I wasn’t sure what to expect when he got off that plane. The last time I had seen Noah, about a year earlier, he was not a pretty sight. His clothes were dirty and worn, and I had to hold myself back from throwing him in the shower and scrubbing him down. Imagine my relief when a trim young man in a crisp white shirt came bounding through customs with a huge grin on his face. I just prayed, for both our sakes, that the new leaf he seemed to have turned over was more than skin deep.
It wasn’t long before Noah fell in love with Mexico, and with a Mexican woman. Martha was Sergio’s sister-in-law, and Sergio and his wife, Teresa, had introduced them within days of Noah’s arrival. I was good with that. Noah needed to hang out with people closer to his own age, and besides, Sergio was the only guy around who never touched a drop of alcohol.
During those first few weeks all of us had been walking around on tiptoes, drinking water and sodas with Noah, quickly stepping away from any social situation that we feared might turn into too much temptation. But Noah was pretty amazing. Nothing seemed to faze him, and he was just so happy soaking in all that Mazatlán had to offer (minus the booze) that I began to relax. But watching Noah as he tried on life as a sober person turned out to be exhausting. He ran every day, despite the ninety-five-degree heat and one-hundred-percent humidity. Then it was off to the gym. And those were just the mornings! In the afternoons he’d wander by foot, alone, through the streets of the city, just as I had done not that long before. He’d come home happy, with descriptions of places he’d been and stories of people he’d met. I was in awe of his ability to adapt so easily to a new life in a new country. For him, it was more than that.
“People down here just accept me for who I am,” he explained to me one night over dinner. “At home I felt like such a failure. I know I disappointed you, and everyone else.”
“Oh, Noah . . .”
“I know I did. You don’t have to deny it. I felt like it got to the point that everyone, including myself, expected me to fail.”
“We knew you’d be okay, eventually.”
“Well, to me, it felt like everyone was always looking at me and thinking ‘loser.’ Here, I’m not a loser. I’m just Noah.”
It wasn’t long before Noah started looking for a job. If he wanted to stay, that was to be part of the deal. He grabbed the first thing he found, a gig as a time-share salesman, where he was urged to go hang out at the cruise ship terminals or in front of the hotels, luring innocent tourists into a sales presentation. Not ideal, but he was trying. Then Martha told him she was pregnant. The deal was sealed.
Noah had always been attracted to the notion of family, and now he was starting his own. I knew all too well that a cross-cultural relationship was a hard tree to be climbing. Now both my sons seemed to be following in my footsteps. Zach had married a Persian woman he had met while in school in Northern Cyprus. With her high expectations and relentless pushing, she was good for Zach, in the long run. But his wife held on tightly to her family’s ways, where even a hundred-year-old grudge was something one was bound to honor. Let’s just say that avoiding a quarrel was something Zach was becoming quite adept at. And Noah was about to be put to the test by the paradox that was the Mexican female. Martha and her sister Teresa were fiery women. And I had been a target of Analisa’s hair-trigger temper more than once, like when I teased her about her picture in the paper next to a foul-mouthed old lecher I knew from around town. She flew into such a rage that I thought her head was going to fly right off her neck like a rocket from a launching pad. Any of these women could rip you a new one in a nanosecond. And from what I had seen, Mexican women had very conflicting expectations of their boyfriends and husbands—they complain about their men carousing too much, yet don’t respect them when they’re not macho enough. They’ll put up with all sorts of crap, but in the end, they, the women, are the ones who run the show. I feared my Noah might be way too sweet for this world. Even the toughest of men don’t stand a chance with a Mexican woman. Usually the men’s way of coping is to just ignore their wives’ mouths, and go off to the cantinas with their pals or meet up with their mistresses. That’s sort of normal down here. And there are plenty of men who even have whole other families outside the home. Martha once caught her best friend’s husband down at the mall, cradling an infant, a baby that clearly didn’t belong to her friend, in his arms.
I admit I was nervous when Noah set out to make his first visit to Martha’s house, straight up the donkey-trail streets to the top of The Hill, a neighborhood with the best view of the city, yet one that nobody I knew had ever dared to visit. Generations of Mazatlecos had made their home up there for years, with houses passed down from parents to kids, and cousins and nephews and in-laws taking up residence so close to one another that if anyone sneezed their entire street would echo with their family’s saluds. It was cheap, way back when, to buy on The Hill. And it wasn’t a bad place to live. But by now the old neighborhood had become the turf of a bunch of smalltime drug dealers, who unfortunately at times neglected to pay up, and who unfortunately at times could find themselves in big trouble. Handcuffed guys tossed into the back of a truck were a common sight at the bottom of The Hill, though you never could tell who it was behind the wheel.
But I had to laugh when Noah described that first evening at the house—all of Martha’s six brothers and sisters and various spouses and children, including Martha’s own three-year-old, Derek, all talking at the same time. Except for Martha’s mother and father, who hadn’t spoken a word to each other in more than twenty years, their communication limited to the bird her mom flipped her dad every time they passed in the hallway.
I was going to be a grandma. And as horrified as some people my age might have been hearing news like that, I, on the other hand, was struck with wonder. A new life! Though it probably could have waited a little bit, I was determined to be supportive of Noah, just as my parents were of me and some of the more questionable turns I had taken in my life. And I do believe that everything happens for a reason. It wasn’t just about me coming to Mexico anymore. Any second-guessing I had put myself through about the move down here was over the minute that baby was announced. A whole new human being was going to come into this world, and if I hadn’t been restless and unsettled and unable to submit to the allure of the California lifestyle, this, in all probability, never would have happened. I crossed my fingers that it would be a girl.
Of course, I loved having my boys. I can still picture Noah gleefully climbing every vertical object in sight, and Zach crawling around in the dirt hunting frogs and bugs. But deep down I also wanted a girl. Someone I could take shopping for little ruffly skirts and sparkly shoes, who would watch in the mirror as I put on my lipstick and beg with pursed lips, “Me too,” who would someday share her secrets and hopes and dreams—that’s what I ached for more than anything.
Now suddenly every little girl on the street drew me in like a magnet. I began to picture those beautiful big brown eyes and that shiny dark hair belonging to the girl I imagined growing inside Martha’s belly. I smiled as they poured out of the school gates in the afternoons, dressed in identical pleated skirts and white blouses, peering up and down the sidewalk for their mamas, and laughed as they squealed at the sight of the balloon man in the distance. But, of course, along with that I became even more struck by the sadness of the girls who lived the other life, who spent their time on the streets desperately trying to bring home enough change to keep their mother or father or whoever was pushing them out that door day after day, night after night, satisfied. I was particularly disturbed by the same young flower girl I’d been seeing since I first moved to Mazatlán, who I now seemed to come across every time I turned a corner. I started buying enough flowers from that girl to fill a mausoleum. It did cross my mind that I actually might not be helping her. Who knows what that money was going for? And seeing how much she was bringing home, whoever was making her work would probably just raise the bar, and start expecting that poor girl to sell o
ut her inventory each and every day. It just seemed so hopeless for all these girls. Even if they had a parent around, the kids were simply doing all they knew how to do, the only thing they saw around them. And if they were left to fend for themselves, what else could they do? There had to be some way to shore up the banks of that slippery slope, though for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it was.
THE NEXT THING THAT HAPPENED took me even more by surprise. I had stopped by Macaws to say hi to Analisa on my way to the first meeting with my new Spanish teacher. I was just getting ready to leave, bolstered by Ana’s words of encouragement, when a couple of guys came barreling in, mouths first. You couldn’t ignore these two, with their booming laughter and eager expressions. It was clear they were new to Mazatlán, they just seemed so damn excited about everything. The big one, who had the broad face of a Pacific Islander or something, ordered a couple of beers as his pal, a snowy-haired Japanese man, started chatting it up with everyone within earshot. I remained at the bar to eavesdrop, curious to know who these two characters were, tourists or snowbirds or what? When I overheard the Japanese guy say something about how he and his partner just got a home in the Marina, I put one and one together. Partner, plus a home in the Marina—a very chichi area—equaled gay. I loved these two guys. Funny and happy and loud, they were so entertaining that I was tempted to skip class. Instead I stood and offered the little Japanese guy my seat.
He smiled, which made me smile back. Behind his back, Analisa gave me the local sign for “rich,” her thumb and index finger held far apart, as if an invisible fat wallet were sitting in between. I ignored her.
“New in town?” So I’d be late. Hopefully the lesson ran on Mexico time, where it’s ten until it’s eleven.
“Just got here yesterday.”
“I could tell.”
“It’s that obvious? My name is Denis.”
“Debbie.” I shook his cool, smooth hand.
Denis nodded toward his big friend. “Bill and I both just retired. Came down here to start a whole new life.”
I toasted him with my empty coffee cup. “Well, then, good luck to you. I’ve been starting a whole new life down here myself.”
“How’s that working for you?”
“So far so good.”
“Any words of advice for the new guys in town?”
“Yeah. Don’t drink the water. And if you do, bring your own toilet paper. That, and you should know that all tacos are not created equal.”
Denis laughed so loud I’m sure they could hear it all the way down on the Malecón. “I’ll try to remember that. But seriously, I’d love to get some tips on where to go, what to see. We’re open to anything.”
I started to share the names of some of my favorite restaurants and shops with Denis, until I realized that if I didn’t leave right away I’d definitely miss class.
“Shoot. I’ve gotta run. But it was a pleasure to meet you two.”
Denis stood and shook my hand. “Likewise.”
“You have an incredible head of hair,” the hairdresser in me blurted out, running her hand through his thick white mane. “Has anybody ever told you that?”
Denis laughed again, unfazed by my boldness. I scribbled my phone number on a cocktail napkin and rushed off to class, hoping I wouldn’t lose track of this guy in the gringo shuffle. But on my way I had a brilliant idea, and dialed Analisa immediately to explain the plan.
“Listen, Ana, you know those two guys who just walked in before I left?”
“You mean the cute Chinese men?”
“Whatever. Anyway, don’t waste your energy thinking you’ve found yourself a new meal ticket. They’re gay. But I’m thinking that maybe we should ask them if they want to join us when we go shopping in Guadalajara. They’re new here, they’ll need stuff for their house, right? And I’ll bet you they love to shop.” I knew that Analisa was nervous about taking the trip. The violence in the area seemed to be exploding, and besides, even in the quietest of times Mexican women do not just take off on a midnight bus for a twenty-four-hour shopping spree in a strange town without an entourage, like we were going to be doing. For me? After a bus ride through the Khyber Pass, this seven-and-a-half-hour ride on a Mexican highway seemed like a first-class journey on the Orient Express. Back then, I had convinced my son Zach, who was staying with me at the time, that a trip into Pakistan to pick up a much-needed facial machine would be a wonderful adventure. We’d travel just like the Afghans did, and for safety purposes we’d even look just like Afghans, Zach with his curly hair slicked down flat, and me in a head-to-toe black burqa. We kept our conversation to whispers as the bus rattled its way around the steep hairpin turns, slowly making its way through the rocky landscape lined with poppy fields and abandoned, overturned semis and old tanks, bombed-out cars and trucks, in plain sight of the Taliban fighters who were known to fire down on military transports from their nearby mountain hideouts. I was actually relieved when our covers were blown, just as we were leaving Afghan territory. Showing our passports caused all sorts of excitement, along with the enforcement of a Pakistani government requirement that we accept the escort of an armed guard for the rest of the journey across the border zone.
Even though I knew the odds of anything happening on a trip to Guadalajara were slim by comparison, the thought of having two men accompanying us as a deterrent to anybody who might want to try something stupid was an appealing one. There were plenty of other men we knew in town whom we could invite, but that invitation would have been taken to have, no doubt, a few benefits attached. So these guys appeared to be a perfect solution, even if they didn’t seem like the type to jump in between us and the barrel of a bandito’s pistol. Besides, I thought, how nice would it be to develop a friendship with a gay guy down here? It would be so great to have a man to hang out with, especially at night, when I never felt totally comfortable traveling around alone. I told Analisa to hand her phone to Denis.
“Hey, Denis, it’s Debbie. The Debbie you just met there at Macaws.”
“Hey there!” he answered in a voice so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
“You know, I was just thinking. Have you ever been to Guadalajara?”
“Can’t say I have. But Bill and I have been looking forward to doing some traveling around Mexico.”
“Well, here’s a thought. Analisa and I are doing a twenty-four-hour trip, leaving Friday night. You guys want to come with?”
“Just the two of you?”
“Yep, just the two of us.”
“Hey, Bill, want to go to Guadalajara Friday night?”
I could hear Bill’s voice coming through loud and clear. “Whatever you want, little buddy!”
“Count us in.”
I told Denis to give me a call later in the week to confirm, but seriously wondered if I’d ever hear from him again. Bar talk is sometimes just bar talk, forgotten even before the tab is settled and the tip paid. But the very next morning Denis’s voice was exploding through my phone with his own invitation for me to join him and Bill down at Panama’s for breakfast. Thirty minutes later we were chatting over runny plates of huevos divorciados. We met at Panama’s the next morning as well. When Bill heard me mention that my washer was on the fritz, he insisted I bring my laundry over to use theirs. We stopped by my place, then headed over to the Marina and their home—an over-the-top drug lord palace with pillars and a pool.
“Decorate this yourselves?” I asked, eyeing the chandeliers dripping from every ceiling.
They both laughed. “No, it came this way,” Bill assured me, as he wiped some invisible dust off the dining room table.
In the tradition of the expats I had first met down here, we kept our initial conversations pretty much centered on the here and now, in a sort of don’t ask, don’t tell kind of way. I really didn’t feel like prying, nor did I have any interest in going down the Afghan road with Denis and Bill, or whining to them about my time in California. And they were just so happy to be in M
exico that it was all they really seemed to want to talk about. I was able to pick up on the fact that they had both been truckers. I had a hard time imagining Denis as a Teamster. To me, he looked more like a science or math teacher. In fact, Denis did tell me he had a degree in education, but was expected nevertheless to join his family’s landscaping business in the Pacific Northwest. In the end, he had opted for trucking, and the solid paycheck that it would bring. The other thing I learned that day was that Bill was the most phenomenal laundry folder I’d ever seen.
WE MET THE GUYS AT the bus station on Friday night with our blankets in tow. Denis didn’t seem to be his usual chipper self, and Big Bill looked like a deer in the headlights. “I don’t do buses,” muttered Bill when I asked what was wrong. He was clearly terrified, shooting a look of you owe me big-time at Denis as we boarded together. Analisa just looked tired. After a double shift in high heels, she was ready for some sleep, and so was I.
The next day started early in the Tonalá area of Guadalajara, where we shopped our way through town with a joyful vengeance. The stalls at the Mercado seemed to go on forever, their tables covered in handmade pottery and glass, textiles, ceramic masks. Bill and Denis were good sports, to a point. When I stopped at what was probably my twentieth stall to chat (via Analisa) with the women who were weaving the most amazing little purses out of long, colorful strips of straw right in front of my eyes, the two of them pleaded for mercy and headed to a shady bench to wait me out. Which was fine by me, as I had become completely awed by the sea of goods surrounding me, and enamored with the people behind it all. These people were artists. I learned that much of their merchandise was created in living rooms and back alleys. Whole families were put to work painting and embroidering and sculpting and carving. But it was the women I was drawn to most, and my rapidly emptying wallet became a testament to just how far my admiration went.