I wrote this before I had much of a grasp of the Spanish language, so please excuse any inaccuracies.

When I was in Mexico, I stayed in Tecalitlan. Tecalitlan is a humble country town with a population of about 13,000. This is not a tourist town, as I mentioned before. Most of the people there have never met an American before, much less someone that didn’t speak Spanish. The people have had some exposure to English through television and other influences of pop culture, but aside from that, the language is unknown. And rightly so. This is Mexico. And Tecalitlan is as Mexican as you can get.

Despite my funny looks and strange way of speaking, the locals, Dan’s family in particular, were amazingly outgoing and friendly with me. They accepted me. They took me in, fed me along with their families, and invited me to their parties. They asked me all kinds of questions about what I thought about Mexico, and how it compared to the United States (all with the aid of a translator, of course). How do you like it here? Are the people friendly? Do you like the food? How do you like our home? Sorry, we apologize for the mess. Even the cousins, a bit younger than myself, asked some of the more relevant questions — What kind of music do you listen to? Do you dance? Do you like Mexican girls? She’s hot, huh!? They were interested… interested in me. Dan’s uncle, Israel, and his wife Alydia and their many children were the family that reached out to me the most, and as I would eventually find out, would express the most concern for me. They were the most memorable part of Mexico.

Israel stands tall and wide, middle-aged, with a round belly and a weathered face. Like most of the uncles, he has thick forearms and wide, blunt hands from years upon years of laying brick. Alydia is a small woman, also middle-aged, soft-spoken, attractive, with deep brown skin and long jet black hair. She wears an expression of concern on her face, which I’ll never forget, but floats with an air of happiness.

Israel asked some of the more insightful questions. He spoke with patience and wisdom, even though I couldn’t directly understand a word he said. He told me a story about his visit to the United States, and how he felt helpless when he couldn’t talk with anyone, even for something as trivial as a transaction at the grocery store. I was going through what you’re going through now, Dan translated, So I understand how you feel. Communication is the most important thing. Without it, you have nothing. And he’s right. But maybe not completely. I didn’t speak with Alydia, on the other hand, except for maybe an hola, or a gracias here and there. Not until the end of my trip, at least.

The most memorable and meaningful moment of my trip came when I needed it most. It was the night of the car accident. I was laying in a hospital bed, and the doctor, who fortunately spoke a bit of English, was telling me about my condition. He was worried. He said the reflexes on the left side of my body were too slow compared to the right, and he could see retinal damage in my left eye. I had literally “rattled my brain”, and he thought I had a concussion, but was unsure of my condition until he repeated the tests. All we could do was wait. Naturally, I was very worried.

In the meantime, to allow me to stay in the hospital, a local resident that I knew was needed for the purpose of verifying my identity. I explained that I was a tourist, an American, and I had no such person. I was stressed over my health, and now over the red tape associated with it, Mexican style. Just then, Alydia walked in. Alydia — this woman that I had met only days before. This woman, to whom I had spoken not more than a few words.

Now, Spanish is a very descriptive language, and the verb “to know” translates two different ways. There’s saber, which means “to know of” something (as in information), and there’s conocer, which means to know personally. Saber Angelina Jolie is one thing, but conocer Angelina Jolie is completely different.

Alydia was led by a cop, who looked frustrated. ¿Conoce él? he demanded (Do you know him, personally?). She replied.

Sí, yo conozco.

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I’ve got a story I’d like to tell, about my travels to Mexico over the last couple of weeks.

Please keep in mind, by no means would I want to imply that Mexico is a dangerous, wild place. And although it is, by far the most valuable parts of my visit were my interactions with the locals, the learning of the language, and the chance to personally witness the warmth of the culture.

Maybe I’ll make multiple entries on my trip, or maybe this will be it. In any case, I’d specifically like to tell you about Thursday, December 14. We went to the beach that day, which was about a two hour drive west. It was just Dan and I, due to our last minute planning. All the cousins were either at work or school. It was a weekday after all. But we figured a quick day trip would still be worthwhile, if only to give me a chance to see another side of Mexico — a drastic change from the country scenery I had been enjoying for over the past week.

Up until that point, I had spent most of my time in Dan’s hometown, Tecalitlan. It’s a small town of about 13,000 people, most of whom have probably never met anyone that didn’t speak Spanish. The beach towns were quite the opposite, with American and Canadian tourists running amok. I didn’t come to Mexico to hang out with Americans, I complained to myself, but the scenery soon changed my attitude. The beaches are beautiful. I had never felt ocean water so warm. Palm trees growing in the wild, lining coves of natural, white sand. We stopped for huge lunch of fresh fish, tortillas, rice, and salad, all for about US$5.

It just so happened, by pure coincidence, that Dan’s uncles and cousins were working at one of the beaches we visited. They work in construction, you see, and were building few touristy villas right along the shore. We hung out with them for most of the day, borrowed their fishing rod to fish for a few hours (Dan caught a big one), and ate with them at the end of the day at their dorm. The construction site is so far from home, and the work hours so long, that the workers live on-site during the week, and go home to their families on weekends (or every-other weekend, for some). It’s a hard life.

We started our journey home. “From Colima, it’s half an hour,” Dan said. “No way…” I protested. “It will be with this car,” he insisted. Ten kilometers from Tecalitlan, I watched the clock to see if we’d make the 9:00PM deadline. It was 8:52. Into Tecalitlan the roads are narrow two-lane highways (one lane in each direction) that carve their way through the foothills. The roads are smooth, and the curves sharp, but cautionary signs are few and far between in Mexico. Five kilometers left. It was 8:56. That was the last time I looked at the clock.

We rounded the top of a hill, and a truck heading the opposite direction rounded the approaching corner. Two hundred feet, 100 ft, he neared. At the last second, 50 ft or so in front of us he veered into our lane. Dan tried to steer around to the right on the shoulder, but lost control, and we slammed into the rocky wall beyond the shoulder. The car rolled over twice, and rested on its side, passenger-side door down.

I don’t remember the actual impact — the air bag deploying, that is. “Momentary amnesia”, the doctor said. “It’s common”. But I do remember heading for the rock, having no idea what was in store. The worst that can happen is Dan’s car will get scratched, I thought… I believed. And I remember rolling. It seemed like we rolled forever. Once, twice, maybe it was even three times? (Later, we saw the car had rested about 50 ft from the impact on the rock, so it’s hard to say). I’ve replayed in it my mind a hundred times (a taste of post-traumatic stress disorder). The rock racing towards us, and the roll. The rock, the roll. I covered my head and I pleaded… I prayed. Everybody prays, in the end.

When we finally stopped rolling, we were sideways, my window to the asphalt. I did a check. I could feel everything, my arms my legs. I could think clearly. There wasn’t any blood, no sharp pains, I felt fine (for the moment). The next thought was to get out. I don’t know why getting out was so important, but it was, and my mind raced. But my belt buckle was stuck. I panicked, internally, while Dan panicked aloud. He was hanging above me, already complaining about his precious car. He released his buckle with ease… “Dan, my buckle’s stuck”… made it safely to the ground (his feet right in front of my head)… “Dan, I’m trapped!”… punched out the remains of the driver’s side window, and hopped out. “I’ll come back for you!”, he said (he later tells me he was rushing to get out to stop oncoming traffic so the car wouldn’t get hit again with me in it). I realized I’d have to do it myself. I had to take all the weight buckle to release it, basically lift myself up, and it took more than a few tries. It seems like I struggled in that seat forever, like the rolling, but I’m sure it wasn’t much over a minute or so.

Once out of the car, looking back at it lying on its side, the body smashed like a crushed aluminum can, I then realized what I had survived. With a true appreciation for life, I hugged that son-of-a-bitch Dan, who had deserted me inside the wreck.

And once I realized we were both okay, the first thing I did was look for my camera. Fuck his car, those are my vacation photos on that camera. I had had it in my lap just before the crash, and who knew were it was now after the impact, the air bag deployed, and all that rolling around. I looked down into the drivers window, only to find chaos. Glass and bits of plastic molding all over. A truck with two guys pulled up behind to check on us, and helped us push the car on its wheels (my back was killing my by this point). The car bounced on its wheels, I peered into cabin, and what did I find resting in the passenger’s seat? My camera. And fully functional.

I laid on the ground. The strain on my back was too much. Just as I did, the police pulled up behind us (I later found out they had been following us. I knew they were a little too prompt. But we drove a nice car, I don’t look Mexican — so of course they were following us). Automatic rifles and shotguns at the ready, the authorities yelled at me in Spanish. Then the ambulance arrived, and the paramedics (I honestly don’t think they were quite paramedics) yelled at me in Spanish some more. With a potential back in jury, I expected them to put me in a brace or something, and carry me into the ambulance. No such luck. They motioned for me to “hop in”. And I did. It was then, during that drive, at that time of need, with no translator, that I realized how little Spanish I really knew.

(to be continued)…

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And pictures, and pictures, and pictures of New York in the gallery (I know, I know, posted months later). Lots of repeats, though. I tried to sprinkle in a few comments.

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That’s RIGHT… bitches.

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There’s something about it, that I never quite put my finger on, before. It’s a sensation, a notion, that’s not quite quantifiable. But it’s there. It’s undeniably, fall.

I spoke with Paresh about this the other day. He said it was the smell of wood burning fireplaces that was sparking my association. Scents of oak and pine, of deciduous and evergreen. I’d agree. But it’s more than that.

Its the smell of the wet street, after the first rain. It’s the smell of fallen leaves soaking in puddles. Puddles like glass, reflecting an infinite sky below, with clouds speckled about, regrouping for their next downpour. It’s the shorter days, and longer nights. It’s cloudy mornings, and sunny afternoons. Its the justification for staying indoors, and the motivation to go out, and enjoy the sun while it lasts. It’s tea, its coffee, it’s Billie Holiday on the radio at Starbucks. It’s the excitement of Halloween approaching, and the holidays around the corner.

It’s the cold air on my nose. It’s the sting of a breeze on my shaven head.

I need to buy a hat.

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