1995
I was just starting to doze off on the large, leather couch in the resident lounge when my pager went off. I put down my copy of “The Secrets of General Surgery”, read the number that flashed on the device that was starting to dig into my hip and picked up the phone. “Hey Marie, is the patient in the holding area? OK, I’ll be right there.” I grabbed my white jacket and hustled down the corridor towards the operating room.
I arrived at the preoperative holding area and found Mr. Kingsford lying on a gurney either counting the holes in the ceiling tiles or making his final plea to a higher power. He was a previously healthy man in his 50’s who recently found out that he had a cancerous polyp in his large bowel and was undergoing a lengthy surgery to remove it. “Don’t worry. We’re going to take great care of you. I’ll go out and talk to your wife when you’re in the recovery room.” He forced a smile and I gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Hey, Bill, are you ready to cure cancer?” My Chief Resident smiled at me outside the operating room and I quickly returned the smile and said, “Let’s do it.” When Mr. Kingsford was finally under anesthesia, I went out to the sink to scrub my hands and arms. Returning to the operating room, I prepped his abdomen with an iodine solution and placed sterile drapes over him, leaving an open space for the large vertical incision about to be made down the middle of his belly. The anesthesia machine was beeping along with the patient’s heartbeat and the intense overhead lights made the steel scalpel gleam as it was passed to my Chief Resident.
“Bill, can you pull on that a little harder?” The sweat was pouring down the side of my face and the muscles in my shoulder screamed in pain as I pulled on the retractor in my left hand and moved the small intestine out of the way. We were two hours into the case, and the Attending Surgeon and Chief Resident were close to removing the tumor. As the Junior Resident, my primary job was to provide exposure. That meant holding retractors, suctioning blood and generally making sure that the others could see everything they needed to see. Sometimes it was an impossible task, requiring many more appendages than God gave me, but sometimes retracting was just plain boring. It was not uncommon for a resident to lean back with all of his weight to keep the retractors in position and grab a few winks in a move referred to as “waterskiing”. During a slow point in the case, I found my mind wandering. I just couldn’t escape the feeling that I had been in this situation before...
1978
“Hey, Bill, are you ready to barbeque?” My Dad was standing in the kitchen wearing his New York Giants apron that he got for Christmas the year before as I replied, “Let’s do it.” While my Dad watched the start of the football game, I rolled our circular barbecue to the middle of the patio and wiped off all the cobwebs and leaves. I then dragged a 20 pound bag of charcoal around the side of the house from the garage to the patio. I dumped the briquettes into the grill, which made a sound like hail striking a tin roof, and a cloud of thick, black smoke enveloped me. Once the dust settled, I doused the black squares with lighter fluid and struck a match. Whooosh!! The cicadas made a rattling noise as the flames from the grill punched a tire-sized hole in the ozone layer and the temperature of Earth’s atmosphere rose by a couple of degrees. This maneuver almost cost me my eyebrows on several occasions. My Dad nodded in approval as he arrived with a thick porterhouse steak on a plate and surveyed the glowing coals. His barbeque tools shined in the midday sun as we began to cook.
“Bill, could you push down on the grill a little more?” For my Dad, grilling was both a science and an art. The circular grill was mounted on a central axle, which made it extremely unstable unless there was a perfect balance of food on all parts. I can only assume that the manufacturers of this product never actually tried to grill on it. To make matters worse, my Dad only used one half of the grill, which meant that I had to constantly counterbalance the other side with a long fork to prevent all the food from sliding off. Besides the fact that the fork was never long enough to completely protect me from the searing temperatures, this was no easy task for a couple of other reasons.
First of all, my Dad was constantly adjusting the distance from the coals to the steak using an equation known only to him and Albert Einstein. The muscles in my hands had not yet developed such precise control at that age, but I tried to oblige as he alternated between, “a little higher” and “a little lower”. Secondly, my Dad felt that it was necessary to repeatedly stab the meat until all the juice ran out onto the coals. This meant that I had to constantly anticipate his downward stabs to keep the system in harmony. If I was off by a millisecond, I could potentially launch the meat off the grill and send it to its final resting place in the azalea bushes. When the grilling was finally done, my Dad would point out once again all the physical attributes of a perfectly grilled steak. Inside the house, I iced my medium-well done fingers, wiped the black dust off my face and placed some Ben Gay on my aching shoulder before sitting down at the table to eat.
1995
After five hours, we were finished with the case. Mr. Kingsford was in the recovery room and his wife was relieved that the surgery went well. It was 10 o’clock at night and my Chief Resident and I both collapsed with exhaustion in the locker room. “So Bill, are you hungry?” “Yeah, I’m starving - Where do you want to go?” My Chief thought for a moment. “Hey, there’s a barbeque place right down the street!” My eyes widened and my jaw dropped open. After a few seconds, he said, “Maybe we should just go Chinese.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
What's That Smell?
I sat in the terminal at Miami International Airport with a cooler tucked under my arm. These were the days before taking off shoes and offensive magnetic wand searches, and I was able to carry the suspicious box through security without the slightest hesitation. The safety officer must have been sound asleep, because the contents of the box would be easy to recognize on X-ray. I looked around nervously as the announcement sounded overhead, “Now boarding all rows to New York.” I grabbed the cooler, making sure that the lid was secure, and headed up the jetway.
The stewardess greeted me with an inviting smile, and I decided to engage her in some small talk. She was tall and pretty with long, blonde hair that was pulled back tightly into a bun. Her well-pressed, navy blue uniform couldn’t hide her shapely figure and her gold nametag said, “Tricia”. “So, Tricia, are we getting any food on this flight?” “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you”, she replied and I smiled back. The weight of the cooler was making my shoulder ache, and I worried for a moment that she might want to know what was inside, so I politely excused myself and found my seat.
I immediately felt better once I stowed the cooler in the overhead compartment. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and sat down next to a middle-aged woman who was reading the newspaper. I was a senior in college, but this was only the second airplane flight I had ever taken. My father was not a big fan of flying, so whenever my family took a trip, we would travel by train, boat or car. But I decided to spend my spring break in Key West, so I flew down to Miami and drove down US 1 to the Keys. It was an unbelievably fun trip, but now I was ready to go back to school. And I was traveling with special cargo.
The plane took off and made a gentle bank turn up the coast. The water was a beautiful shade of aqua, and the view of Miami was equally as amazing. Suddenly, the plane jolted and dark smoke began billowing forward from the rear of the aircraft. I turned to the woman next to me and asked, “What’s that smell?” “I believe that one of the engines is burning”, she calmly stated without looking up from her newspaper. I felt the sweat building up on my palms, and when I looked out the window, I saw fuel spraying out from every engine. “They do that to make the plane lighter for emergency landings”, the woman continued. She put her newspaper down and smiled reassuringly, “I’m a pilot’s wife. Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal.”
The plane suddenly made an awkward bank turn back towards the airport. I wasn’t sure if we’d make it back to the airport or have to land on the water, but I was relieved when I saw the ground below me. I closed my eyes and recited every prayer I ever knew. The plane shifted from side to side and bounced down on the runway with enough force to make me rise out of my seat as the lap belt dug into my thighs. Several passengers screamed as black smoke continued to fill the cabin. When the plane came to a stop, we all made our way towards the side doors and slid down the evacuation ramp onto the tarmac.
What followed was a 4 hour layover in Miami. I learned that one of the engines had caught fire, but even more amazing was the fact that we would be getting back on the same plane! I calmed my nerves with a couple of Margaritas in the lounge. When I finally boarded the plane again, the plane was overheated from sitting on the runway for so long. I heard a couple of people behind me complaining that there was still a bad smell in the cabin. Suddenly, I realized that the bad smell was not coming from the vents. It was coming from MY COOLER!
During the flight, more and more people began complaining about the putrid smell in the airplane. I asked Tricia for a blanket, but she gave me a quizzical look because the temperature in the cabin was probably close to 80 degrees. She brought the blanket, but the smell in the area was obviously putting a severe strain on her beautiful smile. I quickly opened the overhead bin and stuffed the blanket around the cooler to mask the odor, but it didn’t help much. All around the plane, passengers were fanning themselves and looking at the people next to them, saying, “I didn’t do it!” When I arrived at JFK, I found a deserted section of the terminal and dumped the contents of the cooler out into the garbage. What a crime.
I drove back to my parents’ house on Long Island. They were naturally concerned about my horrifying experience on the plane. “You see, that’s why I don’t fly”, my father announced triumphantly. I told them about all the good times I had in Key West with my friends. We rented mopeds, hung out on the beach and even went deep sea fishing right off the coast of Cuba. We caught a lot of Mahi Mahi and brought it back to the hotel where we mixed up a beer batter and had a huge fish fry. In fact, we couldn’t even finish all the fish we caught. “So where is all the fish you were going to bring back for us?” my parents inquired. I hesitated and looked down. “Well ... that’s a whole other story.”
The stewardess greeted me with an inviting smile, and I decided to engage her in some small talk. She was tall and pretty with long, blonde hair that was pulled back tightly into a bun. Her well-pressed, navy blue uniform couldn’t hide her shapely figure and her gold nametag said, “Tricia”. “So, Tricia, are we getting any food on this flight?” “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of you”, she replied and I smiled back. The weight of the cooler was making my shoulder ache, and I worried for a moment that she might want to know what was inside, so I politely excused myself and found my seat.
I immediately felt better once I stowed the cooler in the overhead compartment. I wiped the sweat from my forehead and sat down next to a middle-aged woman who was reading the newspaper. I was a senior in college, but this was only the second airplane flight I had ever taken. My father was not a big fan of flying, so whenever my family took a trip, we would travel by train, boat or car. But I decided to spend my spring break in Key West, so I flew down to Miami and drove down US 1 to the Keys. It was an unbelievably fun trip, but now I was ready to go back to school. And I was traveling with special cargo.
The plane took off and made a gentle bank turn up the coast. The water was a beautiful shade of aqua, and the view of Miami was equally as amazing. Suddenly, the plane jolted and dark smoke began billowing forward from the rear of the aircraft. I turned to the woman next to me and asked, “What’s that smell?” “I believe that one of the engines is burning”, she calmly stated without looking up from her newspaper. I felt the sweat building up on my palms, and when I looked out the window, I saw fuel spraying out from every engine. “They do that to make the plane lighter for emergency landings”, the woman continued. She put her newspaper down and smiled reassuringly, “I’m a pilot’s wife. Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal.”
The plane suddenly made an awkward bank turn back towards the airport. I wasn’t sure if we’d make it back to the airport or have to land on the water, but I was relieved when I saw the ground below me. I closed my eyes and recited every prayer I ever knew. The plane shifted from side to side and bounced down on the runway with enough force to make me rise out of my seat as the lap belt dug into my thighs. Several passengers screamed as black smoke continued to fill the cabin. When the plane came to a stop, we all made our way towards the side doors and slid down the evacuation ramp onto the tarmac.
What followed was a 4 hour layover in Miami. I learned that one of the engines had caught fire, but even more amazing was the fact that we would be getting back on the same plane! I calmed my nerves with a couple of Margaritas in the lounge. When I finally boarded the plane again, the plane was overheated from sitting on the runway for so long. I heard a couple of people behind me complaining that there was still a bad smell in the cabin. Suddenly, I realized that the bad smell was not coming from the vents. It was coming from MY COOLER!
During the flight, more and more people began complaining about the putrid smell in the airplane. I asked Tricia for a blanket, but she gave me a quizzical look because the temperature in the cabin was probably close to 80 degrees. She brought the blanket, but the smell in the area was obviously putting a severe strain on her beautiful smile. I quickly opened the overhead bin and stuffed the blanket around the cooler to mask the odor, but it didn’t help much. All around the plane, passengers were fanning themselves and looking at the people next to them, saying, “I didn’t do it!” When I arrived at JFK, I found a deserted section of the terminal and dumped the contents of the cooler out into the garbage. What a crime.
I drove back to my parents’ house on Long Island. They were naturally concerned about my horrifying experience on the plane. “You see, that’s why I don’t fly”, my father announced triumphantly. I told them about all the good times I had in Key West with my friends. We rented mopeds, hung out on the beach and even went deep sea fishing right off the coast of Cuba. We caught a lot of Mahi Mahi and brought it back to the hotel where we mixed up a beer batter and had a huge fish fry. In fact, we couldn’t even finish all the fish we caught. “So where is all the fish you were going to bring back for us?” my parents inquired. I hesitated and looked down. “Well ... that’s a whole other story.”
Monday, September 21, 2009
Colors
My sneakers squeaked as I hurried down the hospital’s hallway. A fresh coat of wax had just been applied and I could see my distorted reflection in the shiny, off-white tiles. For a minute, I thought that I looked good in my green scrubs and long, white jacket. I must have walked down that same corridor at least twenty times that day and I knew all the pictures on the wall by heart. The flowers and seascapes in the prints were all faded and I figured that the original painters would be sad to see what had happened to all the vibrant colors they had chosen for their artwork. It made me a little sad too. I passed by the nurses’ station on that floor, waving and smiling at the ladies behind the desk. They were busy writing in their patients’ charts and measuring medications as the sound of heart monitors droned in the background. I stopped by a window near the elevator. The sun was beginning to set and I spotted an architecturally beautiful church nestled in the distant hills. I had seen it many times before. It looked so inviting to me and I often contemplated running there to seek refuge, but then the elevator came and I went inside.
It was my first year of general surgery and I was on night call at one of the hospitals outside of NYC. I was both exhausted and lonely all at the same time. I missed my bed and the softness of my girlfriend’s skin. My days were spent scrubbing into as many surgeries as possible. In between, I would run around the floors performing consults and taking care of the many needs of our floor patients. Yes, it was pretty much like Grey’s Anatomy, but without the sex and commercials. In any given hour, I would unclog a feeding tube, change an abdominal wound dressing, insert an intravenous catheter into someone’s internal jugular vein, deliver blood samples to the lab and write orders for a battery of x-rays and medications.
I tried to be as efficient as possible, but it seemed that every place I had to go was at the opposite end of the Medical Center. To make matters worse, the hospital was a Level 1 Trauma Center, which meant that it accepted the worst accidents. Just when I was getting caught up on my “scut” (that stood for some common, unpleasant task), I might be called to the ER to handle a multivehicle accident with half a dozen casualties. Suddenly, I’d be up to my elbows in blood trying to put a chest tube in and re-inflate a collapsed lung. There were days when I barely had time to change gloves before the next trauma rolled in, and all the while I would be thinking about how behind I was getting on my other work and how my prospects of sleeping that night were dwindling.
During the evening, the hospital transformed from a chaotic madhouse into a quiet, eerie place. The lights became dimmer and all the pain and suffering that was taking place behind each curtain and door took on a more silent character. That night, I was so tired from a sleepless night before that I felt bugs crawling under my skin. My hair was oily and I wasn’t sure when I had last brushed my teeth. I suddenly realized that the gnawing feeling in my stomach was hunger, so I found my favorite vending machine and made a selection. I made sure to vary my diet, so I chose something from a different row than before. I was just about to sneak off to the call room for a nap, when I heard the announcement from overhead, “Surgical Resident to the Medical ICU, STAT!”
I listened to it for a second, and then looked around me. A calm voice inside my head broke the confusion. “Yes, that’s you.” I looked down at my candy bar, stuffed it in my pocket and ran to the MICU which was, yes, at the other end of the medical center. When I arrived there, one room full of light and bustling activity stood out amongst all the others. A nurse ran out of the room and looked at me. She was out of breath as she adjusted her glasses, checked her watch and screamed back into the room, “He’s here!” Walking towards the room, I felt like Alice floating down the hole into Wonderland, but I had no idea where this rabbit was leading me.
I walked into the room and stared at the unconscious man on the bed in front of me. The anesthesiologist was at the head of the bed trying to put a tube down his windpipe to help him breathe. “I can’t get it in, he’s too swollen. He needs a trach!” Somehow, I found myself right beside the bed. My white jacket had been taken from me and in its place was a surgical gown. It all happened in a matter of seconds. Betadine, a skin cleanser, was placed in my right hand and a scalpel was placed in my left. A tracheotomy is a surgical procedure to place a tube through the skin into the windpipe an inch below the voicebox. I had learned about it, and even saw a few done, but I had never done one myself. I knew that if I succeeded, he might live, but if I failed, he would surely die.
My eyes remained fixed on the patient in front of me. I coated his neck in betadine and felt for the location of the incision. I brought the scalpel closer to my patient, but just as the edge of the blade indented his skin, the anesthesiologist screamed, “I got it, the tube is in!” I looked over and saw that air was entering the man’s lungs from a tube in his mouth, called an endotracheal tube. The scalpel made a clanking noise as I dropped in back onto the instrument stand next to me. Part of me was relieved that he was going to be OK, but another part of me was disappointed that this pivotal moment was swept out from under me. “Thanks for coming”, the anesthesiologist said with a smile and patted me on the back. Walking back to my call room, I felt empty and confused. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins. Consuming the rest of my half-eaten candy bar was my only consolation.
That was one of the toughest rotations of my two years in General Surgery. Before heading home the following morning, I actually had the opportunity to perform an emergent tracheotomy in the ER with my Senior Resident leading me through it. These days, as an ENT, I get to perform these procedures rather frequently, but I always think about the one that got away that night. Walking through the hospital’s parking lot, the sun was shining and I enjoyed the feeling of warmth on my face. The faded paintings in my mind were now replaced by a vibrant, blue sky and the sweet, warm breeze coming off the hills. For now, I was free, but I knew that my escape would be short-lived. As I drove out of town, I passed the church that I saw the night before. The doors in the front were opened wide, as if they were saying, “I’m here when you need me”.
It was my first year of general surgery and I was on night call at one of the hospitals outside of NYC. I was both exhausted and lonely all at the same time. I missed my bed and the softness of my girlfriend’s skin. My days were spent scrubbing into as many surgeries as possible. In between, I would run around the floors performing consults and taking care of the many needs of our floor patients. Yes, it was pretty much like Grey’s Anatomy, but without the sex and commercials. In any given hour, I would unclog a feeding tube, change an abdominal wound dressing, insert an intravenous catheter into someone’s internal jugular vein, deliver blood samples to the lab and write orders for a battery of x-rays and medications.
I tried to be as efficient as possible, but it seemed that every place I had to go was at the opposite end of the Medical Center. To make matters worse, the hospital was a Level 1 Trauma Center, which meant that it accepted the worst accidents. Just when I was getting caught up on my “scut” (that stood for some common, unpleasant task), I might be called to the ER to handle a multivehicle accident with half a dozen casualties. Suddenly, I’d be up to my elbows in blood trying to put a chest tube in and re-inflate a collapsed lung. There were days when I barely had time to change gloves before the next trauma rolled in, and all the while I would be thinking about how behind I was getting on my other work and how my prospects of sleeping that night were dwindling.
During the evening, the hospital transformed from a chaotic madhouse into a quiet, eerie place. The lights became dimmer and all the pain and suffering that was taking place behind each curtain and door took on a more silent character. That night, I was so tired from a sleepless night before that I felt bugs crawling under my skin. My hair was oily and I wasn’t sure when I had last brushed my teeth. I suddenly realized that the gnawing feeling in my stomach was hunger, so I found my favorite vending machine and made a selection. I made sure to vary my diet, so I chose something from a different row than before. I was just about to sneak off to the call room for a nap, when I heard the announcement from overhead, “Surgical Resident to the Medical ICU, STAT!”
I listened to it for a second, and then looked around me. A calm voice inside my head broke the confusion. “Yes, that’s you.” I looked down at my candy bar, stuffed it in my pocket and ran to the MICU which was, yes, at the other end of the medical center. When I arrived there, one room full of light and bustling activity stood out amongst all the others. A nurse ran out of the room and looked at me. She was out of breath as she adjusted her glasses, checked her watch and screamed back into the room, “He’s here!” Walking towards the room, I felt like Alice floating down the hole into Wonderland, but I had no idea where this rabbit was leading me.
I walked into the room and stared at the unconscious man on the bed in front of me. The anesthesiologist was at the head of the bed trying to put a tube down his windpipe to help him breathe. “I can’t get it in, he’s too swollen. He needs a trach!” Somehow, I found myself right beside the bed. My white jacket had been taken from me and in its place was a surgical gown. It all happened in a matter of seconds. Betadine, a skin cleanser, was placed in my right hand and a scalpel was placed in my left. A tracheotomy is a surgical procedure to place a tube through the skin into the windpipe an inch below the voicebox. I had learned about it, and even saw a few done, but I had never done one myself. I knew that if I succeeded, he might live, but if I failed, he would surely die.
My eyes remained fixed on the patient in front of me. I coated his neck in betadine and felt for the location of the incision. I brought the scalpel closer to my patient, but just as the edge of the blade indented his skin, the anesthesiologist screamed, “I got it, the tube is in!” I looked over and saw that air was entering the man’s lungs from a tube in his mouth, called an endotracheal tube. The scalpel made a clanking noise as I dropped in back onto the instrument stand next to me. Part of me was relieved that he was going to be OK, but another part of me was disappointed that this pivotal moment was swept out from under me. “Thanks for coming”, the anesthesiologist said with a smile and patted me on the back. Walking back to my call room, I felt empty and confused. The adrenaline was still pumping through my veins. Consuming the rest of my half-eaten candy bar was my only consolation.
That was one of the toughest rotations of my two years in General Surgery. Before heading home the following morning, I actually had the opportunity to perform an emergent tracheotomy in the ER with my Senior Resident leading me through it. These days, as an ENT, I get to perform these procedures rather frequently, but I always think about the one that got away that night. Walking through the hospital’s parking lot, the sun was shining and I enjoyed the feeling of warmth on my face. The faded paintings in my mind were now replaced by a vibrant, blue sky and the sweet, warm breeze coming off the hills. For now, I was free, but I knew that my escape would be short-lived. As I drove out of town, I passed the church that I saw the night before. The doors in the front were opened wide, as if they were saying, “I’m here when you need me”.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Olé Part III – The End of the Rainbow
7/25/09
10:30 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
Today is my last day in Mexico. I went for an early morning walk on the beach to snap some last minute pictures, then showered and had breakfast at the hotel. I managed to stuff all my souvenirs into my bags and brought them to the Convention Center. I have one more lecture to go, so I have to go and prepare for this now. I’m looking forward to coming home, but I am also sad to leave this magical place. I am convinced that I experienced almost everything that Veracruz had to offer, but I feel like I took only one spoonful of a huge ice cream sundae. At home, I used to think of Mexico in terms of margaritas and men with large guitars, but now I see that there is so much more to this land. The people here are bound together by their common history and by the love they share for their country. I’m proud to have been a part of it for a few days, and I’m looking forward to returning here very soon.
EPILOGUE
7/26/09
9:30 AM, Mexico City, Mexico
OK, when I said that I didn’t want to leave Mexico, I didn’t mean that literally. In fact, I was supposed to be boogie boarding in Ocean City, MD with my family at this moment, but I’m not. No, I’m sitting in the airport in Mexico City where, about 17 hours ago, I was doing my imitation of O.J. Simpson (the commercial, not the … other thing).
I arrived at the airport in Veracruz yesterday with lots of time to spare. I had the same driver who originally brought me to the hotel, and we greeted each other like long lost friends. On the first leg of the flight, they naturally served peanuts, but this time I figured out how to use my plastic cup like a gas mask. It worked pretty well! The flight to Mexico City was delayed by 15 minutes and landed in Terminal 1 at 4:15 PM instead of 4:00 PM. My connecting flight to JFK was slated to take off at 4:55 PM from Terminal 2. Here’s how it all went down:
4:18 PM - Ran down the gangway. Found the first person I could find in a uniform and asked him how to get to Terminal 2. He told me I needed to take the air train and he told me to go outside and look for Puerta 5 (gate 5) I found myself in the main part of Terminal 1, but I saw were lettered gates.
4:22 PM - My pace quickened. I assaulted a porter and asked him where the air train was. He pointed up, and for a moment I thought he was signaling that it might help to say a prayer. He sensed my confusion and redirected his finger towards a nearby escalator. I thanked him and charged up the escalator. I was wondering how my checked bag was doing in all of this.
4:30 PM - I found the air train and the electronic sign above the entrance told me that it would arrive in 7 minutes. This is not what I wanted to see. I sat down and began to wallow in my growing despair, when I suddenly heard a tapping sound on the metal roof of the train terminal. The tapping grew louder and more frequent until it became an incessant banging that shook the whole structure. I looked out the window and saw golf ball sized hail coming down in sheets. This was my chance, my glimmer of hope! After all, how could a plane take off in this? My heart sank, however, when I looked out the window again and saw a plane taking off.
4:42 PM - The train to Terminal 2 took another 5 minutes. I was practically in a full sprint towards my gate, hurdling over groups of crying children and sidestepping souvenir stands. I actually thought that I had a chance, but then I turned a corner and was horrified to see a Security Checkpoint! I threw my carry-on bags through the conveyer belt and ran through the metal detector with such speed that even a suit of armor wouldn’t have set it off. I asked the Security Guard to call my plane to tell it not to leave, but I don’t think he understood me.
4:50 PM - Almost there. I was a little disoriented finding my gate number, so I asked an information clerk for the directions. I also pleaded with her to call the gate and tell them I was almost there, but she just told me to hurry up. Did she think I was flushed and sweating because I just waltzed out of the sauna?
4:56 PM - I arrived at my gate. I saw that the door was closed, but I walked casually towards it thinking that everything would just work out fine. The clerk at the desk stopped me and said, “Señor, the plane has already left.” Her lips seemed to move in slow motion and that sentence reverberated several times in the hollow void that used to be my brain. I stared at her in disbelief and my breathing became deep and labored. I managed to get out the words, “You have to tell it to wait. I need to get to New York.” “No, Señor, the doors have already closed.” My mind began swirling with ideas like riding alongside the taxiing plane on the luggage truck and grabbing the axle of the landing wheel in order to gain entry into the plane’s belly. I saw that in a movie once and it looked pretty easy, but then I snapped back to reality. “OK, when is the next plane to New York?” “Not until tomorrow, Señor.” My heart sank deeper into despair. My family was waiting for me back home to start our beach vacation, and here I was, all alone and trapped!
What proceeded for the next 2 hours was the most interesting Spanish language emersion experience of my life. I learned more in those 2 hours than I did in 3 years of Spanish class (Sorry, Señor Rivera). I must have spoken to every employee of that airport twice. I traveled on the air train twice more and passed through a half dozen security checkpoints. In fact, metal was starting to stick to me. I finally found my luggage, which thankfully missed the flight to New York as well. Unfortunately, it was sitting on the tarmac during that bad storm and was a bit on the moist side.
The airline was great in taking care of everything. They put me up free of charge in a nice hotel with meals included and changed my ticket to a flight leaving today at 11 AM. If all goes well, I should be boarding in about an hour. I’ll let you know how things turn out …
7/26/09
7:00 PM, New York, NY
I did it! I’m finally back in NYC! I made it onto the plane successfully after 3 separate security checks and sat next to two young boys from Mexico City. They were cousins who were traveling alone on their way to camp in Connecticut and spoke beautiful English. One of them played video games incessantly and the other had some difficulty controlling his gas, but they were both very friendly. It’s amazing how children feel so free to start conversations and use different languages, but somehow fears of embarrassment and rejection develop as we become adults. Naturally, peanuts were served. I think I’m actually starting to like the smell.
As soon as my plane touched down at JFK, the rain began pouring down so hard that I actually thought they were washing the plane. I immediately made my first cell phone call in 5 days to Cynthia at 4:52 PM to let her know that I was on my way home. After collecting my soggy, souvenir-laden luggage, I had one final obstacle to overcome.
I approached a heavy-set African American woman at the U.S. Customs desk. She looked me up and down and seemed to be able to smell fear in the air. She had a look on her face that told me that she knew I stole a library book in the fourth grade. “Do you have anything to declare?” Trying to soften her expression, I replied, “Besides the fact that I’m really glad to be home?” Not only did her expression not change, but she continued to stare at me and I thought I heard a soft growl. I looked down in shame and gave her a humble, “no”.
Sensing that she had me on the ropes, she asked me, “So why were you in Mexico, business or pleasure?” This was a dilemma for me. Technically, I was on a pleasurable business trip. My mind began to race. What do people who are in the “pleasure” business say to a question like that? I answered “business”, which apparently pleased her enough to show me a slight smile. I swallowed hard as she asked a rapid follow-up question, “What kind of business?” For a split second I thought about giving it all up and answering, “Drug trafficking”, then I came to my senses and said, “Medicine”. Suddenly, I realized that I just did the very thing I was trying not to do. I closed my eyes in regret and opened them to see her smiling the smile of a cat who knew that the mouse was trapped. I knew the next question. “What KIND of medicine?” I thought for a moment, and suddenly a smile broke out on my face because I knew that there was only one answer to that question. Confidently, I replied, “The BEST medicine”.
Driving back to the Upper East Side in a yellow cab, the events of the past several days danced through my mind. The river, the sweet shrimp and the music all seemed so far away now. The sound of hail hitting the roof of the cab brought me back to reality as we crossed the Triboro Bridge. This reminded me of the hail in Mexico City which almost saved me the day before. The FDR drive was a river and the cab moved at the exact same speed as the current. Across the East River, I saw a beautiful rainbow which extended down to the ground. As the cab turned onto 78th Street, the tears welled up in my eyes. My wife and kids were waiting outside, jumping up and down holding a “Welcome Home, Daddy” sign. This is what I have been searching for all along. This was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I’m finally home.
10:30 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
Today is my last day in Mexico. I went for an early morning walk on the beach to snap some last minute pictures, then showered and had breakfast at the hotel. I managed to stuff all my souvenirs into my bags and brought them to the Convention Center. I have one more lecture to go, so I have to go and prepare for this now. I’m looking forward to coming home, but I am also sad to leave this magical place. I am convinced that I experienced almost everything that Veracruz had to offer, but I feel like I took only one spoonful of a huge ice cream sundae. At home, I used to think of Mexico in terms of margaritas and men with large guitars, but now I see that there is so much more to this land. The people here are bound together by their common history and by the love they share for their country. I’m proud to have been a part of it for a few days, and I’m looking forward to returning here very soon.EPILOGUE
7/26/09
9:30 AM, Mexico City, Mexico
OK, when I said that I didn’t want to leave Mexico, I didn’t mean that literally. In fact, I was supposed to be boogie boarding in Ocean City, MD with my family at this moment, but I’m not. No, I’m sitting in the airport in Mexico City where, about 17 hours ago, I was doing my imitation of O.J. Simpson (the commercial, not the … other thing).I arrived at the airport in Veracruz yesterday with lots of time to spare. I had the same driver who originally brought me to the hotel, and we greeted each other like long lost friends. On the first leg of the flight, they naturally served peanuts, but this time I figured out how to use my plastic cup like a gas mask. It worked pretty well! The flight to Mexico City was delayed by 15 minutes and landed in Terminal 1 at 4:15 PM instead of 4:00 PM. My connecting flight to JFK was slated to take off at 4:55 PM from Terminal 2. Here’s how it all went down:
4:18 PM - Ran down the gangway. Found the first person I could find in a uniform and asked him how to get to Terminal 2. He told me I needed to take the air train and he told me to go outside and look for Puerta 5 (gate 5) I found myself in the main part of Terminal 1, but I saw were lettered gates.
4:22 PM - My pace quickened. I assaulted a porter and asked him where the air train was. He pointed up, and for a moment I thought he was signaling that it might help to say a prayer. He sensed my confusion and redirected his finger towards a nearby escalator. I thanked him and charged up the escalator. I was wondering how my checked bag was doing in all of this.
4:30 PM - I found the air train and the electronic sign above the entrance told me that it would arrive in 7 minutes. This is not what I wanted to see. I sat down and began to wallow in my growing despair, when I suddenly heard a tapping sound on the metal roof of the train terminal. The tapping grew louder and more frequent until it became an incessant banging that shook the whole structure. I looked out the window and saw golf ball sized hail coming down in sheets. This was my chance, my glimmer of hope! After all, how could a plane take off in this? My heart sank, however, when I looked out the window again and saw a plane taking off.
4:42 PM - The train to Terminal 2 took another 5 minutes. I was practically in a full sprint towards my gate, hurdling over groups of crying children and sidestepping souvenir stands. I actually thought that I had a chance, but then I turned a corner and was horrified to see a Security Checkpoint! I threw my carry-on bags through the conveyer belt and ran through the metal detector with such speed that even a suit of armor wouldn’t have set it off. I asked the Security Guard to call my plane to tell it not to leave, but I don’t think he understood me.
4:50 PM - Almost there. I was a little disoriented finding my gate number, so I asked an information clerk for the directions. I also pleaded with her to call the gate and tell them I was almost there, but she just told me to hurry up. Did she think I was flushed and sweating because I just waltzed out of the sauna?
4:56 PM - I arrived at my gate. I saw that the door was closed, but I walked casually towards it thinking that everything would just work out fine. The clerk at the desk stopped me and said, “Señor, the plane has already left.” Her lips seemed to move in slow motion and that sentence reverberated several times in the hollow void that used to be my brain. I stared at her in disbelief and my breathing became deep and labored. I managed to get out the words, “You have to tell it to wait. I need to get to New York.” “No, Señor, the doors have already closed.” My mind began swirling with ideas like riding alongside the taxiing plane on the luggage truck and grabbing the axle of the landing wheel in order to gain entry into the plane’s belly. I saw that in a movie once and it looked pretty easy, but then I snapped back to reality. “OK, when is the next plane to New York?” “Not until tomorrow, Señor.” My heart sank deeper into despair. My family was waiting for me back home to start our beach vacation, and here I was, all alone and trapped!
What proceeded for the next 2 hours was the most interesting Spanish language emersion experience of my life. I learned more in those 2 hours than I did in 3 years of Spanish class (Sorry, Señor Rivera). I must have spoken to every employee of that airport twice. I traveled on the air train twice more and passed through a half dozen security checkpoints. In fact, metal was starting to stick to me. I finally found my luggage, which thankfully missed the flight to New York as well. Unfortunately, it was sitting on the tarmac during that bad storm and was a bit on the moist side.
The airline was great in taking care of everything. They put me up free of charge in a nice hotel with meals included and changed my ticket to a flight leaving today at 11 AM. If all goes well, I should be boarding in about an hour. I’ll let you know how things turn out …7/26/09
7:00 PM, New York, NY
I did it! I’m finally back in NYC! I made it onto the plane successfully after 3 separate security checks and sat next to two young boys from Mexico City. They were cousins who were traveling alone on their way to camp in Connecticut and spoke beautiful English. One of them played video games incessantly and the other had some difficulty controlling his gas, but they were both very friendly. It’s amazing how children feel so free to start conversations and use different languages, but somehow fears of embarrassment and rejection develop as we become adults. Naturally, peanuts were served. I think I’m actually starting to like the smell.As soon as my plane touched down at JFK, the rain began pouring down so hard that I actually thought they were washing the plane. I immediately made my first cell phone call in 5 days to Cynthia at 4:52 PM to let her know that I was on my way home. After collecting my soggy, souvenir-laden luggage, I had one final obstacle to overcome.
I approached a heavy-set African American woman at the U.S. Customs desk. She looked me up and down and seemed to be able to smell fear in the air. She had a look on her face that told me that she knew I stole a library book in the fourth grade. “Do you have anything to declare?” Trying to soften her expression, I replied, “Besides the fact that I’m really glad to be home?” Not only did her expression not change, but she continued to stare at me and I thought I heard a soft growl. I looked down in shame and gave her a humble, “no”.
Sensing that she had me on the ropes, she asked me, “So why were you in Mexico, business or pleasure?” This was a dilemma for me. Technically, I was on a pleasurable business trip. My mind began to race. What do people who are in the “pleasure” business say to a question like that? I answered “business”, which apparently pleased her enough to show me a slight smile. I swallowed hard as she asked a rapid follow-up question, “What kind of business?” For a split second I thought about giving it all up and answering, “Drug trafficking”, then I came to my senses and said, “Medicine”. Suddenly, I realized that I just did the very thing I was trying not to do. I closed my eyes in regret and opened them to see her smiling the smile of a cat who knew that the mouse was trapped. I knew the next question. “What KIND of medicine?” I thought for a moment, and suddenly a smile broke out on my face because I knew that there was only one answer to that question. Confidently, I replied, “The BEST medicine”.
Driving back to the Upper East Side in a yellow cab, the events of the past several days danced through my mind. The river, the sweet shrimp and the music all seemed so far away now. The sound of hail hitting the roof of the cab brought me back to reality as we crossed the Triboro Bridge. This reminded me of the hail in Mexico City which almost saved me the day before. The FDR drive was a river and the cab moved at the exact same speed as the current. Across the East River, I saw a beautiful rainbow which extended down to the ground. As the cab turned onto 78th Street, the tears welled up in my eyes. My wife and kids were waiting outside, jumping up and down holding a “Welcome Home, Daddy” sign. This is what I have been searching for all along. This was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I’m finally home. Sunday, August 16, 2009
Olé Part II – Billy and the Bull
7/23/09
7:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
I woke up to a beautiful sunrise. My hotel room had a full view of the Gulf of Mexico. The sky was golden and several oil tankers loomed ominously out in the distance.
The hotel was right on the beach, a luxurious building that stood in stark contrast to the less affluent areas around it. The sand was not white or powdery, but dark, with the consistency of loosely packed dirt. I was nervous about putting a towel down on it, but it was great for running. The temperature was already 80° F, but lots of people were out walking on the beach. The waves were small and broke about 100 feet out due to a large sand bar. As I ran, I saw a large tusk of an elephant washed up with flies on it, about 3 ft in length, and wondered how it got there. Saw a Chihuahua peeing into the hollowed-out half of a coconut. Now that was a well-trained dog!
I saw Jorge, one of my hosts, also running on the beach and we stopped to chat. We made plans to go out for a bite to eat after my lectures were over at 1 PM. I read on the internet that Veracruz produced the best coffee in the world, and I will be searching for that perfect cup today. I met some of my American colleagues at the hotel’s breakfast buffet. I was able to communicate with the waiter totally in Spanish and he was comfortable with it. A blackbird perched outside the window, looking towards an island out in the distance. I ate a variety of meats, queso blanco (white cheese) and papaya. The coffee was pretty good, but I’m going to keep looking for that holy grail of caffeine. I almost burned myself shaving this morning. I have to remember that “C” on the faucet stands for caliente (hot), not cold. Right now, I’m getting anxious about giving my lectures today.
7/24/09
1:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
I’m so tired. All I want to do is fall asleep, but I want to write this all down before it slips away from me. I’ve been eating and drinking for almost the entire day. My lectures went well. I cracked a couple of jokes in Spanish that were not that funny, but the audience laughed politely anyway. I spoke slowly at the first one, because it was being translated. It sounded so strange to me, and at the end of the lecture, the translator came up to me and said, “For the next one, could you please speak a little slower?”
After the lectures, I met Jorge and his friend Antonio. We changed back at the hotel and went driving with another friend at the wheel. The first stop was a convenience store to buy beer for us and soda for the driver. Apparently, there is no such thing as an open container law here, because the three of us finished a six pack while on the way to the next destination.
We drove out of Veracruz to Boca del Rio (mouth of the river), where we stopped at a local restaurant, which was on the bank of the river. I bought a pearl necklace from a man for 100 pesos (about 9 dollars) after he proved to me it wasn’t plastic by putting a flame underneath it.
Jorge was conversing with the owner and he motioned for me to come out back. The four of us boarded a small boat with an outboard motor and watched as a small boy, about 10 or 11 years old, dove to the bottom of the murky water. After a long, tense 30 seconds, he burst out of the water with a couple of handfuls of large shrimp. I mean, I can’t even get my 10 year old daughter to pick up her own clothes!
They brought the shrimp to the kitchen, boiled them and brought them back out to the boat on a plate with green lemons and salsa picante (spicy sauce) on the side. One thing I learned here is that lemons are green and limes are yellow. Go figure.
To drink, they brought out a tray of toritos, literally translated as “little bulls” because of how strong they are. They were originally created for workers to help them make it through a hard day in the field. My friends told me that when someone asks you a tough question, they are throwing you a torito. It’s made from fermented sugar cane, not refined enough to be rum, and blended with honey, lemon and sometimes another fruit. I had two on the boat made with guanabana, a gelatinous white fruit. As we motored down the river, I pulled the head off of one of the shrimps, peeled and ate it, throwing the uneaten parts overboard. This process repeated many times. It was the sweetest, softest shrimp I had ever tasted.
I was on my second torito as we passed a house on the river called, Casa del Diablo (the house of the devil) because of several ghost sightings in the abandoned dwelling. The air was hot and sticky. The sunlight danced over the water like diamonds, and I reached out my hand, thinking that I could catch a few. I think I could be happy living a pure, simpler life. Our boat trip lasted about a half hour. On the trip, Jorge opened up to me about getting divorced after 13 years of marriage. He had 3 grown children, but was now remarried to a woman named Patty, who had younger children. Antonio had 5 children around the teenage years and could not understand Jorge’s desire not to have any more children.
After the first restaurant, we drove to a bar for, you guessed it, more toritos. The bar seemed to be a cave cut out of a large rock. This time, I had a coconut and mango which were much more potent than the first two I had. With each torito, my Spanish got a little better, while Jorge and Antonio’s Spanish got a little worse until it finally became one beautiful, perfectly fluent language. We shared common interests and family situations. There was mutual respect as well. Antonio spoke only Spanish to me in the beginning, but as he became more comfortable with me, he decided to practice his English, which I could understand very well.
In the next restaurant we stopped in, we feasted on spicy shrimp soup with lobster claws, local fish and fried fish eggs wrapped up in a tortilla with salsa and vegetables. The waitress asked me what I would like to drink, and when I ordered water, she and my guests had a similar look of dismay on their faces. I quickly changed my order to cerveza (beer) and everything continued normally.
At this point, I was so tired and buzzed from the food and alcohol that, at least in my head, the line between English and Spanish became very blurry. I made it back to the hotel at 6:30 PM, slept for one hour and opened my eyes at 7:20 PM. I had to be in the lobby by 7:30 PM to board a bus taking us to the reception for visiting professors. I watched a traditional dancing show near El Centro, the center of the old town of Veracruz, and was called onto the stage to receive a certificate from the Congress along with several bottles of alcohol and local coffee. The reception was held in the central courtyard of a beautiful, old museum that used to be a hospital. It was a night full of good music, good food and good conversation. I drank paloma (dove), a white drink made of tequila and grapefruit extract. Not bad. With dinner, I had red wine and, yes, another glass of tequila to finish off the night. I hope my liver survives this trip. I’m going to bed.
2:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
A storm rolled in from the Gulf along with lots of wind, rain, thunder and lightening. One bolt shook my room. It must have struck the building, but I’m still here. I wish I had Cynthia next to me.
8:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
The storm lasted all night, and sleep was intermittent. I went running this morning. The rain knocked the temperature back about 5 degrees, but did nothing for the humidity. The dirt on the beach was even springier, but had lots of debris washed ashore. I ran even further today, all the way to a jetty of large rocks. I saw some grey crabs on the rocks, about 6 inches across. They didn’t look particularly aggressive, but I didn’t get too close. Out in the distance was Isla de Sacrificios (Island of Sacrifices), the island I spotted yesterday morning at breakfast. I’m going to try to find out today why it is named that.
On the way back, I saw a man rowing in the ocean with his son sitting at the front. He was rowing with a long oar that had a fork-like device on the other end, presumably for catching fish. To me, this represents the entire meaning of life – do good things in the world and then teach your children how to do the same. I hope I can accomplish that in my life. I’m meeting Jorge in an hour and going to breakfast. I told him about my coffee quest, and I’m excited about the possibility that I might soon be sipping the best cup of coffee in the world.
7:00 PM, Veracruz, Mexico
I’ve been to the top of the mountain and I saw the other side! I had my caffeinated epiphany today at last. Breakfast is forever ruined for me and I refuse to walk into another Starbucks again. Jorge and I drove to downtown Veracruz and stopped at the Gran Café de la Parroquia, or La Parroquia (parish) for short. It is named for the church that it used to be next to before the café was moved to its present location in 1976. We waited about a half hour until a table opened up, and dove to occupy it, as their was no waiting list. The waiter who took our order told us that he has worked there for 52 years. The first thing we ordered was café lechero, or coffee with milk. It came as a couple of shots of espresso in a large glass. To call over the “milk guy”, I was instructed to bang my spoon on the inside of my glass until he came, a maneuver referred to as “tinkling”. For me, that’s usually what I have to do AFTER the coffee. So I tinkled, but was afraid someone was going to make me give a speech or random couples were going to begin kissing.
When he came, he poured the steaming milk from about 2 feet in the air, transforming the espresso from a black puddle into a bubbling, sea of mocha colored waves and white, swirling foam. The milk he used was freshly milked from a cow without pasteurization or homogenization, and thus it contained stringy and gelatinous elements that I didn’t even mind. It was moderately sweet by itself, but I added a small amount of sugar. I wrapped the hot glass in a napkin and brought it slowly to my lips. As soon as I took my first swallow, I felt my whole body go numb. I closed my eyes and all the rough edges in my life suddenly smoothed out. I felt the pride, beauty and sweat of 500 years of Mexican heritage enter every cell of my body and I could do nothing but bow my head in respect and quietly mutter, “Olé”. Needless to say, that was one slammin’ cup of joe!
Next, I ordered huevos tirados, or eggs with frijoles (beans). Jorge, still amused by my reaction to the coffee, ordered gorda (a pastry made from frijoles) and picada (a tortilla with cheese and hot sauce). On the side we had fresh breads and bomba, a baked pastry with a slightly gooey, sweet center and a thick, crumbly cheese crust covering the outside. OK, let’s just call it a Danish. Dipping that in the coffee further intensified the magical transformation that was going on inside my body.
The café was crowded, but not unruly. People walked around selling newspapers and shining shoes. Jarochos (Ha-ro-chos), something like a Mariachi band, played for different sections of the café and a beautiful woman wearing a traditional Spanish dress came around with a hat for tips.
After we finished paying, we headed out to the marketplace for little shopping. Music played from every doorway, alternating between modern music with a heavy beat to soft, traditional folksongs. Many women, some with their children beside them, sat outside the stores selling items that they had obviously made themselves, but I did not encounter one person begging for money. There was a military presence, many with assault rifles by their sides. In fact, the night before, we were warned not to wander in the town because of the “dangers”.
Jorge showed me all the historical sites in the downtown area, which is where he spent a great deal of his childhood. I asked him to tell me the story behind the Island of Sacrifices. His face became very serious as he explained that when the Spanish settled Veracruz, they discovered that the indigenous people there had used that island for regular human sacrifices to appease their Gods. The island is reputed to be haunted by the spirits of all those who lost their lives there. I guess I won’t be going over there any time soon.
I made it back to the hotel with minutes to spare before I had to go over to the Convention Center and give my next lecture. It went OK, but it’s strange telling a joke through a translator, only to have the audience laugh 30 seconds later. I’m starting to realize that I’m really going to miss this place. I decided to relax for the afternoon and spent four hours baking in the sun, feasting on quesadillas and margaritas by the pool. The pool was a winding, sprawling network of smaller pools linked by waterfalls and hot tubs. I didn’t want to leave.
I showered, rested and went down in the lobby to meet Sergio, who was assembling a group of people for a farewell dinner. I also saw Jorge in the lobby and finally had the chance to meet Patty, who was very pretty and charming. I excused myself and proceeded with Sergio and friends to a local seafood restaurant nearby. I had ceviche, spicy crab soup and flan for dessert. Several Dos Equis washed it all down. A group of us then went out to a bar and had a round of drinks called toros (bulls). These were different from the rustic toritos I had the day before. This concoction consisted of tequila, whisky, brandy, rum, beer and honey. It tasted a bit like a Long Island ice tea.
Next week, read about the final leg of my trip, and find out why it’s not as easy to leave Mexico as it sounds!
7:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
I woke up to a beautiful sunrise. My hotel room had a full view of the Gulf of Mexico. The sky was golden and several oil tankers loomed ominously out in the distance.
The hotel was right on the beach, a luxurious building that stood in stark contrast to the less affluent areas around it. The sand was not white or powdery, but dark, with the consistency of loosely packed dirt. I was nervous about putting a towel down on it, but it was great for running. The temperature was already 80° F, but lots of people were out walking on the beach. The waves were small and broke about 100 feet out due to a large sand bar. As I ran, I saw a large tusk of an elephant washed up with flies on it, about 3 ft in length, and wondered how it got there. Saw a Chihuahua peeing into the hollowed-out half of a coconut. Now that was a well-trained dog!I saw Jorge, one of my hosts, also running on the beach and we stopped to chat. We made plans to go out for a bite to eat after my lectures were over at 1 PM. I read on the internet that Veracruz produced the best coffee in the world, and I will be searching for that perfect cup today. I met some of my American colleagues at the hotel’s breakfast buffet. I was able to communicate with the waiter totally in Spanish and he was comfortable with it. A blackbird perched outside the window, looking towards an island out in the distance. I ate a variety of meats, queso blanco (white cheese) and papaya. The coffee was pretty good, but I’m going to keep looking for that holy grail of caffeine. I almost burned myself shaving this morning. I have to remember that “C” on the faucet stands for caliente (hot), not cold. Right now, I’m getting anxious about giving my lectures today.
7/24/09
1:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
I’m so tired. All I want to do is fall asleep, but I want to write this all down before it slips away from me. I’ve been eating and drinking for almost the entire day. My lectures went well. I cracked a couple of jokes in Spanish that were not that funny, but the audience laughed politely anyway. I spoke slowly at the first one, because it was being translated. It sounded so strange to me, and at the end of the lecture, the translator came up to me and said, “For the next one, could you please speak a little slower?”
After the lectures, I met Jorge and his friend Antonio. We changed back at the hotel and went driving with another friend at the wheel. The first stop was a convenience store to buy beer for us and soda for the driver. Apparently, there is no such thing as an open container law here, because the three of us finished a six pack while on the way to the next destination.
We drove out of Veracruz to Boca del Rio (mouth of the river), where we stopped at a local restaurant, which was on the bank of the river. I bought a pearl necklace from a man for 100 pesos (about 9 dollars) after he proved to me it wasn’t plastic by putting a flame underneath it.
Jorge was conversing with the owner and he motioned for me to come out back. The four of us boarded a small boat with an outboard motor and watched as a small boy, about 10 or 11 years old, dove to the bottom of the murky water. After a long, tense 30 seconds, he burst out of the water with a couple of handfuls of large shrimp. I mean, I can’t even get my 10 year old daughter to pick up her own clothes!
They brought the shrimp to the kitchen, boiled them and brought them back out to the boat on a plate with green lemons and salsa picante (spicy sauce) on the side. One thing I learned here is that lemons are green and limes are yellow. Go figure.To drink, they brought out a tray of toritos, literally translated as “little bulls” because of how strong they are. They were originally created for workers to help them make it through a hard day in the field. My friends told me that when someone asks you a tough question, they are throwing you a torito. It’s made from fermented sugar cane, not refined enough to be rum, and blended with honey, lemon and sometimes another fruit. I had two on the boat made with guanabana, a gelatinous white fruit. As we motored down the river, I pulled the head off of one of the shrimps, peeled and ate it, throwing the uneaten parts overboard. This process repeated many times. It was the sweetest, softest shrimp I had ever tasted.
I was on my second torito as we passed a house on the river called, Casa del Diablo (the house of the devil) because of several ghost sightings in the abandoned dwelling. The air was hot and sticky. The sunlight danced over the water like diamonds, and I reached out my hand, thinking that I could catch a few. I think I could be happy living a pure, simpler life. Our boat trip lasted about a half hour. On the trip, Jorge opened up to me about getting divorced after 13 years of marriage. He had 3 grown children, but was now remarried to a woman named Patty, who had younger children. Antonio had 5 children around the teenage years and could not understand Jorge’s desire not to have any more children.After the first restaurant, we drove to a bar for, you guessed it, more toritos. The bar seemed to be a cave cut out of a large rock. This time, I had a coconut and mango which were much more potent than the first two I had. With each torito, my Spanish got a little better, while Jorge and Antonio’s Spanish got a little worse until it finally became one beautiful, perfectly fluent language. We shared common interests and family situations. There was mutual respect as well. Antonio spoke only Spanish to me in the beginning, but as he became more comfortable with me, he decided to practice his English, which I could understand very well.
In the next restaurant we stopped in, we feasted on spicy shrimp soup with lobster claws, local fish and fried fish eggs wrapped up in a tortilla with salsa and vegetables. The waitress asked me what I would like to drink, and when I ordered water, she and my guests had a similar look of dismay on their faces. I quickly changed my order to cerveza (beer) and everything continued normally.
At this point, I was so tired and buzzed from the food and alcohol that, at least in my head, the line between English and Spanish became very blurry. I made it back to the hotel at 6:30 PM, slept for one hour and opened my eyes at 7:20 PM. I had to be in the lobby by 7:30 PM to board a bus taking us to the reception for visiting professors. I watched a traditional dancing show near El Centro, the center of the old town of Veracruz, and was called onto the stage to receive a certificate from the Congress along with several bottles of alcohol and local coffee. The reception was held in the central courtyard of a beautiful, old museum that used to be a hospital. It was a night full of good music, good food and good conversation. I drank paloma (dove), a white drink made of tequila and grapefruit extract. Not bad. With dinner, I had red wine and, yes, another glass of tequila to finish off the night. I hope my liver survives this trip. I’m going to bed.2:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
A storm rolled in from the Gulf along with lots of wind, rain, thunder and lightening. One bolt shook my room. It must have struck the building, but I’m still here. I wish I had Cynthia next to me.
8:00 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
The storm lasted all night, and sleep was intermittent. I went running this morning. The rain knocked the temperature back about 5 degrees, but did nothing for the humidity. The dirt on the beach was even springier, but had lots of debris washed ashore. I ran even further today, all the way to a jetty of large rocks. I saw some grey crabs on the rocks, about 6 inches across. They didn’t look particularly aggressive, but I didn’t get too close. Out in the distance was Isla de Sacrificios (Island of Sacrifices), the island I spotted yesterday morning at breakfast. I’m going to try to find out today why it is named that.On the way back, I saw a man rowing in the ocean with his son sitting at the front. He was rowing with a long oar that had a fork-like device on the other end, presumably for catching fish. To me, this represents the entire meaning of life – do good things in the world and then teach your children how to do the same. I hope I can accomplish that in my life. I’m meeting Jorge in an hour and going to breakfast. I told him about my coffee quest, and I’m excited about the possibility that I might soon be sipping the best cup of coffee in the world.
7:00 PM, Veracruz, Mexico
I’ve been to the top of the mountain and I saw the other side! I had my caffeinated epiphany today at last. Breakfast is forever ruined for me and I refuse to walk into another Starbucks again. Jorge and I drove to downtown Veracruz and stopped at the Gran Café de la Parroquia, or La Parroquia (parish) for short. It is named for the church that it used to be next to before the café was moved to its present location in 1976. We waited about a half hour until a table opened up, and dove to occupy it, as their was no waiting list. The waiter who took our order told us that he has worked there for 52 years. The first thing we ordered was café lechero, or coffee with milk. It came as a couple of shots of espresso in a large glass. To call over the “milk guy”, I was instructed to bang my spoon on the inside of my glass until he came, a maneuver referred to as “tinkling”. For me, that’s usually what I have to do AFTER the coffee. So I tinkled, but was afraid someone was going to make me give a speech or random couples were going to begin kissing.
When he came, he poured the steaming milk from about 2 feet in the air, transforming the espresso from a black puddle into a bubbling, sea of mocha colored waves and white, swirling foam. The milk he used was freshly milked from a cow without pasteurization or homogenization, and thus it contained stringy and gelatinous elements that I didn’t even mind. It was moderately sweet by itself, but I added a small amount of sugar. I wrapped the hot glass in a napkin and brought it slowly to my lips. As soon as I took my first swallow, I felt my whole body go numb. I closed my eyes and all the rough edges in my life suddenly smoothed out. I felt the pride, beauty and sweat of 500 years of Mexican heritage enter every cell of my body and I could do nothing but bow my head in respect and quietly mutter, “Olé”. Needless to say, that was one slammin’ cup of joe!
Next, I ordered huevos tirados, or eggs with frijoles (beans). Jorge, still amused by my reaction to the coffee, ordered gorda (a pastry made from frijoles) and picada (a tortilla with cheese and hot sauce). On the side we had fresh breads and bomba, a baked pastry with a slightly gooey, sweet center and a thick, crumbly cheese crust covering the outside. OK, let’s just call it a Danish. Dipping that in the coffee further intensified the magical transformation that was going on inside my body.
The café was crowded, but not unruly. People walked around selling newspapers and shining shoes. Jarochos (Ha-ro-chos), something like a Mariachi band, played for different sections of the café and a beautiful woman wearing a traditional Spanish dress came around with a hat for tips.After we finished paying, we headed out to the marketplace for little shopping. Music played from every doorway, alternating between modern music with a heavy beat to soft, traditional folksongs. Many women, some with their children beside them, sat outside the stores selling items that they had obviously made themselves, but I did not encounter one person begging for money. There was a military presence, many with assault rifles by their sides. In fact, the night before, we were warned not to wander in the town because of the “dangers”.
Jorge showed me all the historical sites in the downtown area, which is where he spent a great deal of his childhood. I asked him to tell me the story behind the Island of Sacrifices. His face became very serious as he explained that when the Spanish settled Veracruz, they discovered that the indigenous people there had used that island for regular human sacrifices to appease their Gods. The island is reputed to be haunted by the spirits of all those who lost their lives there. I guess I won’t be going over there any time soon.
I made it back to the hotel with minutes to spare before I had to go over to the Convention Center and give my next lecture. It went OK, but it’s strange telling a joke through a translator, only to have the audience laugh 30 seconds later. I’m starting to realize that I’m really going to miss this place. I decided to relax for the afternoon and spent four hours baking in the sun, feasting on quesadillas and margaritas by the pool. The pool was a winding, sprawling network of smaller pools linked by waterfalls and hot tubs. I didn’t want to leave.
I showered, rested and went down in the lobby to meet Sergio, who was assembling a group of people for a farewell dinner. I also saw Jorge in the lobby and finally had the chance to meet Patty, who was very pretty and charming. I excused myself and proceeded with Sergio and friends to a local seafood restaurant nearby. I had ceviche, spicy crab soup and flan for dessert. Several Dos Equis washed it all down. A group of us then went out to a bar and had a round of drinks called toros (bulls). These were different from the rustic toritos I had the day before. This concoction consisted of tequila, whisky, brandy, rum, beer and honey. It tasted a bit like a Long Island ice tea.Next week, read about the final leg of my trip, and find out why it’s not as easy to leave Mexico as it sounds!
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Olé - The Extranjero
Prologue
A couple of months ago, I was invited to speak as a guest Professor at the 59th annual meeting of the Mexican Society of Otorhinolaryngology (Ear, Nose and Throat), Head and Neck Surgery. The meeting was supposed to take place in the spring, but because of the swine flu outbreak, it was rescheduled for the end of July. I was asked to give five lectures on a variety of ENT and allergy topics over a four day period. The meeting was to take place in Veracruz, a city in Mexico on the Gulf Coast which I had no idea even existed before this invitation. I accepted the honor, but was filled with a mix of emotions. On one hand, I was excited to explore new places, but on the other hand, I was nervous about leaving my family and traveling alone outside the country. I kept a detailed journal of my adventures while I was in Mexico and I took a lot of pictures. It was an exciting journey, and I think you’ll be surprised at how it ends. As you read each of the three parts, you’ll surely taste the sting of tequila on your tongue and hear the sweet folksongs as they float past you on the warm, afternoon breeze.
7/22/09
7:00 PM, Veracruz, Mexico
I woke up at 5:30 this morning, got ready and caught a cab to JFK. It’s always sad to say goodbye to Cynthia and the kids. As soon as I got on the line for AeroMexico, I felt like I was in another country. There were about a dozen people before me in a line which wasn’t moving at all. I suddenly became aware that I looked different from everyone else, and a few people around me probably thought I was in the wrong line. After about 15 minutes, the entire line cleared out, and I realized that there was only one family in front of me. The plane took off uneventfully and I drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, I awoke to the flight attendant saying, “Pan francais?” I was still in a daze, and thought for a moment that I died and was reincarnated as French bread. She then continued, a bit annoyed that I was making her struggle through English. “Would you like French toast or omelet?” I asked for the French toast and my next door neighbor got the eggs. I was so shocked that I received real food that I quickly gobbled it down before someone noticed and took it away.
I didn’t make much conversation with the guy next to me, and he didn’t really say much to me either. He was probably afraid that I would assault him with the English language, but I was actually looking forward to using my Spanish, which I think I’m pretty good at. I use a lot of Spanish in my office with patients, but if you’re not suffering from an earache or a sinus infection, a conversation with me in that language might be a bit tedious. Suddenly, my heart quickened as the guy two seats down leaned over and asked me to borrow a pen. Unfortunately, he spoke fast and used the word for pen that I wasn’t familiar with, so we had to convert to charades. Señor Rivera, my Spanish teacher from Junior High School, would have been so ashamed of me.
I’m having the exact opposite problem that I had when I went to Germany last year. When I was in Germany, everyone spoke to me in German because of my appearance, and they wouldn’t give me a break, even when I answered them in English. I have a small, working knowledge of German. I learned most of it from my Grandmother, who spoke fluent English, but would only converse with me in German once her Alzheimer’s disease got worse. Unfortunately, you can only say “turn on the light” and “what’s your name?” so many times before you have to move on to another topic.
I really wanted to impress the guy next to me, so I planned on asking him how his eggs were. However, I realized just as the words were about to leave my mouth that the phrase, “Como estan sus huevos?” can also be interpreted as, “How are your balls?” I knew that mine were feeling a bit cramped, but I really wasn’t interested in how his were doing, so I stayed quiet. Silence dominated the rest of the flight, until a person with an extremely productive cough woke up and began expectorating one of his lungs. I voted for pushing him out with a parachute, but I think they just took him to the ICU right from the airplane. I almost needed an ICU myself when they passed out roasted peanuts as the snack. Some of you may remember that I am severely allergic to peanuts. I managed to hold my breath for a record-setting 30 minutes until the smell cleared, but once the oxygen finally returned to my brain, I still felt horrible.
We flew into Mexico City, which looked like Brooklyn from the air. When I landed, I had to fill out a questionnaire asking if I had any symptoms such as cough, fever, runny nose, body aches, etc. I imagined all the horrible things that could happen to me in a Mexican hospital, so I quickly ran a line down the “no” column. I went through customs, where I always feel guilty even though I have nothing to hide. I was now officially an extranjero (foreigner). My connecting flight was a tiny, cramped jet which served peanuts again. I guess they were trying to finish me off. I got off the airplane in Veracruz, still clutching my Epipen, and surveyed my surroundings. The glare of the noon sun reflected off the tarmac, and the air was heavy and still. The heated exhaust from the plane’s engines made it difficult to breath, but as I walked farther away from the plane, the air quality didn’t improve. I trudged into the air-conditioned terminal and was relieved to see a young man smiling and holding a sign with my last name on it.
On the way to the hotel, I spoke to Alex, my driver, in Spanish. He must have been about 18 years old and seemed to understand everything I was saying. He told me that he dreamed about going to NYC to come and see the Yankees play, but had not been able to get a travel visa. I met some of my hosts at the hotel and we went out to eat at a place which overlooked the Gulf of Mexico. I ate rice, plantains and some of the best shrimp I ever had while enjoying a beautiful view of the water. They asked me if I wanted something to drink, and before I could answer, the waiter placed a beer and a glass full of tequila in front of me.
As I sipped tequila, my new friends told me a bit about the history of Veracruz. It was actually the first city settled by the Spanish back in the 1500’s and for a while, the city was larger than the country’s capital, Mexico City. The city was founded in 1519 on the Friday before Easter Sunday, which is known as Good Friday or the day of the True Cross (Vera Cruz). Over the past several centuries, Veracruz has not only been an important commerce port on the Gulf of Mexico, but is also an agriculturally blessed region with a rich culture and tourism base. The song “La Bamba” was written about Veracruz as well. You’ll have to take me out for a beer to hear the true story behind the song.
7/23/09
1:30 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
After lunch, I went back to my room, showered and slept off some of the tequila. I took a bus to the opening ceremonies at the Convention Center, and the Governor from this part of Mexico was there. I was immediately escorted to the front row. There was a color guard procession, which was followed by a chorus of blaring trumpets that almost sent me under my seat. Suddenly a group of photographers kneeled in front of me and the other American doctors I was sitting next to. I tried to duck out of their way until they motioned to me that I was the subject of the photos. Every time I laughed or applauded, the cameras swung from the Governor back to me as another round of flashes fired. I felt just like Paris Hilton and preyed that there was nothing stuck in my teeth. I was really not used to this kind of attention, but it felt nice.
After the ceremony, there was a show. There was a band and dancers called “jarochos” doing something similar to the “River Dance”. The theme was old world meeting new world. The music was intense. The rhythms were distinctly Indian, but the costumes and music were classic Spanish. During the reception which followed, tapas were served along with tamarind margaritas coated with flakes of chili pepper and salt around the rim. Every time I put down an empty glass, it was mysteriously refilled. I never actually saw it happen. It was like some little Mexican margarita fairy was flying around the place. I lost track of how many I actually drank, but I eventually boarded a van going back to the hotel at around 1 AM. Despite the current humming noise inside my head, I am determined to get up early and go running. My first lectures are also tomorrow if I can survive that long.
A couple of months ago, I was invited to speak as a guest Professor at the 59th annual meeting of the Mexican Society of Otorhinolaryngology (Ear, Nose and Throat), Head and Neck Surgery. The meeting was supposed to take place in the spring, but because of the swine flu outbreak, it was rescheduled for the end of July. I was asked to give five lectures on a variety of ENT and allergy topics over a four day period. The meeting was to take place in Veracruz, a city in Mexico on the Gulf Coast which I had no idea even existed before this invitation. I accepted the honor, but was filled with a mix of emotions. On one hand, I was excited to explore new places, but on the other hand, I was nervous about leaving my family and traveling alone outside the country. I kept a detailed journal of my adventures while I was in Mexico and I took a lot of pictures. It was an exciting journey, and I think you’ll be surprised at how it ends. As you read each of the three parts, you’ll surely taste the sting of tequila on your tongue and hear the sweet folksongs as they float past you on the warm, afternoon breeze.
7/22/09
7:00 PM, Veracruz, Mexico
I woke up at 5:30 this morning, got ready and caught a cab to JFK. It’s always sad to say goodbye to Cynthia and the kids. As soon as I got on the line for AeroMexico, I felt like I was in another country. There were about a dozen people before me in a line which wasn’t moving at all. I suddenly became aware that I looked different from everyone else, and a few people around me probably thought I was in the wrong line. After about 15 minutes, the entire line cleared out, and I realized that there was only one family in front of me. The plane took off uneventfully and I drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, I awoke to the flight attendant saying, “Pan francais?” I was still in a daze, and thought for a moment that I died and was reincarnated as French bread. She then continued, a bit annoyed that I was making her struggle through English. “Would you like French toast or omelet?” I asked for the French toast and my next door neighbor got the eggs. I was so shocked that I received real food that I quickly gobbled it down before someone noticed and took it away.
I didn’t make much conversation with the guy next to me, and he didn’t really say much to me either. He was probably afraid that I would assault him with the English language, but I was actually looking forward to using my Spanish, which I think I’m pretty good at. I use a lot of Spanish in my office with patients, but if you’re not suffering from an earache or a sinus infection, a conversation with me in that language might be a bit tedious. Suddenly, my heart quickened as the guy two seats down leaned over and asked me to borrow a pen. Unfortunately, he spoke fast and used the word for pen that I wasn’t familiar with, so we had to convert to charades. Señor Rivera, my Spanish teacher from Junior High School, would have been so ashamed of me.
I’m having the exact opposite problem that I had when I went to Germany last year. When I was in Germany, everyone spoke to me in German because of my appearance, and they wouldn’t give me a break, even when I answered them in English. I have a small, working knowledge of German. I learned most of it from my Grandmother, who spoke fluent English, but would only converse with me in German once her Alzheimer’s disease got worse. Unfortunately, you can only say “turn on the light” and “what’s your name?” so many times before you have to move on to another topic.
I really wanted to impress the guy next to me, so I planned on asking him how his eggs were. However, I realized just as the words were about to leave my mouth that the phrase, “Como estan sus huevos?” can also be interpreted as, “How are your balls?” I knew that mine were feeling a bit cramped, but I really wasn’t interested in how his were doing, so I stayed quiet. Silence dominated the rest of the flight, until a person with an extremely productive cough woke up and began expectorating one of his lungs. I voted for pushing him out with a parachute, but I think they just took him to the ICU right from the airplane. I almost needed an ICU myself when they passed out roasted peanuts as the snack. Some of you may remember that I am severely allergic to peanuts. I managed to hold my breath for a record-setting 30 minutes until the smell cleared, but once the oxygen finally returned to my brain, I still felt horrible.
We flew into Mexico City, which looked like Brooklyn from the air. When I landed, I had to fill out a questionnaire asking if I had any symptoms such as cough, fever, runny nose, body aches, etc. I imagined all the horrible things that could happen to me in a Mexican hospital, so I quickly ran a line down the “no” column. I went through customs, where I always feel guilty even though I have nothing to hide. I was now officially an extranjero (foreigner). My connecting flight was a tiny, cramped jet which served peanuts again. I guess they were trying to finish me off. I got off the airplane in Veracruz, still clutching my Epipen, and surveyed my surroundings. The glare of the noon sun reflected off the tarmac, and the air was heavy and still. The heated exhaust from the plane’s engines made it difficult to breath, but as I walked farther away from the plane, the air quality didn’t improve. I trudged into the air-conditioned terminal and was relieved to see a young man smiling and holding a sign with my last name on it.On the way to the hotel, I spoke to Alex, my driver, in Spanish. He must have been about 18 years old and seemed to understand everything I was saying. He told me that he dreamed about going to NYC to come and see the Yankees play, but had not been able to get a travel visa. I met some of my hosts at the hotel and we went out to eat at a place which overlooked the Gulf of Mexico. I ate rice, plantains and some of the best shrimp I ever had while enjoying a beautiful view of the water. They asked me if I wanted something to drink, and before I could answer, the waiter placed a beer and a glass full of tequila in front of me.
As I sipped tequila, my new friends told me a bit about the history of Veracruz. It was actually the first city settled by the Spanish back in the 1500’s and for a while, the city was larger than the country’s capital, Mexico City. The city was founded in 1519 on the Friday before Easter Sunday, which is known as Good Friday or the day of the True Cross (Vera Cruz). Over the past several centuries, Veracruz has not only been an important commerce port on the Gulf of Mexico, but is also an agriculturally blessed region with a rich culture and tourism base. The song “La Bamba” was written about Veracruz as well. You’ll have to take me out for a beer to hear the true story behind the song.7/23/09
1:30 AM, Veracruz, Mexico
After lunch, I went back to my room, showered and slept off some of the tequila. I took a bus to the opening ceremonies at the Convention Center, and the Governor from this part of Mexico was there. I was immediately escorted to the front row. There was a color guard procession, which was followed by a chorus of blaring trumpets that almost sent me under my seat. Suddenly a group of photographers kneeled in front of me and the other American doctors I was sitting next to. I tried to duck out of their way until they motioned to me that I was the subject of the photos. Every time I laughed or applauded, the cameras swung from the Governor back to me as another round of flashes fired. I felt just like Paris Hilton and preyed that there was nothing stuck in my teeth. I was really not used to this kind of attention, but it felt nice.
After the ceremony, there was a show. There was a band and dancers called “jarochos” doing something similar to the “River Dance”. The theme was old world meeting new world. The music was intense. The rhythms were distinctly Indian, but the costumes and music were classic Spanish. During the reception which followed, tapas were served along with tamarind margaritas coated with flakes of chili pepper and salt around the rim. Every time I put down an empty glass, it was mysteriously refilled. I never actually saw it happen. It was like some little Mexican margarita fairy was flying around the place. I lost track of how many I actually drank, but I eventually boarded a van going back to the hotel at around 1 AM. Despite the current humming noise inside my head, I am determined to get up early and go running. My first lectures are also tomorrow if I can survive that long.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Independence Day
I sat at my desk, drumming my pencil on the test paper in front of me. I looked up at the clock, which told me that I had 15 minutes left until noon recess. I looked back down at my paper and checked my answers once again. The test was on the American Revolution, a subject which we seemed to cover endlessly in the fourth grade. I knew the information so well, that I was practically on a first name basis with most of the Founding Fathers. When my teacher announced that those who were done could leave, I sprang out of my seat and launched the paper towards her desk so carelessly that it almost landed on the floor. My teacher cleared her throat and I knew that the sound was intended for me. “Billy, you forgot the date”, she said in a hushed tone and slid the paper towards me. I scribbled, “April 22, 1978” at the top and raced out of the room.
Walking down the hallway towards the cafeteria, I was filled with excitement and nerves. My friend, Bruce, came up behind me and I almost jumped out of my skin. “Ready to go?” he asked and I nodded. In retrospect, I was agreeing to abandon the life that I knew before and open a brand knew chapter from which there would be no return. As we passed the library, my feet were beginning to feel like cement. Bruce and I entered the cafeteria, but instead of taking a seat at our assigned table, we tossed out our brown bags containing wilted bologna sandwiches and carrot sticks and headed out the cafeteria door into the short, dark passageway that led to the playground.
“Where do you think you guys are going?” a voice boomed from the darkness. A mop blocked our path as Frank, the janitor, stepped into the light. He had a muscular build and a military haircut. Despite some loose skin, thick glasses and a stomach which hung over his belt, he was still a figure to be feared in his dark, green jumpsuit. Bruce thought quickly and blurted out, “We left something on the playground.” I though our plan was surely doomed, but a smile suddenly broke out on Frank’s face as he returned the mop to its bucket and began to laugh, “Yeah, right!” Without looking back, we burst open the outer door and the light of the midday sun made us squint. It felt strange to be alone on the playground, but we weren’t in the clear yet. We stayed close to the fence so that the staff in the Principal’s office would not see us. Passing the monkey bars and the swing set with all of the broken swings, we made it to the corner of the playground and out onto the sidewalk.
As we walked down the street, my nervous, short steps turned into a relaxed stride, even a cool swagger. I realized for the first time in my life that nobody, except Bruce, knew where I was. I was truly UNSUPERVISED! This experience alone would have been enough to last me many years into the future, but we continued further down the street to the pizza place. Dano’s was a classic establishment that produced some of the best Italian food that I have ever tasted. My family had ordered pizza from them many times, and as we entered the shop, I panicked for a moment thinking that someone in there might recognize me. I looked down as I ordered a plain slice and a coke from the man behind the counter. He was sweating as the heat radiated out from the ovens behind him.
With every bite of pizza, I was enjoying the sweet taste of freedom. I was ready for my independence and I knew exactly how the Founding Fathers must have felt at that crucial moment. I searched my pockets and realized that I only had another $1.25 to fund my revolution. One quarter went to playing the video game in the corner, which would actually shake when the racing car crashed. With the last dollar, I bought Italian ices and we enjoyed them thoroughly as we headed back to school.
Recess was just coming to a close as I joined my class lining up on the playground. I was dying to share the secret of what I had done with the others, but I kept it to myself. I didn’t say a word, fearing that the cherry red coloration of my tongue would give me away. What I had committed that day was nothing short of high treason. But there was no escaping the fact that I had been liberated and there was no turning back. It was a brand knew world and I was a brand new person, ready to take on all the challenges that were in front of me ... as long as my parents didn’t find out.
______________________________________
This story describes one of my earliest adventures as an independent creature roaming this planet. From these humble beginnings, my thirst for excitement has never fully been quenched. This week, I will be heading south of the border. For those of you with your minds in the gutter, I am referring to Mexico. I can already see the bewildered facial expressions on the unsuspecting locals as I unleash my own brand of Spanglish on them. Of course, I will be writing down every single detail of this journey for the sole purpose of your amusement. Keep an eye on “The Best Medicine” and see if a white boy from the Upper East Side with a weak stomach and delicate skin can survive the hot deserts and tropical rain forests of Mexico, not to mention the tequila.
Walking down the hallway towards the cafeteria, I was filled with excitement and nerves. My friend, Bruce, came up behind me and I almost jumped out of my skin. “Ready to go?” he asked and I nodded. In retrospect, I was agreeing to abandon the life that I knew before and open a brand knew chapter from which there would be no return. As we passed the library, my feet were beginning to feel like cement. Bruce and I entered the cafeteria, but instead of taking a seat at our assigned table, we tossed out our brown bags containing wilted bologna sandwiches and carrot sticks and headed out the cafeteria door into the short, dark passageway that led to the playground.
“Where do you think you guys are going?” a voice boomed from the darkness. A mop blocked our path as Frank, the janitor, stepped into the light. He had a muscular build and a military haircut. Despite some loose skin, thick glasses and a stomach which hung over his belt, he was still a figure to be feared in his dark, green jumpsuit. Bruce thought quickly and blurted out, “We left something on the playground.” I though our plan was surely doomed, but a smile suddenly broke out on Frank’s face as he returned the mop to its bucket and began to laugh, “Yeah, right!” Without looking back, we burst open the outer door and the light of the midday sun made us squint. It felt strange to be alone on the playground, but we weren’t in the clear yet. We stayed close to the fence so that the staff in the Principal’s office would not see us. Passing the monkey bars and the swing set with all of the broken swings, we made it to the corner of the playground and out onto the sidewalk.
As we walked down the street, my nervous, short steps turned into a relaxed stride, even a cool swagger. I realized for the first time in my life that nobody, except Bruce, knew where I was. I was truly UNSUPERVISED! This experience alone would have been enough to last me many years into the future, but we continued further down the street to the pizza place. Dano’s was a classic establishment that produced some of the best Italian food that I have ever tasted. My family had ordered pizza from them many times, and as we entered the shop, I panicked for a moment thinking that someone in there might recognize me. I looked down as I ordered a plain slice and a coke from the man behind the counter. He was sweating as the heat radiated out from the ovens behind him.
With every bite of pizza, I was enjoying the sweet taste of freedom. I was ready for my independence and I knew exactly how the Founding Fathers must have felt at that crucial moment. I searched my pockets and realized that I only had another $1.25 to fund my revolution. One quarter went to playing the video game in the corner, which would actually shake when the racing car crashed. With the last dollar, I bought Italian ices and we enjoyed them thoroughly as we headed back to school.
Recess was just coming to a close as I joined my class lining up on the playground. I was dying to share the secret of what I had done with the others, but I kept it to myself. I didn’t say a word, fearing that the cherry red coloration of my tongue would give me away. What I had committed that day was nothing short of high treason. But there was no escaping the fact that I had been liberated and there was no turning back. It was a brand knew world and I was a brand new person, ready to take on all the challenges that were in front of me ... as long as my parents didn’t find out.
______________________________________
This story describes one of my earliest adventures as an independent creature roaming this planet. From these humble beginnings, my thirst for excitement has never fully been quenched. This week, I will be heading south of the border. For those of you with your minds in the gutter, I am referring to Mexico. I can already see the bewildered facial expressions on the unsuspecting locals as I unleash my own brand of Spanglish on them. Of course, I will be writing down every single detail of this journey for the sole purpose of your amusement. Keep an eye on “The Best Medicine” and see if a white boy from the Upper East Side with a weak stomach and delicate skin can survive the hot deserts and tropical rain forests of Mexico, not to mention the tequila.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
