eat the huge, lavish midnight dinner? Will he rue this decision later? Also, will he stop writing in third person?

Until then, I remain,

Domingo

PS: Click on the map above and it will open to be bigger and more legible. Duh.