Friday, November 11, 2005
Oh Conquistador, my Conquistador, Mexico
Our day began with a very deep topic of conversation: Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.
“Do you think they’re really a couple?” I asked Quang over coffee. We were lingering in a San Miguel café reading a People magazine dated from July.
“Probably,” Quang said.
“If they are, I don’t think it’ll last,” I told him. “She’s too independent. She’s got her kids, her peace mission stuff. She’s way too into her own thing. He’s just a fling.”
“Oh, it’ll last,” Quang argued. “Even a woman like Angelina Jolie, even a woman who’s got her own thing, needs to scratch that itch every once in a while.”
“Scratch that itch?” I smirked.
“Yep,” he continued. “See, it’s a hassle to find a man when you’ve got that urge. It’s just more convenient to have one that’s already around. Then you’re not wasting time. She’ll keep Brad Pitt around because he’ll scratch that itch, and then she can go back to doing her own thing.” He paused, looked me directly in the eyes and smiled. “She’s no different from you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, really? And how’s that?”
“Well, you like to go off and do your own thing. You’re very into that. But after awhile, you needed to scratch that itch. I scratched it for you and then I let you go back to doing your thing. See, I’m not threatened by your individuality. I’ll let you be yourself, and that’s the secret. By letting you be you, I conquered you.”
I rolled my eyes. Since arriving in Mexico, Quang has been calling himself my “Conquistador”, like he is Cortes conquering the Aztecs, except it’s him conquering me. In general, this results in much eye rolling on my part, either that, or I sugar-coat my words in sarcasm and mockingly say, “Oh, yes my Conquistador.”
“It’s like Taming of the Shrew,” Quang continued. “Except I’m more subtle. I was more elegant about it.”
“Yeah. You’re elegant all right,” I answered, yet his words stuck in my mind. Five years ago, I would have huffed at this conversation. I would have declared Quang crazy and left the table. But now, I found this talk amusing, not maddening. Had I been tamed?
The answer was no. Two hours later we were standing on the side of a two-lane highway outside of San Miguel. We’d just gotten off a bus, at our driver’s insistence, and were, as far as we could tell, not at all where we wanted to be. We wanted to be at La Gruta, a natural hot spring. Instead, we were looking at a massive furniture warehouse surrounded by a dusty, dessert field.
Quang interrogated me. “What did the driver say? What did he say?”
“He said we needed to get off here. Here. He said he didn’t know what La Gruta was, but he said the hot water was behind us. Back down the road. He looked at me like I was crazy. You saw him.”
“Let’s go ask in there,” Quang pointed to the furniture store.
“Wait,” I said, digging out the guidebook and flipping to the page on the hot springs, determined to find our way.
“Just go,” Quang commanded. “Just go in there and ask.” He started to cross the highway, leaving me to follow. “You just ask, ‘Where is La Gruta?’ Ask, ‘Is it close to here?’ Ask, ´Which direction is it?’ Ask if we can walk. Ask how far away it is. Ask if she knows what it is.”
“Stop it!” I snapped. “Stop telling me what to say. Do you think I don’t know what to ask? Do you think I don´t know how to ask questions? Do you think I don’t know to ask if they know where it is and in what direction? Stop telling me what to do.” These were not the words of a tamed woman.
Quang snapped back something equally snide. I passed him by, walked into the furniture store and called out hello. A woman appeared, I asked her a series of questions, and learned the hot springs were indeed nearby. Just as the bus driver said, they were behind us, back down the highway, the way we’d come. We set off in the direction she pointed, picking our way along the side of the highway, annoyed with each other and the bus driver. If the hot springs were right off the highway, like the guidebook and the furniture clerk said, then why hadn’t the driver just stopped there? Quang was busily cursing bus drivers everywhere, especially Mexican bus drivers.
Suddenly, I screamed.
“What? What?” Quang sprang to my side. “What is it?”
“Oh my God! A dog. It’s a dog. It’s dead. Oh my God! I can’t look. I can’t look.” I held my hand up over my eyes and picked up my pace. A large, white dog was dead on the side of the road. Its legs stuck stiffly up into the air.
“Yeah, it’s starting to smell,” Quang said.
We gagged, held our noses shut and passed by.
The decaying dog smell gone, Quang started talking again. “By the way, when we get home, don’t you ever tell me I should go on a walk with you ever again. I’ve already done enough walking on this trip to last my entire lifetime, and I have a feeling I’m going to be walking a whole lot more, stupid bus drivers. When we are done with this trip, I’m never going on another walk again.”
“What if you are like 60 and a doctor tells you you should walk, that you should exercise more?” I taunted.
“I’ll ride a bike,” he snorted.
Who’s untamed now, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. Finally, a mile later, we reached a curve in the highway with a sign the size of a van on which the words “La Gruta” were plainly painted. Was the bus driver blind?
We strode purposefully to the entrance, paid our fee, found the changing rooms and slipped into our suits. The first hot pool was just around the corner and we walked towards it, silently.
With the water in sight, Quang placed a hand on my hip and stepped aside. He let me walk first.
I reached the water´s edge, dipped a foot in the pool and looked back at Quang. “It’s hot,” I smiled. I reached my hand back towards him, “Come on, Conquistador.”
He took my hand and together we slid into the hot water.
“Do you think they’re really a couple?” I asked Quang over coffee. We were lingering in a San Miguel café reading a People magazine dated from July.
“Probably,” Quang said.
“If they are, I don’t think it’ll last,” I told him. “She’s too independent. She’s got her kids, her peace mission stuff. She’s way too into her own thing. He’s just a fling.”
“Oh, it’ll last,” Quang argued. “Even a woman like Angelina Jolie, even a woman who’s got her own thing, needs to scratch that itch every once in a while.”
“Scratch that itch?” I smirked.
“Yep,” he continued. “See, it’s a hassle to find a man when you’ve got that urge. It’s just more convenient to have one that’s already around. Then you’re not wasting time. She’ll keep Brad Pitt around because he’ll scratch that itch, and then she can go back to doing her own thing.” He paused, looked me directly in the eyes and smiled. “She’s no different from you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, really? And how’s that?”
“Well, you like to go off and do your own thing. You’re very into that. But after awhile, you needed to scratch that itch. I scratched it for you and then I let you go back to doing your thing. See, I’m not threatened by your individuality. I’ll let you be yourself, and that’s the secret. By letting you be you, I conquered you.”
I rolled my eyes. Since arriving in Mexico, Quang has been calling himself my “Conquistador”, like he is Cortes conquering the Aztecs, except it’s him conquering me. In general, this results in much eye rolling on my part, either that, or I sugar-coat my words in sarcasm and mockingly say, “Oh, yes my Conquistador.”
“It’s like Taming of the Shrew,” Quang continued. “Except I’m more subtle. I was more elegant about it.”
“Yeah. You’re elegant all right,” I answered, yet his words stuck in my mind. Five years ago, I would have huffed at this conversation. I would have declared Quang crazy and left the table. But now, I found this talk amusing, not maddening. Had I been tamed?
The answer was no. Two hours later we were standing on the side of a two-lane highway outside of San Miguel. We’d just gotten off a bus, at our driver’s insistence, and were, as far as we could tell, not at all where we wanted to be. We wanted to be at La Gruta, a natural hot spring. Instead, we were looking at a massive furniture warehouse surrounded by a dusty, dessert field.
Quang interrogated me. “What did the driver say? What did he say?”
“He said we needed to get off here. Here. He said he didn’t know what La Gruta was, but he said the hot water was behind us. Back down the road. He looked at me like I was crazy. You saw him.”
“Let’s go ask in there,” Quang pointed to the furniture store.
“Wait,” I said, digging out the guidebook and flipping to the page on the hot springs, determined to find our way.
“Just go,” Quang commanded. “Just go in there and ask.” He started to cross the highway, leaving me to follow. “You just ask, ‘Where is La Gruta?’ Ask, ‘Is it close to here?’ Ask, ´Which direction is it?’ Ask if we can walk. Ask how far away it is. Ask if she knows what it is.”
“Stop it!” I snapped. “Stop telling me what to say. Do you think I don’t know what to ask? Do you think I don´t know how to ask questions? Do you think I don’t know to ask if they know where it is and in what direction? Stop telling me what to do.” These were not the words of a tamed woman.
Quang snapped back something equally snide. I passed him by, walked into the furniture store and called out hello. A woman appeared, I asked her a series of questions, and learned the hot springs were indeed nearby. Just as the bus driver said, they were behind us, back down the highway, the way we’d come. We set off in the direction she pointed, picking our way along the side of the highway, annoyed with each other and the bus driver. If the hot springs were right off the highway, like the guidebook and the furniture clerk said, then why hadn’t the driver just stopped there? Quang was busily cursing bus drivers everywhere, especially Mexican bus drivers.
Suddenly, I screamed.
“What? What?” Quang sprang to my side. “What is it?”
“Oh my God! A dog. It’s a dog. It’s dead. Oh my God! I can’t look. I can’t look.” I held my hand up over my eyes and picked up my pace. A large, white dog was dead on the side of the road. Its legs stuck stiffly up into the air.
“Yeah, it’s starting to smell,” Quang said.
We gagged, held our noses shut and passed by.
The decaying dog smell gone, Quang started talking again. “By the way, when we get home, don’t you ever tell me I should go on a walk with you ever again. I’ve already done enough walking on this trip to last my entire lifetime, and I have a feeling I’m going to be walking a whole lot more, stupid bus drivers. When we are done with this trip, I’m never going on another walk again.”
“What if you are like 60 and a doctor tells you you should walk, that you should exercise more?” I taunted.
“I’ll ride a bike,” he snorted.
Who’s untamed now, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. Finally, a mile later, we reached a curve in the highway with a sign the size of a van on which the words “La Gruta” were plainly painted. Was the bus driver blind?
We strode purposefully to the entrance, paid our fee, found the changing rooms and slipped into our suits. The first hot pool was just around the corner and we walked towards it, silently.
With the water in sight, Quang placed a hand on my hip and stepped aside. He let me walk first.
I reached the water´s edge, dipped a foot in the pool and looked back at Quang. “It’s hot,” I smiled. I reached my hand back towards him, “Come on, Conquistador.”
He took my hand and together we slid into the hot water.
