My Time In Mexico

It was the summer before 8th grade. My dad’s employer had him traveling for work. So, my mom and I met him done in Saltillo, Mexico.

It was a summer I would not forget. My favorite spot to eat was La Posta. They had the best mouthwatering Desebradas.

I remember hanging out with the other older women who were visiting from the states. We often got together at one of the houses they were staying in to hang out together.

One day we had decided to go on a drive to a near by town. We ended up getting in a car crash on the way there. We spent half the day in a Mexican jail waiting for someone to come help us out. No one I was with spoke good Spanish, so we needed an interpreter to come translate.

One afternoon we had a couple of neighborhood kids stop by for a visit. They wanted to wash our car for a few pesos. What was funny was that there was no car even there. Like I stated our Spanish was very limited.

My mom continued to try to explain to them that we had no car, and we were just visiting. We had flown into Mexico on an airplane. Just picture it. Here she was with her arms spread out making airplane noises as she walked around in circles. The kids laughed at her and called her Loco.

Other days when we were not hanging out with friends or taking road trips, we would walk to the neighborhood corner store for some huevos, Fanta, and other items needed. As we walked back, we would hear cat calls from the guys working on the street.

While we were there, we learned a lot of the culture and traditions of the area. At night sometimes a mariachi band would play outside in the street. During the day they would take siestas and eat dinner extremely late.

One of my favorite memories of our times in the state of Coahuila was our day trip, to the second largest cave system in the world found in Monterrey, Las Grutas de Garcia “the Garcia Caves”.

We were riding up the side of the mountain in the aerial tramway as some local teens were making jokes about it breaking. It would make loud creaks as it slowly moved along the way.

These boys had caught my eye. I think my father knew as I lagged a bit behind our group as we toured the caves. A flirty smile and a quick glimpse we shared between each other as we walked on by. Another memory to file away for another time.

The day was soon arriving, it would be our first time at a bull fight. I did not know what to expect. We drove over to the outskirts of town to the location that was hosting the bull fight. It was called La Plaza de Toros.

The arena was a sandy area surrounded by bleachers. We walked over to the bleachers to pick out the perfect spot to sit. There were men on horses called picadors, other assistant bullfighters called banderilleros, and the main bullfighter they called a Matador.

It was like watching a special performance. The footwork of these brave men was like watching a graceful dance as they lightly swept across the arena. The cape or what is called a muleta was red. The matador waved it through the air and twirled it next to his body as the bull passed by just on his left.

The audience marveled at the matador’s performance. It was like a picturesque work of art. Filled with rememberable moments of brief stances almost as if he gave us a chance to capture his braveness as he posed.