My pulse quickened as the first green border crossing sign loomed into view. As my last glimpse of American soil disappeared into the distance, the reality of settling in another foreign country began to seep in. I wasn’t going to know my way around, and the little Spanish I knew was laughable. Second nature would be a thing of the past, at least for a while, until I figured out how things worked. The simplest daily tasks, like getting gas, asking for directions, or telling a doctor where it hurt, would become huge chores. Everything that made life easy in the States, gone. And, on top of it all, I knew nobody, and nobody knew me. I could be dead in my house for days, weeks even, and no one would notice. Well, I thought, being really dead in Mexico is still better than feeling dead in California.
“Here goes nothing, Pol,” I said, the inside of my mouth so dry that I could barely part my lips.
It was as if I had entered another dimension. The crossing into Nogales was nothing, just a green light and a guy waving me through, but once on the other side, it was as though someone had changed the channel. Gone were the rows of neat, clean, cookie-cutter houses. Here it seemed more like Afghanistan, with little cement buildings crumbling down into the road. The rise in decibel level was instantaneous. Music blared from rolled-down car windows and open shop doors, mariachi and banda and pop all banging up against each other in one big shouting match. Horns blasted. Street vendors shouted out their offerings. Naranjas! Tacos! Cacahuates! Skinny dogs ran down the muddy streets, narrowly avoiding the buses and trucks and carts selling tacos and hot dogs and corn and flowers and newspapers with photos of dead bodies splashed across their front pages. And apparently there were no driving rules in Mexico, only one giant free-for-all, with lanes disappearing into thin air and everyone just rolling wherever they pleased. The chaos felt almost suffocating, but then again, it also felt strangely liberating.
I was in Mexico, for good this time. And was I going to panic? Of course I was. But first I had to get my visa.
WITH MY SATCHEL CRAMMED WITH a million papers hanging on one shoulder and Polly in the pink carrier slung over the other, I approached the daunting white building.
“Bienvenido, welcome!” A chubby man in a crisp, short-sleeved shirt motioned me over to a counter, his warm smile taking me by surprise.
“Hi. Hola.” I plunked down a pile with everything I had; papers for me, papers for Polly, papers for my car.
He began to leaf through the well-worn pages of my passport. I could see the stamps for Syria, Pakistan, Afghanistan, India flipping by.
“CIA?” he asked, with only half a smile. “Military?”
I shook my head. “I’m a hairdresser.”
A flash of serious doubt crossed his face. I’d been down this road before, so out of my bag came a copy of Kabul Beauty School, the Spanish version, always useful evidence in proving I wasn’t a terrorist or a spy.
“Una celebridad!” He began to pass the book around to his coworkers. Everyone seemed amused, except for the long line of impatient travelers growing behind me. Then he handed me a pen as he opened the front cover. “Your signature, please?”
Autograph in hand, he turned back to business. “So, you are vacationing in Mexico?”
I opened my mouth, and for a second, the words caught in my throat. I felt like I was perched on a mile-high bungee platform, summoning the courage to take the plunge. I took a deep breath and shook my head. “No, I live here. I’m coming to live in Mexico.”
His smile grew wider as he began to pound his metal stamp down on page after page of my papers—thump, thump, thump—each thump feeling like a whack at stamping out my past.
“Perfecto. Now you are a Mexican.” He handed me my papers.
“Mucho gusto,” I mumbled, stuffing the papers back into my bag. “Mucho gusto!” I repeated, a little louder this time, searching for any leftover courage that might still be lurking in my soul. So there I was. Starting over. This was no south-of-the-border vacation, this was for real. I had my cat, my car, my stuff. My brain felt pulled in a million directions, from relief at having arrived, to scared sick of all the uncertainty, to a nagging self-loathing about not being able to make things work in the States. But in my heart I felt a twinge of excitement. And I felt something else bubbling up from inside—a sense of control that I hadn’t been able to summon for two years. It was as if I had just found the corner pieces of the jigsaw puzzle that was my life. All I needed to do was figure out how to fill in the middle. Unfortunately, I never was very good at puzzles.
“Now what do I do?” I said out loud to myself with a sigh. The official took me literally, and pointed down the road to another building, where, after much confusion, a lot of bad attempts at Spanish, some feeble stabs at sign language, and a moment or two when I seriously considered, once again, turning around, as there was no way I was going to make it in a country where I couldn’t even figure out how to get in, I finally got my car registration.
I HADN’T GONE FIVE MILES over the bumpy road that led away from the immigration office when two blue-vested, blue-hatted guys flagged me down. One leaned over, peered through the passenger window, and smiled. The other was saying something to me, but I couldn’t recognize even one word. Then they began to compare notes with each other over the roof of my little car. I dug deep into my bag, hoping I had remembered to pack enough pesos for a quick bribe.
“My friend thinks you are very handsome,” came a voice through my window.
I stuffed the bills back into my purse and laughed. “Why, thank you. And he is very handsome, too.” They waved me on, and I continued through the now-green rolling hills, past little churches and shrines and clusters of flower-strewn crosses to commemorate those who had died on the roads. The landscape grew cluttered with pampas grass and little pink flowers. Men with shiny machetes hacked at the thick grass dividing the two sides of the narrow highway.
That afternoon I drove only until I could see the sun beginning its slow descent toward the horizon. I was worried by all the warnings I’d heard about driving in Mexico at night. If the narcos or kidnappers don’t get you, the animals leaping randomly back and forth across the roads surely will. That, or one of the potholes the size of Texas that could swallow up a Mini in a nanosecond. But I was ready to call it a day. My only stop after Nogales had been a gas station, and my only human encounter, outside of toll takers, was the gas station attendant who stuffed my cash into a coffee can and hoisted it up on a pulley to an upstairs window, where his buddy took the payment and lowered the can back down, change and receipt inside. They were kept company by a weather-beaten old woman who stood guard outside the restrooms with a wad of toilet paper and a bucket of water that could be mine for five pesos. I made a note never to travel without tissues, hand sanitizer, and Wet Ones again.
Solé Grand Motel, read an oval sign atop a tall pole next to the highway. Toda La Semana $220 X 12 horas, excepto los sabados. Two hundred and twenty dollars, and for just half a day? I thought Mexico was supposed to be cheap! Then I remembered that it was pesos, did some quick math, and realized that the rate was cheap, only about sixteen dollars. Wow. I could learn to really love this place, I thought. I pulled off the road and followed the signs until I came upon a windowless stone façade with the hotel’s maroon logo splashed across the front. A soulless rock garden bordered the driveway that led to an electronic gate.
“Bienvenido,” came a faceless voice from a box outside the car.
I lowered my window. “I need a room?” I felt like I should be ordering fries and a shake.
“Cuántas horas?”
“Excuse me?”
“Cuántas? Dos? Seis? Doce?”
“One night!” I yelled back into the little box. “Just one night.”
“Te gustería un hombre? Una mujer? Un masaje?”
I had no idea what he wanted from me. “A room! One night!”
“Doscientos veinte. Two hundred twenty.” I grabbed some bills and stuffed them into the metal drawer, which pulled back w
ith a bang.
“Veintitrés,” the voice answered as the gate swung slowly open.
I obediently pulled into a tiny open garage marked twenty-three, and was about to grab my purse and Polly to head out and stretch my legs a bit when the door behind me clanged down shut. A cold sweat sprouted from my forehead as I waited for my eyes to adjust to the dark. As soon as I could make out the outline of another door to my left, I had no choice but to enter. Anything had to be better than getting locked inside this hot box.
And much to my surprise and delight, on the other side of that door was one of the nicest hotel rooms I’d seen in a long time. Marble floors, a king-sized bed, a sitting and dining area, big-screen TV, fluffy towels embroidered with the motel’s logo, the works. I reached for a chair to put down Polly’s carrier. It didn’t budge. Nor did the one next to it. I tried the ashtray on the table. Glued down. What kind of clientele did they get at this place, anyway? When I turned and saw the packaged condom next to the mints on the pillow, I finally got it.
But the room was so clean and spacious, and my carful of stuff was sure to be safe in the garage, and I was dead tired of driving, so I settled in to what I learned later was one of Mexico’s many no-tell motels. When I thought about it, it was kind of a civilized setup. In Afghanistan, of course, there was no such thing. One of my girls over there had told me a heartbreaking story about her sister, who had a husband who would lock her in her room with the kids, taking the key so he could bring women to the house. She would watch them come and go each night through the keyhole. Other men over there would bring young boys and prostitutes to parties, or frequent the Chinese restaurants that were, in reality, fronts for brothels.
I filled Polly’s litter box and poured her a meal, and realized that I hadn’t eaten all day. The room service menu offered all sorts of tempting snacks and drinks, so I went all out. Twenty minutes later a bell rang at my door, but in the seconds it took for me to answer, whoever had delivered my tray had already disappeared.
I kind of liked this place, where things were so anonymous that I almost felt invisible to myself, which, I have to admit, was sort of a relief. Maybe the old Deb could simply disappear into the Sonoran Desert—only just not literally. In my mind that was way too much of a frightening possibility. But what if Mexico really could grant me a clean slate? What would that new Deb look like? Between bites, I began a list:
1. New Deb thinks ahead. She does not make rash decisions. She does not live her life as though it’s her own personal extreme-sporting event. She will no longer be known as “Crazy Deb.”
2. New Deb does not need a man. She might want a man, but if and when the opportunity arises she will be very, very selective. No more college sweethearts (too late for that), no more beach bums, no more closeted gays, no more abusers, no more wannabe warlords, and no more Mr. Nice Guys to make her feel like shit for not being able to be so nice herself. If there is another man, he will be the last man standing. Oh, and by the way? Marriage is not a mandatory thing.
3. New Deb does not wallow in her past. She will learn from her mistakes, not obsess over them to the point that she becomes a basket case who is constantly second-guessing herself and sobbing all over the place, eating too much, and making everyone around her crazy, and . . .
4. New Deb will be skinny! Well, maybe not skinny, but at least healthy and fit. She will cut out the junk food, she will ride a bike, she will not fall prey to the margaritas. She will, for once in her life, learn to feel good in her own skin. New Deb promises to love New Deb no matter what size she is.
(Here, I have to admit, I paused to finish my tacos and drain my beer.)
5. New Deb will never pick up a cigarette again. Ever.
6. New Deb is not afraid. She is as strong as she once thought she was.
7. New Deb will be her own best friend, not her own worst enemy. She will keep herself from taking two steps back every time she takes one forward.
8. New Deb will never pack her life in boxes again. In Mexico, she will find a way to make her head content and her heart full. And that’s that.
After a long, steamy shower I snuggled into bed, eager for the diversion of old reruns and cable news, courtesy of the remote that was bolted to the bedside table next to me. But as I surfed, it appeared as though the only things with even slightly visible reception were four porn channels and a soccer match, none of which was enough to keep my eyes open at that point. So I just drifted off all by myself, dreaming about the New Deb in my dark, quiet, safe, sex motel.
THE NEXT MORNING DIDN’T start off so great. I found myself on the road way too early, thanks to the plaguing doubts about my move that had boomeranged back into my head at 4 A.M., and which were still running through my brain like hamsters on a wheel. Would I be able to make a living down here? Would I make friends? Was Carnaval Street a wise investment, or the biggest mistake I’d made in my life? Maybe things would seem clearer by daylight. It was still dark. Really, really dark. And I seemed to be the only person out at that ungodly hour.
Suddenly the darkness was broken by three arcing beams of light about a hundred yards up the road. As I approached, I could make out a trio of dark-clothed figures waving me over. My instincts kicked in as I stepped on the gas, not sure whether to congratulate myself for avoiding a setup or berate myself for being stupid enough to try to outrun the police. To this day, I still have no idea who those guys were. Regardless, I pulled over at the next gas station and parked under a very bright light, and waited for the sun to come up.
But even the light of day didn’t do much to soothe my nerves. The two-lane road was that in concept only. You could be going eighty miles per hour in the right lane only to come up against a huge bus at a dead stop right in front of your bumper. No place for you (or him) to pull over even if you had time to, just a drop-off that would turn a Mini into a pancake in one quick second. And the left lane? An overturned semi in the median was proof enough to me that it wasn’t a much safer option.
Then there was the humidity. I could almost hear my hair frizzing up as I rolled down the window to pay yet another toll. The hot, thick air shoved its way in like a pushy commuter boarding the 5:10 to the suburbs. At least it was a sign that I was getting closer to the sea.
Just fifteen minutes into the state of Sinaloa, a couple of guys in military uniform stopped my car. A shiny round face appeared at my window. “Qué está en el carro? What’s in the car?”
What wasn’t in the car? I asked myself, my mind scrambling to remember the Spanish word for cat, panicking at the thought of me being kidnapped and Polly left abandoned in the desert, or of poor Polly being catnapped and the Mini being carjacked and me left to die by the side of the road. The officer motioned for me to open the door and step out. My legs felt like rubber, and I could feel that morning’s hastily downed coffee making its way back up.
“Cat. I have a cat in there,” I pleaded in a voice that sounded nothing like mine.
He bent down to peer under the Mini’s roof. I felt faint.
“Fruta?” the guy holding the gun asked.
“What?”
“Fruta?” He called his partner over, and pointed inside. “Gato!” I finally remembered. “Gato!” But they weren’t paying attention. They were too busy laughing. I followed their gaze toward the backseat. The only things visible were Polly’s whiskers poking out from the carrier, stuffed between the space-saver bags that had by now, apparently due to the heat, expanded to the max, filling the car’s interior like a giant marshmallow man.
No sooner had I recovered from that episode than I came to the road sign for Culiacán—the headquarters of the dreaded Sinaloa Cartel, allegedly the most powerful drug-trafficking organization in the Western Hemisphere. A narco city that boasts of more homicides than any other city in Mexico. I had been warned, and had planned not to slow down, not to get gas, not to do anything but hold my breath and get through this town as fast as I could. I was beginning to feel like a character in a video game,
leaping and hopping and ducking to avoid disaster at every turn.
By now the jungle-green roadside had turned into farmland—flat, flat, flat—with nothing but cows that I, in an attempt to remain alert, actually started to count as they whizzed past my window. Yes, I was counting cows. I was up to forty-seven when I saw it. Right beyond the road sign for Mazatlán, a dark sapphire stripe glittered under the blaze of the overhead sun. The Pacific! Palm trees swayed in the ocean breeze. It was like entering paradise. I rolled down the window and let the briny air fill my nostrils with each deep breath I took. I was almost home, as scary as it sounded to call this strange place home. I may not have had a clue about anything that was to come, but I did know how much I was looking forward to seeing my house. My tiny bungalow that had gone practically overnight from seaside getaway to my lifeline.
I’m still not sure how to interpret what happened next, though in retrospect I’m sure it had to be some sort of omen. At first I could have sworn it was snowing. Airy flecks of white started blowing past my window, rapidly multiplying into a swarm as I continued down the road. They drifted up against the windshield one by one, then three by three, and then before I knew it in a flurry so thick I could barely see two feet in front of me. Butterflies. Billions of them. Everywhere I turned, there were butterflies. Butterflies as far as the eye could see. I could feel the unfamiliar stretch of my lips against my teeth as a grin began to spread across my face. “We’re home, Polly. We are finally home.”