Romantic Interlude

I was sitting with her in Mamacita's, a small Mexican restaurant on second
floor of the Flea market overlooking the Cuale River in Puerto Vallarta.
Below, the river was swollen from recent rain and as we sat talking, having
Pepsi Colas, we watched debris come past in bobbing and swirling motion -
a swift current churned brown waters preventing women this day from
washing laundry along its banks. Perhaps tomorrow the women would come
back. Tomorrow could be a good day without rain and then they would
come with their clothes and pound them with sticks to beat out dirt with
quiet river water.
Earlier, we had walked close to the river on a path with flowers. The path
led away from tourist shops making a pleasant diversion from shopping. A
small Mexican girl had given her a flower from the path in friendship and
now lay on the counter in front of us. I turned our conversation to the
flower. "It was so nice for the little girl to give you the flower.” She
smiled remembering the little girl's delight. " Children are so friendly," she
said. "I can still see those others lined-up in front of the tortilla factory. They
were having fun waiting their turn." " Weren't they! Instead of being sent
by their parents to the well for water, they were sent to bring home tortillas.”
She changed the subject from the girls waiting for tortillas to our recent
flight from La Paz. " Aeromexico fed us well, didn't they? The flight wasn't
that long either, dinner over Tijuana, drinks between La Paz and Puerto
Vallarta,” She sat the bar stool on my left, legs crossed Sipping her Pepsi
through a straw. Wooden cases of empty soft drink bottles were stacked
seven high against a near wall behind us. Flies were there. Mamacita was
cooking on her open flame gas stove behind the bar. A couple of large
dishpans full of hot sauce simmered on the burners; vegetables lay bare on a
near chopping block. Mamacita wore an apron over her dress. The apron
was serving good purpose. I noticed there were no flies near the steaming
hot sauce. Was it because of the heat from the low gas flames or the things
in the sauce? I wished I knew what was in the hot sauce but decided I
shouldn't ask. A few Mexicans were at round metal tables near the fly pop
bottles - people ate from plates full of Mamacita's food. An old man with a
gray beard sat alone, sleeping with head on arms. His body was spent, old
sandals covered his feet, shirt and pants were dirty. He was an old man but I
didn't even know him so why should I think he was unhappy. He was a man
who could have many children and children can made a difference. I hoped
he was a man with a good family.
The rain was letting up. She talked about it. " We're not going to walk
across all those cobblestone streets again are we? This rain is too much. It's
a long way back to our hotel trying to miss all that gutter water. My legs
hurt. We can catch a bus or maybe a taxi. I've got a good idea," she suddenly
delighted," we can walk in the sand along the beach."
" Okay by me. The beach is shorter than walking Morelos and Avenue
Mexico anyhow. Besides, I don't think we could catch a bus at this time of
day - they'd be awfully crowded. A walk along the beach would be
fun."Amusingly, I added, " We could save money, watch parasailing and get
sand between our toes."
Her eyes showed humor. "Always did like to do that," she smiled, aching
legs now forgotten. Streets in Puerto Vallarta are one way without signals.
One must be alert while crossing in the rain for traffic is not halted for
pedestrians. Whether on foot or driving, it's every man for himself. In some
areas, when it's dry, teams of men with picks and shovels replace broken
cobblestones. Main roads out of town are paved but downtown,
cobblestones are used to retain the attractiveness of its Colonial character.
Buildings are of Spanish architecture in various states of repair - some well
restored, others needing much work. On corners and at curb sides, venders
sell food from open carts and wooden stalls; shoeshine boys dart in and out
of the crowds looking for customers; entrances to banks and money
exchange shops are guarded by uniform men with pistols and shotguns.
Giving her a few new words of interest I said, " Our hotel has a great
Polynesian dining room. Hollywood couldn't have staged our dinners more
dramatically. Weird masks on the walls, rain outside, lightning that night
over the ocean - gad, what an effect! The dining room reminds me of
Disneyland's Tiki Room, much larger though."
" Are you through with you Pepsi," she asked abruptly, apparently tired
of sitting and wanting to leave.
" I guess so. Whenever you're ready." I laid a hundred peso coin on the
counter, smiled at Mamacita and waved goodby to the others who took
notice. She carried the flower with her.

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