Not that white

Maybe I found my watering hole out there. It's been difficult. 

This place keeps the cumbia music channel playing and the bartender makes a very good michelada. The michelada got me remembering Texas - a Mexican shade of Texas - where I'd caught just a glimpse of the outskirts. The laughter of new friends who welcomed me by making fun of me, like Indians do, and the warmth of it takes away any sting there might have otherwise been. And a dark eyed girl - her humor, honesty, beauty, uniqueness - only a glimpse, a taste, a memory now. 

And then I was back in Mexico - Tijuana. I first crossed the border alone - against advice - when I was 18. People told me bad things would befall me and, in doing so, only quickened my pace. 

I spent much of my off-time there in my late teens and early 20's. And despite all the warnings about how rotten and infested it was, the Mexican people never harmed me, never robbed me, never cheated me, never took advantage of me. The police robbed me, but never the people in my small orbit. Not the bartenders, waiters, bouncers, whores, Chiclet kids, hoteliers, bus drivers, taco stand chefs, hot dog cart maestros (oh, those hot dogs wrapped in bacon kept me alive). Not the deformed beggars stained black by the leaded exhaust of taxis and buses or the hungry, seductive alley cats. Not the Mariachis, the tough guys, the soldiers, or the street punks. Certainly never Irma Lopez, her name I can still remember, who came to meet me for dancing on Sunday afternoons. 

The Mexican people didn't do me any harm during a time when I didn't do myself any good. In fact, they often showed me undeserved kindnesses, both small and large, gifted me silent acts of protection, granted me blessings, and exercised boundless patience for me. 

I found a good place tonight. I will return again.