How the Worst that Can Happen Could Be the Best that Could Happen

Dateline:  Toll Road into Mexico City, after midnight, raining. And we are out of gas. Stress.

This episode will make no sense unless you read Episode One and Episode Two. Even then, the true story will make only marginal sense.

After a whispered confab and a prayer, Sam and I, okay Sam, asked the truck driver to follow us until we ran out of gas, She told him both of us would climb in for the ride.  Less than ten minutes later the inevitable came to pass.  What was said during those ten minutes Sam and I never talked about again, but each of us knew the other’s final wishes should only one of us survive. Even El Sanborn was part of the deal as we both forgave him for not warning us about the gas situation, which Sam still contended was my responsibility, but I forgave her because I’d heard nuns could be stubborn.

Stress Management:

I hit the hazard lights and rolled to a stop on the shoulder.  The trucker stopped as promised, but on learning that we both were coming along, said there was only room for one in the truck cab.  The other one could ride in the back.  Which is how Sam and I ended up coming into Mexico City in a driving rainstorm at two in the morning on a pile of mangos.

Now, wait.  Remember how the worst thing that could happen can turn out to be the best?

We made it to the Pemex station and did find a return ride (surprise, surprise given my pink see-through pants) in the cab of a Pemex hauler with two tanks behind him.  Sam and I were squeezed between the driver and his helper with six long and scary looking gear shifts mingled amongst our legs.  Sam had gone mute while I couldn’t shut up telling the truckers how we were the nieces of the president of the United States and most likely plenty of people were out searching for us already. Though she’d made her position clear, I kept elbowing Sam in the ribs telling her to translate while I peered up through the windshield pretending to look for search helicopters.  We politely declined the suggestion we all stop for a drink. Or, I did. Like I said, at this point, Sam only stared straight ahead.

The Pemex honchos refused to accept any money after they dropped us off and poured in the gas, but we gave them each a cola as a thank-you.  Of course, five miles down the road while we were still hugging each other and congratulating ourselves on being alive, we realized just what kind of surprise our friends would have when the still over-heated cans were opened.  Now, here comes the good ending.  We’d planned on staying the night with a distant aunt of Sam’s in Mexico City which obviously wasn’t going to work out.  Thus, I checked us into the Maria Barbara Motel, a place I’d stayed with my family on the northern outskirts of the city, and by now hungry and thirsty, we hit the bar where food was still being served.  Also, a little combo was playing.

A little combo with a cute bongo player who noticed Sam the minute she came in.  After a couple of chicken tacos, I crawled away from the table and passed out in our room without even changing out of my wet clothes.

When I woke up, Sam hadn’t been to the room.  I found her when I went down to breakfast.  She and Bongo Boy were still at the table from last night. Still talking and giggling like six-graders.  That was as far as the romance went, they never spoke again, much less ever kissed.  Yet, Sam forgave me everything from the night before declaring it had turned into the best night of her life.

As she climbed into shotgun she said, “I can do this. I’m pretty. Guys are going to like me.”

We consulted El Sanborn and carefully mapped the way to the relative’s house in Mexico City.  Then we drove around lost for almost five hours, consulted El Sanborn for a nice restaurant, then followed a taxi to the address.

 

 

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