Leaving San Miguel: Mexico Diaries II

I woke up before dawn, took one last shower in my scorpion-fucking-infested shower, pulled on some jeans, a t-shirt and well-worn guarachi's and wondered how I would carry that monster of a suitcase two blocks down a cobblestone street in the dark. I grabbed Rosa, shut the door of my little house one last time, walked down the curved garden path that led past the lime tree where I hung my clothes to dry, closed the huge wooden door to the street and stood for a moment looking toward the distant corner, lit by a streetlight. A bus would soon stop quickly at that corner, open its' doors wide to encompass me and take me in its' unsympathetic way to Mexico City, where I would fly away forever.

My body said, "go to the ocean," but my mind answered, "go home." "Fuck." I dragged the red suitcase another six inches. Getting a good grip I lifted it and pushed with my knees, moving it another four inches, tops. "Shit." I sat down on the suitcase and dug in my backpack for a cigarette. The Virgin of Guadalupe watched me from the match box as I sat in the dark and wished some mystery would appear. Some person to prophecy my future, tell me I had a future, love me, reassure me that everything was OK. God, I would give anything for a joint.

So I worked my way down the street that way, stone-by-stone, smoke in my lungs, already almost beaten by that red suitcase, heading away from a place I couldn't get enough of to a place I knew all too well: my parent's house and my old bedroom. "Fuck." The basketsellers were entering the street, and two of them lifted my bag and carried it quickly, skillfully and joyfully to the corner. "We are thankful that you decided not to die in a strange land, Gringa." They smiled their toothless smile and I was left alone again at the crossroads, but anyhow, we all knew this girl's soul had been used as hard currency one time too many in the kingdom of childhood.

I stood alone with Rosa, a paper mache doll with movable arms and legs that I bought on a trip to the market in Guanajuato with some Canadian friends. She was a beautiful Mexican Indian, and wore an embroidered blouse and long skirt that was frayed at the bottom. Her hair was of black yarn and braided, and painted on her chest were the letters "ROSA". I carried her with me for no particular reason, other than she would get totally flattened in my suitcase and I couldn't part with her. She was a thing of beauty and I valued her more highly than all of the silver and pre-columbian beads and precious stones that lined my red suitcase. The bus stopped, a gray haired woman in a rebozo got on and she and Rosa and I watched the desert landscape pass as the bus carried us to the future.