Trópico
The man who is now my husband and I traveled to this area of Baja California Sur, Mexico every year in February, so I could get as close as possible to hugging a gray whale, while my man could renew his annual license to drink Don Pedro brandy and Modelo beer from dawn ‘til dawn and pretend he was embracing life. We would whirl around the lower portion of the peninsula in a circular route from the Pacific through the Sierra Lagunas to the Sea of Cortez and round again to the Pacific side. Dizzying–the sun and surf and salt and alcohol–as we crossed the tropic of cancer heading both north and south a couple of times in the span of a few days.
We sprung for a room in the dumpy old hotel one afternoon glad to let the sand have our tent for the night. Upon waking from a siesta we were somewhat perplexed to see my bra and panties going round and round on one the blades of the slowly rotating ceiling fan. We strolled around that afternoon, sat in the plaza across from the church, listened to the church bells. My husband proposed marriage that day on the fading of the bells announcing Evensong Prayers. And before I could reply, an overly ripe orange on a nearby tree fell “splat” rather loudly and juiced itself on the worn stones of the plaza floor.
The circus happened to be in town, and we decided to take in the evening performance. There were no animals in this circus just people doing funny, zany, death-defying things. After the circus we searched for a restaurant, but all of the usual places were closed. In fact, the whole town seemed darker and more still than we had ever known it to be. We searched. Then finally we noticed a house where we seemed to remember having had breakfast once. There were strings of bare light bulbs crisscrossing the front lot, and there were cars parked everywhere. People stood around or leaned on cars drinking from bottles or paper bags, arms draped around shoulders, and some people hugged. We weren’t sure we’d be welcome because it was not advertised as a bar or restaurant and there weren’t any other Anglos around, but prompted by hunger and thirst and a will to be worldly and adventurous we walked through the crowded parking lot. People nodded. I turned to my husband and, for some reason, whispered in his ear “Just act like ya own the joint.” We strolled through the door and into the front room. Out of the corner of my left eye I noticed a line of seated women all dressed in black. I put out my right hand to steady myself on a piece of furniture that at my touch morphed into a coffin. We turned and fled out the door and through the parking lot. People nodded.
Back at the hotel, just wanting to forget, we thought we’d check to see if the hotel bar was open. The door to the bar was closed, but there was obviously a boisterous crowd behind. With newly found and appropriate timidity I opened the door. It was not the usual crowd. Not wanting to risk offending anyone else I began to back out of the room, but before I could, there was another hearty cheer from the bar patrons and six very drunk locals were standing up to shake our hands and offer us drinks. Now I believe I am correct in assuming that these six men were close relatives of the person who lay in the coffin down the street, that these laughing and drinking and singing men, more than likely, were the husbands or brothers or sons of those women dressed in black, seated in a row, wiping their teary eyes with worried tissues. The men sang and drank and bought us drinks all night. One of the men spoke a couple of words of English. He kept coming up to us, beaming and saying, “I am.” We weren’t sure what to make of this, or what exactly he was trying to say, or if that was all, or if we were supposed to finish his sentence. “I am, I am.” Drunken and beaming. And then it dawned on us: the only thing that mattered was being grateful to be present just now. And so we began to sincerely congratulate and encourage and thank him. “I am.” Indeed.