Augusten had called me in the middle of January of 1995. In those days, we chatted often as he worked on different writing projects; he would read to me over the phone (he lived in Chicago) and I would give him my opinion. We also talked about life. He was often either drinking or drunk but he needed me and I needed him. I would tell him about how John had sabotaged my schoolwork, again. John utterly confused me in those days. It seemed that nothing I did ever pleased him, no matter how hard I tried. I walked on tiptoes, doing my best (but I was, and continue to be, a walking disaster - much like Pigpen from Peanuts, disorder seems to be attracted to me, like a strong magnet).
John would put my current textbooks – the ones I needed to read and bring to class each day - in boxes and haul them to the attic in the garage. He would throw out the papers that I was writing for my classes. He would complain constantly about the mess that my schoolwork made, but then he would turn around and tell me that he was proud of my work! I loved Augusten as my little brother and confidante; he was the only one who understood how confused I was about John’s behavior. John was both supportive and undermining at the same time – but mostly it felt undermining. To this day, I do not know how much was deliberate and how much was his subconscious acting out. I don’t know how I finished some of my classes - I had to rewrite several papers when the only copies vanished into the trash one day at the end of the fall semester, but nevertheless, I made serious progress in my graduate program.
In early January, I had finally submitted my completed and defended thesis to the graduate school and earned my master’s degree. At my defense presentation in December, I had already been asked what I planned to do for my dissertation topic. Bob Paynter had recommended that I chose something completely different from New England, the site of my thesis work, but gave no recommendations. I had been teaching “Ancient Civilizations,” a course on the first civilizations to emerge in various parts of the world, for about a year. My mentor for my course preparation, Don Proulx, had visited museums and sites around the world to get slides of various artifacts to show to his students. I had taken photos out of books but I felt like a fraud; I was supposed to be an expert but I’d never seen any of sites. And students sometimes called me out on my lack of expertise. Then, Augusten called.
He was proud of me. A little envious, too, but he was so very proud of me, for earning my first advanced degree. With casual curiosity, he asked me where I would go, if I could go anywhere in the world. So I told him, to visit some of the sites that I had only read about but taught. He probed, wanting to know what I would do with Jack, who was almost five. I decided that I would like to visit Mexico, to visit Olmec and Maya sites, and that if I could, I would bring Jack with me. Since this was purely hypothetical, I thought that visiting a foreign country with my active child wouldn’t be difficult. Augusten laughed and reminisced about his stay in Mexico with his mother at a similar age.
The next day, the FedEx man rang the doorbell. I peeked through the window in the door and was instantly puzzled. Who was sending a FedEx and was it bad news? I opened the door and the man handed me a clipboard to sign, then a letter. I opened the big envelope to find a pair of legal-sized envelopes inside. Each of these envelopes held a round trip open-jaw ticket to Mexico City from Chicago, one in my name and one in Jack’s. And Augusten called.
Augusten explained the tickets; Jack and I were to visit him in Chicago, then fly to Mexico for as long as we wanted. We would return through Chicago, then fly home to Massachusetts. We could take the trip any time in the next year. This was my graduation present. As Augusten said, if John wanted to come, he could buy his own damned tickets! Augusten didn’t want to reward his brother for his contradictory behavior towards my schooling but we both thought that there was no chance that John would ever come to Mexico, even if he was given the tickets. I was completely thrilled by Augusten’s thoughtfulness and was excited beyond all measure at the prospect of my first trip to Mexico. I had worked hard to earn my master’s degree and thought that this was the best possible present!
I immediately started doing research for the upcoming trip. I talked to everyone in the anthropology department who had worked in Mexico. Oriol Pi-Sunyer dropped an article into my mailbox from the New York Times about the Olmec museum in Jalapa (Xalapa). Brooke Thomas left an article about a little museum that he wanted me to visit in Chiapas. I bought travel guides and read everything I could get my hands on. I looked at maps. I plotted and planned, made lists, then rearranged and planned some more. I was very nervous about the trip but Brooke and Oriol reassured me that Mexico would be very friendly. I later discovered that they were very proud of me for being so adventurous.
I saved every cent I earned that spring. I wanted to have enough money to be able to travel comfortably but knew that I could not afford anything lavish. I bought some special items, such as hot weather clothes and tropical raingear. I stocked a compact first aid kit and Jack and I visited the travel nurse for necessary immunizations. We had trouble getting malaria medicine for Jack as it had to be specially formulated. Ultimately, I bought a pill crusher and was instructed on how to mix the powdered pills with water (and sugar) and to draw off an appropriate amount for his pint-size. I asked my friend Tonya to make some calls for me as her Spanish was better than mine, to make reservations for the first week or so. I wanted to make sure we had a nice place in which to stay for those first few days in Mexico City.
Finally, the spring semester ended and the time for our departure was upon us. I got all of our paperwork together. In 1995, we didn’t need passports but I had copies of our birth certificates and a notarized letter from John, giving me permission to bring Jack to Mexico. In the months leading up to the trip, Augusten had moved to New York; we no longer had a reason to visit Chicago but that is where our tickets routed us. So, we flew from Connecticut to Chicago, then to Mexico City on June 1. It was raining when we landed. The airport doesn’t have enough gates so we disembarked into a movable gate, which drove us to the main airport. Little Mexican ladies patted Jack on the head and called him, “Guapo.” This was the first of many times that little old ladies in Mexico smiled fondly at him, stroked his silvery-blond hair, and called him a handsome boy in Spanish. Jack was a little bewildered but polite. He grinned and showed the woman some of the little toys from his fanny pack.
In the airport, I pushed the button and got the green light, so we didn’t get searched. From the airport, we took a shared taxi to Casa Gonzalez, a small hotel for women near Zona Rosa, the tourist section of Mexico City. We were on a tight budget and I could not afford to stay in a nearby Hilton, even if I had wanted to go to an American-style hotel. As the taxi left the airport, the sun came out and the sidewalks quickly dried in the late afternoon heat.
Our taxi dropped us off; the other couple had exited at the Hilton. In the bright sunshine, I hauled our luggage up the sidewalk and rang the bell next to the iron gate which covered the door. A woman answered the door and told me, in Spanish. that I had no reservation and that there were no rooms available. She slammed the door in my face. And she would not return despite my continued ringing.
I was thunderstruck. Here we were: me, my little boy, and a big pile of luggage with no place to stay in a foreign city! This was not an auspicious start! I opened my tour book and looked for guidance. A couple of blocks away, Hotel Maria Christina had good recommendations and, at $40 USD per night, was only slightly more expensive than Casa Gonzalez ($35USD), and a lot less than the $200+ USD American-style giant hotels of Zona Rosa. I loaded the luggage onto the cart, grabbed Jack by the hand, and started down the sidewalk.
I was puffing and panting from the altitude and the polluted summer air in Mexico City. We arrived at the Maria Christina and, to my relief and delight, they had rooms available. I asked for and received a large room with two double beds on the fourth floor, but no air conditioning. We went up in a tiny elevator. I opened the windows in our new room but it was quite comfortable; a large fan slowly rotated just below the ceiling. The phone rang a few times and I answered it but no one was on the line. Jack explored the room while I changed; I was sweaty from hauling all of our belongings across several blocks and needed dry clothes.
As I undressed, I discovered a giant, painful boil on my belly; I was frantic. This was the kind of thing that would have sent me to the doctor’s office at home. I was afraid that I was going to get very sick and that my little boy would be alone in Mexico. I squeezed the boil until I cried from the pain. Finally, a massive gob of pus erupted. I continued to squeeze until it bled and no more pus emerged. I washed the mess off of my skin and grabbed my first aid kit. Inside, I had a tube of antibiotic ointment. I inserted the nozzle into the bloody hole on my stomach and filled the wound with soothing goo. I topped it with a giant band-aid and carefully zipped my shorts. To my surprise, it healed within two days without further treatment.
We took our camera, keys, and fanny packs and went out to explore. Down the street, there was a “Ladatel” phone. I bought a phone card at a neighborhood store and called John. I needed to tell him that we had changed hotels but that we had arrived without incident. He was not very chatty with me but he talked to Jack for a minute. We said our good-byes and continued our walk around the immediate neighborhood, buying cokes at a corner store. The man who sold us the sodas carefully wiped the tops with a rag; only days later did I realize that dogs sometimes urinated on the cases. We finally returned to our hotel to eat a light supper in the small restaurant in a courtyard. Jack and a little girl who was also staying in the hotel played around a little tiled fountain while her mother and I tried to chat in my broken Spanish. Eventually, we went back to our room. There was no swimming pool at this hotel but I filled the tub for Jack after plugging it with the stopper that I had brought from home. Jack loved to play with his boats and other toys in the tub at home but we had none with us. I folded a piece of paper to make a paper boat and Jack happily took his bath. Turning on the television, we discovered that “Canal 5” was devoted to children’s programming until about 8 PM. As the announcer informed us, “Buenos noches, chicos,” we retired, exhausted from the long day of travel.
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