AS THE TACO TURNS - Road Trippin Like a Belle on Wheels Part Two

Writer's note:  I began this story in my October post.  It is about our driving adventure from Seattle to Barra de Navidad.  


      I put on my nightie, set my lotions and potions next to the bathroom sink and was ready to brush my teeth, when my contact lens migrated to my brain. My benevolent friend who had guided me through a labyrinth of lane changes a few hours ago had turned into an evil baby jellyfish injecting venom into my optical nerves with its probing tentacles. My skull ached and I rued the narcissism that had driven me to abandon my glasses.
      I swabbed my eyeball with a wet Q-Tip for fifteen minutes before it was captured and successfully extracted. I resumed the task at hand, but the world around me appeared as if I was looking at it through a sheet of Saran Wrap. I felt around for the new night cream I had purchased. It claimed to be the topical version of Botox and I was quite pleased with how tight and tingly my skin felt after I slathered it on my face.
     The next morning I put in a new contact lens and stared at my reflection in the mirror. Nothing could have prepared me for this confidence shaking transfiguration. There was a mottled rash over my cheeks and down my neck. My face appeared to be swaddled in a slab of bacon. On the vanity were two tubes of cream. I picked up the unopened tube of miracle rejuvenation lotion. I was trying to make sense of it all when I spotted a nearly spent tube of hemorrhoid cream. It seemed this endlessly spiraling disaster couldn’t get worse. I was wrong. I plugged in the flat iron so I could style my hair. It flat lined and could not be resuscitated. I was faced with few options or dignity. The hair straightening appliance was my only hope of taming my troll doll locks. A defeated reflection stared back at me from the mirror. It was that of a bush woman: a wild haired, deranged bush woman with a red rimmed eye who had escaped from the Vidal Sassoon Asylum. I decided not to apply makeup.  It would only worsen my already pathetic condition.
      I grabbed a bandana from my bag. It had a picture of a soccer ball and large lumpy letters across the top that spelled out GO CHIVAS! I fashioned it into a makeshift do rag and wrapped it around my head. Luckily, I found a pair of sunglasses in the car with enormous lenses. Seen from a distance I could be mistaken for a bug eyed extraterrestrial whose mothership had landed in Tijuana for reconnaissance accessory shopping. 
     I was almost finished dressing when Larry turned the corner. His mouth dropped and Kyi, who was tagging along behind him, started to bark at me. I raised my hand, braking my open palm inches from his face. In an abrupt voice I admonished, “Don’t even go there. That goes for you too Kyi.”
     Sensing my hostility, Larry slowly backed away. “Alright,” he said “But if you see my wife, tell her I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes.”
     We packed up the car and I walked over to the driver’s side and swung open the door. “Hey Larry, how about you navigate for awhile and I’ll drive?”
      He folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “Let’s follow that thought down its winding path,”  he yammered. “Let me refresh your memory. I was a passenger when you nearly totaled your car. Then a year later I was once again in the car with you when you finished the job.” I had to admit his observation had merit.
     I opened the back door for Kyi and then climbed on to the passenger seat. “At least the person riding shotgun gets to choose the music.” I mumbled under my breath. I loaded a CD in the player and cranked up the volume as Aretha Franklin belted out R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
     We trundled our way towards the highway and in a few minutes we were flying south with all the other migrating mammals. Saguaro cactus crested the hills like warring tribes. Their tall vertical trunks were flanked by stubby arms and they appeared to be giving us the finger. I hoped that the vegetation would be friendlier when we arrived in Matzatlan.
     “Hey Larry, check out that prickly cactus. It's hostile and may want to attack us." I pointed out the offender.
     “Why would a sickly Baptist want to attack us?” said Larry. “Besides, this whole country is nothing but Catholics.”
      “I don’t know”, I answered in a deadpan tone of voice. “Maybe he spotted our Darwin Fish bumper sticker.”  Note to self----have Larry make an appointment for a hearing test.

The Sonoran Desert was very interesting in a creepy sort of way. In the distance I spotted three vultures attacking carrion with a fierce hunger. One of them had a mouthful of sticky viscera in it beak. “Wow, those birds are about the ugliest things I have seen on our road trip.” I remarked. Larry looked at me and raised his eyebrow.
     “No, I don’t think they’re the ugliest.” I felt the sting of recognition and adjusted my do rag.
      I turned around and petted Kyi. He gently licked my hand in a gesture of compassion. I had been teaching him a new trick and I took a treat out of his biscuit bag and placed a doggie cookie on top of his nose. He held it for thirty seconds without moving until I gave him the command “Eat it”. A second later I heard crunching sounds. We were working on a more complicated version of the trick and he could almost hold the treat on his nose while shaking hands. I just knew that in a few weeks he would be ready for David Letterman’s Stupid Pet Tricks.
     We arrived in Matzatlan well after dark. Because of the holiday, there was a lack of hotel vacancies. “I think I saw a motel sign when we passed the airport” I said with a modicum of optimism.
     We turned around and in a couple of miles spotted the sign on our left. A black arrow indicated that it was located down the side street. It looked more like a compound than an inn. We pressed a buzzer on a brick post and the mechanical arm swung up allowing our car to pass through. Once inside we parked next to a kiosk type structure with a Plexiglas window. It reminded me of the ticket booth at the Cineplex Theater. I plucked the English/Spanish phrasebook from the floor, hoping to negotiate a good deal on a room and approached the window. I leaned forward and put my mouth up close to the Speak-Thru.
      “Cuanto cuesta por una noche?”
      The woman on the other side of the window answered “Trenta pesos por hora.”
     I thumbed through the “Staying in a Hotel” section of the book. She understood that I was inquiring about a nightly rate but her reply left me bewildered. I turned to Larry and whispered, “I think she said thirty pesos but I don’t get what she meant by hour. Maybe she wants to know what time we are leaving.” I attempted a different approach, this time raising my voice to an 80 decibel shout so she could understand what I was saying.
      We came to a mutually agreeable rate for the night, not because I successfully negotiated a great deal, but when I stuffed the peso equivalent of twenty dollars under the little opening, she shook her head and wagged her finger at me until I finally crammed through enough pesos to make her smile and nod her head. We turned around to return to our car and as an afterthought I turned back to her and blurted out “Oh, y yo tengo a dog, I mean perro.” She looked at Kyi, rolled her eyes and shrugged her shoulders.
     “Okay” she said. I later realized that okay in these circumstances was the equivalent of the English expression “whatever floats your boat”.
     With a key in hand, we climbed back into the car and followed her to our accommodation. The motel looked like a series of duplexes laid out in a circle. There were no windows that I could see anywhere and no cars parked in the driveways. She opened a garage door and instructed us to park inside. Before we walked into the room I noticed a Lazy Susan type contraption built into the wall next to the door. The room’s interior was a veritable pleasure palace. Frescos of cherubs clutching vulva shaped harps adorned the ceiling. There was no closet for the weary road warrior to hang up wrinkled garments.  All I could see were two pegs next to the kingsized bed. Apparently their guests were strictly the low-key cash and carry types. The Lazy Susan device swiveled like a miniature revolving door. The person outside could not see the person inside and vice versa. A take out pizza delivery could be placed inside of it and money exchanged with no fear of discovery. I marveled at how much thought had been put into art of coitus camouflage.
     At the end of the bed was a wall with a floor to ceiling mirror. I swore I could hear barely perceptible whispers and smell the faint fragrance of popcorn coming from the room adjacent to ours.  I wondered if we were on the peepshow side of a two way mirror. I called Kyi over to my side and we faced our audience. I pulled out a doggie treat and placed it gently on his nose.