José hands me the bottle of mescal, with a bleary eye I look to the worm. The bottle is half gone, but the worm continues staring back at me; so confidently, almost cocky, through (literally) pickled eyes. Even though he came with the bottle long since dead and preserved, we have given him life, as though we are Gods. And, after the second big pull to get the little "gusano," we begin to feel like Gods. I once again raise the bottle to my lips and with head thrown back in the reckless manner of a person with nothing more than the moment to live for, make a power push against the mind-numbing liquid discharging a huge air bubble to the bottom, (top) of the bottle. Almost simultaneously, I suck down a huge gulp of mescal in the hope of dislodging the worm's position, catching him up in the vortex of mescal, thus swallowing him and winning the game. I feel him touch the very pucker of my lips, but then he is gone! A loud cry goes out from everyone in the room, all eyes are upon the worm. I have come tantalizingly close, but I have failed to drink in the little devil, I must pass the bottle. There are twelve pairs of eyes watching every gulp. Whoever is able to dislodge and swallow the worm will instantly achieve huge amounts of respect and envy from everyone. It is the drinking game we are playing. He who gets the worm wins the game and as reward, is hero, congratulated by all, back slapped, the person of the moment. Kind of a drunken version of Andy Warhol's 15 minutes of fame. In this case it is more like 15 seconds, just until the next bottle of mescal is uncorked and a new game begins, then the old winner is quickly forgotten. There are twelve of us, we have finished three bottles of mescal and are almost through the fourth. We are all pleasantly (and equally) drunk. I think it is important that people get drunk together instead of separately, and therefore, haphazardly. There is less chance for misunderstandings when each potential misunderstanderer can relate to the other. There is more of a tendency to laugh it off instead of taking offense to some stupid, though unintentional, barb of a wisecrack. It must be like when people go through wars or other severe events together, they develop a comradery and understanding, a love, an empathy for each other and a respect for each person's thoughts and feelings. And that's just what the twelve of us are doing here, (along with a half dozen bottles of mescal.) Right here on the seventh floor of the Hotel Ontario in Mexico City, the place we vowed never to return to, not the hotel, the city, well that proves it, never say never. Let me back up (and sober up) a little here.

We departed our sand digs at La Ventosa and after failing to find Carlos Castaneda (or any of the famous ongas) in Oaxaca, we continue on . . . driving, driving, driving, to Mexico City. We anticipate with great enthusiasm our visit to the Museo in order to see the Great Jade Mask which was buried with Pacal at Palenque. A chance acquaintance in Oaxaca has given us the name of a "cheap" hotel in Mexico City, the Hotel Ontario. We arrive in Mexico City only to be miffed by its freeway system. I am serving as navigator trying to read maps as Joseph drives. Patience is at a premium as we get lost in Mexico City's horrendous traffic. Joseph and I argue with each other in frustration of the situation. It is not serious to us, but I have never known how Ed took it. He laughed it off at the time, but Joseph and I made fools of ourselves showing our tempers and immaturity. In any case, we eventually did find the Hotel Ontario and it was just what the doctor ordered. The price was the familiar 30 pesos per night, and this older quaint hotel had ambience, and a comfortable overall feeling. It was probably twenty or so stories high with good parking, and although off the beaten track, there was excellent access to the metro. (Subway)

As we enter the lobby of the Hotel Ontario, we find a small "crowd" of people waiting to check in, there is only one desk clerk and of course he is progressing along at a snails pace. Ed and I take a seat on a small sofa and begin the wait for our turn. As we wait, we are approached by a very friendly and attractive Mexican señorita who asks, in English, if we are American, she looks to be about twenty-five years old. We reply in the affirmative and she strikes up a conversation. She wants to practice speaking English. She tells that she is a student at the University of Mexico City, studying drama. She and her friends, which turn out to be the other people in the lobby of the hotel, have just arrived from a tour of the countryside. As part of their studies, they perform plays in small town plazas, or any other available venue, as they travel.

Her name is María, her family has a large cattle ranch in the state of Chihuahua. In her elementary school years she was sent to Texas to live with her aunt, specifically to learn fluent English. It worked well, her English was very good. She introduced her friends, all very nice people, and by the time everyone had registered we were well acquainted and they had invited us to go to dinner that evening. We were quick to accept. They were young, hip, and very extroverted. They spoke English with varying degrees of fluency, but they were anxious to use it. We all felt very comfortable together, and to make things perfect, they knew the restaurants and nite-clubs of Mexico City inside and out. They took us to a wonderful restaurant, kind of cafeteria style, with a wide range and selection of good food at economical prices, perfect. We all pulled tables together to make one large group, talking and laughing as we enjoy our dinner. We then proceeded to hit a string of wonderful night spots, sampling the imbibements of each one, before ending up at a most wonderful spot. It was (heaven forbid) a disco! The Chíc, on the top floor of a hotel, probably twenty or so stories high, commanding an awesome view of the city. We danced, drank, and talked well into the wee hours of the morning, all the while meeting new people, we were having a blast. As it turned out, (couldn't have been better) most of the guys in the troupe were gay, thus leaving the girls (who were not) happily paying attention to us, under the guise of learning better English for them, and of course better Spanish for us. By the time we returned to the Ontario, it was very late. The next morning when we awoke, (around noon) we immediately began paying the price for our gallivanting with tremendous hangovers, but we all agreed that it was well worth it. That day we did not even leave the hotel. That evening, much to our delight, we were invited to visit at our new friends rooms. They had three rooms, all adjoining, which they had opened up into what was a large apartment. This was when they introduced us to the worm. Although the guys were gay, it didn't matter, to anyone, everyone drank and laughed together and everyone was very nice and very intelligent with great senses of humor. The next day we awoke with yet another hangover, we began to question the wisdom of drinking that much every night. No one, it seemed had been able to catch the little worm either, we vowed not to play that game again.

We stayed on in Mexico City for three more days. The Metro subway system was a most pleasant surprise. It was very clean and very user friendly. The cars themselves are virtually all stainless steel, and everything is well lighted. The routes are written in Spanish, and in addition to numerical terminology they wisely include a color coded system as well as little pictures. This makes everything easy to understand immediately. When I compared it to the New York City subways that I remembered from my youth in New York, it shone even more brightly. There simply was no comparison between the new '70's Metro and the early fifties NY subways. We visited Chapultepec Park, and most important, the Museo. We saw the great Jade Mask and it was even more impressive than we had anticipated that it would be. It eventually was stolen from the Museo as a part of the "loot" of a great and daring robbery committed in the late 80's.

As we started to look toward leaving Mexico City, Ed announced that he would be staying on here, and subsequently doing some solo traveling. This of course, went along with his original statement of intentions when we first planned this trip. I never asked Ed, but I always wondered if those nice friends from the University of Mexico City had anything to do with his decision. I also wondered if the argument between Joseph and myself upon our arrival in Mexico City had any influence on his decision to leave us. I hoped not. I mention it in passing here, I gave it only a brief consideration then, and since then I have decided that it did not. We made our farewells wishing each other the best of luck and looking forward to our reunification back in Mammoth. At that time we would have a grand time catching ourselves up to date, and reminiscing in general. The next morning Joseph and I fired up the Caddie headed for Guadalajara, with Ed staying on at the Hotel Ontario.

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Copyright 1996 by R.P. Folsom. All rights reserved.