The haunting strains of Curva Peligrosa

The haunting strains of Curva Peligrosa
Jon Carroll Wednesday, November 12, 2003
San Francisco Chronicle

Mexico has always been a refuge for people needing asylum. Trotsky came there after his little tiff with Lenin. In 1926, the then-President of Mexico, Plutarcho Calles, invited European Jews to emigrate to his country, promising them freedom from bigotry. Refugees from the Spanish Civil War found sanctuary in Mexico. And now our friendly neighbor south of the border is home to a new persecuted minority: Americans who want to smoke in restaurants.

Yes, the wretched refuse of our teeming shores is now lighting up and throwing back cervezas in restaurantes from Sonora to Chiapas. They are particularly dominant in San Miguel de Allende, a lovely colonial town with a terrible traffic problem and a great natural abundance of souvenir shops.

My first night there, I sat in a typical sushi-and-tacos place and thought: It's like someone took all the people I hated and loaded them on a plane and dumped them right here. Nightmares of colonialism, right here right now.

Not that I was slipping silently through the population like a fish through water. For one thing, my Spanish is terrible and did not get better. I developed a severe case of stage fright, brought on by extreme self- consciousness about my accent and my lifelong tendency to speak faster when I'm nervous.

Two stories: In Xlitla, early on our trip, I wanted to change dollars into pesos. Thinking clearly, I went to place with a sign out front: "Pesos por Dolars." I walked up and down in front of the storefront, repeating my mantra: "Pesos por dolars; pesos por dolars." Confident, I walked inside. I stood at the counter. "Peemsos por doloreshheey," I said. The clerk stared at me. I tried again; same results. Finally, I held up a fistful of dollars. "Sí, " he said. The international language of money.

My next assignment was even trickier. It was the end of the rainy season in Michoacan, which meant the flowers were out, which meant that the allergies I had in the spring up here I got again in the fall down there. I had to find a farmacia but quick. That was easy; there's one on every corner, and they always have shampoo and Cokes. Sometimes they even have pastilles for one's alergias. "Pastilles" is not an easy word for the American mouth, and the middle of "alergias" is a minefield. Again I practiced. Again I went into the store. I told the woman that I wanted pills for my allergies.

Or perhaps I said, "I am wearing a rabbit suit, and my elbow is on fire."

The woman backed away slowly, looking for help. "Por favor," I added, knowing that courtesy was always appreciated. This did not materially improve the situation. A male came from the back of the store and said, rather brusquely, "Señor?" I repeated my request, except I said it even faster and added about nine syllables to "alergias." The man looked at me. "Where are you from?" he asked, in English. "California," I said. He broke out into a wide smile. "Hasta la vista, baby!" he said. We are Arnold's people now, friends, and the world will not let us forget it.

In other news: For the next year or so, I will be writing three columns a week rather than five. I do not want to cut back, nor do my editors want me to cut back, but bureaucratic exigencies have prevailed.

This temporary curtailment has nothing to do with either with my political opinions or my health. Please set your paranoia meters to zero. Oh, and: Nice to be back.
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Jon Carroll is on the couch. This column was written yesterday morning.