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DAY
SIXTEEN COMMENTARY
I broke The Rule.
I consumed alcohol -- two beers -- with dinner, then rode the bike home.
OK, you got me; this was actually the third time I’ve
done it since I got the bike in June of 2005. The last and most recent
was on Day One of the trip -- two sips of champagne (Domaine Carneros
“La Reve” 1997, and I’m sure the other bottle was destroyed by family
members after I
left). The only other one was after a particularly bad session of
disagreement with the wife, at which point a late afternoon bike ride
seemed the only cure. And as much as you’d be forgiven for thinking
there may have been many such “sessions”, given the eventual divorce,
truth is those were not very common at all.
But, heck, breaking a rule here and there is what you gotta do when
you’ve taken the bike out to grab dinner in Ciudad Acuna, Mexico.
You heard me! It is now “Follow El
Jefe (tm)”!
Not only that, but…um, sorry, but we are getting way ahead of
ourselves. Here’s how it played out, and I must warn you I have
very few pictures from this day.
Having heard the roosters crowing early in the morning in
Fredericksburg, but choosing to stay in bed, I eventually awoke at
around 8:30 AM. After a fantastic German-style apple puff pancake
breakfast thoughtfully prepared by my hostess, I tried to perform some
spreadsheet editing for a very important project she was working on.
Incredibly enough, however, being foiled repeatedly by version
incompatibilities of her files and my version of Microsoft Excel, we
had to bail on that idea. I did, however, carry in from the shed, and
then help clean two giant tables which she needed for a study class she
was putting together. I was also able to identify the source of the big
red wasps that terrorized the shed and anyone who was in it…
Before I left we talked quite a bit about her connections with the Hopi
tribe out in northwestern Arizona, which is interesting because a
gentleman with whom I had been chatting back in Knoxville had suggested
visiting the village of Old Orabai on the reservation, said to be the
oldest continually inhabited place in North America. If my travels take
me out that way, it may be a stop I must make. Sadly, as I was putting
on my jeans, I was a bit hasty and caught a toe in one of the weakest
areas of fabric, putting
a hole in them. I don’t think I’ve ever had jeans with a
hole in them! Now the question is whether or not they stay in the
rotation…time will tell…
Speaking of time, it was far later than I had wished to depart, nearly
4:30 PM already. This meant I’d be skipping entirely the main reason
for my stop in town, which was to visit the National Museum of the
Pacific War, named in honor of local boy Chester A. Nimitz (who,
despite having been born a few hundred miles away from the nearest big
body of water, the Gulf of Mexico, became one of the most respected
military leaders of the Pacific campaign during WWII). Well, I couldn’t
do it, and somehow I managed not to even see it, but hey, this was
easily the most unique stay of the trip thus far, and the experience
was pleasurable and I certainly could not complain.
I could
complain about the first mile of my ride out of there, however, as I
literally almost killed myself on the road leaving the house. I’m
pretty sure that if I had been able to see it during the daytime first,
I might have chosen not to travel over it at all. It was a dirt road,
rather uneven in spots, and with a layer of sand on top in some places.
So when I needed to put my feet down to keep from tipping over,
occasionally they would find no traction and slip out, and it would
then be a MAJOR effort to keep from going down, even at 1 MPH. A series
of progressively worsening slips n’ slides brought the bike almost
resting up against the embankment on the side of the road, with my
right ankle precariously wedged between the footpeg and the mound of
earth. Had I been any closer it may have been a serious injury.
I made it out of there alive and prepared to head southwest, having
managed to not snap a single picture of Fredericksburg itself. Stopping
first to buy ice, I caught a suggestion for a nearby scenic tour from a
dude whose parking spot at the convenience store I pretty much just
stole. Fortunately, he shook it off and was a good guy to talk to.
Sadly, by the time I finally departed, I was forced to conclude that I
didn’t have the time to follow that route. As consolation, I spotted
another entry in the “Weird Road Sign” category, this one for a
“Bugtussle Road” -- which I know for a fact existed somewhere else,
possibly back in Alabama.
The land soon became noticeably flatter leaving town, though the
secondary roads I was on were still very scenic. I
noticed that the nice breeze made it feel cool in the shade,
even though a recent electronic display claimed a temperature of 106
degrees. Is it me? Am I really used to this heat by now? I passed
through Bandera, a really cool-looking “frontier-type” town, and wished
I had time for din-dins there. A town called Hondo had a funny name and
a funny sign.
Meanwhile, among all the various different license plates
I’ve seen, recently I’ve spotted a few from Mexico. That’s something
new for The Chief (tm)! And on these Texas “highways” -- really just
four-lane roads, not limited-access superslabs, which feature speed
limits as high as 65 MPH in the boonies but far lower ones though town
-- I notice that drivers adhere completely to the posted numbers the
moment they increase or decrease, but once out in the open again it is
pedal to the metal.
Directions in Texas are sometimes given along the lines of “drive 143
miles and make a right”. Passing through Sabinal, TX, the rig ticked
over both the 3,000 mile mark and a possible lucky number
combination.
We roll over bridges across many dry river
beds, including in one sequence the Rio Frio and then the Dry Rio Frio
-- um, come again? If the original river is already dry, is the
second one meant to be really dry? What’s drier than dry?
Somewhere along the way I see a cloud formation that, to me, looks as
if a very contented Santa
Claus (seen from the side) tipped back his
head and smiled.
I have developed the opinion that riding in, and directly into this sun
is a pain in the neck. Not only because of the heat itself, but also
because of the visibility, especially when it pokes its way beneath my
helmet’s visor. It feels like it just seems to wear you down.
Somewhat worn down, I arrive at the outskirts of town and angle
towards my hotel. I pass gas stations with signs offering “Deer Corn”,
including one which boasts “Deer Corn ALWAYS Available”, apparently at
this little nearby shed where the honor system is employed. That’s all
well and good, but my thought is, “what the hell is ‘deer corn’ in
the first place?” The other thing I see a lot of are “beer stops”,
which are drive-through beer distributors. The signs indicate that they
don’t really want you getting out of your car -- they fetch it for you.
Suddenly a Honda motorcycle dealership looms ahead of me, perhaps two
miles from where I’m staying. This is perfect, because the time is
right for an oil change, and there’s a laundromat nearby where I could
clean the clothes while the guys are working on the bike. As I pull up
closer to check on the hours of operation, the sign reveals that the
service department is closed on Monday, crushing this idea as quickly
as it had come to me.
The Days Inn on Veterans’ Boulevard features all suites and
kitchenettes, which is pretty nice even though I doubt I’ll put the
kitchen to use. Looks like there’ll be plenty of room to lay out the
laptop and get some work done, if possible, although it’s already about
9 PM and I still haven’t eaten dinner. How to handle it? The plan was
to go over the border into Mexico for the first time in my life, paying
homage to my part-Mexican heritage in the process. But now it’s late on
a Sunday night; will things still be open? Will it be safe? One odd
element in the mix is that I really have zero ability to communicate in
Spanish. This despite the fact that I can practically read it from
having seen all the ads on the subway going to high school every day,
and even though I can speak French, which I’d figure would provide some
cross-language competence but does not. And it’s funny -- having grown
up in the best city in the world, New York, I’m not at all
uncomfortable about being in foreign places, but in this instance I’m
really kind of unsure about it.
Also, how should I actually get there? I don’t think it’s a great idea
to ride the bike -- not only will I want a beer or two, but if
something were to happen to it over there, where it is uninsured, I am
told it would be a complete disaster. Meanwhile, a cab from the motel
would set me back about $50 for the round-trip. OUCH!
But the girl at the desk tells me you can park right at the border
crossing and walk over, only about three-quarters of a mile, or take a
cab from the parking lot for far less than it would cost from the
motel. I’ll do one of those two things, then; probably walk the bridge
so I can burn off the few beers I’m sure to have.
On the way down there I see the most noteworthy “beer stop” of them
all, which is called something like “’Fabulous’ John Chuy’s Beer Stop”.
It features a brightly lit sign that I fail to take a picture of -- as
I don’t want to be the typical camera-carrying tourist when I’m in
Mexico, I don’t have it with me -- but which can only be described as
looking exactly like the famous “Welcome to Vegas” sign. Wotta
riot! Fabulous indeed.
So here I am, right near the border now; there’s the parking lot, and I
pull into it. Looks as safe as one could reasonably wish, well-enough
lit and just yards away from the border control plaza. I create a spot,
back into it, kill the engine, and am not quite out of the seat when I
stop and think, “what the heck am I doing?” The bike has gotten me this
far, and suddenly it’s not going to come into Mexico with me? Nonsense
-- I fire it back up, point it south, and wheel it over the Rio Grande!
Now, I do have to say that I never actually see the Rio Grande,
because
it’s dark out. On the other hand, there it is -- “BIENVENIDOS
A MEXICO!” I am in
Mexico for the first time ever, and Ciudad Acuna beckons. Incredible!
(Cinematic Aside: the plan originally called for me to go to Eagle
Pass, TX, and hop across into Piedras Negras instead -- and this was
before I ever saw "No Country For Old Men", which featured some scenes
from Eagle Pass. Subsequently, driving through the business district in
Acuna, I thought to myself how it looked a lot like the area from the
movie "El Mariachi", but hey, a lot of these border towns look alike,
right? Wrong, jalapeno-breath: "El Mariachi" was, in fact,
filmed here, because the producer/director, Carlos Gallardo, is a
native.)
I go to “Crosby’s”, an admittedly non-Mexican-sounding place, but it’s
been there since I believe 1925 so it’s legit. Folks at the bar up
front, dining room in the back with green-jacketed waiters and one
occupied table, a large family of locals here enjoying a late dinner --
I am styling, and it gets better when they tell me to park the bike in
their inner court. I select garlic soup as an appetizer and specify a
Negra Modelo to go along with the chips and excellent homemade salsa
and sauce. The only disappointment is that the garlic soup lessens some
of the taste of the “Fish Veracruz” entrée, but it still hits the spot.
Dinner comes to a total of $17, aided by the beers costing only $1.75
each! I ask for a few pesos as change, and they give me MXP11 in
exchange for a greenback, better than the 10:1 the motel clerk had said
I could expect.
Yes, I now have to ride the bike back after having consumed two beers,
but I should be able to handle that, right? People, maybe not! In
retrospect I’m pretty sure I went right through a stop sign at one
point (my eyes scanning all the local spots of interest instead), and
I’m positive
that I drove the wrong way down a one-way street directly
in front of the toll plaza at the bridge. Imagine that -- The Chief
(tm), International Scofflaw! I wonder how busted I would have been had
one of the many uniformed policemen chosen to take notice of my
foibles.
No problems at passport control back into the US, and my night is
almost over. Alas, no pictures of Mexico itself, because I hadn’t
brought the camera, but as evidence of my visit I can offer this, this,
and this. I
am completely delighted that I decided to take the bike over and that
I didn’t bail on the idea entirely. How stupid would that have been?
Buenos noches!
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