LandfallVoyages

“How-la?,” she said, with the standard-issue grab bag of tells that lets everyone within a half-kilometer radius know that this person is here on vacation, staying at an all-inclusive resort, and sobered up enough to realize they’ve suddenly found themselves outside said resort…in MEXICO. 

She was standing there, like a red and white striped zebra, looking very much as if she’d wet herself, in the parking lot of our local Wal-Mart, giggling friend clutching at her elbow as they propped each other up. “Hey,” I said, smiling. 

“Oh my god, you speak English. Are you going to Wal-Mart? Can you help us? I didn’t pee myself. I know it looks like I peed myself but it’s my drink. We need coffee filters. I didn’t pee myself. Where are you from? Are you from here? Your English is really good.” The words spilled out across the asphalt, like a margarita accidentally tipped over by someone who’d already worked their way through its 4 predecessors, and was now enthusiastically gesturing through an incomprehensible story about I don’t even know what.

“California,” I said, “but I live here.” 

“Oooooh. Really? I’m sorry. I thought. I didn’t….” she trailed off, perhaps wondering if she’d somehow offended me into not helping her find those coffee filters. I get it. I do. Actually, a lot of the time. Crazy purple and green dreadlocks, tight sleeveless dress with combat boots, skin not light enough to be actually white, not dark enough to be obviously from around here, and a face that is ethnically ambiguous. It’s really only ever been in Hawaii or with someone else who has my particular flavor of mixto that I get accurately pegged. And I’m always honored to be mistaken for some kind of Mexican. But I digress…

“Yes, I’m going to Wal-Mart. I can help you find your filters.” At which point, a floodgate of semi-coherent ramblings lets loose and carries us across all the way across the hot blacktop and into the cool shopping mall air conditioning. “I don’t know if I can go in there,” she whisper-screams, giggling. “I look like I peed myself.”

“First of all,” I said, “You don’t smell like pee, so people are going to assume you spilled your drink in the car. Or have dinghy butt.” 

“Ohmygod dongee what?” 

“I live on a boat. We use little boats to get from our big boats to land. They’re called dinghies and often, while using them, your butt ends up wet. It’s a thing.” I said, reassuringly. 

“I caaaaaaan’t,” she said. “Look at all the people.”

“First of all, Mexicans are awesome, so don’t even worry about it,” I said. “and second of all, imagine getting dinghy butt and having to walk into a classroom full of kindergarteners and be the student-teacher. Yeah, it was a day-long explanation that Mrs. Willie did not have an accident in her pants, but just got her pants wet on the way to school. That was a little slice of heaven, let me tell you.” #CannotMakeThisShitUp #fml

I stop and get my backpack inspected by security, because it’s full of emergency meds and goes everywhere with me. That is just how I roll. The guy knows me. Sees me come in weekly and we’re friendly in that superficial way where you know somebody by virtue of regular 2 minute interactions on a weekly basis. The dynamic duo are obviously with me but it’s not obvious why they’re with me and when zebra lady starts superloudly asking for “those, you know, fill-ter-o-ex-is?” He gives me a look that says, “What in the 7 circles of hades have you gotten yourself into?”

I explain, using the superpower called Spanish, that they sort of latched onto me in the parking lot and needed help cause they are Spanish-deficient. Even though zebra lady swears she took 5 years of Spanish. He is manfully trying not to laugh but getting ready to lose that battle, so I hustle them off so he can laugh in peace without worrying about job security. Except for the security part, which is, you know, his whole entire job and all.

They try and lead. In a store where they’ve never been. Surrounded by signage in a language they cannot read. Even while sober. It’s 6 pm and I’d bet $500 pesos they started the day with mimosas and never really stopped. “This way, ladies,” I say. More giggles bubble up as we change course, “Now, we’re going this way, ladies, ” I say. patiently. “Nope, over here.” It’s like herding cats. Through a field of catnip, sparkly toys, and squeaking mice. 

We belly up to the coffee aisle and a new cacophony of excitement breaks out at the unexpected discovery of a treasure trove of flavored CoffeeMate creamer options. In Mexico! Also, liquid Splenda! Judging by their reactions, *NSYNC, must’ve come prancing down the aisle, riding sparkly rainbow-horned unicorns, while I was looking for filters. To my knowledge, no panties were thrown.”

“Here they are,” I say, holding up a bag of those big ruffled filters. Faces fall; *NSYNC has left the building. “We need the other kind. Triangles-es.” “I understand,” I say carefully, “but this is what you’re gonna get. You take the filter and fold it to fit.” It was truly a eureka moment. Effusively tipsy iterations of thank you rain down upon me, under the harsh fluorescent lights. I felt like I ought to maybe be giving some kind of acceptance speech or something. As I’m trying to gracefully make my exit they have just one more teensy request.

Do I know if there’s any cold mixed drinks, the kind that come in a can and definitely have alcohol in them, preferably vodka? I look across the way, gaze glancing off the center aisle pallet display of Corona, toward what I like to think of as Hard Liquor Central. Because it’s hard to miss and also full of liquor. I think of their nondescript rental car in the parking lot, one of their husbands sitting patiently in the driver’s seat. Car parked surprisingly well between the lines. Probably did not start the day with mimosas. 

“Over here,” I wave them toward coolers full of a colorful variety of fizzy alcoholic drinks in cans. “For the ride back,” they whisper conspiratorially, like bad little girls. Alas, none have the specific mix of vodka and sugar they’re looking for. “There is, you know, an entire section of vodkas right over there,” I say, pointing. They look at me like I’m a babe in the woods. And also, SRSLY? Why buy a whole bottle of vodka when just 5 minutes away, at the resort, there’s all the liquor they can drink? For FREEEEEEEEEEEEE. Well, not really free, because they had to pay for it when they booked the vacation. That’s how it works. Probably. They’re sure of it. Mostly. Maybe. Could be. 

I send them on their way, stumble-bumping toward the checkout, giggle whisper-screaming how they can’t belieeeeeve how nice that girl was. Can you even believe it? No, they cannot believe it. 

I can. Years of living in Mexico, where people make a habit of helping others. It’s what you do. It’s how we roll.