Nuevo Laredo

     It's been two years since I've ventured into Nuevo Laredo.  Even at that the last visit was prompted only because one of my dearest and most beloved relatives, mi Tia Eva, had been hospitalized and was going to get surgery.  But prior to that and for the two years after that day, Mexico was essentially off limits.
     The stories of cartel violence, murder, and extortion were enough to drive even the most staunch of Nuevo Laredoans to cross the border to a safer place--those that could afford it that is.   The rest of the city, those that refuse to leave or that couldn't leave for legal or financial issued were forced to cope with a culture of violence, fear and constant militant presence.   The corruption and fear instilled in the people of the government and law enforcement made it difficult to trust those who were not close to you and--for an outsider--left a terrifying mystique around a city whose culture use to by synonymous with our own.   The once vibrant and lucid sister city to Laredo, Texas was always boastful of its rich culture, its superb nightlife and tourism, its customs and traditions, it's outgoing and entrepreneurial people, and its excellent, excellent food.  It's American counterpart had always been somewhat lacking in all of those areas leaning towards commercialism and the American way.    But now, Nuevo Laredo stood as a shadow of its former self.  The jovial ambiance replaced with despondency, fear and worry.  The busy hustling and bustling replaced with quick shuffles in and out of shops never before sunset.
     For a long time, it seemed that things would not be getting any time soon. There were times when even my students that hailed from Mexico would not want to cross the border in fear of their own home town. Things looked pretty dim.  
     Flash forward two years and two months to the present day.   When my sister told me about her intention of going to Nuevo Laredo to get a dental procedure I must admit that I was more worried than I would admit to myself. When she said my mom was going and invited me along I couldn't pass up the chance to spend some time with my family in a city and area where I had so many found memories of just across the Rio Grande.  It being summer and having a free schedule I decided to tag along.  
     We left early in the morning---well, early in the morning for my sister and I--dropped off my niece at daycare and went to my mom's house.  My mom was going to drive us in her car.  This also marked the first time in more than two years that we had actually ventured by car across--the limited times we had scurried across the border were on foot and were quick excursions.  
     As we crossed the border into Mexico we took in the familiar sights:  the white structure where the Mexican government inspects vehicles, the Casa de cambio, the soldiers with their automatic weapons and camo ready to go at a moments notice.  These things had been seen a hundred times before and were nothing different and nothing out of the ordinary.   What was different about today, and I might be idealizing this a bit, is the ambiance and the feel of the city.  As we depart the first road into Mexico and turn onto Guerrero street it seemed like the Nuevo Laredo of old.  People of all ages and sizes busily walked in and out of shops, buying elotes, tacos, aguas, sodas,  crossing the street without looking in any direction, the big bulky, noisy buses trammed along like amusement park rides.  The atmosphere was relaxed.  The soldiers that previously occupied every corner of the downtown area were not there. Sure, there were some soldiers,  but their appearance was hardly noticeable.  The police state of Nuevo Laredo has significantly been decreased.   As I kept looking around we see plenty of cars with both American and Mexican license plates driving like maniacs up and down the main roads in downtown.  We like so many others scoured the curbs for open parking spaces, a helpful guide always willing to help us find a spot, reverse, and take care of our care in the hopes of getting a few pesos as compensation when we left.  
     My sister's dental procedure went by remarkably fast and we were on our way to the shops soon after.  My mom, my sister, and I drove and walked down the very streets where I would walk in as a child, my hand in my mom's or dad's. We wandered past shops that have been there for years, decades even before I was even born.   We even made a few purchases.  
   Soon after the shops, we stopped by La Siberia, a Nuevo Laredo staple and a family favorite.  The menu is limited: tostadas, tacos, or caldo.   That's it. Three items, few variations, all delicious.   In a throwback to my youth, I ordered a tostada and a Joya de manzana. My mom ordered the same and my sister ordered a soup--poor soul, I know she really wanted a tostada but she did just have dental surgery.   We sat there. We ate. We laughed. We reminisced.   We watched the lunch rush come in and quickly fill out the place.
     On the way back to the car, we stumbled across a nieve de barril and I had to get one of the famous nieve de limon. My sister and I agreed to share and we made our purchase and like when we were younger, followed our mom back to her car.
    As we made our way back to the bridge, turning and weaving across long forlorn but familiar streets I couldn't help but smile.  These streets with their pinata shops, and fruit stands, and photography studios, it's beggars and it's salesman, the tourists and the locals all seemed normal again.  This looked and felt like the Nuevo Laredo of old. And while things aren't exactly as they were, things are getting back to what they should be.  Nuevo Laredo appears to me, from this short visit, but be recovering, it's people getting back into the groove of a new-old 'normal'.  Whatever the cause, I hope it's true and I hope it lasts.  Nuevo Laredo deserves it's second chance. Nuevo Laredo deserves its renaissance.

Superhero stuff

Wrestling PIcs

Pinto Beans Trigger Writing

Pinto beans. The little hard, light brown, speckled things that was a part of every meal. Pinto beans. For the longest time, Pinto beans were a staple of my diet.  Ground beef and rice?  Don't forget the beans.  Pollo con papas? Don't forget the beans. Eggs and bacon? Don't forget the beans.  Froot Loops cereal? Don't be silly. But more than what the food tastes like pinto beans reminds me of something, someone, rather else.   It makes me think about the woman who would sit at the couch that was visible as soon as you opened my living room door. The woman who had a mole on her cheek and who would peel the rind of the oranges that she fed me as a child. Pinto beans remind me of her slippers and house dress and her white-white hair.  They remind me of a short woman with a tooth or two missing and the cane that she needed to walk. They remind me of novelas and sweet bread and hugs and mall trips. They remind me of times when I would be home alone with this woman; not a care in the world. She'd yell out from her spot in the couch "Betito!", that's what my family would call me, "ven y ayuda me!"  I would put down my power rangers or my wresters or my batman action figures and I'd rush down the short hall to this woman.  She'd give me her hand to help her up--she had bad arthritis and struggled to walk and get up--and we'd head to the kitchen. We'd sit on the modest light brown table with the table cloth and a plastic cover and she'd pour the beans out from their bag and they'd sprawl across the table like a cascade of water hitting the shore.  There we'd start to pick out the bad beans from the bunch: the broken ones, the ones that were to dark, ones that were too light, the ones that looked just plain ugly. We'd sit there for what seemed a long time, picking out the beans content with each others company.  When we'd finish, she would grab a container and pour all the beans into it. The clay pot filled with boiling water awaited the unsuspecting beans on the gas stove.  She'd pour them in and head to her spot on the couch. Soon, the aroma of pinto beans filled the air. The very same pinto beans that my were apart of every meal, the pinto beans that came by the pound, the very same pinto beans that remind me of a short, little, humble lady who loved me and cared for me: my grandma "mama".

The Reluctant

Here's the thing about being in a city like this. There isn't much to do. Sure, it isn't a small town by any means but it isn't exactly a metropolis either. We're in a weird transition phrase between small town and big city. I kind of like it to be totally honest.  So, really there's only two things to do after a certain hour: eat and drink--or in most people's cases: drink then eat.  So, there we were like any self-respecting twenty-some year olds with careers and no family: out at a bar in the middle of the week. Well, it was Thursday, so you can hardly blame us.  There's George, Pollo, and our two resident gays Jesus and Dhyago.   Everyone's there looking for....looking for...well, everyone's looking for something. Whether it's a one-night stand, the future wife or husband, or simply a good stiff drink. Everyone is at Hal's landing for a reason unique to that individual.  Personally, the reason our group was there is beyond us all. George had a live-in girlfriend much to his dismay. Pollo had one two--although she was scarcely seen and Jesus and Dhyago were together..so I guess that leaves us all with the sole purpose of people watching and drinking. It's like being an old folk at the mall except a bit more boozy. Which is right up this groups alley!  Today was better than the typical Thursday at Hal's landing. There were--for once--a lot of beautiful girls at the bar and they weren't out numbered by different grades of cheap Polo cologne hitching a ride on a ghetto,faded, dude with a straight-edged cap on.  There were classy girls for the most part but being the city that it is, there were some "ghetto" girls as well: but they were still attractive, oddly enough.  Everything was going as normal. One person would get a drink, someone would yell out "Shots!" and everyone would take their shot glass and gulp down whatever concoction it was that the bartender decided to mix down their throat and scream "woo!"   Today, was different though. Despite all the normal events happening and then night proceeding as usual, there seemed to be an air of uneasiness about the place--an almost permeable sensation that something, somewhere in the bar was different. It was necessarily a bad thing, in fact, it almost felt like it was quite a good thing but at the moment that one noticed the sensation one couldn't decipher it's message.  The feeling remained throughout the remainder of the night. It lingered in everyone's subconscious and the bar's patrons' heads were noticeably on swivels.  Maybe, it was the unease of having an increased military presence in our airspace as of late, or the recent UFO sightings paired along with unexpected thunderstorms, or maybe it was the drug-cartel violence across the border in our sister city that had recently escalated that had everyone else in the bar uneasy. But in this particular corner of the bar, in this group of people we knew that this sensation didn't come from any of those things.  But none of us were sure, until the smell hit us.  A mix of expensive designer cologne and pure human attraction enthralled our senses and the straight men in the group all looked up in unison at each other as if to acknowledge what was already known.  She was here. That unmistakable scent of perfume and passion that emanated only from one body had crossed our noses and vined istelef into our...into my mind.   Heart rate accelerates, adrenaline fills my body and primes it for anything, eyes widen.and I scan the room.   Left, right, left, forward, back and then when all seems to have been a mistake, there is the unmistakable facade of the woman that has such power over the mind and heart.  The almond eyes, perfect lashes with dark, smokey eye shadow the mole under her left eye just above her full, pout lips. Lips that are accented only by a subtle lip gloss rather than an offensive lip stick. She's just been handed a vodka cranberry.  She thanks the bartender and brings the glass close to her face, wraps her lips around the straw and takes a drink.  She blinks seductively and and turns this direction.  She notices. She puts her drink down, brushes her luscious brown hair to the side and says one simple word:  "Hi".

It trickled down my face and off my nose. That always made me slightly smirk as it tickled my nostrils on the way down.  There's always something special about feeling that first drop. It's almost as if the sky is giving you a personal invitation to experience what inevitably lies ahead.  The skies parted and drops of rain began to fall. Plop, plop, PLOP! they went all around me--precursors of what's to come.  Then the gushing torrents began. The wind began to pick up speed and my hair began to fly in its wake.  Thunder crackled and lightning flashed in the grey marble sky while small branches started to surrender to the wind and rain.  I stood in my yard soaking it all up. I felt a drop trickle down my face and off my nose.  I smirked.