Stockholm Syndrome

"You are invited to attend the opening ceremony..." the email said. I had to think about it. Go to school at 8:45am for some ceremony though I didn't have to work until 1:30? Hmmm. But, generally when they say "invited" they really mean "required". I decided to go. I was out sick last week for two days and figured I had better make an appearance.

As soon as I entered, I was hustled to the front by my principal. "I want to introduce you to the crowd!" he announced, referring to the six hundred odd students standing in the sun. I was placed in a line with the superintendent of our school system, a representative from the federal education system and the police chief. And then, I was introduced and told to address the crowd. Something happens to me when I am forced to speak in front of hundreds of people without notice, in Spanish. For the second time within one week, I became a mumbling, unintelligible mess. "Gracias!" I ended, and ran away after about thirty seconds of gibberish.

Quite a lot of folks were there from the superintendent's office in Mexicali. One approached me and asked if I was going to Mexicali with them, that day. Huh? "We'll take you by your house so that you can pack a bag", they instructed, "We'll be back to get you in an hour!". I ripped damp clothes off of my clothes line, forgot my contacts and a hair brush, and was whisked away to Mexicali. Four solid days without a teacher for my students. Oh well.

We stopped by a couple of nice hotels in the centro so that my drivers could collect their things; they had stayed the night in Tijuana. As we headed to the highway, we passed another campus of my school system that is basically right around the corner from where I live. Muddy, dirt roads lined the neighborhood and shanties lined the paths. Uniformed students poured out of the school. It reminded me of some of the rural areas in Laos. I was surprised that such third world conditions existed in Tijuana. Not completely surprised, but to say the least, saddened. "Look!", one of my cohorts called, "There is the academic coordinator's daughter!". Banda music played on the radio and the border wall twisted and turned on our left as we drove to Tecate. We ate some carne asada tacos and stopped by the bread place to pick up some of Tecate's famous bread. We passed through the military checkpoint and headed for La Rumorosa.

"We're going to visit another plantel" my drivers told me. "It's an extension". We pulled into the town of La Rumorosa, something that I didn't know existed. And for good reason. "No one stays here" they told me. "There aren't any jobs. Everyone goes to Tijuana or Mexicali or the U.S. But there are some kids here and the community asked us to start a school". We pulled up in front of what used to be an abandoned orphanage. There were three classrooms with some chairs and tables and beaten up whiteboards. It was freezing. People were wearing winter coats and stocking caps, inside. They have a student population of 50. I was shown a rickety kitchen with a sink and an old, tiny four burner stove. "The tourism students practice culinary arts here" they told me. Everything became very clear to me at that moment. I knew that I wanted to work there.

They told me that they would take me to another extension. They said that it was in a "humble" neighborhood near Tecate and that Americans had helped build whatever semblance of a school was there. I was curious, very curious. But for now, we headed to Mexicali. Música romantica played on the radio. We arrived at a hotel and I was told to call them if I needed anything, but might want to avoid going out alone. I waited for their car to pull away, put on my coat and headed out. As it was 6:30 and I had nothing to do, I decided that I needed beer and nail polish.

Breakfast with the superintendent, 8:00am. Or 8:20am, Mexican time. I barely ate. He wanted to smooth things over about my schedule difficulties. I told him that changes were made after I contacted Mexicali. "Good, good, good, we want more exchanges!" I was told. I told myself to be confident and attempted to drive my point home. I wanted them to understand that if they were willing to treat me, their exalted guest, so badly, the superintendent really ought to think about how the Mexican teachers are treated at that school. Deaf ears. "We want more exchanges!" was the only thing that rang clear. I know it's not my place. I had to try. I worry that I didn't try hard enough.

"The roads from Mexicali continue in Calexico" I was told. "We used to be one city". We were driving to the big event. We arrived at another plantel that was cloaked in students and press. The governor was coming. I was escorted to the front row. The governor of Baja California was introduced to the crowd along with another slew of distinguished guests. And then, I was introduced. At least they did not ask for comments. I have to admit that I wasn't too comfortable being within five feet of the governor, considering the nature of some of the violence here. I was especially concerned when we had to pose for huge group pictures and I was thrust at his side, sporting a ridiculous thumbs up! I got to sit in on his press conference. "How do you feel about the recent announcement from the U.S. that Americans SHOULD NOT visit Baja California and that Tijuana is one of the most dangerous cities in Mexico?" was the first question. Oh God, what did my government do now? I was interviewed afterward by a reporter. The inevitable question: Do you feel safe in Tijuana? "Nothing has happened to me yet" I answered, and stared back at her. Yeah, the hype about Tijuana is overblown. Come one and all? Well....no.

We never made it to the extension near Tecate.

The love that won't shut up

I haven't been walking to school. It's a bad habit to start taking taxis and I decided to break it yesterday. As I walked, the soldiers came into view. Straddling both sides of the street, camouflage, ski masks, armored desert vehicles, automatic rifles, a guy manning a gun turret. I slowed my walk.

You're wondering now, what to do, now you know, this is the end...

Cars were stopped and trunks were open, a soldier abruptly thumped the base of his rifle and I raised my hands and slowly walked through. It was endless. And then I saw the taxi. Full of my carpooling students. Five, seven of them, crammed into one cab. When the soldiers stopped them for revision, instinctively, I stopped. I am an adult. I am their teacher. They are just kids. I was paralyzed. I am a foreigner. I knew I had no say here. I'm used to having to take care of my students. But here, we are all on our own. The soldiers let them pass as the kids waved at me through the windows of the cab. My ipod kept singing to me.

And he's related to you, he's related to you, he is waiting to meet you...

I am starting school just like I started it the first semester, on the shit list. I received a horrible schedule that I have been fighting both tooth and nail. It wears on me. My fellow teachers have been rallying around me. "This is shit" they tell me "they are taking advantage of you when they should be happy that you are here". After going up the chain by meeting with the principal, academic coordinator and union head, I was still getting stonewalled for schedule changes. Teachers started slipping me the phone numbers and email addresses of the superintendent of our school system. "Call him, write him" they advised me "Just don't let them know that I was the one that gave you the number..." I told them that I would write an email and bring a copy to school so that they could proof read it. I presented it to Profe Julio when I arrived. Throughout the day, teachers were knocking on my door. "Can I see the copy?" the asked. "Can I bring it to Nora? She wants to see it...put in a word for us. They treat us like shit".

I am not here to stir things up. But, I have always had a problem with relinquishing my rights. Even if teachers don't have any in Mexico. Why don't they strike if they are so unhappy? I have one word for you: Oaxaca. I am in a weird position. They want me to stand up for myself and in turn, stand up for them. I can do that. I can tarnish my career aspirations to vocalize our mutual discontent. It just kills me that the only reason I have a voice is because I am not from here.

My odd sanctuary has been the classroom. It never has been before, if anything, it was the highest point of stress in my life. The kids have been happy to see me. They weren't sure if I was coming back. While teaching a lesson on adjectives, I asked them to think of an adjective in English for every letter of my first name. "H?" I asked. "HOT!" the boys called out. Ay, Díos mio. Sometimes I think I am my best self in the classroom. I keep my demons in control, I am not too crazy and I am polite. My darling Gloria hugged me when she showed up for the first time on the second day of class, because she heard that I had asked where she was. And she still tells all of the other students that I am her mother. While revising the attendance list from one of my devilish electronics groups, I saw a heart drawn on the paper. "La profe y yo" was written in the middle.

I don't know how I can leave them.


*Title lifted from the Opal Foxx Quartet
*You're Wondering Now, The Specials
*Nude as the News, Cat Power

Malasuerte en Tijuana

"I'm sick of having guns in my face" one of my co-workers commented. "No kidding" another seconded, "the military has this whole hill surrounded".

I wanted to get out on Saturday, do some things. The rain slowed us down. Even light rain makes the dirt roads in my neighborhood impassable and fills and overflows the potholes of the paved ones. I settled for a trip to Comercial Mexicana, Tijuana's Wal-Mart, which is not far from our house. And has some pretty cool stuff. As Alec and I emerged from the store, loaded down with bags, we noticed that the road was blocked off by police officers and sirens were wailing in all directions as more arrived on the scene. We took a taxi instead of the bus home.

I really needed some Expo markers for school, so we decided to hit the papelería too. A man with a rifle stood on the sidewalk that lead to the store. Alec and I both stared at the ground and tried to give him a wide berth. "¡Buenas tardes!" he greeted us "Where are you from? ¡Bienvenidos a México!" The guy really seemed to be trying to be friendly, not to freak us out. I guess I am getting a little sick of having guns in my face too.

We got curious. What happened while we were in Comercial Mexicana? A cop got gunned down. In traffic. In the middle of the street. The street we have walked up and down a million times. He was headed for work at the police station next to our house. "Four murders in one hour!" the Frontera newspaper blared.

I haven't been to Casa del Migrante in a while. The bus driver didn't notice that I was getting off behind another guy and started driving. I jumped out of the moving bus while carrying a ten pound block of processed ham and headed down the street. I could hear music from far away. What was going on? A street party for Casa's church! I went inside and greeted everyone, I was pleased that they seemed happy to see me. "Let's go eat!" Raquel said happily, grabbing me up and taking me to the street with Gabriel and Rogelio. A little stage was set up and music was thumping, all of the songs I've heard a million times here sounded new and good. Tamales, enchiladas, elote....all for sale for some San Felipe church money.

...con las espadas desnudas a abrir aquellos cuerpos desnudos y delicados...

I had a smile permanently plastered to my face. Our lovely semanarista friend from Casa was dancing and slapping his own booty, then breaking into giggles. The horchata servers spontaneously broke into a line dance, take it down, bring it up, hold it there, keep it going...a kid ran by in an orange hoodie with a pumpkin face on the front and a stem rising out of his head, chasing a dog that was as big as a horse.

...como la flor, tanto amor, me diste tú....

Didn't they know we were all going to die?

I went to mass with the migrants again. I wanted to. My head was swimming. I tried to pretend like I was going along with the whole thing; I didn't want to be disrespectful. The migrants seated behind me took communion and came back to their benches behind me and remained on their knees. They were engulfing me. I normally would hate something like this, weird human proximity, but it oddly made me feel good. Until I heard the sniffles, the crying. My bones started feeling heavy, like a physical pulling and I was sinking into sand. My head was swirling and I looked straight up, pulled my chin up and tried to fixate on a single object, which unfortunately happened to be a bloody crucified Jesus on a cross.

I found La Doña outside of the church and asked her if I could help her cook next Sunday. "Of course" she said "of course".


*Brevísima relación de la destrucción de las indias, Bartolomé de las Casas
*Como la flor, Selena

Las mañanitas

"And then, goosebumps appeared all over the body we were about to embalm!" one of my fellow teachers howled "Chinga! The girl was alive!". Friday night, on the eve of a three day weekend, the administration at school had decided to keep us until seven o'clock. I worked most of the day, making tests and materials for the upcoming semester. By five thirty, my eyes were having trouble focusing on the computer screen. The rest of the teachers were seated in a circle in the freezing cold sala de maestros, while one of the math teachers told us stories about a stint he did working in a mortuary. "One time, I had to go to the scene of an accident. A really bad one. Bike accident. Blood was everywhere and then I noticed change spilled all over the ground. Two pesos, five pesos, ten pesos....I had forgotten to bring bus fare to get me home and I decided that dead people weren't going to need the change anyway and I started scooping up the pesos, even the ones with blood on them." Groan, howl and hysterical laughter. "The next day, I picked up the paper and there was a picture of the scene and way in the back, I saw myself, hunched over, arm extended, haciéndome un pendejo".

I was up at 5AM the following morning and got a taxi right outside of my house. Two blocks away, we were stopped at a military checkpoint. A couple of large camouflage trucks lined the street and a soldier manned the gun turret. Cars were stopped and trunks were opened. A man stood with his arms over his head and his shirt pulled up to reveal his belt line. A ski masked soldier waved us through. The biggest, roundest, brightest moon hung in the dark sky.

Sometimes, in moments of adversity, I imagine myself singing "Stand" in front of an audience of my detractors. I have this really spangly dress on and look, well, awesome. I usually sing the howling Sly parts. Sometimes I play guitar too.

As I rode the trolley to San Diego, the big bright moon was replaced with a big round fire red sun that quickly changed the sky to a light blue color. I escaped being accosted on the train. It is always someone, "the thing", as my niece called it, a rough, anglo man (?) that wore garish makeup that had seated itself across from me and stared at me violently before requesting a piece of gum. I turned it down, as I only had nicotine gum and wasn't sparing a piece for a weird stranger. It turned it's attention to an older, Mexican woman and requested a piece of gum in Spanish. The señora stared back at it darkly, without responding until "the thing" finally looked away. Or the insanely drunk woman who aggressively seated herself with Alec and me, began a relatively intelligible conversation, picked up her phone and asked her caller if she "fucked her or was her mother?" and then proceeded to tell us the exact same story for the third time in a row. Or the "friendly" old men that creep over to my area and interview me about every aspect of my life. Nope, just lots of people crossing the border to work, coffee in hand and Spanish newspapers in front of their faces.

Yes, there is an irony to the fact that I had to leave Mexico only to re-enter it by air in order to spend my birthday weekend in Los Cabos. My family met me there. Have I mentioned that my family is awesome? While a lot of Americas won't even go to Cancun anymore for fear of swine flu or drug violence, my mother, sister and twelve year old niece have just made their third trip to Mexico in the last six months. My mother plows right into Tijuana and trots through the centro, buying souvenirs and tacos just like she is in Atlanta. My niece always wants to be in the street, where she can buy elote and Mexican sweets. As for my sister, if adventure had a first name it's H-O-L-L-Y.

I arrived in Los Cabos a couple of hours before my family, and presented my new visa to the migra agent. Trouble was afoot. "I just picked it up yesterday" I explained. "No you didn't" he said haughtily, pointing to the issue date of the twentieth while scooping up my passport and visa and walking to an office in the back. Great. Insisting on speaking in English, he pointed out that I hadn't been stamped out of Mexico when I crossed the border that morning. Shit. His accent was difficult to understand and when I asked for clarification about some unintelligible thing he said he snapped "Pay attention" as if I was a stupid child. "You like that little box you sit in all day, don't you? Makes you feel powerful. It's especially nice to talk down to some American woman too, isn't it? Do you have a hard on?" I asked, or I wanted to ask as I stood there, quietly and politely. I finally made it through, picked up the rental car and drove around a little, then returned to the airport. I popped the plastic lens back into the frames of my sunglasses and placed myself between the taxi drivers, waiting to see my family pop out of the airport doors. I am not sure why Americans go so crazy on vacation. Older, proudly alcoholic men walked around with open beer bottles. One carried a six pack of Dos Equis, popping open a new one whenever he saw fit. Brand new pedicures and golf clubs cruised by me. An older American woman with huge fake boobs walked slowly by, precariously balanced on very tall heels, with a chihuahua riding on her shoulder.

Ahhh, what a weekend. Warm breezes, seafood and humpback whales that would have impressed National Geographic. Yeah, Los Cabos is pretty heavily touristed and there is a damn good reason for it. Quicker than I wanted, I was back on flight to the U.S., so that I could return to Mexico. I sat in a sports bar in Phoenix that proudly advertised Bud Lite! and watched Fox News. It made me wonder which planet I was on while the commentators battled a one sided debate about why gays SHOULD NOT! be in the military. One of the "strong points" of their "debate" was that homosexuals would sue if they had to do extra push ups. Well, that sounds reasonable....their program was quickly followed by a commercial featuring G. Gordon Liddy selling insurance. I certainly trust Fox News and their advertisers.

I was seated again next to Marines on my flight to San Diego and quickly found myself back at the border. I remembered to get stamped back into Mexico, only after being invited to dance by the migra agents while they stamped my visa on the wrong page. As I walked past the ICE agents in front of the turnstile, they quickly pushed past me and zeroed in on a young, Mexican cholo with a small backpack, completely ignoring the much larger bag I was dragging.

And then I was home.

More than a feeling

Standing in the checkout line at the grocery store, I didn't expect to be thinking about the revolution. It was that song, that stupid song, "More Than a Feeling". Suddenly I was in Cuba, riding through the night in a taxi, warm breezes swirling through the open windows and Boston playing on the tape deck. "Everyday I wake up and I hope that the Revolution is over" our driver told us. Everybody has a life to live, I've got mine, you've got yours and the taxi driver has his. Except mine's good and his is shitty. And there's nothing he can do about it. I realized I was about to cry and trained my eyes on the ground, blinking rapidly.

We had another informe at the school, a big community meeting that explains our failure rate, what the money was spent on, all of the walls we got painted. After my principal's presentation, the superintendent got up and stated that it was the first time he has been impressed by a presentation by our school, because he at least thought we were honest this time. I guess that's a compliment. I was simply marveling that they managed to pack about one hundred and fifty people into one of our classrooms. And here I was hoping to have less than forty-five kids in my upcoming classes.

"If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the 'Fuck you' signs in the world. It's impossible."

The cholos that line the street heading to the school have started greeting me while I hike up the hill. In English. "Hey teacher!" they call, day after day, smoking and passing God knows what to my uniformed students. Their tone isn't menacing and I always respond with a smile and a wave. I like to tell myself that even the cholos like me! I am making an impact! But I know the truth, dear God I fear the truth and scope the dark streets when I walk down the hill at night. I wish I could be like the little brown chihuahua on my street. He looks me straight in the eye and slowly raises both of his back legs off of the ground, balancing only on the front two. Suck it, he seems to tell me. Look what I can do.

Yesterday, I had to give my exam to the kids that not only failed the class, but didn't bother showing up for the week of recuperation classes and exam. Today, I was told that I would give the exam to the kids that not only failed the class and that didn't show up for the week of recuperation classes and exam or the exam I gave yesterday. It grated on my nerves. Our superintendent worries about the kids that don't go to school, says that they rob and steal and assault people. That is why we give so many "opportunities". That is why we are supposed to pass all of them. Keep them coming. It's better that way. Don't worry if they don't know a damn thing, if we can get them to come here a few times per semester at least they're not robbing people. It doesn't matter if they show up for a job with a worthless piece of paper in their hands and everyone realizes that they can't do a single thing that that paper says they can do. Who ever thought that babysitting could pay so well.

"I can apply your exam" the secretary told me when I went in search of exam copies. "I'm going to apply all of them" she told me "for all of the classes". Great, do it. I spotted Roberto outside, sitting on a bench in the sun. "What are you doing here?" I asked him. He's off on Thursdays, depriving me of a little ray of sunshine and sanity one day per week. "I'm applying my exam" he told me. "But Aracely said that she would do all of them?!" I told him. "No. I'm applying my own". Dirty work was afoot. "They let them cheat in there. Don't even grade the tests, they just give everyone a seven. I am applying my own exam and grading it myself" he stated. And he wonders why he's always one inch away from being fired. I can't believe he actually wants evidence that they know a damn thing, what kind of teacher is that?

And then the sky opened up and pulled us all away to a better place.



*The Catcher in the Rye
Holden Caulfield in Chapter 25

Mexico cares

I love going to the airport. Person on the go, woman of the world, got a flight to catch. Don't go thinking I lead a mundane existence! I have places to be. I had to get up way before a comfortable hour to catch my flight from TJ to Mexico City for the Fulbright midterm conference. Yeah, I said Fulbright Midterm Conference just because it makes me feel special. Glamorous. Worldly. Everything I am not. The Volaris planes cut around the little plane parking lot, sporting names on the side of each plane. Francisco. Alejandro. Cute, very cute, there goes the Sara plane. My Interjet plane was a spark plug, it seemed to shoot down the runway and barrel into the sky in a spunkier way than most planes. And up it went, swooping and turning and rocketing away from troubled TJ.

I love Mexico City. Urban jungle, everything a city should be. I have been there before and was excited to go back. I was surprised when the taxi from the airport pulled up in front of the hotel that Fulbright put us up in. I knew it would be nice. Zona Rosa. The super nice part of Mexico City. The odd part was that I have stayed in the same hotel before on a school study trip I took as an undergrad. Sometimes I wonder who I really am. When I look for a hotel, I usually have to specify that I would prefer my own bathroom as opposed to sharing the one in the hall with a bunch of twenty year old backpackers. How I ended up two times within the same lifetime in a beautiful colonial hotel in the Zona Rosa confuses me.

Not to say that I don't like nice things. I love nice things. As I viewed the cafes and shops that line the Zona Rosa under the clear blue skies and warm air of DF I felt completely content. We were shuttled between beautiful hotel to gorgeous offices of the Mexican education ministry to the spacious and polished conference rooms of the U.S. Embassy. This is the life, I thought as we mingled with people that are used to these spaces, these rooms. "I'm with the State Department", "I'm with the Embassy", "I'm with the Fulbright Commission" I heard over and over again. And we were the star attraction. I found myself feeling sad at unexpected moments. I really doubt I will be a guest of the State Department again in my lifetime. All of this special treatment is completely temporary and sooner rather than later I will be scrambling to figure out what to do next. I knew it wasn't reality. My current reality is on the dusty edge of Tijuana in a graffiti tagged neighborhood. I had the same sensation at my first Fulbright conference in DC. As I sat in an expensive hotel listening to important people thanking me for being a part of important things, I knew I was just days away from returning to the dank, utilitarian spaces that embody the public school system where I work.

"Do you feel safe in Tijuana?" I was asked for the millionth time in DF. I still didn't know how to answer that question. I am a superstitious person. If I said "yes", I knew I would be shot dead tomorrow. Am I cowering in fear? Well no, I'm not. But Tijuana is not safe. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Everyone likes to tell you that the only people that get killed here are narcotrafficantes. What they don't mention is that these shootouts take place in very public places, in bars, streets and restaurants that are spread indiscriminately throughout the city. There is not a sign out that says: We kill people here. It seems to happen everywhere. Do I feel okay here? Yeah, I'm okay here. But I am not the bad ass that I feel like they wanted me to be. You'd have to be a freak to feel safe in a city where dead bodies have been hung from overpasses and scalped faces sewn to soccer balls.

I spent an extra day in DF in order to enjoy the city outside of conference rooms and because the floods in Tijuana weren't really enticing me to return. The rows of colonial buildings and hyper urban atmosphere reminds me of Madrid. It seemed even more beautiful than the first time I was there. It really didn't feel real. In ways it didn't even feel like Mexico. Sure, Mexican people were everywhere - I know that all Mexicans don't live like the people in Tijuana, but somehow I couldn't put it together in my head that both places could exist at the same time. In the Zocalo I caught sight of huge piles of water bottles and thought we were walking up on some sort of massive recycling project. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that people were collecting and loading water into trucks to help the relief effort in Haiti. It was fantastic and immediate and knocked me out of my self centered, overly reflective state.

Before I knew it, I was hovering over TJ again in a plane. My stomach was kind of hurting and I felt a little dread...do you feel safe in Tijuana? Do you feel safe in Tijuana? Though it was after midnight, the dread slipped away as I rode through familiar streets. Near my house, I noticed a patrolling convoy of Mexican military following a truck that sported a soldier manning a mounted machine gun. Hmmm, I thought, the beige ski masks are way less intimidating than the black ones.

We are human

I was excited all week. I woke up at 5:30AM, caught a taxi to the border and waited in line to cross it. "What are you bringing back from Mexico?" the American agent asked me. "Ummm, my clothes, some shampoo...I live in Mexico" I finally answered. I wasn't returning, I was going. "Where are you going in the United States?" she demanded. "San Diego" I answered. "Why?" she shot back. "To catch a flight" I returned. "To where?" she retorted. "Phoenix".

Ahhh, Phoenix. What a yucky city. Tucson is funky, Phoenix is just sprawly. I met my sister in the airport before noon. We immediately wheeled out to the Hispanic part of town in search of Sonoran hot dogs, my sister's chosen birthday meal.

"¡El pueblo!, ¡Unido!, ¡Jamas será vencido!". "¡Obama!, ¡Escucha!, ¡Estamos en la lucha!". The chants surrounded us as we marched down the street, surrounded by thousands of people carrying signs and banners. "¡Arpaio!, ¡Racista!, ¡Tú eres terrorista!". I felt happiest when I would see Hispanics in cars, at taco trucks, in yards, their eyes widening when they saw us, followed by horns honking and fists raising. Cholos, grandmas, families. Obama....eschucha....estamos en la lucha...I only wanted to cry when I looked at the children, on shoulders, in strollers...this is for you, I found myself thinking, THIS IS FOR YOU.

After a morning of activism, Holly and I arrived at a ritzy spa to relax for the rest of our birthday weekend. I jumped around on my big bed and dug through all of the drawers in our fancy room before heading out to the super pretty, pool side bar for some snacks and drinks. People sat around fire pits, drinking and talking. I am not much of a mixer. Why would I want to meet strangers while I was in Phoenix with the only person I really wanted to talk to, my sister Holly? We laughed and drank and talked about the rally. While finishing what we thought was our last beer, a voice called "Ladies... would you like to join me at the fire?".

"And what do you do?" we asked our host, an older yet cool looking woman with a cigarette in one hand and a red wine in the other. "I am a conductor. I drive trains" she answered, a mischievous look in her eye. You don't hear that everyday and it fueled the conversation for another quarter of an hour. "I'm on leave" she explained, removing her hat to expose a soft, downy fuzz that covered her scalp. "I had this little problem". "Are you good now?" Holly asked. "Yes" she said and smiled "all clear".

She ordered us another round of drinks. The waitress rounded the pit to come to her side. "I can serve these ladies and I can serve you, but I cannot serve them" she whispered, motioning toward the indoor bar. The conductor laughed. "My partner is inside watching the game with some guy we just met today" she explained. Two old men promptly staggered out the door of the bar and plopped themselves by the fire. One looked like Christopher Dodd. The conductor's partner began the usual round of questions. "What do you do?" he asked us. "I'm a teacher..." I began. "That's nothing!" he barked "Pay attention to this woman! She drives trains!". I felt the giggle rising in my throat while he lashed out at Holly in a similar fashion. "What were you doing in 1978?!" he demanded. Well sir, I was trying to pull my other leg out of my mother's womb. "See!" he growled "Pay attention to this woman! She drives trains!". He ordered us another round of drinks, took a guzzle of his wife's wine and turned to Holly. "So what do you do?" he asked, beginning the cycle anew.

The senator suddenly tumbled from his chair, wedging himself between a stone wall and Holly's leg, after putting out the fire pit with his foot. "Stop that" the conductor hissed, relighting the fire with her lighter and flicking her cigarette in it. He had propositioned Holly, who inadvertently burst out laughing and asked "Are you kidding?!" The man could not get up. After a laborious effort, Pay Attention to This Woman hustled Chris Dodd to his feet and dragged him up the stairs to his room.

It seemed like as good a time as any to get going and Holly and I bolted to our room, trying to control our laughter until we were out of earshot.



*in case you weren't sure, Chris Dodd is my pseudonym for the crazy drunk man that nearly set himself on fire.