Paseo

A tourist in Mexico enjoys his last day

 

 

Paseo

by

Jon McDonald

 

            Even though the breeze was softly pressing off the Caribbean, the sweet and pungent aromas of grilled pork, onions and pineapple from the taco stand drifted down across the small plaza to where George Brightman was sitting on a low wall in the shade of palm trees, gazing out across the water to Cozumel.  The Cozumel ferry was just pulling up to the pier.  George admired the Caribbean’s bright and distinct layers of color �" a large wide band of turquoise stretching out from the edge of the beach; further out a smaller, darker band of cobalt blue; and finally a thin ribbon of aquamarine at the horizon. 

Several groups of children were playing on the beach.  In one group, a young girl with pinned up hair - in a one piece pink bathing suit with dancing elephants - was shoveling white sand and flinging it at her younger brother who had a swim suit that sagged at the butt; probably full of sand.  Their mother sat in an aluminum folding chair with a bowed seat that looked about to give way at any moment.  She was slathering on lotion, shaded by a palapa and chatting on her cell phone - completely oblivious to the carnage her children were creating.

            George was a neat, plump little man in his late 50’s; balding and in shorts - unable to disguise his flounder white legs that still had rings where his tight socks had left permanent marks from years of office work.  George was, however, in a kind of trance today.  This was one of those rare perfect moments for him.  The sun was warm this early April afternoon, but not blistering.  The palm fronds, sounding like whispering baskets, waved gently above him in the just perfect breeze coming off the sea. 

The aromas from the taco stand.  The sound of the children echoing up from the beach below.  The paseo of citizens going about their business; carrying plastic bags of groceries from the market; talking on cell phones; corralling kids from tearing off to the beach; tourists wandering from the Cozumel ferry in straw hats the size of small planets.  George sat there taking it all in.  He closed his eyes and thought he would never leave.  He wanted to capture this moment and keep it forever sharp, like a snow globe capturing a snowy day in Paris or New York.

            He had just come from lunch at the other end of Playa del Carmen �" a cold Bohemia beer and shrimp tacos with melted cheese and an assortment of salsas at his favorite little restaurant back from the beach �" La Cueva del Chango �" Cave of the Monkey �" a handmade dome with the bottoms of wine bottles cemented into the roof of the structure to allow soft light to filter into the interior. The sides of the structure were open to the elements and sunlight reflected off a plantation of banana leaves to give the interior a sub-marine shimmer.  One expected to see coral fans with angelfish sampling the salsa.   A small pond and fountain graced the interior.  Behind, a Yucatan jungle created another patio environment.  He had thought at that moment it just couldn’t get any better, but he paid his bill and walked La Quinta Avenida and then along the beach to the older part of Playacar to the old plaza by the beach where he now sat.  He had nothing else to do this afternoon, and he just loved that.  He had been vacationing alone for the past ten days and would be returning tomorrow to Des Moines; and now he just wanted to savor every last moment of his all too brief vacation.

            Even though he had just eaten, he kept eyeing the grandmotherly vendors selling cups of fresh fruit, looking as beautiful as they looked tasty.  Spears of mango, watermelon, pineapple, cucumber, jicama stuffed into tall plastic cups and sprinkled with red chili powder when served.  He could stand it no longer, and wandered over to the vendor’s carts.  The ladies were peeling fruit and cutting it up on small cutting boards sitting on large inverted plastic tubs.  He ordered a mixture of pineapple and mango with the red chili and went back to his perch on the wall.   He sat there, his legs crossed, nibbling on a spear of pineapple and watched the show unfold around him.

            George prided himself in “knowing people” and so loved to make up little scenarios about the people he watched as they passed by.  “There, that couple coming this way.” He commented to himself as a couple approached.  He mused, “Lovers.”  They were animated as they passed by, gesticulating wildly.  And though George’s Spanish was adequate to order a café con leche, he was somewhat uncertain as to the context of their present conversation which he heard as they passed by.  He caught something about cards and flowers.  “Oh yes, that’s it - planning their wedding.  Obviously she wants to spend a whole lot more than he does.” He smiled to himself.  “Oh dear, this is going to lead to many heated arguments further along in their obviously very passionate marriage.  Hope the sex makes up for it.”  He giggled.

            Marie-Louise and her brother Germaine had just come from their parent’s newspaper and magazine shop.  It was barely larger than a closet, but with the addition of candy and gum and a few plastic toys that kids loved added to the mix, their parents managed to squeak out a living.  Of course it was a six day a week job with only Sundays off for mass and maybe a stroll on the beach before a big meal with the family that lasted most of the afternoon. 

Marie-Louise was not going to let Germaine bully her into letting him use her credit card again.  “No - absolutely not.” She insisted.

            “And who got you that card?  If it hadn’t been for me working at the bank you would never have gotten it.”

            “Claro.  But it is I who pay for the damn thing.  Last time I let you use it you spent a fortune on flowers for Carmalita.  Oh Carmalita, my darling.  My beloved, Carmal-i-i-ita.” 

Marie-Louise noticed the gringo sitting on the wall eyeing them as they passed by, going all native by eating his mango out of a plastic cup.  Too creepy.  She much preferred the summer when it was hot and rainy and there were less tourists and she could go about her life without being ogled by old lechers.  “And did you ever pay me back for those flowers? No. Never! Jerk.”

            “But I will.  You know I’m good for it.”

            She threw her hands up in the air as they walked on and out of sight. 

            George licked the last of the red chili off his fingers and tried to clean them on the fragile little paper napkin that shredded in his hands.  He looked around for a drinking fountain where he might rinse off.  There was none.  So he licked his fingers like a grooming cat.

            Just then a nice breeze lifted up over the plaza and George once more closed his eyes and drifted off into one of his Mexican holiday dreams.  But he was jarred back into the present by a loud masonry power saw not too far away.  He had seen workmen constructing a balustrade earlier, but they must have taken a lunch break and were now back at the racket of construction.  He looked over, hoping it would be but a momentary distraction from his Mayan Rivera reverie.

            There were three workmen.  They were covered in stone dust and cement.  Their dark hair was dusted with a coating of powder sugar.  Their heads looked like little Mexican Wedding Cakes. George was inclined to study them for a moment and once again use his powers of observation to construct an amusing story about these three. 

            Obviously the one on the left, with a broken nose and way too bushy eyebrows, was a drug dealer.  George named him Carlos.  The next one, Jorge, was short and compact - no doubt a wrestler who doubled as a bank robber on weekends.  And the third - he named Roberto - was tall and rather handsome and for sure ran a stable of chicas for the touristias.

            God, he was good at this, George prided himself.  He sat back, stretched his feet out, and wiggled his toes to loosen the sand he’d accumulated walking on the beach in his sandals earlier.

            George’s ‘Carlos’ - though his real name was Antonio �" was carefully examining the plans laid out before him next to where the tall and handsome Edelmiro was laying the just cut stone which would form a foundation for a pillar of the balustrade.

            “Why do you have to leave before the weekend?” Edelmiro whispered to Antonio.  “Your classes don’t start till Monday.  We could have the whole weekend together.  My aunt is going to Cancun to visit my grandmother and will be gone till Tuesday.  I have the place to myself.  We could have the whole weekend together.”

            Antonio shook his head.  “You know I promised to spend the weekend with my father.  I didn’t see him at all during Christmas.”

            “But I won’t get to see you again till June.”

            “Come visit me at the university.  My room is small but we could cuddle up nicely.” Antonio gave Edelmiro a big smile.

            “Hey, will you two maricónes get your asses over here and help me with this?”  Piero called out to them as he struggled to lift the next stone up to the saw.

            “What’s the matter, your wife sap all your strength this morning tapping that tiny dick of yours?” Antonio jibbed as he and Edelmiro rushed over to lend a hand.

            “Tiny, yeah sure.  Comes down almost to my knee.”

            “You must have very high knees.”  Edelmiro joked as they lifted the slab up to the saw bed.

            George had been watching this exchange and concluded that the whispering was the finalization of a plot to extort a widow in Cancun.  He wondered if he should alert the authorities, but decided against it when he realized he would be leaving tomorrow and would be unable to attend any trial as a witness.  Best not to get involved, he concluded.

            The last of the tourists from the docked ferry were straggling off the pier, some passing by George as he continued to lounge on the low wall, still shaded by the nearby trees.

            Playa del Carmen seemed to attract many more Europeans than Americans George had observed.  Just now a family was approaching speaking Italian.  The faces of the two young girls and an older boy were hidden by floppy sun hats.  The girls were carrying bags with flippers and snorkels.  The boy was showing off his yo-yo skills.  The two girls were pulling towards the beach but the mother and father had them firmly in hand and resisted their impulse. 

The father was in his 40’s - tall, almost abnormally thin, wiry and tan.  He wore a Speedo swim suit with an open Hawaiian shirt and huaraches.  He was smoking as though he was on his way to meet Anita Ekberg.  George named him Paolo.  His wife he named Donatella.  She was younger than Paolo, slightly on the fleshy side - probably a superb cook.  His mouth watered thinking of her home-made lamb lasagna.   He was certain she had her own garden with at least six different kinds of tomatoes and three varieties of eggplants. She had on dark sunglasses, as large as cinemascope.  She wore a scarf and a sun hat.  She looked like Sophia Loren ducking into a limo.  She wore a sarong-like dress and platform shoes.  She obviously was not that enamored of the sun. 

            George decided that Paolo had a mistress in Verona who played the cello in a symphony orchestra, and could talk for hours on end about archeology and Chinese porcelain.  He was sure Donatella loved to sew and read movie magazines.  He imagined the girls braiding each other’s hair under a pepper tree and the boy climbing the tree and tossing cherry pits down on the girls to annoy them.

            Actually this time he was not too far off the mark as to his speculations.  Except that Paolo was named Gianfranco, and was the owner of a winery in Lombardy. He hadn’t performed sexually in fifteen years since he was involved in a motorcycle accident that crushed his testicles. While his sister, Chiara, was a ceramic artist in Puglia and these were her husband’s children by a previous marriage.  Her husband did all the cooking and she couldn’t even keep a plastic plant alive. Yeah, pretty close.

            George was very pleased with himself.  He had had such a splendid lunch, a charming stroll and a delightful afternoon exercising his acute powers of observation.  However, the sun had shifted, and he was no longer as shaded as he had been previously, and he was starting to get a little too much sun for his fair skin.  Also his book was calling him, and he was contemplating a nap and perhaps an ice cream on his way back to the hotel.  He had discovered, and become addicted to, a mango sorbet from a little shop on a side street.  And he was already planning where he might dine this evening.  He was thinking to go once again to his favorite taco restaurant on Avenida Constituyentes. 

But then a shadow passed over him as he realized he would be heading to the airport way too early the next morning.  He would barely have time for his favorite Mexican breakfast, huevos motuleño - a tortilla with fried egg and banana, ham and peas smothered in tomato sauce and melted cheese - in the hotel’s rooftop restaurant with the morning breeze nudging sweetly off the sea.  Then he would have to scurry to the cab with his tightly packed carry-on, wearing trousers, his pinching socks and a long sleeve shirt to shield him from the air-conditioning on the plane.

            Reluctantly he rose from his perch on the wall and looked wistfully around at the passing scene; the ferry pulling from the pier into the crystal waters towards Cozumel; the teenagers texting; the families trudging up from the beach, the kids too red and too tired.  He gave a nod to the fruit ladies, and started off towards his hotel.

            An elderly Mexican couple was sitting on a bench, shaded by a fish restaurant, eating sliced papaya �" their treat for the afternoon, when George passed by with his mango sorbet. 

            “You know, I feel so sorry for these pasty gringos with their little chicken legs, and their Father Christmas bellies.  Look at that guy there.  I bet anything he works in some over heated, over air-conditioned office tower from eight till five every day.  Then he goes home and microwaves a frozen dinner, opens a can of �" what do they drink there? �" Budweiser, and falls asleep before the news.”

            Her husband looked up with little interest and nodded his head.  “Yes, I feel sorry for those people from first world countries.”  He nodded again, and squeezed more lime on his papaya, and felt the breeze rising from the ocean, as the sun declined towards Mayan temples that slept peacefully, hidden by jungles with rainbows of parrots.