Ten Days In Mexico [Part Five]

 

We rolled into Monterrey, Nuevo Leon around 1:30 am. We didn’t get to sleep until 6:00.

Wild partying? Hardly.

It simply took that long to get a hotel.

The first two places we checked were packed to the gills. It turned out that the largest IT convention of the entire year happened to be taking place that weekend, and every hotel in the southern part of town was booked solid.

Suffice it to say the IT company hadn’t reserved my room in advance. This made perfect sense since I don’t work for any of them anymore.

Logically speaking, we decided to head to the northern part of town for more options.

Now, if you’ll recall, we’ve already discussed how “logic” and “Mexico” are two concepts that don’t mesh particularly well.

 

 

So true to form, instead of finding ANY motels, we only kept ending up at the same sign proudly announcing “Bienvenidos A Apodaca“, or “Welcome To Apodaca”, the town to the northeast of Monterrey where apparently nobody lives and even fewer want to stay for the night.

It was creepy, really. We’d get to the sign, turn around, and the compass on the rear view mirror of the “short bus” would tell us that we’d been heading back towards the south for, oh, at least five minutes or so. And then we’d see the same sign.

Obviously, the movie “Groundhog Day” came to mind. But considering how tired and wrung-out we were after what all had transpired during the trip, a more suitable cinematic comparison would be “The Shining” where Danny kept running into those two bloody twin chicks at the end of the hallway.

We ultimately succeeded at getting back to the downtown area after considerably greater hassle.

For example, there had been a major accident on the one road that surely led back to town. All lanes were blocked. With no exits for literally miles, traffic backed up to an absolute standstill–at 3 am on a Saturday morning.

Apparently, some unfortunate souls ahead were having a considerably rougher go of it tonight than we were.

We ended up precariously following similarly equipped “off road” SUVs like…um…ours through the median and back the other way. We somehow prevailed over this ill-advised gambit. Thinking back on it now, of course we did. It was “ill-advised”, and this was Mexico.

Logic + Opposite = Cool

You’re probably wondering at this point why I didn’t stop and ask for directions.

The first answer is because I’m a guy.

The second, and arguably better answer is that we DID stop for directions…and got BAD ones. From a cab driver, no less. And visits to four or five OXXO and/or 7-Eleven stores turned up no city maps…go figure. So much for “convenience”.

Determined, I found then next exit that would theoretically head us back south again, since we were again headed to the dreaded northern suburbs of Monterrey–right back where we came from.

Propelled by a false sense of security, five minutes later we were once again “welcomed” to Apodaca. Sheesh.

You see, Monterrey has this curious issue. You cannot friggin’ see the downtown skyline from anywhere in the entire metro area except, well, downtown. It’s really, really bizarre. Chalk it up to the mountains…which we wouldn’t really be able to gauge the size and extent of until daylight.

They’re breathtaking, by the way. Much higher and more picturesque than I had figured. After all, the US border at either McAllen or Laredo, both only about 125 miles away, is flat as a tortilla.

Finally, after ultimately finding downtown and taking an unplanned tour of every US-based hotel that had managed to completely book itself for the weekend, we found one blessed decent hotel–of private ownership–that had a room. We snagged it.

We only had a weekend In Monterrey to spend, so we slept just enough to take the edge off our crankiness.

At this point I need to make a major modification to a bit of dating advice I’ve cited in several places over the last couple of years.

To be sure, I’ve been a strong advocate of taking a road trip with someone you’re dating for a long weekend or so to make sure that the two of you are compatible.

Usually, this is a great idea.

But NOT in Mexico. Especially in Monterrey.

NO relationship could possibly withstand driving around in Monterrey for any length of time.

In fact, you are only drive around Monterrey with someone you are romantically involved with if you’re distinctly looking for an ESCAPE HATCH from the relationship.

I’m serious. Stop laughing.

Sample interaction from Emily and I while driving in Monterrey:

Emily: Will you stop and ask for directions?

Me: We tried that.

Emily: But you’ve been driving around in circles for two hours now…six total since we’ve arrived here.

Me: You’ve been counting?

Emily: I couldn’t help it. It passed the time while you were driving around in circles.

Me: OK, look…nothing makes sense in this city. Plus, at the same time I’m busy dodging traffic from other drivers trying to make sense outta something that makes zero sense.

Emily: Stop…I have to change Micky-Mac.

Me: There’s nowhere to stop.

Emily: Pull over here.

Me: There’s no shoulder.

Emily: Take the next left.

Me: They’re all rights.

Her: That’s impossible.

Me: Well, if that’s the case how come every left has a “do not enter” sign.

Her: How about THAT one [pointing to the only street we’ve seen in twenty blocks that was a one-way in the proper direction]

Me: [whizzing ahead] Well, were it not for the two-foot yellow curb in the middle of the road dividing the highway, I could have taken it.

Her: Let’s go back to the hotel.

Me: Do you think that hasn’t crossed my mind?

Her: Quick! Take that left!

Me: [Having taken the left, forced into throwing the “short bus” into reverse ASAP] Aw, man. Again???

Her: I want to navigate this trip from now on. You have no idea where you’re going!

Me: OK, go for it. This I want to see.

Suffice it to say that about ten minutes later even she admitted the city was incorrigible.

At least there were guys juggling fire or midgets dressed in clown suits to entertain us at the stop lights. That was interesting.

“But I still got us there faster than you would have”, she added.

“There” was the curiously-named “Cola De Caballo“, just outside of town.

Getting there involves a very scenic and decidedly less nerve-wracking drive for a bit through the mountains once you get out of town, leading to a state park wherein lies a really cool waterfall. We actually did some Spanish-language video blogs from there.

“Cola De Caballo” translates to “Horse’s Tail”, which is what the waterfall supposedly looks like. Humorously, “Cola” is sometimes rendered as “Ass” in Spanish.

The shtick with this place, though, is that you can rent a horse for about two bucks, that you ‘ride’ while a guide walks along the short path up to where the falls are.

Emily swore up and down that I could hold Junior while we did this.

So we rented the blasted horses.

I soon realized that we were the only people silly enough to rent the horses out of maybe several hundred visiting the park.

I felt dumb.

Then Micky-Mac, who I was holding onto as opposed to anything directly connected to the horse, decided to start squirming.

I made an executive decision. There was no safe way to hold Micky-Mac and sit on this horse at the same time. I announced that I was going to walk the hill with Junior as opposed to doing the horse thing.

Emily said, “Wait, the guide just said he’ll hold Junior while you ride the horse.”

But I didn’t want to ride the horse. And I didn’t want some guy carrying my son in one hand and guiding a horse with the other.

“Get me off this horse”, I said.

Automatically, the guide who had volunteered to hold my son looked at the other and started laughing. He turned back to me and said sarcastically (and in English), “What’s wrong? Are you scared?”

I looked him dead in the eye and coldly retorted, “Yes.”

What he didn’t know was that I wasn’t scared of the horse. I was scared of a guy like him carrying my kid.

I jumped off the horse and grabbed my kid, with the guide still laughing. At that point I laughed with him. What he didn’t know didn’t hurt him, I suppose.

That night, upon returning to the city, we went to “El Rey De Cabrito“, or “The King Of Baby Goats Barbecued Up For Your Dining Pleasure” for dinner. Emily was craving cabrito, because she’s weird. I had Carta Blanca cerveza and chips. Micky-Mac had boobies.

Everyone was tired, so we crashed early. The next day we spent shopping in the mercado and seeing the other sites around town, including Carl’s Jr. and a huge, ridiculous looking cement thing built into a bridge.

It was almost 6PM when we left for the last six-hour dash to the border (which should have taken three hours).

No sooner had we found the main road to Nuevo Laredo then it happened.

We got pulled over for “speeding”. I had been crawling at barely 30 mph.

The local police officer explained that since it was Sunday, he was going to have to hold our vehicle overnight since there was no judge available to hear our “case” until morning.

I calmly explained to the guy that our Mexico Insurance was about to expire at midnight.

He shrugged.

I pointed out the baby in the back seat vis-a-vis being put out of our “vehicle”.

Again, he shrugged.

Better late than never, I suppose, I realized what the hell was going on.

“OK, so why can’t I just pay the ticket here? How much is it? Can’t you just give the money to the judge in the morning?”

“How much have you got?”, came the reply.

I opened up my wallet. The “police officer” and his compadre hastened to make sure I kept the wallet out of view of passing cars.

Those turds. I unloaded the equivalent of about sixty US dollars in cash. Thankfully, I had just topped off the tank with the other forty.

They deliberated briefly. One nodded to the other, took my money and casually waved, “Pase“.

Sixty dollars was apparently on the borderline of acceptability as far as “mordidas” (or “bribes”) go, but the whole thing still pissed me off. But at least I have a story to tell–about supposed “policemen” robbing me at gunpoint, basically. No matter what, it was a “walk of shame” up to the ATM machine at the next stop.

It took me a bit of time to come down from that one. Nonetheless, we got on the main road pretty much ready to go home.

The road was one of the best we’d seen in Mexico. Emily and I played “count the papalotes” again, which turned out to be a blast, actually. He or she who spots a windmill (papalote) first, claims it.

The beauty of our newly-invented sport was twofold. 1) Papalotes can be either beside the road or far off in the distance, and 2) they tend to sprout up rapid-fire (even in groups) after ten miles or so without any. All of this greatly contributes to the overall fun level. Things can change very quickly during the course of the game, so you’ve got to look alive out there.

I won, 41-29.

“We both scored our age!” Emily remarked.

Nice.

We got to Nuevo Laredo much later than expected. This was partially because we had received a “tip” that the lines that International Bridge #1 were notoriously long. We could apparently avoid them by heading twenty miles or so out of the way to “International Bridge #3”.

We did this, only to encounter an eerily desolate “International Bridge #3”. It was closed.

There was no sign to alert us to said fact even after we got there, let alone ahead of time. After all, that would have been logical. The last thing we were heard uttering before figuring out what was really going on there was, “Wow! There really AREN’T any lines here.”

After weaving our way through Nuevo Laredo’s decidedly less tourist-friendly portions, which would have been avoided had we simply stayed on the highway, we crossed back into the US around midnight.

The U.S. customs agent had asked me what was in the cooler in the back. I told her I didn’t remember. She didn’t check.

Nuevo Laredo is notorious for cartel violence, including one particularly dark event where a new police chief who promised a “crackdown on drug violence” was gunned down in a hail of bullets six hours after assuming the post.

So let’s just say that I was glad things had gone well, overall.

It was good to be on I-35 headed home to San Antonio. We listened to the 80’s/90’s/2000’s station, which I almost never do.

And I drove the speed limit.

Be Good,

Scot McKay

 

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