It Happened In Monterrey, In Old Mexico
Part one of a travelogue
by Jon Crane

Saturday Ramblins, Vol. 1, No. 2 (May 30, 1998)

The journey of a thousand miles begins with a five a.m. check-in at the airport. And, in my case, a body search at the concourse security area. I have enough stainless steel staples in my sternum, the result of a surgery some years ago, to set off car alarms in parking lots. You can imagine what they do to metal detectors in airports. If I'd only been smart enough to carry my x-rays with me, I'd save the embarrassment of having to strip to my boxers in every airport.

Once through security I boarded the plane to Houston and on to beautiful Mexico, where my daughter Heather waited for me with hugs and tears.

MONTERREY

The first thing that struck me when I stepped out of the airport in Monterrey is the heat. One hundred and six degrees of it the day I arrived. But having grown up in South Texas, I was no stranger to this furnace.

The airport is located about a twenty minute drive east of the city of Monterrey. The ride passes through a desert landscape of tall yuccas, scrub brush and mesquite trees. Yes, mesquites--the barbecue fuel of choice for the nouveau cuisine generation--selling for five dollars a bag. The tree is an annoying weed in this dry climate. Maybe I'll move to Mexico and become a mesquite farmer. Well, it's a thought.

Monterrey is surrounded by mountains carpeted with a thick nap of green all the way up to their ancient and jagged peaks. The city creeps up the sides of many, with box-like homes scattered on the slopes. At night, when lights are on, it is as if the city is surrounded by a halo of stars. Put your hand out and you can almost touch them.

The largest mountain of the range is called Cerro del Topo Chico. At it's peak there is a deep groove, like a Mexican saddle. Legend says that once a peso fell from heaven and landed on top of the mountain. The good, thrifty people of Monterrey rushed up to the mountain top and dug away looking for that peso. They never found it, but they dug a deep groove where peak used to be.

I was glad to know this. I went to Mexico on a shoestring budget and that peso might have come in handy before the trip was over.

NEARER MY GOD TO THEE

Have you ever wondered what happened to all the Volkswagen "Beetles" of the 1960s and '70s? They all went to Monterrey and found new life as taxicabs. There are hundreds of them.

The largest cab company is EcoTaxi. Most of the fleet is composed of the old Beetles, now painted green with white fenders. The passenger seat has been removed so that all six feet, two inches, and 220 pounds of me can be comfortably and easily compacted into the back seat. There was even a smidgen of room left over for Heather.

I can honestly say that I have never felt closer to God than while riding in a cab in Monterrey. Being a city of three million souls, the traffic never stops. Not even for stop signs. Not even for cars pulling out from stop signs.

Cabbies there have a new twist on the use of turn signals. They are used as a final notice that the driver is about to slam-bang his highway neighbor into the concrete freeway divider, which he does as he moves into a lane of bumper-to-bumper traffic at 60 miles an hour.

I found it was necessary to hold onto the strap by the window with one hand and my rosary with the other. Letting go of either would not have been a good idea.

NEARER MY LANA TO THEE

On Sunday, May the 10th–Mother's Day–our planned wedding day, Heather and I remembered Lana. My intention was to go up in the mountains to hold the memorial service, but the cost of the cab ride would have been prohibitive. So we made other plans.

God leads us, if we let Him, to just the place we need to be. About ten blocks from the hotel we came upon a small park canopied with trees. We found a shady spot and sat on the ground out of the noon sun. I read a letter I'd to written Lana after she died. Then I sang her the song she asked me to sing to her at our wedding, "I Can Never Promise You."

We finished by talking of her, her life, her children, her sweet way of loving. During our remembrance I noticed the children in the park with their families–dozens of them. Lana's love for children was legendary. We'd been lead, on Mother's Day, to a park filled with the laughter and play of children. This was Lana's spot. This was where God brought us. It was near perfection.

At the end, we did not say "goodbye". Rather we used the Spanish phrase equivalent to the English, "be seeing ya'." It means literally "We will see you." And we will.

Hasta luego, Alana Maria. Nos vemos.

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