In Mexico There Are Tacos

My dad loves the ocean.

At the happy age of seventeen, with a baby (me) on the way, he left Iowa to join the Marines. He was subsequently stationed in California.

Besides a little time overseas, he never left California. That was almost forty years ago. One of the perks of living in Orange county is that Mexico is only a few hours away. One of the perks of me being his Floridian daughter is that when I visit, my dad takes me on adventures.

The latest being a delicious jaunt into Tijuana. And our specific reason for going? My darling boyfriend had never been to Mexico.

He had traveled with me to visit my dad, who only three months before had dropped dead while at work. You can imagine, then, that I was eager to visit my father, to hug him, and for my boyfriend of two years to finally meet him.

My dad, obviously, was revived. The doctors called him a miracle because it took over twenty minutes to resuscitate his tired heart and then he had to be "iced" for forty-eight hours. They did not expect him to continue living.

But amazingly, he did. Three months later, cue my necessary visit. All I wanted was to hug him, to touch his beard and assure myself that he was indeed breathing. Not only was he breathing, but he was back to his stubborn, adorable self.

While chatting, my dad and boyfriend discovered their mutual love of beef tacos. It had been a year due to Covid since my surfing, motorcyclist Viking of a father had made a trip down to his favorite taco stand.

And so we went. We showed our passports. We crossed the border, walking into a line of taxis waiting for us. It took some minutes to locate the object of our hungry hearts. The driver was patient with our broken Spanish.

But finally. There it was. I didn't know if the place was a stand, if it was mobile. All I saw was a giant hunk of browned, crisped meat hanging from a hook at the top of the flimsy roof covering. A cook sheared strips off the meat, flung them to a sizzling grill, and chopped them into tiny shards of beefy perfection. Someone else scooped the meat onto the tortillas and then covered them with onions, bright green cilantro, and secret sauce.

We approached eagerly. I could practically see my dad and boyfriend salivating. I was a little nervous. My dad had done a good bit of raving about these tacos, and not being an avid meat-eater, I was afraid I might not like them.

The cooks greeted us with smiles. We placed our orders. My tacos came to me individually placed within a flimsy paper that I tried to keep out of my taco as I positioned it for the initial taste.

My father always insists Mexican beef tastes better. I can't speak to that, but I will say that the savory, flavorful bite I took delivered beyond my expectations. The seasoning in the meat, the crisp tang of cilantro and lime, and whatever else was in the taco, lured me in and turned me into a taco-eating machine.

We three Americans stood on a curb, cars flying down the street, strangers passing by, and chowed down our tacos with goofy smiles.

I watched my boyfriend, a precious man who has made my life infinitely better, and my very much alive father, enjoy their food. And my heart pounded with thankfulness.

Life is a fragile, vulnerable commodity often taken for granted. It was hard to believe that I was there, in Mexico, eating tacos with the dad who had died.

As delicious as they were, they couldn't compete with the sacred joy of my happiness. Hot sun, cooking beef, and a contented thankfulness of being alive. Together. Sharing the camaraderie of breaking bread together.

Or, in this case, tacos.