el crispito

Pulman de Morelos first class not up to snuff, a far cry from their Clase Ejecutivo Dorado, stylin', individual video screens, stewardesses, complimentary drinks, snacks. OUR ride: narrow seats, seat belt catch digging into my ass, air vents blow limp, headrest catching me at my shoulders. In front of me, passenger reclines his seat, putting it four inches from my chest. Movie on CRT screens four rows up: FBI co-opted canine runs off to become beloved bow-wow of latchkey loner, pursued by moronic maladroit mafiosos. Our stewardess, an old man with a ratty cardboard box selling warm juice and peanuts walking up then down the aisle.

Estimated trip time, one hour, fifteen minutes. At 40 minutes in, on the highway, we slow to a dead stop. People out of their cars, smoking, stretching, walking. Cops go by on the shoulder with sirens running. No view. Sun blazing through the glass. Waiting. Sitting. ETA comes and goes. Finally we start folling again slowly. Eventually we pass the cause of the bottleneck: a Jarritos truck has dumped several pallets of sodas all over the ground at a sharp curve in the road. Others stopped, scavenging unbroken bottles from among the splintered wood, torn sheets of plastic, paper, other trash thrown out of the window of passing cars. Past that return to speed, barreling down the highway.

Hit town, slow down, several jerky stops and turns to get to the terminal in el centro. Just before arrival, still rolling, everyone on the bus gets up and fights to be the first at the front of the bus to get off first. After sitting for 40 minutes at a stop on the highway, that two-minute advantage is really going to make a big difference. Call it - that Mexican obsession with jumping others in line. Crazy-loco for a country where the busiest day of the week is mañana.

Nos bajamos del camión, pick up our bags from a handler annoyed at our being the last ones to get our bags and in no rush. Taxi driver following, near chasing us, "¿Taxi, amigos? ¿Información? ¿Hotel?"

"No, no, no...gracias."

Walk out the bus entrance, climb up the hill on the sidewalk, not wide enough for a human and his suitcase. Time and again, forced down onto the street, narrow, cars honking, dust blowing, sun beating down, sweating, heavy suitcases, even on rollers. Gringos walking, definitely out of place, out of their element. Gringo gawk BIG TIME. Hotel reservations clerk directions for arrival: bus station a un costado del hotel - to the side of. Walk different sides of bus station, but no hotel. Try to ask directions of a man standing nearby. Tries to sell me a credit card. Doesn't know the area well enough to help because he's been in town only a week. Go to a cremería, ask "¿Dónde está el hotel que se llama 'Casa Colonial'?" Nobody knows. Suggestion: call for directions, say you're on Calle Morelos.

Phone. I hate the phone. The phone in Spanish is even worse. Try to find a quiet spot where I can hear over bus noise nonstop. Dial. Ring. Desk clerk answers, here we go. On Morelos, can't find hotel. Clerk says something about the cathedral, walking towards it, I ask how far maybe? Five blocks.

Go back out to street and collect Shawn, pressing on away from the terminal, towards the cathedral. Uneasy feeling - going away from bus terminal, going away from hotel if the station really is a un costado del hotel. Walk, uphill, sweat, GAWK, buses roaring by, taxis stopping, honking, pointing, "?" Big time frustration.

Shawn: what's the street address? I don't know. Unpack all my stuff to get to confirmation email printout. No address. Great. Shawn: call again. Ugh.

Dial, ring, desk clerk, again.

Hi, nervous laugh, lost gringo again! What is your street address?

Clerk says indigenous name that sounds like 20 consonants crammed together. Losing it, cracking up. "Uuuuuuuh.....repita, por favor."

Netzcuhwah...bus ROAR...tuhcuhultuh...ROAR...pecutuhwattle...ROAR...uh-something.

One last time?

Nothing but HONK...ROAR..."otl."

Sigh. "Bueno. Gracias. Si no nos vemos pronto, nos hablamos por teléfono otra vez."

Shawn gets brilliant idea: look at map in travel guide. Find street with indigenous name (Netzahualcóyotl) a block to the east. Head that way. Down to three blocks. Shawn runs up the street one way and sees nothing. Suggests: call again.

GRRRRR! Dial, ring, desk clerk, AGAIN.

Maybe exasperated, but staying cool: walk away from this building, toward this building, hotel is yellow, on the left, across the street diagonally from the bus terminal.

"To the side"? Not exactly.

Walking, dragging, sweating. Find the hotel, but not the entrance. Have to ask at neighboring coffee shop, where is the entrance to the hotel?

Friendly barrista walks me outside, points out the buzzer at the closed door.

Arrival: Casa Colonial, Cuernavaca.

BUZZZZZZZZZZ!