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.