On the way to my friend Carlos’ house to spend the night, I was caught up in barreling down Garza Sada avenue with the windows down, but the taxi reverie ended quickly and was replaced with a reunion. Carlos and his housemates feel like old friends, though I only just met them in march. I met Carlos the way that young folks tend to meet other young folks in this lost generation—the internet. Couchsurfing.com to be exact, a website that I can recommend to everyone who isn’t paranoid like my parents, siblings, and select friends are. (I say that if you can’t take an infinitesimal (read: ultra small) risk like surfing on a couch you will never, never live)
But I digress. The lovely house in the “tecnologico” part of town is shared by a lovely quartet (actually quintet, now) of young folks, all mexicanos having spent some part of their childhood in the states. It makes for a great atmosphere. It seems that there is always an engaging conversation to be had or an off-the-wall project to be worked on. After catching up with Carlos and lending some superglue to a watchsmith named Homer, I took a much needed shower (first in 50 hours) and retired for the night to their familiar beige couch.
I woke up in a sweat. But it was because the 11 o’clock sun shoots straight and hot at the beige couch. I rolled out of bed and dodged the rays like so many laser beams. Half an hour later the sun had found me once more and I was compelled to rise. I bided (or bode) my time reading until Carlos got out of the shower and he fixed me a scrumptious breakfast consisting mostly of eggs and chorizo. Thus filled, I cleaned the kitchen as Carlos left for work and then decided to walk downtown, though Carlos said the distance “was not meant to be walked.” I had seen the major stuff; I wanted to see a different set of streets. I meandered around the “colonias” between the house and downtown taking in the sights and staying in the sombre (shade). After a snack (Indiana Jones M&Ms!) at the Mexican version of Wal-Mart (Soriana), I made the final assault on downtown and slipped into an air-conditioned internet café to cool down and tell my wondering family where I was.
I did more walking and looking and took an afternoon nap on the riverwalk . I woke up refreshed and headed to the café Infinito which was actually one of the main reasons I wanted to return to MTY. Sitting on a nice street corner in the old town, el Infinito is a place for deep conversations, deep thoughts, and overly sweet frappes. It has a wall devoted to a book exchange in which the books are organized by color which delights me to no end. I was able to begin writing about the trip there and rest assured my account could have had no better birthplace.
[Here begins 10-day retrospective writing and a far sketchier account]
The next day James met me in the city. We were planning on hiking Monterrey’s trademark mountain, Cerro de la Silla (Saddle Hill), but it was surrounded by a thick veil of smog so we opted for a more urban route. Above Carlos’ neighborhood rises a house-covered ridge that runs for several kilometers parallel to downtown Monterrey so we headed up to the top to see what we could see. I had been told by a cab driver not to go there at night but with the sun up it seemed as safe as the next place, what with all the criminals off committing daytime crimes in the city. The incredible staircase to the top was reminiscent of a pre-Colombian pyramid and I thought of how this concrete laden hillside was a technological marvel of the new-school Toltecs. Imagine a national park 1600 years from now showing off the way that “ancient” Mexicans had covered an entire mountain ridge with stone. “Was it the palatial dwelling of the king of Monterrey?” They would ask. “Was it a grand temple to the God of commerce?” No, it was just a dirty hill to which thousands of poor people retreated at night and enjoyed the best view of the city. And what a splendid view it was. We hiked through the neighborhoods for a long time before we had to descend into the bustling city.
Later in the afternoon, James left to have dinner with the missionaries and I went to the bookstore to pick up some Ernest Hemingway (en Español). I was walking to find dinner when I was snagged off the streets by a guy named Rodrigo telling me to come on in to this café called Trece Lunas (13 Moons). It was an artsy place with a mostly reggae soundtrack and nuevo hippie vibe. Rodrigo, a cool Mexican youth of 2o, sipped a leather-clad cup of mate as he led me back into the depths of the place and introduced me to the other people who worked and lived there. For the next three hours I hung out with them. Hippie types really know how to hang out well. I watched Carly, a laconic, ultra pleasant Argentino, blend the most remarkable smoothie-like drinks I’d ever tasted (he gave me a tiny metal cupful of the leftovers every time he cleaned the blender). I learned some urban agriculture from Dulce, the resident gardener and dreadlocks-bearer. And looked at Rodrigo’s travel pictures. We passed the mate (strong South American tea drink) around all night and spoke only in Spanish because no one else knew any English to speak of (pun intended) and it was so thoroughly enjoyable that I came back the next night for more of the same. I shared tobacco from NC and saw a two-act play about communication which was quite appropriate for me. I stayed past closing was welcomed into the group who didn’t get kicked out of the place after hours. Trece Lunas left me wanting to stay in Monterrey for the semester. I’m sure I would have learned perfect hipster Spanish pretty quickly.
Other adventures included taking a midnight bus which I thought would get me back to the centro, but which took me about 25 minutes outside of the city to a dark town called Escobedo (which, I learned later, is known as “Escomiedo” [miedo=fear]) where the bus stopped. “This is the end” said the driver in Spanish and sent me across an abandoned highway to a slightly less abandoned gas station where I was able to hail a cab back to Carlos’ house just in time for a long game of risk with his roommates and a guy they call the Pope for his tendency to recreate the holy Roman empire during the game.
On the evening of the 18th I met James at the airport and we crossed the Gulf. We arrived in Mérida in need of a roof and in search of adventure. We found both.
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