A Drive to the Country

Setting out, myself at the wheel, unschooled and illiterate of the sign posts, or Mexico City driving patterns.

Elizabeth and Bob, the man who understands computers, sitting in the rear.

Terry, sitting in a semi-reclined position, the primary navigator.

Elizabeth, Terry’s life-long friend, provided second opinions and hand signals from the rear seat.

Advice came from all directions, including Bob, but primarily from Terry and Elizabeth, with their Mexican habit for late and excited hand, foot, and vocal expressions, as we navigated the city westward toward Morelia, the second city established by Spain, 500 years earlier. The route was somewhat uncertain due to road repairs and confusing signage.

As we traveled the Mexican landscape laterally, with dramatic changes in altitude, there was no discussion or observations concerning vegetation, topography, culture, or local history included in the ride.

Stopping for fuel, I stayed with the Honda, while the passengers streamed to the refreshment stand.

Four and one half hours later, arriving at the lakeside village home, my request for tequila was questioned, however I prevailed drinking until I was calmed to my surroundings and joined my fellow travelers in the kitchen, for strawberries.

Driving back to the city the next day with Terry, my eyes blurred from the night traffic dropping into the Valley of Mexico, incoming freeways loaded with weekend traffic.

By accident we landed on a surface street whose name I could not properly pronounce in Spanish, but whose English meaning I fully understand. Insurgenta splits Mexico City, East and West. I was chided for my pronunciation and challenged regarding its meaning, however, it led me to south Mexico City, Tapan, home of my navigator .

As I unloaded the car, Terry told me she never drove back to the city at night, it was to hard, and went on to explain to me that it seemed shellfish that I did all the driving this weekend.

Needless to say, I said to myself that I would never go near the wheel again, lest I should make her spill the bucket of whole milk, she held with her feet to make special candy with, or spill the strawberry basket we purchased in the fields along the way, or scuff the trunk with some rocks I may have stopped for, alongside the road.

The next day I was told that Bob, the man who called me kind of handy to have around, was made sick by the chicken soup I had prepared for breakfast the morning we traveled west to the lake village. I thought it might have been to many of those unwashed strawberries he was eating in the back seat, I don’t know.

Anyway, I started packing my suitcase to head north, to where my children were waiting to pick me up at the airport.