el crispito

"Ay sí. Sí es la mañana," she says, correcting herself.

I briefly feel like an ass, not having meant to correct her; I smile sheepishly and nod. She scans the form and guides me to the stand with a buzzer and two lights, one green and one red. Pushing the button will result in my getting one or the other. If I get green, I can pass on through and make my way home. If I get red, I win an inspection of all my bags. This surreal game show always seems to me a perfect embodiment of the Mexican love of fun and frivolity, wherever it can be applied. I am a little surprised that they do not have bikini-clad girls attending each buzzer, ready to smile at you if you win, and offer a sad, melodramatic pout if you lose. I suspect if they had it in the budget, they would.

Green it is! Another happy traveler wins the chance to come back again. I pass through the sliding doors of the processing area leading into the main terminal, where a bubbling crowd awaits, held back by stanchions and belts to allow a pathway for the newly arrived to make our way through. Even though nobody is waiting for me, the throng make me feel like a rock star having come for a grand tour. There is an electricity in the air. ¡Bienvenidos a México!

Having dealt with Americans for the past few months, I am expecting counter personnel to be surly and gruff. I step up to the taxi counter prepared to rattle off a string of various descriptions to indicate where I need to go - the neighborhood, the closest major intersection, the zone number on the map. Before I can even reach the booth, the attendant sees me coming, smiles and waves me closer.

"¿A dónde vas?"

"Aaaaaa...voy a Colonia Chapalita Sur..." I pause to look on the zone map to see what number I need to tell him, but he beats me to the punch, pointing straight to my neighborhood. He shows me the price of MXN $230 indicated on the rate sheet. For this, I am prepared. I pull out a $200 note, a $20 note and a $10 coin and pass it through the window. We exchange the "¡Gracias!" and I am out the front door to the line of waiting taxis.

Drizzle. There is brief confusion because I presume the airport taxis work like the other taxis in Guadalajara, but the last in line, not the first, is the one slated to take the next passenger. The driver takes my bag and says something in a string of rapid Spanish that I cannot make out at all. From his gestures at the puddle on the ground next to the passenger door, I understand that he is going to pull out so that I do not have to walk through water to get in. Ah, yes. Thoughtful courtesy. I had forgotten.

He puts my suitcase in the trunk, hustles to get in the car and pull from the curb, I step in, shut the door and tell him where my apartment is located, again ready to explain in more detail where he needs to go. Once again, it is unnecessary. The driver throws the car in gear and we are off.

Here it is, the moment for which I had been trying to prepare myself. My first real conversation in Spanish in five months. Incidents leading up to my trip - forgetting certain words, days of the week, common expressions - have me worried. I consider feining exhaustion and staying quiet, but I know this would be inappropriate, and actually, quite rude.

The driver does not give me the chance anyway, and asks me how long I have lived in Guadalajara.

I tell him, nearly four years, although I have been in the United States for the past seven months. I beg his forgiveness for my bad Spanish, as I have had little opportunity to practice in the United States. He asks me what I do, and being tired of explaining that I am a homemaker, I fib a little and tell him that I am a freelance writer in a very roundabout way because I do not know the proper way to say 'freelance.' He delves deeper into the subject and I begin to suspect that I am going to have to explain the whole situation anyway.

"¿Con quién vives aquí?" he asks. I find it odd that he presumes that I live with someone, but maybe it is presumed when one lives in an apartment, or more likely, he knows that a freelance writer is unlikely to make enough money to support himself properly. Or is he trying to hit on me?

I hesistate briefly, a holdover from growing up gay in the United States. Me, him, alone, driving through the outskirts late at night, I have the obligatory flashback: Matthew Sheppard, Sean Kennedy, Jack Twist. The paranoia passes. I am, after all, back in Mexico, where I have never had any trouble.

"Vivo con mi esposo. Aparte de ser escritor, soy 'el ama de casa'," I explain, getting closer to the real truth of my daily life.

He does what they always do, presuming that the silly gringo is mixing up genders. He repeats back a correction, "Ah, vives con tu esposa..."

"Pues, no. Con me esposo. Es hombre."

"Bueno, bueno. ¿Hace cuánto tiempo estás con él?"

He seemed to take that in stride.

"Dieciocho años. Casi dieciocho años...este fin de semana es nuestro aniversario."

"Y cuando regresas, no van a dormir esta noche."

I suspect I know what he is getting at, but it is not like Mexicans to jump into a discussion of such a personal issue, at least with strangers.

"Ah...mmmm...¿Mande?"

"Cuando regresas a tu departamento, ustedes van a estar en la cama esta noche, pero no van a dormir."

Despite any wish to seem Jack the lad, I know the truth of the matter. Plus I am not sure I want to go down this road, wherever it might be going.

"No, no. Él tiene que trabajar muy temprano y tengo mucho sueño por el viaje. Esta noche, vamos a dormir en la cama."

After a brief pause, he further delves into my nocturnal habits in a way I am not expecting.

"Y cuando te duermes, ¿llevas un camisón?"

I do not understand what a camisón is, but I hesitate before asking him to repeat himself.

"¿Mande? ¿Camis-qué?"

"En la cama, tu ropa. ¿Llevas ropa de dormir femenina?"

Wacky. I encounter this in Mexico far more than any kind of homophobia. Mexicans, at least the straight ones, often have a fascinated curiosity about how the other half lives. The notion still persists here that gay men are men the just want to be women. Maybe I should say, that is the only way a lot of people can get their head around the idea. He wants to know if I - no, he presumes that I - wear a woman's nightgown to bed.

I laugh a bit, seeing yours truly dressed up in lacy undergarments, then explain that I will just be wearing mis chones. I never wear anything else.

"Pero él, ¿sí?"

Yeah, surely one of us must be wearing women's clothing at some point.

"No. Él es más recatado. Siempre lleva un playera y pantalones cortos en la cama."

We sit quietly for a while, until we get close to my neighborhood. I tell him where to turn, how many more blocks until he turns left. It is at the stoplight, then right there on the corner.

I get out, he jumps out to help me with my bag. I hand him a tip and wish him a pleasant trip. He thanks me and says good-night.

I haul my luggage up to the door to the apartment building, trying hard not to disturb the still of the night in our quiet neighborhood. I notice that the lights are on in the bedroom of the young man that lives downstairs from us. I have missed him so much, I am tempted to go rap on his window to say hello, but I decide against it.

After fumbling to find the right key, one works and lets me in. I pause at the bottom of the stairs to read the notice about the payment for gas being due this week. The price has not gone up any since I left. I stand there, thinking about the new neighbors, friends of ours from before, that have moved into the apartment at the bottom of the stairs since last I was in the building. That happened several months ago.

I hoist my suitcase up the stairs, and see that the door to my apartment has been decorated by the neighbors with ribbons, balloons and a sign that reads, "¡BIENVENIDO CHRIS! TARDASTE MUCHO". Indeed I have.

I open the door, half expecting Shawn to be on the couch, having fallen asleep waiting up for me, but he is not there. He is back in the bedroom where the nighlight of the Virgin Mary that my friend Brian bought for me in Tijuana is shining on my nightstand. On the table I see a pie that was surely made for my return by Marta, yet another of our wonderful neighbors. I decide to save it for the morning, and I open the door to the balcony and turn on the ceiling fan.

I go out on the balcony and watch the empty intersection glowing in the rain and the light of the stoplight. I think about the last time I stood on the balcony, looking out on the street and thinking how much I was going to miss this place, the people, my life. I did not know then how long I would be away. I feared that when I stood out there once again, everything would be different.

In some ways it is, but life goes on. I think of my father, who would have loved Mexico if he had ever made it down here. I think about Charles and Carmen, and their little baby girl. I think about what it will be like when it is time to elect the next presidente. I think about the cab driver getting back to the airport and telling his compañeros that he just had a fare that was a gay guy that does not wear a nightgown to bed.