The Tower (Ireland)

 The Tower

Vacation tours always remind me of Greta Garbo. About midway through, I “vant to be alone,” as that old time Swedish movie star used to say. My chance came at the lunch stop. According to my guidebook, Ireland's most beautiful bronze grave covers lay within walking distance. I could make it there and back in an hour.
While the rest of the group studied menus, I slipped away, passing quaint, squeezed-together stores, all labeled with Irish surnames. No anonymous K-Marts or Better Burgers in this country.

A map led me to an ancient, boarded up church, where a caretaker next door handed me a heavy iron key and pointed toward an imposing gate set in the high stone wall that surrounded the cemetery.

“Now see that ye lock yourself in, young lady,” the man said in a winsome Gaelic brogue. “Ye'll be safe from robbers, that ye'll be.”

I hadn't thought of robbers. The guidebook had mentioned a resident ghost, but I took that as a come-on for tourists. I hesitated before inserting the key, then pushed against the gate, which gave screech that could have awakened demons.Thin, lemony sunlight failed to brighten the graveyard, where the spectral old abbey loomed appearing in imminent danger of collapse. If only I had arrived a few centuries earlier, I thought, I could have seen it in all its medieval splendor. As I strolled among the graves, each fully covered by a bronze tablet--some from the ninth century, I was captured by the serenity and melancholy of the place. Nodding grasses cast shifting designs on the elaborate scroll work, forcing me to bend close to decipher the ancient script.  Sensing a movement out of the corner of my eye I turned, but saw only a stone tower with an empty balcony near the top at the other end of the cemetery. The guidebook said it had once been a lookout for arriving ships and afforded a fine view of Wexford's historic harbor. I'd have time for a quick look.

The Tower, page 2

As I approached, the tower increasingly resembled an enormous, slightly tapered, several stories high stone chimney. When I stepped inside, dank air enveloped me like a cloak. Patches of black moss peppered the walls and crept out on the wide, deep steps that took up most of the floor and apparently served as foundation for the heavy structure. The steps continued upward, circling the wall, diminishing as they ascended. I could see a faint opening to the balcony I had glimpsed from across the graveyard and a round patch of sky far above. Intermittent slits along the way barely let in enough light to pierce the gloom. A heavy odor of decay permeated the place and explained why any railings had long since rotted away, leaving the right side of the steps open to the center void.
I started up, careful to avoid scattered rubble. As the stairs gradually narrowed and became more shallow, the vertical apertures appeared, and I paused at each one to take in the slash of blue harbor and series of rooftops set in the emerald velvet hills. Archers must have watched for invaders through those same narrow openings.

The stairs corkscrewed upward, my left hand sliding along the time-slicked wall, but I scarcely noticed the shrinking underfoot as the brightness of the sunlit views blinded me to details of the dim interior. As I neared the opening at the top, the steps became more weather worn and triangular, some stones shifting under my tread.

Angling my foot to fit on a next step caused a pebble to roll off and, after a pause, “ping” far below. At the sound, a chill chased up my spine, and I suddenly became aware of the chasm at my feet..  Against all reason, I could not resist looking down. Instantly, a band of steel seemed to whip around my chest, shutting off my breath. I managed to  wrench my gaze away and slammed back against the wall, arms outstretched in a futile search for a hand hold.  Afraid I would tumble forward from the force of my backward thrust, I forced myself to relax and looked up at the patch of sky, willing myself not look down again. Dark clouds hovered. Please, no rain, please, I begged, picturing wet moss and stones.

“Missy?”

Shock washed over me. A man stood silhouetted in the balcony doorway.

“Missy, don't ye be afraid now,” his voice soft, soothing, unmistakeably Irish.

“Now Missy, don't look down, and don't ye move.”

I was beyond either. The man, young and roughly dressed, continued to speak in a comforting tone as he slowly made his way down the steps. I remained catatonic.

“Stay just as ye are, Missy, I'm going to step around ye now, and then I'll help ye down. Sure and ye'll be all right.” The man swung around me to the step below. He told me to take one hand off the wall, turn slowly and place it on his shoulder—without looking down.

“I can't.”

“Sure ye can. Look at me and do what I say,” his voice now commanding.

Like a limpet to a rock, my hand seemed permanently attached to the wall, but the man's persistence finally won out and I was was able to follow his instructions and inch my way down facing the wall, gripping his fingers until they must have hurt.  I never gave a thought to his danger in the event I hurtled off what was little more than a ledge. When the steps widened enough, I sat down to regain my composure. We both laughed a little in half-embarrassed relief, and my savior shrugged away my heartfelt thanks.

“I thought ye saw me on the balcony, and I'm not supposed to be here at all. Sure and I didn't think ye'd climb all the way up those stairs.” he said, with a rueful laugh, as we continued on down.

The bus was loading when I got back , and the chattering, familiar crowd had never seemed so dear.

“How were the bronze markers?” my husband asked, "You haven't said a word since you got back."
I was still bemused by  my experience, not ready to discuss what had happened.  Who was that man?  Where had he come from? 

“Hmm? Oh, I . . . . . changed my mind and just walked around.

Just Half An Inch To Mexico City

Just Half An Inch To Mexico City

"But it's only a few inches from here," I said, looking up from the map. I hoped adding a little levity might persuade my husband and daughter that driving to Matzatlan for a winter vacation was a good idea. I had fallen for the new Good Neighbor Policy touted by Governor Rockefeller of New York concerning the charms of Mexico: its beauty, its newly improved roads, its safety. Though we lived right next door in California, we had never crossed the border, and I thought it time to visit the country. Harry, however, didn't believe a word about the roads and thought two weeks not enough time for such a trip. Our teenage daughter didn't want to leave her friends, and my mother, who grew up in Texas, thought bandits would kill us.  I countered their arguments by pushing for Christmas in a

popular beach town. Mazatlan wasn't too far, I insisted; we could experience a different kind of celebration, and people we knew had been there and come back alive. When Harry ran out of objections and Cindy decided a beach might be fun, I enrolled in a Spanish class and ordered maps. Only one problem remained: the tree. Without our traditional greenery, it wouldn't be Christmas, and a prickly plant draped in tinsel wouldn't do.

So in late December, harboring a collection of misgivings and excitement, Harry, Cindy and I crossed the border at Nogales with a six-foot fir strapped to the top of our car. The border guard rolled his eyes and muttered, "Gringos" as he waved us through. We didn't need a map to tell us we had entered Mexico. The narrow road south dropped off abruptly on either side as it penciled through endless dirt and sagebrush and disappeared into the distance. I couldn't help wondering what people did if their car broke down. After the first close call, we watched for piles of white-washed rocks in front of craters in the pavement.

"Safe roads, huh?" from Harry.

"When do we get to the beautiful scenery?" from the back seat.

Hours passed before a car zoomed by, and once a bicycle rider appeared out of nowhere. No gas stations. Eying the gas guage, II was beginning to get worried when we finally spotted a tumbledown shack plastered with fading beer and soda signs ahead--with a gas pump in front!

While Harry took care of the car, I went inside to try out my new language. Enunciating carefully, I asked for a soda and beamed when the man behind the counter obliged.

Then I pushed my luck. "Que hora es, por favor?"

The man glanced at his watch. "Eleven-thirty," he answered, without a trace of accent.
On our way again, we passed several small settlements hidden behind dusty adobe walls and drove through the outskirts of a big city but didn't stop, intent on making our destination before nightfall. 
The landscape improved in Guaymas. Palm trees sprouted around charming old colonial buildings peeling in the sun, and along an aging marina, fishing boats posed as if waiting for an artist. By the time we reached Mazatlan, we no longer noticed heads pivoting for a second look at our oddly-topped car. Though only two days from home, the town's patched-stucco houses, handful of cantinas and string of hotels along the beach might have been from and earlier, far distant era. We settled into a spartan motel downtown and put up our tree, hoping to conjure up a little Christmas spirit.

Half An Inch, page 2

A cold ocean breeze the next morning ruled out a swim, but driving beyond the town, we came to a thatched-roof stand smack in the middle of the road. We stopped to see what was for sale, and the vendor picked up what looked like a volleyball, placed it on the counter and removed one end with a heart-stopping swing of a machete, leaving his fingers miraculously intact. Grinning widely at my astonishment, he plopped in a couple of straws and held out a coconut, still in its outer husk. Then he waggled a thumb toward a bevy of boats tethered at the nearby river's edge and lifted an eyebrow. It didn't take a minute for us to accept his wordless invitation.  After parking our car, we joined him at a boat in which a youth lay asleep, legs draped over the side.  The man kicked the side of the vessel and the young man sprang up and immediately started the motor. After an exchange of pesos we got in and took off, having no idea where we were going.
The river widened and later divided. I expected the boatman to turn around, since we'd been gone an hour, but instead, he took the right channel into a jungle. Trees clasped branches overhead, forming a dim, lacy tunnel with sunlight seeping through in patches. Vines slithered snake-like up the complex trunks of Mangrove trees and hung down as if exhausted in the heavy air. Talk stopped, the only sounds, the steady beat of the motor and calling birds. A streak of green, and an iguana crashed through bamboo on the bank.  Parrots and birds I'd never seen before flashed by in brilliant, phosphorescent streaks. "Look at that!" I burst out, delighted by the sight of birds with feet the size of dinner plates walking on the water. Thatched huts on stilts appeared, and women washing clothes in the shallows, their naked little children playing near, melting into the trees at our approach. The muddy river began to clear and had turned transparent by the time--to our surprise, we arrived at a resort full of people--and not an Anglo in sight. The boatman tied up at the dock and got out. "Uno hora," he said, and walked away.
People swimming or strolling by cast veiled glances at us Gringos, our clothing wilted and faces flushed by the tropical heat. We stole peeks at them in the reflections of the handful of shop windows. I longed for a swimsuit and considered plunging into the crystalline spring water fully clothed. The tantalizing smell of barbecue reminded me that we hadn't eaten since breakfast, but heeding previous warnings about food, we settled for bottled orange drinks and tiny, flavorless red bananas.  At the end of the promised hour, the boatman returned and looked puzzled by how glad we were to see him.   
 

Half An Inch, page 3

The motel owners threw a Christmas eve party for paying guests and local friends, where we met a couple from  Seattle who were stranded, waiting for a part to come from Salt Lake City for their ailing Jaguar. While we watched excited children take turns batting at a pinata and the laughing scramble for prizes when it broke, the woman said they had been coming to Mexico in winter for fourteen years because, unlike other places they'd tried, sunshine was guaranteed. She dispelled worry about bandits, saying all you had to do was slow down,  without stopping, and hand them some pesos. We enjoyed the novelty and camaraderie of the party, but back in our room, inhaling the essence of fir tree and opening our presents made it Christmas.
I scanned the map the next morning and found the name of the river of our adventure the day before: the Baluarte.
"You know . . . . Guadalahara isn't all that far from here--only an inch or so."
"Don't start that inches business.  What's wrong with this place?  We don't have time to go anywhere else." But after Harry considered what was left to see in Mazatlan, we were soon on our way, after a stop at the government owned Pemex gas station and a restaurant that looked above average.
.
A few miles out of town, we met the banditos. One man stood in the middle of the road, and two more slouched against a worn-out tree.
"Uh-oh," I said. "Slow down and hand me some pesos. That woman at the party said they're harmless if you give them some money--but don't stop." It worked. The smiling bandit could have been a toll collector at the San Francisco Bay Bridge.


Guadalahara's justly-famous fountains gushed impressively at the intersections of wide boulevards, and bright red geraniums tumbled from elaborate iron balconies on tile-roofed houses, their windows framed in colorful mosaics.
Everything had been so inexpensive in Mexico, we decided to splurge and stay at a posh motel we had glimpsed behind a lush lawn and forest of trees. The heavy iron key they gave us--and I kept--should have been in a museum. Our motley assortment of sacks, boxes and suitcases drew half-suppressed smiles and whispers from the three porters who came out to help us unload the car, and they raised their eyebrows at our Ford, even though it was new--and red.
We didn't care. I learned to bargain at the block-square market in the city and brought back an armload of native crafts, among them a tin star set with marbles. It reminded me of our Christmas tree left shedding needles in the trash back in Mazatlan.
"We're not going anywhere but home," Harry said when he saw me at the map that night.
"But Sweetie, it's just half an inch to Mexico City--and we"ll never be this close again. They light up the entire facades of the skyscrapers downtown---animated displays!

Half an Inch, page 4

Early next morning, we took the main arterial to Mexico City, and massive trucks fought us all the way. Twice, we had to slow to a stop for flocks of sheep and goats, and once, a strange, pulsing shape in the distance became a cloud of vultures tearing at a dead horse. We passed a man lying close to the highway, his eyes closed. My Spanish teacher, who had lived in Mexico, had warned that Mexican police consider foreigners at fault in any accident, and to never stop, if able to keep going, because we could easily end up in jail. So I ignored my conscience and decided the man was asleep or drunk. Farther on, a white van with a red cross crudely painted on its side blocked the highway, bringing us to a halt.  Four or five rough-looking men got out and approached our car. Nervous this time, I handed out a wad of pesos. They retreated a few yards and huddled together to examine their booty, talking among themselves and casting baleful glances our way. Apparently satisfied with their take, the men climbed back into their vehicle and pulled out of the way. When I later looked back, the van was in place across the highway again.
Speeding cars engulfed us as we neared the capital. Honking and spewing smoke, some with missing doors, they wove back and forth as if in some demented race. Upon entering the Reforma, the 8-lane boulevard bisecting one of the biggest cities in the world, Harry had all he could do to cope with traffic. I focused on the map and tried to determine where we needed to turn off, occasionally looking up to shout, "Watch out!" when a collision seemed imminent.
"I'll be glad to let you drive," were Harry's mildest words, his knuckles white on the wheel. When he finally managed to work his way over to the outer lane to escape out a side street--any side street--to stop the car and catch his breath, we saw ahead a big sign: The Shirley Apartments, miraculously, our destination. As unlikely as Oz in Kansas, the sprawling complex gave me the eerie feeling we had been transported back to the States. I had read about the place before leaving home and knew about its guarantee of safe water from their private filtering system and reliably pasteurized dairy products. I fantasized a farm on the roof. Throughout our journey we had searched out the best looking restaurants, in hopes they would not harbor anything that would make us sick, and if none passed muster, we made do with packaged food, bottled drinks and those odd little red bananas. Bottled water saved us from The Revenge by our remembering to use it for brushing teeth as well as drinking, but Harry refused to forgo ice for his martinis, saying the alcohol would kill anything bad. At dinner, I must have looked anxious as the waiter filled our glasses from a pitcher of ice water, for he assured me it was okay to drink. And we even ordered green salads!
Later, we braved the Reforma again to admire the world famous buildings, the first of their kind, their facades covered with neon Christmas animations. Then we strolled through a park filled with trees shimmering with tiny white lights that resembled a garden of fireflies. Vendors sold 3-foot wide balloons and food that spiced the air. Men costumed as biblical wise men chatted with children still up near midnight with their parents. No Santa Claus anywhere.
"I want one," Cindy said, when she saw the enormous globes bobbing outside cars sweeping up and down the street. So Harry bought a balloon for her on the way back to our room. To keep it from slipping away, I tied it around my wrist and gripped the string.  But from the moment of purchase, the balloon seemed determined to escape, pounding outside the car and threatening to explode as we eased it into our room, where it floated restlessly about the ceiling until I tied it to the bed.
The next few days became a blur of cathedrals, Maximilian's Castle and museums: old and traditional as well as  modern with an impressive tall fountain streaming cascades of water, and a huge Olmec head nearby . We saw the elegant Folklorico performance, skipped the bullfight and sought out a Diego Rivera mural in a sleazy part of town, where we nearly got run over by a bus speeding around a corner as we crossed the vast square in front of the Cathedral of Mexico in the dark.  The bus skidded to halt just inches before hitting us. Another day we drove for an hour out of the city to climb the Pyramid of the Sun, Harry and Cindy bravely, and I, virtually crawling up the steps. But after the exhilarating view from the top, I joined them stepping my way down--careful not to look at the ground far below. Reluctant to leave, we strolled down the ancient avenue and climbed the Pyramid of the Moon.
Then it came time to go home.  We loaded up the car at dawn, saving the balloon till last. Cindy untied the string from the bed, and since it had slightly deflated, had no trouble getting it out the door. But once outside, the oversize volume of helium took her by surprise and, before she could tighten her grip, the balloon seized its chance and took off, becoming a red dot disappearing into the pale morning sky. The three of us stood there, stunned, watching it out of sight. Cindy was crushed; she had so wanted to take the balloon home to show her friends. Harry drove by the park, hoping to buy another, but the vendors had gone.

Half an Inch, page 5

Feeling rather morose because of the balloon escape, we left the city before the streets became choked with cars, aiming for Guaymas. We had forgotten that it was New Year's Eve, and the seaside town was booked by the time we arrived--except for a sleazy hotel on the waterfront with one room left. The old man at the desk handed Harry a key and waved a hand toward the stairs, saying the elevator was out of order. From the looks of the place, I surmised that it probably had been for the last decade. The stairs protested almost as much as we did as we trudged all the way up to the third floor. A single bulb burned in the hallway, not quite hiding the greasy walls and tattered carpet. The door to our room groaned open, releasing a puff of musty air. Two sunken beds, a battered table and one chair furnished the once grand room, its wallpaper now hanging in strips. The sound of running water in the bathroom revealed an overflowing toilet, curiously installed in the shower.
"I'm not staying here," I said.
"Wait a minute. I've been driving all day." Fatigue etched Harry's face.
"If the beds are clean, I guess we can manage somehow. Just don't touch anything." I flipped back a bedspread, disclosing a wrinkled pillowcase that had never met bleach--and a hair."
We looked at each other and, without a word, gathered up our suitcases and walked back down the stairs, Harry stopping to leave the key on the counter.
Farther down the street, lights and music from a restaurant beckoned. The proprietor, brimming with holiday good cheer, made room for us at a table already full of revelers who squeezed together and made us welcome. One of our happy table mates, on an assignment for National Geographic, looked dubious when he heard of our plan to drive on after dinner. He had heard of people driving at night in Mexico, he said, but it wasn't usually done. When the others overheard what we were saying, they all stopped talking for moment and stared at us. But renewed by food and spirits of both kinds and no place to sleep, we decided to take a chance. Time was running out.

The full moon coated the desert in silver, turning it into an imaginary world, but we could only spare a glance. We had to focus on the road.
"I'd rather do this than sleep in the car," I said.
"Sure, if we don't get killed. Didn't you hear that man? Nobody drives in Mexico at night."
"At lease we saw those white rocks in time. They show up better in the dark."
"What about sheep and burros? Have you seen a fence?"
"They're asleep." 
I thought about bandits and the lonely road ahead, hoping they had better things to do than venture into the desert on New Year's Eve.
Staying awake became the main goal. I found sweaters and rolled down the windows. We sang along with the radio and listened to New Years celebrations in New York, Chicago, Denver and Salt Lake City. No cars passed in either direction as the hours dragged on.
"I can't wait to taste a hamburger again." Cindy said, waking from her nap in the back seat.
"Or Mexican. They don't know what real Mexican food tastes like down here."
"There's a Dennys in Tucson." We sighed as one, picturing the gourmet meals served at that suddenly elevated restaurant. We had taken a faster road on the advice of the men at dinner and had hoped to go all the way to that city before stopping.
"We'll never make Tucson," Harry said. "I can't keep my eyes open."
"Let's try for Hermosillo and find a bed. You've been driving almost 24 hours--and you won't let me drive. Your boss won't care if you're a day late."
It was still New Year's Eve, but barely, when we reached Hermosillo. The third hotel we tried had one room left--with twin beds. Cindy and I clung to the edges of one and Harry fell into the other. 
Dawn pinked the sky but people still celebrated outside as well as in the hotel, running up and down the halls, pounding on doors, shouting and setting off firecrackers, and somewhere, canon fire--but nothing that would keep us awake.
As my eyes closed, I found myself smiling, for the celebration seemed a perfect ending to our holiday in Mexico. And in only a few more inches, we'd be home.