Another picture of me sightseeing.
At a posh, ‘Las Vegas-style’ high-rise hotel in the capital Louie strode through the lobby ahead of me, walked up to the counter and asked for two adjoining rooms on the top floor and he got them, handing Sanita and I the key to one.
We’d been holding hands on our walking expeditions and now with Joel gone it seemed like the right thing to. I doubt I would have been so forward, but Louie stepped in and did it for us. Besides, it was New Year’s Eve, a night to celebrate and we’d already bought our airplane tickets for the next day, Sanita to Dallas and three for S.F. At the same counter Louie asked for a place to celebrate New Year’s. The male receptionist told him that most venues were sold out at so close an hour, but the restaurant and lounge here had vacant spots for dinner and dancing. But he also mentioned that it was expensive, and we’d have to dress up, as only politicians and rich people in tuxedos would be there.
We checked into our room in silence, (I forget what expressions were on our two faces, Sanita and I), setting our two suitcases on either side of the king-sized bed, checking out the view of Mexico City from the balcony in the sunset, knocking on Louie’s and Robin’s door to see if their room was just as fine as ours. We discussed the matter of clothes together. I had a white shirt but only a pair of black jeans, about the same as Louie.
The women fared better. We meekly entered the restaurant and slipped the ‘maître d’ forty dollars. The dining lounge was large and dimly lit, and at eight in the evening (and for the rest of the night) only a third full. He had a waiter seat us in one of the darkest corners in the back, at least ten tables away from the next occupied tables of the rich, tuxedo clad elite. We were near the entrance to the dance floor and stage, where a ten-piece band was already playing mellow dance music. I tipped him a twenty-dollar bill and we were all set, menus were brought.
Louie and I realized that the place was half-empty because of the price. The dress code was waived in our case because Mexicans love money and lost no chance at an opportunity for a large tip. We enjoyed a huge meal and copious, exotic drinks from the bar menu, stretching dinner out over the next four hours, with many dances to break the monotony of sitting, and one expensive bottle of champagne right after midnight, before we retired to our respective suites (or should I say ‘sweets’) where Sanita and I made love for the first time, to our full, mutual gratification.
We’d already agreed and swore that we should meet again. We were both in love. She would fly home to her mother, but I promised to send her a round-trip ticket to visit me in Piedmont in February for three weeks, a round-trip so there were no strings attached and she would feel safe, after all she’d been through.
On arriving back at the S.F. airport from a foreign country, we had to go through customs. Robin and Louie had passports. I didn’t and wasn’t even a U.S. citizen. My green card had been taken from me at the Buffalo border three years earlier, because the picture on the back still showed me as an eleven-year-old and not the twenty seven year old when it was confiscated.
The kindly agent let me in at the time and said that my number, which he wrote down for me to keep, was good forever but I had to re-apply for another card, which I never bothered to do. That, to me, was bureaucratic trivia. I was as much or more an American in knowledge and culture as any of my companions, as much as anyone in that airport, and ready to prove it and prevail over most of them in any test on U.S. history, geography, or politics. Besides that, I’d spent most of my years here, my thinking life that is. Berkeley was my home, nowhere else even coming close.
I had my California driver’s license, good enough to get into Mexico but not good enough to be allowed back without a quiz. I had a perfect California accent from living there since I was thirteen. I also had my Berkeley self-confidence (bravado, you might say), and was directed to a sharp-eyed, white-haired customs agent in his sixties at another booth. Louie and Robin had passed through with their passports and smiles to a large room with seats that opened onto the hallways of the airport. They sat and awaited me.
“Where were you born?” he threw out, loudly and rapidly. (One of the first rules of interrogation is to catch a person off-guard). But I felt plucky. “Geneva New York” I snapped back, just as swiftly and loud, looking him right in the eye, (I’d lived there for three years as a boy). “What lake is that on?” he retorted, equally quick, and in the same tone, amused by my celerity and assuredness. “Lake Seneca” I immediately replied, with a look and tone as if that were the dumbest question in the world.
“You’re good. I grew up in upstate New York too” was his unexpected, softly spoken answer. I passed his test and was let through the gate, back in the ‘States’ and its territories for another thirteen years.
