This is a true story I usually wind up telling at parties. It's not really a restaurant review, although perhaps is is a cautionary tale for anyone about to visit Mexico....
Several years ago, the city paid me and about 20 volunteer employees from my department and one other to learn Spanish 8 hours a week over 10 weeks, then participate in a 10-day lock-in immersion where we spoke only Spanish to each other. The final part of the course was a 26-day trip to the state of Hidalgo, Mexico (paid partially by fundraisers). We were the first group to go, and the officials hosting us in Hidalgo treated us like visiting dignitaries: We traveled around the state in two large passenger vans and one Chevy Suburban, greeting local officials in each town at luncheons and dinners, visiting tourist attractions and sometimes assisting with some charitable work projects.
We stayed pretty busy most of the time, but about half-way through our stay there were a couple of weekends off, one of which involved an optional 65-mile trip to see Teotihuacan, the ruins of an ancient Pre-Columbian city, which included temples and two giant edifices, the Pyramids of the Sun and Moon. By the time we reached the visitor center we all had been riding quite a while and needed to go to the restroom. I waited my turn and then stepped up to a urinal, which is when bad things began to happen.
All during our time there, several of my colleagues had fallen ill with Montezuma's Revenge, severe gastric disturbances with vomiting, diarrhea, or both, sometimes with a low-grade fever. I had been lucky, though. I'd tried not drinking the water but ya just can't do any good brushing your teeth with Coca-Cola. By the end of the first week I had given up trying to avoid catching a bug and was eating and drinking pretty much everything they put before us, and up to this weekend I had not had the slightest problem.
While using that urinal, however, I suddenly developed a severe gurgling percolating kind of feeling in my midsection, a rolling rumbly in my tumbly that I had not experienced before and was so loud the guy at the urinal next to me violated the usual man protocol and looked over at me as if to say "You okay there, bud?" I soon felt the need to break wind in a big, BIG way. It was an urgent need, so what the heck, we were in a restroom anyway, so I gave up trying to hold it in and just cut loose with it. Comedian Donny Baker once said that the human sphincter is the one part of the body that can tell the difference between a liquid, solid, and gas but sometimes makes mistakes. His words rang in my ears as I felt something more than just methane escaping through my rear hatchl! It was not obvious exactly what it was, though, so I would require further investigation to see if any real damage had been done.
I finished my stand-up business and walked across the restroom to a toilet stall and locked myself inside. At that point I had never heard the term "shart", although I was certainly familiar with the concept and its sometimes embarrassing consequences. Being extremely worried because I was wearing WHITE shorts, I hurriedly dropped trow, but discovered they were perfectly intact! Breathing a sigh of relief, I then pulled my boxer briefs down enough to examine their interior-- and was horrified by the sight, a gruesome display of dark-toned earth colors for which there was no readily available solution. My briefs were a toxic total loss and were in need of immediate disposal.
Fortunately for me, most Mexican septic systems are not substantial enough to accommodate toilet paper, so there are small trash cans provided for its disposal in every toilet stall. I carefully removed my still clean shorts and then VERY carefully removed the destroyed briefs.. I dropped them in the trashcan, cleaned myself up and re-dressed in order to continue on into the archaeological park.
Having dodged a bullet, or so I thought, I was feeling pretty good about the situation. I felt even better when I found that the absence of underwear provided a certain breeziness as I walked, which was great for Mexico on a warm Spring day. I optimistically approached the Pyramid of the Sun and began easily climbing the small steps formed by row after row of what appeared to be small bricks. The climb was rather easy and the view quite impressive, so much so that I barely noticed that the last three steps to the top of the pyramid were much taller than all the others, including the last one which about twice as high as a regular stair step back home.
The firspt two tall steps were no problem but that last one was a doozie. I lifted my left leg way up and planted my foot on the top step, having to stretch to do so and as I launched the rest of my body upward the crotch of my nice white shorts ripped apart with a loud tearing noise that I thought should have been audible to all of my fellow tourists. Dammit! Of the things to happen in the same day! Glancing around, however, I saw that no one appeared to notice. Whew! That was a relief, at least, but now I pondered how was I going to get back down all those danged steps without showing my junk to everyone coming up?
While I agonized over my dilemma, I couldn't help but take in the amazing view of the valley and the ancient ruins. The additional breeze blowing through my tattered crotch was actually quite soothing, so I lost myself in rapt appreciation of the sight until a particularly strong gust of wind reminded me I was still in trouble. When I felt I'd put it off as long as I could, I stood at the edge of the steps, put my legs as close together as possible and hoped for the best as I prepared to make the descent.
It was at that moment that a woman in our party approached me and said that she was a little afraid of heights, and would it be okay if she put her hand on my shoulder as we descended the steps. “Sure, lady, whatever, I have my own problems” I thought, but “Sure, no problem!” is what I said. Now, I later saw this same woman rappel down a 200-foot vertical cliff like she'd been doing it all her life, but maybe the prospect of having no rope to hang onto and tripping down a thousand nearly vertical steps was another matter for her. At any rate, we descended quite slowly, with my legs burning slightly form the friction generated by being held together so tightly as we stepped. “Oh, you're being so careful!” she said cheerily. “You have no idea...” I said.
We parted upon reaching the bottom, and, emboldened by the fact that no one passing us the other way seemed to have noticed the condition of my pants, I proceeded across the valley toward the smaller (I thought) Pyramid of the Moon. I fought off the attacks of numerous trinket hucksters, each one calling “...but Senor, I can make you a great deal!” as I left them in my wake. None of even the grumpiest of them had made any remarks about my shorts, and I was REALLY enjoying the feel of the breeze on such a warm day, so I figured I was good to go.
I climbed the 800 or so steps with confidence, although I did devote at least some attention to keeping my legs together. It was turning out to be a great day after all, and as I got to the top to enjoy the view I saw two pretty women, Australian by their accented English, also taking in the sights. Recently separated and about to complete a messy divorce, I was pondering whether to chat them up when two of my companions coming up from below me yelled “HEY, DID YOU RIP OUT YOUR SHORTS?! DUDE, YOU BETTER GO CHANGE CLOTHES!”
D'oh! From the heat rising in my face I could tell that it had turned the same shade of red as the shirt I was wearing. It's a wonder I didn't trip, bounce and roll down the steps as I made a panicked sprint for the bottom of the pyramid while trying to keep my legs clenched together. I bowled over several of the kitsch mongers who didn't get out of the way fast enough as I bolted across the valley to the parking lot. I had our driver, Omar, let me into the shotgun seat of the Suburban. I sat as demurely as my grandmother and pulled the remnants of my shorts together to cover my nether regions while I anxiously waited for the rest of the group to return.
It actually wasn't long before everyone loaded up and we pulled out onto the highway for the hour-long trip back to Pachuca. After the period of embarrassed anxiety I'd just been through, it was nice to be able to relax knowing that there would be no further exposure incidents. It was a warm, sunny day, and as the Suburban rolled down the road I began to doze.... Some time later I was startled awake by a static filled broadcast from Omar's CB radio: although my Spanish was much improved, I just barely made out that the tour-group leader had decided we would stop at a well-known roadside restaurant for dinner on the way back.
It was then that I noticed the warmth of the Sun shining down upon a part of my anatomy upon which it had never shown before. I looked down and saw that my legs had become parted, as was the fabric of my shorts. Every semi driver we passed had likely been able to see a part of me that had only been exposed to my soon to be ex-wife and a few unlucky fellow middle school students in the shower after gym class. I happened to glance over at Omar, of whose sexual orientation we were not certain (not that there's anything wrong with that) and thought I saw him checking out my exposure out of the corner of his eye, but decided it was probably just my own exaggerated apprehension about the matter.
As we pulled into the restaurant parking lot, I had just about decided I'd have to stay in the car the whole time when it suddenly dawned on me that I'd left my shaving kit/toiletries bag in the back cargo area of the Suburban, and it contained a pair of swim trunks! When Omar unlocked the doors, I ran around to open the tailgate and grab the kit before he locked up to go in the restaurant. As I rounded the rear of the SUV with bag in hand, my shorts flapping in the breeze, I was greeted by Omar holding the driver-side rear door open. “You can change in here!” he said brightly. I guess he'd seen more than I thought.
Everyone in our group was much amused by the story, especially a few days later when we were staying in a missionary workers' dormitory in the tiny town of Calnali. The proprietors had a movie projector and a bootleg DVD of the movie Along Came Polly, which at that time was still in theaters in the US. We were all enjoying the film together when one of the characters says to another “We have to go. I just SHARTED....” The group all turned as one person, looked at me and hooted “THAT'S YOU!” I tried my best to grin and say that they were all very funny, but the heat in may face told me my embarrassment was showing.
We later flew home on a Sunday. The Friday before that was payday, so I called a guy in my office to leave my check in my desk so I could put it in the night deposit at the bank (as I said, this was a few years ago). I was using a pre-paid phone card that I would probably never need again, so I spent its remaining minutes telling my colleague the funny but embarrassing “shart” story. We had a big laugh about it until the phone minutes ran out and we were disconnected.
Sunday night I got off the plane, dusted off the car I'd parked 26 days earlier, and drove to the office. Surprisingly, there was a supervisor and a couple of other employees there working late, and as I passed the open office door there was a burst of laughter. As I continued down the hall the supervisor called after me “Hey! Did everything COME OUT ALRIGHT in Mexico? BWAHAHAHAAA!....” My office buddy had apparently told the story to some other folks, who then dragged other people in to hear him tell it, and they in turn brought still others to hear it again, and again. ...And that is how for several months afterwards I was known around the office, and City Hall, simply as “Shart Boy”.
No comments:
Post a Comment