El Limerick y La Cucaracha

Good lord at staying out toda la noche.  

But I was not the only one, ¡Gracias a Dios!  Sarah got home at 0800 hours and Julia at 1030 hours.  So my adventure began at around 7:30 or 8:00 pm. Closer to 9:00pm.  Melissa wanted to go salsa dancing, por supuesto, and I went with her.  We went to Mama Mia's first for dinner and a drink.  It was delicious -- Italian food -- we had a pizza and an ensalada caprese (fresh mozzarella, basil, tomatoes and greens).  So we left there, going to El Ring, where they were supposed to have salsa between 9 and 11 pm.  

Not so. 

So we walked around and then went to the Limerick Pub -- an Irish pub in Mexico, owned by Argentinians -- and listened to U2 and various other popular bands (not in person) over the (very) loud speaker.  Then Choc showed up.  Then Henry, who went to Baylor at the same time I was there and dated one of my brother's ex-girlfriends, the sister of one of my ex-classmates.  Henry graduated Baylor law school and practiced in Dallas as a public defender for a while, realized a dire need for being able to speak Spanish, and got permission from his boss to spend a month at a time in San Miguel learning to speak it.  Then, after a few years of intermittent study, he decided to leave his lawyer job and come to San Miguel to teach English as a Second Language.  Now he writes for a SMA newspaper.  
So Melissa had already left, and we were just hanging out and people-watching, considering out loud when was the last time any of the three of us had had what we would call a "real date".  (Answer:  On average, about a year and a half).  So we stayed at The Limerick until sometime between 1 and 2am and then went to a local bar of decidedly ill repute called La Cucaracha (can't imagine WHY a bar of such a suave name would get a bad reputation).  

Save Charles, the retired-at-age-forty-four gay man  from San Francisco, we were the ONLY white, non-Hispanic people in the entire establishment.  Henry introduced us to some friends --  Armando, Charles and a woman whose name has since escaped me.  

Chit. Chat.  

Someone decides that we start (or should I say 'continue' with tequila).  I refuse to shoot it, and I sip alongside Henry.  Choc shoots.  Then Geraldo (henceforth "Jerry") and his friend, the extremely drunk Chilango, set about chatting us up, assuring us that they have many American friends.  

 Good times. 

Then I reiterate to Choc that his role is to protect me, the one white American girl in the place, from the vast majority of Mexican men.  In doing so, I give him express permission to claim me, kiss me, hold my hand -- whatever it takes to keep me from being "taken" by the natives.  Well, Jerry starts kissing my hand and commenting about the beauty of my eyes.  Then he put his hand on my a**.  So I turn to Choc, with pleading eyes and advise him, "grabbing my a**!  grabbing my a**!" So Choc, misunderstanding my not-so-secret code, GRABS MY A**!  Surprised and a little inspired, I said, "No! Jerry is grabbing my a**!" So, having not perfected our code, Choc and I drift closer to Armando, Charles and (I shall call her) Carmela.  

In a corner, where, in an effort to put as many friendly male bodies between me and Jerry the Beso-saurus, I lean against the wall. Unfortunately, in doing so, I turn out all the lights in the bar.  So I quickly and not-so-nonchalantly flip them back on.  So then we start watching Choc continue to sidle up to the drunk Mexicans.  The Chilango is getting more and more drunk and, por supuesto, more and more animated.  Especially with his tongue, which he is somehow able to maintain outside of his mouth at least 50 percent of the time. I glance and catch him (Chilango) staring at me, salivating and licking his lips in my general direction.  

Fabuloso.  

So, averting my gaze, I shift Henry a little more to the left and put in place a strong and living, breathing boundary between me and the Lip-Licker.  Jerry wants to kiss my hand again.  There's no avoiding it.  Then some young kid in a canary yellow golf visor walks in, and Charles salutes him, noting, "There's mi hijo, El Diablo".  El Diablo is a Los Angeles native and ex-Marine named Andrew, who has just left one of two local strip bars.  Henry, the ex-patriate local periodista, is incredulous, apparently having known nothing of such establishments in tranquil San Miguel. 

Charles, the retired-at-age-forty-four gay man from San Francisco who could very likely care not-a-bit-less about anything, spoke from experience to say that yes, in fact there are "a few places here where you can go watch cottage cheese slide down a pole".  And he has been there.  

(Universe shifting). 

Well, after a few more of the same exchanges and avoidances of kissing in various degrees and stages of repulsiveness, Henry asked if we would like to move to sit on one of the small couches in the corner.  So we sit down, Charles, Henry and I, and shortly, Choc pulls up a stool. So, we visit for a while, and before long, Henry has enough and checks out for the evening (morning).  

Oh no, empty chair.  Beside me.

Eyes fixed on the painfully obviously-empty chair just sitting there, bound to be filled by Los Borrachos, it is in this precious moment that Charles points out that I am the ONLY female of any race in the entire establishment. Yes, the only one. So I am sitting on, of all things, a love seat, alone.  Empathetically understanding my plight, Charles transplants himself to occupy the vacancy.  Thankfully he takes up the space closest to me, but he leaves the chair to my left empty.  

Enter Jerry. 

The next thing I see is Choc signaling something to the Chilango -- and then the Chilango starts unbuttoning his shirt. (Meanwhile, I am denying my most natural inclination to dance because the only one asking is Jerry) and the Chilango shucks his entire shirt right in the middle of the bar.  Presumably to show Choc the tattoo on his back that bears his last name.  The three of us, Choc, Charles and I quickly confirm, for reasons unknown, that none of us has ever had a tattoo. Jerry persists.  Dance?  Kiss? Charles, in an epic moment of enlightenment, puts his arm around me and starts stroking my hair.  As if scripted, the more insistent and piercing Jerry's stares, the more involved I become in Charles' embrace.  He completely surrounds me and assures Jerry -- who, in a more lucid state might have remembered my hours-previous claim that I belonged "only to Choc" -- that I was "completely faithful to him and only him," that we are leaving together.  

Fortunately, we had Victoria (a brand name of beer here) on our side, and she had done a smashing job of erasing any and all memories from Jerry's mind that were more than ten, fifteen seconds old.  

Thanks be to the Virgin Mary.  

Al fin y al cabo, we were able to outlast the locals and make a safe and obvious escape from the San Migueleño equivalent of Sue's Number Two in Waco, Texas. 

I can't wait to go back.