These two friends of mine and I enjoyed an adventure once. I
won’t elaborate on all our antics. Let’s just say were young and foolish. Add
some emphasis to the “foolish.”
It started in Jackson Hole, Wyoming and the memorable
portion of it ended in Tijuana, Mexico. Actually, before it ended up in
Tijuana, it involved a side trip to a small bar in Ensenada, quite a memorable
addition to our excursion.
It happened this way.
I joined the two in Jackson Hole, having ridden the bus
partway there and hitchhiked partway. One friend had a car, and we set out down
the West Coast, hoping to find sex, drugs, and guacamole in Mexico. We headed there after a stay at Palo Alto with some college buddies. Somewhere near Salinas (no, really) we picked
up a hitchhiker who looked Mexican. He was. He had been in El Norte on a work contract and was headed home. We thought he
might make a good guide. He did.
First thing we knew, he had convinced us that Tijuana was
just a place filled with touristas, a
fact we would never have suspected. He recommended that we motor on to Ensenada
instead. That’s where he lived, and he described it in such extravagant terms
that we would have faced expulsion from the Ernest Hemingway Fan Club had we
refused his suggestion to extend our adventure the extra 30 miles or so.
Besides, he knew this bar. It was a real Mexican bar, not a
trap for unsuspecting Gringos. We
crossed the border without incident and soon found ourselves sipping Dos Equis beer and taking in the local
color at this bar of renown.
It was then I noticed that there were about five or six old
men, really old men, maybe in their fifties or so, scattered around the place
in the darkest spots. They had two things in common. Each wore one of
those “yachting hats” so common among rich tourists in coastal areas. And, each
hosted, at his table, una joven señorita
of such breathtaking beauty as to threaten blindness from too long a stare.
Here were ancient old men with young beauties who were
totally oblivious of the three stalwart specimens sitting within winking
distance. Something about this scene wasn’t fair. Somehow, life never has been.
Well, we ended up at our new friend’s house later, and met a family that was gracious, not surprised, but not especially happy, to meet us. Morning
found us sitting on a curb waiting for the sun to rise and our heads to clear. An entire band, members
carrying a tuba, a bass fiddle, an accordion, and several guitars, wandered by,
fatigued by a night’s work, no doubt. They nodded, we nodded back, and they
walked on. Evidently, not much surprises Mexicans.
Other adventures awaited us. For the time being, though, I
sat in front of a house in a suburb far from home vowing to dedicate my life to
amassing such riches that someday I could buy me one of them little yachting
hats and find that bar again.
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| On the way to Mexico: 1964 |
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