Ghost of Oaxaca

It’s rare that I hangout or hideout in The Comedor during the afternoons.  I should try and do it more often because there is a lot more good action going on in the afternoon compared to when I am normally there.  Many of the women from across the street are fueling up before a long night ahead.  Many of “The Fellas”, after a long, hot day in the work saddle, are in there as well.  Tino’s lovely wife keeps a spotless kitchen and all the food is made by hand.  Tino keeps his refrigerators one degree Celsius colder than anywhere in town, and only charges 10 pesos for a Cold Corona.    

So it was 3:30pm on a Monday, and I’m in there.  I was packing my pocket dictionary which is customary.  After my third Ice Cold Corona, I decided that I wanted to talk to Tino about his role in putting me together with a particular Irene Burgstrom.  Normally I would never engage in conversation with Tino because I can’t understand one fucking word the guy says.  I take that back.  When he sees me, which is just about everyday, he always smiles and says Arrrrroooooooooooon.  That I understand.  But seriously, I’ve tried and tried to understand his dialect, and it’s of no use.  All the Mexicans seem to understand the guy just fine, which is why I know he is talking Spanish.  But still..

In Spanish, I told Tino that I met a girl named Irene Burgstrom that said that it was you(I pointed at Tino) that sent her to help me.  “Es Verdad?”  Tino nodded up and down and rattled off like an eighty word sentence.  Or just one extra long word.  The nodding up and down I understood.  Most everything else was a wash, although I did hear him say Yukon Sue, and Big Wave Don early on in his answer.  And towards the end, he mentioned The Hand Guy.  I most definitely picked up on the words Yukon Sue and Big Wave Bob.  That I do know.  Final Answer.  And am pretty sure I detected the word ManoGuey at the same time he grabbed one of his hands.  Yukon Sue I know pretty well.  Big Wave Don and I are familiar strangers to one another.  The Hand Guy I just know of.(Hand Guy wouldn’t know me from Adam)  All three characters linger in and around Puerto.

Tino put his arm around me.  I didn’t know what to make of that.  It would have been easier to make something of it if I knew what he was telling me.  For all I know he could have been telling me that he wanted to put his finger up my butt.  Or telling me that I need to find myself a new private hangout.  Though I am pretty sure he was just telling me how much he loves having his personal Gringo Toy around and that he was(is) just looking after my best interests.  It was a moment I will never forget.  I shook Tino’s hand and said, “Gracias Amigo.”  He smiled and said, “graciandalepuesalevaleteveodiosuhhuhuhhuh”  I took that to mean, “See You Later Alligator.”  

I left The Comedor thinking I was well on my way to uncovering this meaningless mystery.  So apparently Tino was feeling my pain, and wanted to do something about it.  He must have mentioned something to his longtime Gringo Friend from Canada named Yukon Sue.  And I will assume that Yukon Sue must have told her on again off again squeeze named Don, who must have mentioned something to The Hand Guy.  

It didn’t make complete sense that Big Wave Don would pass this baton to The Hand Guy, because, although at one point in their lives the very best of friends, it was Don that clotheslined The Hand Guy during a drunk game of One-on-One basketball at The Rockaway last April.  Evidently, The Hand Guy fell hard on his hand and wrist, and supposedly has seen like ten doctors, and nobody can seem to fix it.  He still walks around town with a sling.(more on that later)  So it’s sort of a stretch that Don and Hand Guy are talking again, but much stranger things have happened in Puerto Escondido, so I was going to run with that.

Iburg had done it again.  She somehow arranged a Yamaha Scooter for me to use at my disposal between 10a and 12:45p everyday.  And only then.  She knew I needed it apres surf, solely for the use of darting over to play chess with The Legend.  The Legend had moved south east of town, and because of the 1.5 mile distance between us, our chess time had suffered a huge hit.  His nickname for me is Columbo.  He calls me Colombo because I like to mumble and murmur his thoughts and my false strategies during our matches.  Peter Falk style.  He’s constantly telling me to Cool it Columbo!  

Having the scooter has been really nice.  The Warden uncovered this pretty decent bike that needed some minor work; New battery or maybe a starter.  Maybe both.  Who knows?  New rear view mirrors.  Stuff like that.  I think she convinced the owner to lend it to her and she would make all the repairs, get the thing tuned up real nice, etc..  She told me it would only cost me 1000 pesos, and that I could use it until I went back to The States. 

I guess she had to promise the owner of the scooter that she would also visit him a couple times a week and have Spaghetti dinners with him??   That seemed weird to me, but Friday insisted that Todo was Bien, and that I stay out of it.  Truth is, the spaghetti dinner promise wasn’t a cause for alarm or query.  You haven’t been in a deal, until you’ve been in a Puerto deal.  I apologized for meddling.  And she was right.  I just wanted the scooter to align myself again with some A-Level chess.  And that’s precisely what I got.  And that’s precisely what I did.

A whole week had gone by, and I was really beginning to feel the difference that Irene was putting on my day to day.  Immediately there were ideas set in motion, arroyos being swept, servers being worked on, groups being joined, struggles getting addressed, arrangements being made, food & water being delivered, etc..  She had even gone next door and kidnapped released the barking dog that was short-tied to a tree.  Apparently the dog followed her into the taxi and back to her room at La Punta.  Did you happen to see my dog?  You mean the unhappy and annoying one that barks all day because it wants to be given a second chance at life?  Yeah that’s her.  Nope, haven’t seen her.   

Irene was also finding time to find her own flow.  On my walk today after having made my first appearance at the newly formed chess club, I spotted Irene and Scratchy surfing The Beach Break.  This was now the second time in as many days that I had seen them together. Yesterday I saw them both heading into the 6pm yoga class at Vida Yoga.  Interesting.  I hadn’t remembered introducing the two, and began to wonder how they could have even met.  Regardless, I was stoked to see them both out there enjoying a magnificent blue bird of a morning.  Like was yesterday, neither of them noticed me.  

I headed over to Flor de Arena for a shot of E.  That’s where I ran into Eggman. It’s rare that I see Eggman out of the water.  He doesn’t know I call him Eggman because I disguise it by calling him Dog.  What’s up Dog?  Yeah Dog.  Later Dog.  But in secret, I call him Eggman.  I should call him Chicken.  Dog looks like a Chicken because he eats a lot of Eggs.  Sixty per week.  The big Six Oh.  That’s a lot of fucking eggs.  At least the eggs here don’t need to be refrigerated like in Your Town, USA.  He said he’d cut his consumption by half if they needed refrigeration.  

Speaking of fridges..that reminds me.  I have another friend in Reno, NV named Eggman.  He was already Eggman when I first met him in 1996.  Had I grown up with this Eggman on Long Island, I would have pegged him as Eggman by Kindergarten.  He’s Gregg.  With two G’s.  It’s a no brainer sort of a nickname.  Especially if you know him.   Supposedly his Pops played ball for the NY Jets, but that doesn’t have a damn thing to do with any of this.  

My Eggman is Eggman because I did my research on his egg eating habits.  Therefore, that’s a well carved out nickname.  Anyway, my Eggman is pretty lean and mean.  Tan.  Blond receding hair.  Pointed beak.  Bird Legs.  The whole nine.  A committed surfer for sure.  Lives a very humble, structured sort of existence.  He’s ten years my junior, and an East Coaster.  He’s been posting up in Puerto Escondido for about two years now.  He said he grew up on a farm.  Probably around lots of chickens.  He’d say Californians like me are the most bizarre brand of people on Earth.  One of his claims would be that we don’t follow College Football on Saturdays.  Exacto!

        

Attempt to fix the issue with my God Damned Internet at my hotel.  Something just isn’t configured right.  Sometimes it works great.  Other times it doesn’t even recognize the network.  Pisses me off!!

Buckle up a storage arrangement for all my shit while I am back in The States.  I will pay as much as 500 pesos per month for the right setup for my valuables.  Of course I’d prefer to pay nothing.

Convince Big Jim to neuter Rocky.  Let him know I found an online outfit that makes both Nylon, and Genuine Leather Nut Sacks that he can buy and have fitted and made to appear as though his dog is still packing a sack.

Dispose whatever animal has curled up and died near the top of my broken down arroyo.  This arroyo is crucial to my flow.  The smell is foul.  Third time in as many months that a dead smell has appeared.  Might have something to do with The Giant Iguana and The Tractor Tire.

Educate the beautiful people of this region to embrace the idea that dogs and cats are not only worth having around when they are puppies and kittens.

Find a reliable kid to buy and deliver one Pineapple, One Papaya, Four bananas, twelve small oranges, and a 10p bag of Garlic and Salt Peanuts every Tuesday and Friday.  I will personally show you where each one of these items can be purchased.  You in turn find someone to fill your shoes when you go back to school.  I know exactly what it should all cost, give or take a banana.  I will leave the money on my patio, PLUS an additional 50 pesos for the service.

Ground my hotel.  The owner’s son is Samuel.  You won’t be able to understand his Dad which is why the son is a good starting point.  You can tell them that I can’t play my keyboard without being shocked.  Tell them that I am not a happy camper.  The word for ground is Tierra.  Probably a job for an electrician.  Lots of information can be found on the internet.(Reminder: Fix Internet)

Have my drinking water delivered to my door on Monday mornings.  Train the boys to come before the sun comes out, and to please leave new(er) bottles.  Be sure to teach them how to leave the water in the shade.  Make sure they understand that I am willing to leave a few extra pesos as a token of my gratitude.  But be sure that you train these kids.  Training is the key.  Don’t assume anything around here.

Investigate into the current status of Rebel Soccer in Santa Cruz County.  Once a potential dynasty, team management decided to throw it all away for a pathetic brand that rewards the player that yells for the ball the loudest.  It’s pretty disgusting!  Anyway, see what you can find out.  The team captain’s email is funbunch@hotmail.com. 

Join the Puerto Escondido Online Forum through your laptop computer, and under an alias.  You choose the alias.  Make it kind of girly like BikiniBabe7.  And then make a few innocent girly posts from your computer.  That’s all you gotta do.  Be sure to leave me w/ the password and username before you leave. 

Keep your eye out for a deal on a scooter.  I’d rather not buy one.  Prefer a Honda over an Italika.  It doesn’t need to be legal, and don’t let anybody fool you into believing it needs to be legal.  I really just need one until about noon everyday.

Like my friend Scratchy on Facebook.  You’ll meet him one day.  He only has a couple dozen FB friends.  Bit of a loner that guy.

Mop the tiles on my patio once per week.  Mondays are best.  I keep a mop and a bucket in the stairwell area.  Fabuloso of course.  Any flavor works for me.

Nap time for me is 1-3pm everyday.  Just an FYI.  I ask that these two hours of my day remain uncontested.  Nothing is that important where I would need to be bothered during that time.

Orchestrate my living arrangements for when I return to Santa Cruz.  Your best bet is to get in touch with a fellow named The Vaird.  The guy owes me big time for all the work I’ve done on his compound over the years.  Plus he stole my 25 year old rubber tree.  Offer up free piano lessons as a last resort.  Tell him I’m broke.

Poke around the premises where the Christian Surfers have set up their “shop”.  I smell a rat or two.  You can Pretend you are interested in their movement.  Give them a few bucks.  Be sure to report back to me. 

Quietly go about your business.  Never give out my name, or tell anybody where I live.  Got that?!?!

Return a bottle of Soy Vey to Super Che.  I’ve attached the receipt.  As you can see, it was very expensive.  It was also opened and had a rank smell to it.  If an Indian woman cuts in front of you in line, tap her heel twice.  Make sure you do it twice.  Once could easily be deemed an accident.  Not twice though. If that doesn’t work, Then whisper English in her ear.  She’ll get the message.

Sweep the broken glass out of the broken down concrete arroyo.  Again, this is a crucial beach access way for me.  98% of the time I am barefoot.  I think there are now six different parts that need sweeping.(see map) 

Tip-Toe real stealth-like over to the barking dog that is short-tied up to a shade tree on my neighbors property to the left of my hotel.(if you’re facing the ocean)  Please don’t get caught.  I can’t figure out for certain if the dog is saying get me out of here, OR I’m glad that I at least get food and water.  Untie the fucker and see what it does because I can’t take it any longer.

Untie the 14 dogs within the mile radius of my room(see map) that are probably short-tied up for life.  Start by reasoning with the owner(s).  Offer up some money if need be.  Last resort is to offer money AND take the dog.  I’d prefer you not take the dog, but do it if it’s necessary.  I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

Vibe all those that have entitlement issues.  Brazillian Surfers, Italian Dickheads, Mean Ol’ White People on Vacation, and Light Skinned Mexicans are some of the bigger culprits.  Get em‘ Good.

Write a letter to the Stockholders of Coca Cola and let them know that they are profiting off of poisoning an entire country with their product and that 9 of 10 of their plastic bottles are being burned instead of recycled.  But be sure to also mention that I love an Ice Cold Coke out of a Glass Bottle from time to time.  Nothing like it.

XX Amber is much better than their Lager.  Trust me on that one.

You need to be sure to stay out of the sun between 11am and 4pm.  Go to bed early and get up early.  Your future is at stake.  Don’t fall into the puerto trap.  It makes for a long, unproductive day..

Zip over to Reno’s Swiss Bakery(see map) on Saturday mornings, and pick me up two Chocolate Volcanos and a fresh baguette.  Get there early!

We spent the rest of New Years Day under the rooftop ramada at Big Jim’s apartments.  It took until about sunset to discuss all of The Puerto Lowdowns.  Not true.  It took about three hours, which included debriefing.  Around 4pm, we agreed on a little break.  We strolled down to the beach, sprinted over the scalding sand, and had a nice swim.  Having the warm Pacific Ocean at your fingertips provides unparalleled joy and refuge.  As the skydivers fell out of the sky, Irene and I ducked for cover under a seasonal beach palapa.  We each had a cold coco and pulled up a hammock.  Irene was loving it.  She had gone from one cold environment to another, but was now feeling the unfiltered warmth of the Mexican Tropics.  By 5pm we had walked back on the rooftop.   

The Job Description read like The Alphabet.  In no particular order of importance, I had made a list of things that I needed Girl Friday to attempt to pull off.  Scratchy told me(actually he drew me a map) where I needed to go to have this list laser printed and laminated.  I kept it to one page.  Had to bring the font down to Eight to make it all fit.  So there was lots to it.  Well thought out and researched.  A to Z sort of accuracy.  Just as the green flash appeared, I handed Girl her syllabus.  Timing can be everything.

We agreed to meet again in the morning at Los Tios for breakfast.  “It’s situated right in front of the main surf break.  Can’t miss it,” I said.  I told her that I’d be there around 10ish.  I asked that she study her syllabus, and come to breakfast prepared with any questions.  She asked if we could push the meeting back to more like Noon.  She said she would need tomorrow in the am to study her assignments because the light switch in her room wasn’t working.   

“But it’s all Good,” she said.  “I’ve got A Guy coming over to fix the light situation.  He’s also going to look into why the water pressure in the shower is so low.  And deliver a toilet seat too.  Oh and at 11, I am teaching a yoga class at Healing Hands.  Is Noon Cool?”

“You’ve been in Puerto for 27 hours and you’ve got a Guy?”

“Yep”

“And you are teaching a yoga class too?”

“Yep”

“Are you getting paid to teach?”

 “Yep”

How cute I thought.  She thinks she has a Handyman Guy coming over to help her and that she is teaching a class and getting paid for it.  A belly laugh was brewing.  “Well, sorry to hear about the minor inconveniences in your room.   At least you have a nice new bed,” I said.  “You mean that 15 year old piece of shit mattress wrapped in plastic?” she replied.

   

 

On New Years Day Morning, I met Miss Burgstrom down at the beach in front of Guadua.  Guadua is(was) a fancy restaurant halfway between Playa Zicatela and La Punta.  I’ve eaten there a few times.  Tasty food.  When hurricane Carlotta came to town this past June, Guadua lost its million dollar palapa.  I got word that it really only looked like a million dollar palapa, but that they cut out many of the costly corners that would have helped with fending off 100+mph winds.  Sounds more like it.  Their once gorgeous palapa disintegrated.  Gone.  No roof.  Poof.  I think the rebuilding process has been slow.  It appears that they are back open for business.  I couldn’t be 100% sure.  I couldn’t care less either.  

Irene showed up five minutes early.  I should know because I got there early to stretch in the shade that the lifeguard tower makes from the sun.  We began walking the shoreline towards Zicatela.  I began with the ‘lowdowns’ in order of importance.  I wanted to get all the ‘lowdowns’ out of the way so that I could segue into more the nuts and bolts of her apprenticeship.  Tasks, chores, responsibilities, public relations, that sort of nonsense.  During the ‘lowdown spiel’, Irene appeared to be wide eyed with fear.  Her left eye began to twitch.  She wanted to know if the lowdowns were true.  I didn’t understand what she meant.  She then asked what would really happen if she looked a stranger in the eye or walked around Puerto in bare feet too much.  I told her it depends on which stranger, and whether or not she can walk and chew gum at the same time. 

From about 100 yards away, I could see two surfers walking with their boards.  I knew one of them, which meant I knew them both.  Seeing The Surf Mutt really caught me by surprise.  He didn’t see me because he’s a fucking mutt.  I stopped and explained the story real quickly to Girl.  I labeled it an unforeseen lowdown.  I told her a little bit about our pseudo friendship, and that last year we parted on strange terms.  She naturally wanted to know what happened.  I told her that he apparently got sick & tired of me changing his nickname, and decided to walk right out of my life.  I explained that I didn’t try to get to the bottom of it because, although I liked his harmless company, and his chess prowess, he had never really proved that he was any sort of real friend.  “Plus his favorite word is Hitler,” I said.   

But there he was.  The Big Nazi and his boy J the BV from British Columbia.  I was unsure what to do.  The old me would have let them get in the water and dealt with it later, if it even came to that.  But with some mild encouragement from Girl, I just walked right up to both of these maggots, and made like nothing had ever happened.  Played the reverse differential card.  Outfoxed em.  At first they didn’t recognize me because I had extra long hair.  I said my hello’s and kept my words nice and tucked.  I let the Surf Mutt and his dumb dumb boy toy do all the cackling.  Friday ran a mean interference, and the whole encounter was a piece of cake.

All winter long, the water has been real warm.  Not Cabo warm, because that would be cold.  Not Puerta Vallarta warm, because that too would be cold.  I’m talking about 82 degree temperatures in the dead of winter.  Pretty Nice.  The surf has unfortunately, by Puerto’s standards, been less than desirable.  And it’s the small, less than desirable surf that can actually be more dangerous if you can believe that.  Any lifeguard around here will say that most of the accidents and surfing mishaps at Zicatela occur in small, junky surf.     

Michigan Mike hates it when it’s small.  Just fucking hates it.  Always bitching about it too.  “I should’ve stayed in bed,” he’s always saying.  He’s a big boy.  He rides a big, heavily glassed board with glassed in fins.  His strength is that he isn’t afraid to Go.  Gotta give him props for that.  I bumped into him eating breakfast at my secret spot on the highway behind the five mature ficus trees.  He lifted up his shirt to show me the fin gashes on his back.  They weren’t perfect slashes that warranted stitches or anything like that.  These were heavy impact contact between (his)back and (his)board.  He said his board is in the shop because two of the three fins had been snapped off.  He was pissed. 

On the brighter side of All Things Ocean, not only has the water been warm all winter, but it’s also been quite clear as well.  Especially this past two weeks.  And the bird life knows it.  Boy do they know it.  Especially The Pelican.  Puerto happens to be a pelican hot spot in the winter.  Especially at La Punta where the shallows are littered with fish that range in size from one inch to one foot.  Millions upon Hundreds of them.  So The Big Birds of the sky fly in these enormous, rotating echelons, combing the shoreline with needlepoint precision.  Flying High.  Flying Low.  Huge and Healthy.  Maybe they are Hungry.  Maybe they are full.  Either way is Win-Win.

These Giant V formations in the air are quite the spectacle.  I saw one echelon with over 100 birds all told.  I began wondering whether or not every bird takes its turn at the front, OR maybe just the powerhouse, mature birds do the great majority of the pulling.  Lots to the hierarchy I’d imagine.  Pelican Omerta you can be sure.  I would bet the answer can be found on the internet.  Whatever the answer, the pelican is just downright impressive.  Pelicans are not like any of their ocean contemporaries.  You would Never see a pelican digging through trash at Trader Joes or Burger King.  That’s Seagull work.  Pelicans eat strictly fish.  They don’t need any free handouts.    

I was running the beach towards La Punta yesterday when I came across three living Pelicans standing on the shore.  My initial thought was that something was terribly wrong.  Pretty out of character for a Pelican to stand on the sand and rest.  Pelicans rest on jagged rocks covered with pelican shit.  Typically at or near a spot called Pelican Point.  If a pelican isn’t resting on Pelican Point, it will rest in the ocean itself, much like a duck would do on a lake or a river.   

So here stood these pelicans on the warm sand near the shoreline.  Standing pretty stoically.  And it just wasn’t right.  No more than a half hour later, on my return from La Punta, all three pelicans were dead in the sand.  Big Jim would claim Red Tide.  Not me.  I wondered how much time they spent pulling their weight at the front.  I knew one of the lifeguards would have a huge hole dug by sunset.  RIP.

   

I had five days to prepare for Irene.  If I did my part, I had confidence that she could do hers.  And if she did her part, then the remainder of my stay here in Puerto Escondido stood a decent chance to sail smoothly.  First thing First.  I scored her a room in an unfinished house near La Punta.  It was a modest sized room with built in wood cabinetry.  Huge bathroom.  Colored Concrete floors.  Colored Concrete Walls and Ceiling.  Mexican Colors.  Neons and the like.  There was still plastic on the mattress, which I thought was a good sign.  No toilet seat, but that’s standard so I learned.  Nice little half finished patio deck.  Sweeping vistas from the unfinished rooftop.  Basic little room in a quiet little area located in the Brisas Zicatela Colony.   

I paid the nice lady $80 for the month.  Probably overpaid, but I didn’t have the time to shop this thing around.  I left a small bowl of coins near her bed with a note that said, Use Me To Pay for all your Taxi Cabs and Collectivos.  Welcome to Puerto Escondido.  See you tomorrow on the beach at 10am Sharp.  I dated the note 12/31/12, even though it was still Friday, 12/28.  Scratchy insisted he draw up a ‘You are Here’ map, with all the notable landmarks.  All drawn to scale with a legend in the lower left corner.  I gotta admit, The guy finds a way to come in handy.   

That same day, I stopped by to see my friend David.  He cuts hair at his Uncle’s Peluqueria.  David is a nice young kid I have known for years.  He threw in the towel on his construction career, and recreated himself as a barber.  Smart play.  Cutting hair is a nobel profession here.  Oaxacans like their hair just right, and never appear in public with any sort of facial stubble either.  I credit David for teaching me how to properly use the slang words Chingon, and Guey.  He’s a great kid.  

I actually know three Davids here.  Two of them I can’t stand.  It would make for a better story if I couldn’t stand all three.  But I don’t.  Haircut David I like.  Although I don’t let him cut my hair.  No fucking way!  The Maestro cuts my air.  Actually his son Jesus does.(Pronounced Hay Zeus)  Unless of course I am going for the Combo Shave and a Haircut.  That is when I turn to The Maestro.  The Maestro’s name is Maestro.  I often see him on the street in the lower sections of The Lazaro District.  I usually just turn my palm up like the Pope might do, and yell “Maestro!”  He typically just gives me the half nod. 

Back to haircut David.  I needed a favor, and I knew he had transportation.  I offered David 500 pesos to drive his Nissan truck to Pochutla and shuttle Irene Burgstrom back to Puerto.  He gave me that look like he wanted more money.  I told him to suck an egg.  He accepted my offer.  I gave him the cash in advance.  I told him to be at the station at noon.  I also handed him a cardboard sign that read The Warden.  I suggested he hold that up.  I drew my own map for David showing him where her apartment room was located.  From there, I had arranged Logio to step in and commission her welcoming committee.

At 7:31am, the very next morning, I sat poll position again at the Breakfast Buffet.  At 8am I met Irene over at the Cafe/Internet Establishment.  This is also where the Van Station had a set up.  Irene was not only there when I got there, she had purchased my ticket.  And she got me a front seat.  Impressive.  I paid her back.  We had another sit down over another cup of coffee.  She was eating a carrot.  Irene promised me that she too would take the 9am van, but not until the coming Monday morning.  She asked to remain in San Jose Del Pacifico a few more days to embrace the full moon affect.  I granted her that notion.  I promised her that a personal driver would be at the Station in Pochutla at Noon to pick her up and drive her to Puerto.  I gave her my remaining 900 pesos and told her it was a signing bonus.  She was all smiles.  I was gone.

         

We met at the cafe.  She was ten minutes early.  I should know because I was spying on her from the covered basketball court.  We walked down the Hwy about 100 meters.  I spotted a little gift shop with the lights on and the door open.  We went in.  It was MushroomMania.  And a bunch of wool clothing.  Beanies, Scarves, Gloves etc.  We tripped around the little store for several minutes.  One would think somebody would either come in, or at least pop their head in from behind the curtains, and ask if we needed any help finding anything.  So there we were.  In this quaint little gift shop.  And nobody appeared.  So we left.  The End. 

We walked into a strange place that sort of had an Italian feel to it.  I noticed a tall, scruffy, well built white guy that looked like Mario Cipollini.  He was holding a cute baby that I assumed was his.  The place was clean and strangely under-lit.  ESPN Deportes was on the flatscreen hanging by cables from the ceiling.  In the corner was a makeshift gift shop.  Again, mushroom trinkets, wool clothing, I think you get it.  One entire wall had three rows of wooden shelves that housed 75 different flavors of Mezcal.  They were all corked in glass bottles.  Another wall had a full sized black and white mural of Ayrton Senna.  There was a beer fridge stocked with Indio.  There was a Mexican couple eating food at one of the square wood tables.    

Irene and I split a 40oz Indio, and sat down at a table overlooking the highway.  I wasted no time at getting to the bottom of this trip.

“Who told you to find me here?, I inquired.

“You found me, remember?“ she answered.

“No, really.  Who gave you the lowdown?”

“A man named Tino.”

“Tino who?”

“How many Tinos do you know?”

“Just one.”

“Bingo.”

“Where are you from?”

“Bay Area”

“Which part?”

“Redwood City”

“What do you do there?”

“I live at home and am in school.  I’m going for my Masters at Stanford.”

“What are you studying?, I asked.

“Studying to be the next great Girl Friday,” she said.

We finished our 40, and decided to each try a shot of Mezcal.  I slid in a cup of Hot Chocolate for safe measure.  As we sipped our paint thinner, I decided to dig a little deeper.

“What did Tino tell you,?” I asked

“He told me that you need help.”

“Help with what?”

“You tell me.  That’s why you found me.”

“I’m confused.”

“It sounds like it,” she giggled.

Irene went off to use the outdoor toilet.  I sipped the hot chocolate, and began doing my own math.  Somebody must have told Tino that I needed help.  Who knew Tino I thought?  Too bizarre.  Maybe Tino witnessed the incident that took place on my balcony last month.  But even so, what led him to Irene?  Who led him to Irene?  There just had to be middle people between the two.  Tino is not online.  Tino doesn’t speak English.  In fact, Tino is so far removed from my pathetic reality that his involvement in any of this is downright preposterous.  The plot began to thicken just as Irene had returned from going potty.   

The Mezcal was kickin’ like Bruce Lee.  I decided not to ask the young girl any more questions.  She was just doing what she was somehow being told to do.  Perhaps this was(is) her dissertation, and I’m her case study.  But still.  WTF!  Here was a pretty young woman that semi-randomly appeared out of nowhere, and she apparently wants to be my personal assistant.  Like for her resume or something.  Weird Shit.  I just had to play this one out.

It was getting late. 10ish or thereabouts.  Irene was tired I could tell.  We had talked for a long time.  She kept telling me how funny I was, and that I should write a book about Nothing.  I told her about my run in with Jerry Seinfeld in NYC, and that I had always told myself that if I was ever walking in The City, that I would make sure I was carrying a business card with nothing on it, and to be sure to hand it to him if and when I saw him.  And after handing him the blank business card, I was just going to move right along and not wait around for a reaction.  Allow the funny man to digest my humor on his own terms.  I told her that I had my golden opp one sunny afternoon in 2007, but that the only business card I had on me had my name and phone number on it, and handing that to him…Well that seemed pretty cattle call.  

I sort of noticed she had stopped paying attention to my story about a quarter way through it.  She then told me a story about how when she was young, she and one of her girl friends used to do this thing, or play this game, that when one person was telling a story that the other person thought was totally stupid and not worth having to listen to, then that person would pretend that the ceiling would all of a sudden open up, and that a flat screen TV would magically begin dropping.  Obviously, a mystery TV appearing out of the ceiling during this stupid conversation would naturally(and purposely) divert your attention from having to listen any longer.  And if that weren’t enough, and to make absolute sure the stupid storyteller got the message, you would also say the words, “Neeeeeeer Dink” to signify the two sounds a TV supposedly makes when it is A. being hydraulically lowered from the ceiling,(Neeeeeeer) and B. when it finally comes to a Stop.(Dink)

I told her that I was going to get on the 9am Van back down the hill in the morning, and perhaps we could meet again in the morning for coffee.  We agreed on 8am.  We shook hands.  She walked up the hill.  I walked down it.  We both tuned around at the same time, and at the same time, said Merry Christmas.  “Jinx 12345………”

It had to have been getting close to 11pm.  I was starving.  I went back to the restaurant that was on the premises of my Hotel & Cabañas.  Again, the restaurant appeared to be closed.  In fact, I would have bet my life on it being closed.  But it wasn’t.  Son of a Beehive.  I sat down at a table setup for ten and ordered a Tlayuda con Tasajo.  Another Hot Cocoa too.  I sat there all alone.  Sort of a Xmas to remember I kept thinking.