Back in the day, for a brief moment, I may have thought it best that I stay on my side of the Rio Grande, but that was about bacteria, not people. Montezuma sent me fleeing northward a bit early on my honeymoon, but I've long since recovered from that case of the runs, and have happily returned to Mexico countless times since then.
Bad chicken salad. A failed marriage. All distant memories, blurred by the rosy haze of time. I was young, with so much adventure still ahead, and only a handful of bad decisions under my belt. Like the chicken salad and the spouse, I suppose. Mostly, I remember the cloudless skies, the flower petals in the pool, and then, building life, expanding our brood, learning about what really mattered.
Mexico remained a staple -- sometimes for much needed adult getaways, more often for family vacations. The sounds of birds chirping on early spring days in Chicago bring to mind fond memories of morning strolls with babies, before the sun got too hot. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the whisper of the ocean in the whirr of traffic. The mere hint of a Spanish accent gives me a tequila like buzz.
The walls are intended to keep them out of here, not me out of there. But I wonder whether I will feel as welcome this time when I land, once I get past all the time share hawkers. The citizens of Mexico -- particularly in the beach towns -- have always appeared happy to see us. I know it has a lot to do with cash, but still, there has always seemed to be a genuine dose of warmth attached to the transactions. We are friendly neighbors. Were.
On every beach, there has always been at least one man who walks the length of shoreline all day, a mountain of hats balanced atop his head. I marvel at his endurance as I sweat wearing nothing more than a bathing suit and a little bit of sunblock. I marvel at his work ethic, and I wonder how he makes enough money each day to feed his family. Somehow, he does, and, somehow, he is always smiling.
I wonder if the man on the beach wearing all those hats will smile at us this year, or whether there will be an air of distrust, or betrayal. I am, for the first time in my life, embarrassed to be an American -- and not just because I am loud and entitled and expect everyone in foreign countries to speak my language. I feel that if I am still welcomed with smiles, it is undeserved.
I will be asleep by the time we fly over the Rio Grande, and will miss any signs of a glinting wall. The idea of it, though, makes me sad.
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