By Walter Agnew Moore II
Not too long ago it was my birthday. All the girls
gave me three-pat hugs and pecks on the cheek. All
the guys shook my hand and grinned. Then they stood
in a circle around me and sang:
"Estas son las mañanitas que cantaba
el rey David..."
It was good.
Tonight I am giving my last TOEFL exam to my two
veteran survivors, Jose and Roberto. All the rest
dropped out, but these are my tough guys. They are
nonchalant about bubble tests now, which was my original
goal, because they were always smart enough to pass
it, they would just get nervous and make basic mistakes,
like not guessing if they didn't know, or freaking
out over one hard question instead of skipping it.
But maybe now they are too devil-may-care. They sit
there chattering while the TOEFL tape plays its psychotically
happy grade-school-science-film music, and the narrator
talks like a parody of a 1950's radio ad. I yell at
them: "You two are total burn-outs! You're not
even listening to the questions!"
"Aw no", they reply, "Nothing important
happens until they play the music again."
And they were right. But they'll probably get kicked
out of a real exam. They are just like crusty old
sergeants with 29 years' time now.
The TOEFL practice tests we use all have a very boring
sample question about bumblebees and red clover. My
guys have probably heard it six times already. As
it kicked in again tonight, Roberto, in an impressive
Alabama accent, ground out: "God Damn Bumble
Bees".
Jose looked up: "What's a bumblebee?"
Shell-shocked, the both of them.
WALTER
MOORE IS IN MEXICO—27 August 2003
By Walter Agnew Moore II
The rain is pouring on the Queretaro bus station,
up here on the central plateau. There are no taxis
because the town is flooded. I spent some time in
the snack shop drinking coffee and talking with Mr.
Thomas Bernandini, formerly of Rome, but he left for
Puerto Vallarta, and Fran says on the phone that she
can't get the car out of the suburb of Jurica where
her parents' house is, there is a river in the road,
and that they are running out of tequila.
I have tequila in my old Swiss pack. But I'm not
in Jurica. The few taxis that slip through the flood
waters to the bus station, none of them are going
to Jurica. Nobody can get there.
I do the logical thing and hook up with two steel
magnolia gramma types who are also going to Jurica.
I stick close to them. They have a back-up plan to
go downtown. When they flag down a taxi willing to
chance going downtown, I jump in with them.
"So what part of downtown are you going to?"
says the taxista as we pull away from the station.
"Look, bub," says one of the sweet grammas,
"We aren't going anywhere near downtown. We are
all going to JURICA, and you are the guy who is taking
us there."
"I can't get there!" he chokes out.
"Nah mate, you can get there, " say I,
inexplicably Australian. "You just swing out
into the country, hit the high ground and stick to
it, slide into Jurica from behind, like."
"Do you have your tickets?" he says.
"Nobody's got tickets, luv," says a gramma.
"We are talking cash, cash for your time and
trouble."
Suddenly it seems that taxis can get to Jurica after
all.
----
Everybody at Fran's house is happy to see the tequila.
It lasts about 5 minutes. Our kind of people.
----
In Guanajuato they have mummies that look like old
pancakes.
They also have the hooks on the building where the
Spaniards hung Hidalgo's head.
The hooks are on a building that the rebels took.
Nobody could get to the door of the building alive,
shot down from the windows. Finally one little strong
guy picks up a rock and walks forward with the slab
on his back. Musket balls smack it and leave blue
marks here and there. The little guy gets to the door
and sets the fire. They get in the building, they
win.
The brave little guy has a statue on top of the hill.
----
In Dolores Hidalgo, they have the bell that Hidalgo
rang to start the revolution.
----
In San Miguel de Allende, they have many American
retirees in American retiree clown-clothes. All the
prices are two or three times what they are 5 kilometers
away. They have pictures of many Mexican revolutionary
men everywhere, but the only woman is Frieda Kahlo.
Did you know that Frieda Kahlo was the only woman
worthy of a t-shirt in Mexico?
I bet Frieda Kahlo never wore a t-shirt in her entire
life.
Fran's dad is as Mexican as Frieda Kahlo, but since
he has blue eyes the waiters in one place try to scam
us on our tequila. We don't fall for it. We dodge
off to another place where, yes, the prices are gringofied,
but you still get what you order.
----
We drive back to Queretaro all careful in the dark.
The rain has eaten potholes in all the roads. It never
rains like this here. Except that it did.
