La Huerta

“So, how was your trip?” Gian sat back in his chair across the glazed wooden table. He had a sour, dark and frothy. Cuvee Brut. We both did. He had introduced me to it, and it was easily the best sour beer I’ve had up to that point.

“It was good man.” I leaned forward making the table my own, my platform for my story. “Yeah, we flew into Guadalajara from TJ all early and still a little drunk from the night before. It was crazy. We took a taxi to the bus station when we got our bags, and man, taxies don’t care about anything down there. They come this close to hitting each other squeezing in from the shoulder and everything. It’s like nothing’s off limits.”

“Ha, yeah I’ve heard that. I’ve been to Rosarito, and it’s pretty much the same.”

“For real. It makes you wonder if car insurance is even a thing for locals.”

“Nah man, it’s a scam for tourists.” They chuckled and clinked their glasses together. “Glad your back.”

“Thanks. So yeah, the taxi took us to the bus station, we went to the window to ask where our bus was, and the lady was like, ‘Oh it’s right there. It’s leaving right now.’ We’re like crap! Thanks! And then we ran to get on.”

“So you barely made it?”

“Right. And that bus was like another three-hour drive.”

“Yikes.”

“Yeah. Through mountains and forest. Literally driving through the jungle. From there, we took another taxi for like ten or fifteen minutes to the house.”

“You didn’t have anyone pick you up?”

“Nah, it was a surprise?”

“Oh, nice.”

“Yeah, we showed up at the house just as the whole family was unwrapping presents, after dinner. It was perfect timing. We came in like, ‘We’re here! Merry Christmas, Feliz Navidad a ti, y a ti, y a ti.’ Minds were blown, we were cracking up. It was great to be there with his parents, grandparents, all his uncles and aunts and cousins.”

“That’s awesome. Sounds like a big family. So what did you guys do out there?”

“We just chilled. When we woke up in the morning, we had beans and eggs and homemade tortillas. Then we walked to get buckets of beers at like ten in the morning. Estrellas, have you had that brand before? The small bottles like the coronitas. You know?”

“Oh ya. I haven’t had Estrella, but I know what you mean. The ones they put in CoronaRitas, right?”

“Exactly. Me and my buddy, carrying a ten-gallon bucket of beer and ice in each hand, walking back to the house. And that’s what we did during the day, waiting for events to happen.

“What’s there to do out there? Well they had this thing called El Jardin. It's like a fair with games and dancing and food. A ton of little booths serving drinks. I got this one, I actually brought it back. They served Palomas in these clay pots like cups. I tried to dance with a few girls. Not very well. They could tell right away I didn’t know what I was doing, but I had to try even though my Spanish is terrible. They were beautiful, and even the way they did their makeup down there was different.”

“Nice. And this was a small town right?”

“Yeah. Really small. Like the private roads we have here were all they had.”

“So this was probably their biggest event, huh?”

“Yeah, well they have an arena for bullfighting. You know, with matadors.”

“Did you go?”

“Of course. Once in a lifetime kind of thing.”

“How was it?”

“It was cool. Before the match they had like expert cowboys making the horses do tricks and trot in place and spin around like dancing. Not going to lie though. I was pretty drunk. So I feel like I was all introspective for the last half of it. You know? Writer’s brain is always on.”

“Oh yeah? Did you write something?”

“Yeah, actually. Right there on the spot. You want to hear it?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Alright, don’t judge me. I liked it so much I haven’t had the heart to edit it yet.”

“Hey man if you’re feeling, you’re feeling it.”

“Alright, here goes...

I slept in pueblos of concurred bulls, dancing horses, and painted women.

I watched gray hairs dance together; more tender now than in their youth.

Love doesn't ask for flashy displays, only time to keep growing.

Generations laughed together in tempo;

an aroma of fresh tortillas wafts over colorful homes

I fell in love with words I did not know,

and eyes that taught more than language.

I have seen red mud from scared horns, and bright capes;

tired legs buckled under blood-drenched fur.

tears of children and applause from adults

A tradition not yet dragged off the field behind a rusty pickup truck.

“I like it.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I don’t know. It was just a trip to see it all go down. Know what I mean? After they kill the bull, the kids don’t really understand so they’re all upset. And then what happens to the dead animal? They got to drag him out for the next guy.”

“Yeah, I mean it sounds like an overall beautiful experience, but when it comes to matadors and bullfighting, the glamor always fades.”

“Right? I mean, some people get hurt. Imagine being in a town like that. What are you supposed to do? Collect disability?”

“Right, right.”

“And then the bulls. I mean, I’ve never seen bullfighting before. It’s actually kind of brutal.”

“Oh yeah, how do they kill the bull?”

“They team up on him. And then, they have these long colorful stick-like things that have a blade on the end, and when the bull charges at the matador he sticks him. So, It goes and goes, he’s sticking the bull, and you see these things flopping around. Imagine running around with this knife stuck in you, and there’s a stick on the end just weighing it down hurting more and more while your attacker taunts you with a freakin cape.”

“Sounds like you’re not a fan.”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to judge.”

“Well I think your poem says it all. It sounds like your subconscious has found a conclusion even if your conscious hasn’t.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. And then after that, the parents paid the band to keep playing and the family danced, the last ones in the stadium.”

“Geez, what did they own the place?”

“You know it felt like it. It was pretty much a dream to be honest.”

“Sounds like it. I’m going to get another round. You want one?

“Yeah, and then I’ll tell you about Leche Caliente.”

“Oh God. What is that, hot milk right? What the heck could be special about that?”

“Go get the beer, and I’ll tell you.”

“Alright.”