Blue Line, Green Line, Chicken on a Bus: Getting There is The Whole Journey

The first time I rode on a subway I was about 6 years old, with my father, and, in all places, underneath Mexico City. A most unusual entree to public transportation for a girl from Kansas City but my father, whose usual means of transport while traveling was in the back seat of a car being driven by someone other than himself, thought it important for me to be comfortable on mass transit. Perhaps knowing that my future would not be one of backseat riding, he took me on the train in every major city we visited. By high school I understood the hilarity of my father having the driver pull over and drop us at a train stop, with instructions to pick us up a bit further down the line.

In Boston, following a minor traffic accident in the Callahan tunnel at the hands of an angry taxi driver fueled by a deafening Mahler, we moved on to the T. In Puerto Vallarta we rode a bus with a chicken. He left me to navigate the DC Metro alone, a first, setting me up for years of confident transit riding in Chicago, London, Paris, Philadelphia, and yes, Kansas City. Following a knee surgery, unable to drive, I rode the KC bus to work every day for weeks, which proved to be the source of amusement for many of my coworkers, as well as a good books worth of stories.

Last night we had dinner with the more adult than child daughter of one of my oldest friends, in town for a conference. The last time I saw her she was in a diaper, bundled mightily, and rocking in a basket in my living room. I expected a bit more than that but was quite surprised when, after dinner, she pulled out her phone and mapped the best route back to her hotel, "the green line I think" (to be fair I was also surprised that she ordered her own food, didn't drool once, and stood without assistance). It seems the ability to find your way, wherever you may be, is impressive.

This afternoon my daughter Mary texted me, would it be all right to go with friends to the Anti Cruelty Society after school? They needed to visit to complete a science project, due next week, "we'll take the blue line".

Thanks Dad.

Father's Day Tradicion

When dinner was dad's choice, on his birthday or father's day, he would choose pork tenderloin, Spanish rice and banana cream pie. He rarely wavered and, I think, preferred his mother's birthday meal to all others. Once I progressed beyond Minute Rice and microwave popcorn I did my best to learn how to make my grandmother's version of Dad's favorite meal. The pie portion was always a disaster but in time I was able to put together a decent pork tenderloin, despite having not eaten pork in ten years, and some very nice tasting Spanish rice.

Yesterday morning the girls and I wandered the aisles at the grocery store, trying to come up with something interesting to make for dinner as Jack, who usually opts for dinner out, choose spending Father's Day at home. He's a meat eater married to a quasi vegetarian so on this day, and his birthday, I will consider the idea of perhaps, but not always, preparing meat. It was the mangoes that inspired me, "what if we make a pork tenderloin on the grill, we can have fish also, and then make tacos?". We bought avocados, cilantro and tortillas, plus jicama and cucumber for a salad.

As Kate and I put together a marinade for the pork I decided to add rice to our meal, using a salsa verde to make a green Spanish rice. It was then that I noticed, without intention I was creating my own version of my Dad's favorite meal, and my Mexico loving father would have welcomed my stuffing his beloved pork tenderloin into a corn tortilla to be topped with tomatoes, cilantro and crema.

The one who cheered for me most and yelled at me often (most notably on that decision to not eat meat) still impacts the choices I make every day. Salud Dad, it was a most delicious dinner, but we skipped the pie. Best to end on a high note and ice cream cones are just down the block.

From My Side of the Gate

This post was inspired by the novel Prayers for the Stolen by Jennifer Clement, the story of one girl, her mother and friends, surviving in rural Mexico. It is a choppy story, reflecting the life lived by these women, so far from the Mexico advertised in the United States. Join From Left to Write on February 18th as we discuss Prayers for the Stolen. As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

There were two girls on the other side of the gate who appeared to be about my age. We stood and looked at each other for a few minutes, smiling and waving. My grandmother appeared behind me and suggested that I come back inside, it was time for dinner. Not at all hungry, I wanted to go out and play with these girls. She waved them on but I held firm, I wanted to be on the other side. At five my Spanish was limited to hello, thank you, please, and a few food items. I tried them all, certainly saying something as interesting as "me gusta el taco", the girls giggled, and said something back, which, having no idea what they were saying, made me giggle. Soon enough all three of us were laughing; Mimi went to find the cook.

Every year my grandparents left in mid January. Knowing I wouldn't see them for weeks, I spent the night before they left at their house, helping pack and leaving little notes in their luggage, the black and white patterned Samsonite with the bright orange lining. A week earlier my grandfather had brought them down from the attic so that, even though she took the exact same clothes each year, Mimi could start the packing and organizing required for a month away from home.

Three weeks later Dad and I went to the grocery store for milk, eggs, bacon, bread and these truly sweet sticky buns my grandfather liked, stocking the refrigerator for their return. The next morning we were on a plane, to be greeted four hours later in sunshine by my grandfather, relaxed and tan, driving the old orange Volkswagen thing that I thought was the most exciting car ever made. Dad took over and drove us home, Bopaw in the front seat smoking a cigarette and filling us in on what had happened in the year that we had been away. Mom and I rode in the back, my hair flying, her screams muffled by the roar of the open air car as it raced along the malecon.

Mona was still alive, and still horribly unpleasant. She patrolled the beautiful jardin, never beyond the fence for fear that she would bite someone. Only Paulino went in, to feed her, and take care of the flowers. The roosters next door had not made it to a stockpot yet and were still the very early morning wake up call for the entire block. Julia was making pork roast tonight, in honor of Dad's arrival, and papas fritas for me. The Testerman's were coming tomorrow for dinner, Mimi was having a party for their Kansas City friends on Saturday.

We bounced along the cobblestones and up the steep hills in town, Mom alternating between screeching in terror and joy as we passed her favorite shops: cute pink sandals outside Letty's competing for attention with a burro who wandered into our path. When we rounded the corner and stopped at the end of the road I could smell the papas fritas; Mimi's face inside the gate settled it, I was home, at least for a short time.

One week to sleep in the mosquito netting, to bury myself in the sand at El Dorado, to drink fresh squeezed orange juice every morning and to beg my Dad to carry me back up the hill after a trip down to Bing's for pineapple ice cream. One week to spend with the four people I loved the most in the world, in the place I waited all year to be, Mexico.

And then, at the end, as I knew would happen each year, I said goodbye to my parents and got on a plane with my grandparents for the trip home. Mom and Dad just at the start of their Mexican time, a month of friends and parties and sunburns in front of them, while I was headed to snow and school and heartache, leaving my parents never easy, and my leaving was never easy for Dad. Waking the next morning to the sticky rolls we bought just a week earlier made him closer, even though I knew he was very far away.

My grandmother returned with Julia who talked to the girls for a minute and then turned to Mimi and me. In the end they allowed me outside, but only for a few minutes, long enough to take a picture and let me run to the end of the street and back. At five I had not yet learned that I wasn't supposed to be friends with the people who stood on the other side of the gate.

My Dad and his Ten Pretty Toes

We knew by the snoring that he had fallen asleep.

There is a better than average chance that this was my idea but at 7 my sister was a very willing participant, if not instigator. Being 15 I was the one traveling with bright red nail polish, which does throw a bit of suspicion my way.

We tiptoed over to Dad's bed and pulled back the comforter. There they were, ten big old man toenails just aching to be bright red. Toe by toe we covered them all, he barely moved, save a few loud snore grunts. Leaving the comforter back, so as not to ruin his pedicure, we went to bed.

Dad woke up first, always an early riser, especially in Mexico. Ashley and I slumbered on until he could take it no more, "get up lazy girls, let's go get breakfast". He slid into his old huaraches, the ones he had made for him every year, and we walked across the street. I first saw them when we stepped outside, the bright sun reflecting gloriously off of Dad's ten shiny red toes. They peaked out from the front of his huaraches, those wonderful old sandals braided together with rough leather, all attached to an old tire tread sole. They were truly hideous, an absolute departure for my wonderful buttoned up father. He wore them constantly, but never like this before.

The minute Ashley saw the toes I knew we were finished, there was no way we could keep this under control while our big former football playing father stepped to the counter, his sparkly toes begging for an outdoor table with a nice view. His large frame kept his eyes at least six feet from his pretty toes; I think he was somewhere in his chilaquiles before he stole a glance at his feet. And there they were, in all their manicured glory, ten glorious toes that he had never before studied with such intensity.

"My toenails are pink."

We giggled, "really kind of red Dad, not so much pink".

This was a man who, having graduated from Texas A&M, was well versed in every shade of maroon known. The subtle differences in pink and red escaped him.

"We'll be removing this soon?"

Yes, of course, but I didn't have any polish remover. And Dad didn't have any other shoes so we walked the three blocks to the pharmacy and used his toes as a visual aid to describe, in my high school (but not fluent in beauty products) Spanish what we needed. The nice lady smiled and nodded, as if we were the 43rd American tourist family to come in that day looking for polish remover for our father's toes.

We begged him to stay red for the day, he insisted it be removed before going to dinner. Dad's brush with his wild side lasted less than six hours, time enough for him to outdo his previous record of total  "God Dammit Allyson" expletives hurled at me, one fired off every time he glanced down at his feet.

Those huaraches had never looked better, he wore it well.

Life's Illusions

1969

The Gate

There were two girls on the other side of the gate who appeared to be about my age. We stood and looked at each other for a few minutes, smiling and waving. My grandmother appeared behind me and suggested that I come back inside, it was time for dinner. Not at all hungry, I wanted to go out and play with these girls. She waved them on but I held firm, I wanted to be on the other side. At five my Spanish was limited to hello, thank you, please, and a few food items. I tried them all, certainly saying something as interesting as "me gusta el taco", the girls giggled, and said something back, which, having no idea what they were saying, made me giggle. Soon enough all three of us were laughing; Mimi went to find the cook.

My grandparents left sometime in mid January. Knowing I wouldn't see them for weeks, I spent the night before they left at their house, helping pack and leaving little notes in their luggage, the black and white patterned Samsonite with the bright orange lining. A week earlier my grandfather had brought them down from the attic so that, even though she took the exact same clothes each year, Mimi could start the packing and organizing required for a month away from home.

Three weeks later Dad and I went to the grocery store for milk, eggs, bacon, bread and these truly sweet sticky buns my grandfather liked, stocking the refrigerator for their return. The next morning we were on a plane, to be greeted in sunshine by my grandfather, relaxed and tan, driving the old orange Volkswagen thing that I thought was the most exciting car ever made. Dad took over and drove us home, Bopaw in the front seat smoking a cigarette and filling us in on what had happened in the year that we had been away. Mom and I rode in the back, my hair flying, her screams muffled by the roar of the open air car as it raced along the malecon.

Mona was still alive, and still horribly unpleasant. She patrolled the beautiful jardin, never beyond the fence for fear that she would bite someone. Only Paulino went in, to feed her, and take care of the flowers. The roosters next door had not made it to a stockpot yet and were still the very early morning wake up call for the entire block. Julia was making pork roast tonight, in honor of Dad's arrival, and papas fritas for me. The Testerman's were coming tomorrow for dinner, Mimi was having a party for their Kansas City friends on Saturday.

We bounced along the cobblestones and up the steep hills in town, Mom alternating between screeching in terror and joy as we passed her favorite shops: cute pink sandals outside Letty's competing for attention with a burro who wandered into our path. When we rounded the corner and stopped at the end of the road I could smell the papas fritas; Mimi's face inside the gate settled it, I was home, at least for a short time.

One week to sleep in the mosquito netting, to bury myself in the sand at El Dorado, to drink fresh squeezed orange juice every morning and to beg my Dad to carry me back up the hill after a post dinner trip down to Bing's for pineapple ice cream. One week to spend with the four people I loved the most in the world, in the place I waited all year to be, Mexico.

And then, at the end, as I knew would happen each year, I said goodbye to my parents and got on a plane with my grandparents for the trip home. Mom and Dad just at the start of their Mexican time, a month of friends and parties and sunburns in front of them, while I was headed to snow and school and heartache, leaving my parents never easy, and my leaving was never easy for Dad. Waking the next morning to the sticky rolls we bought just a week earlier made him closer, even though I knew he was very far away.

Julia came to the gate, talked to the girls for a minute and then turned to Mimi and me. In the end she allowed me outside, but only for a few minutes, long enough to take a picture and let me run to the end of the street and back. At five I had not yet learned that I wasn't supposed to be friends with the people who stood on the other side of the gate.