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“Fifteen
Minutes of Separation”Introduction
Somewhere
between Kevin Bacon and Andy Warhol is
the land we call Fifteen Minutes of
Separation (or Six Degrees of Fame). |
FIFTEEN
MINUTES OF SEPARATION
The
Editor’s ColumnHow
the Title Came to Be
(The Long Version*)
Back
in the late 1970s when I was traveling to Mexico
five or six times a year – I decided to buy a guidebook. It was a luxury that
I had somehow managed to travel without on previous trips. Those were the days
of travel titles like Mexico on $10 a Day, Guatemala on $6 Dollars a Day
and We’ll Pay You to Go to Belize. (I’m happy to report things have improved
in Belize over the last 30 years.)
The book itself was around three-fifty
so I figured it could pay for itself in no time. I was right. I deplaned in Merida
where a graveyard of broken and cannibalized DC-6s brazenly occupied the end of
the runway. Sort of an aviation-themed memento mori.
In the category
of next-to-useless knowledge: Mexican movie star / singer Pedro Infante died in
a self-piloted crash here in 1957.
As the plane touched down, I dog-eared
a page in my new book citing the impish behavior of Merida taxi drivers who were
then known for removing the airport bus stop sign and throwing it into the weeds
adjacent to the terminal. Bus fare to town was the equivalent of .25 cents (or
any reasonably-flat round metal discs). Taxi fare, on the other hand, was something
like $1.50. A serious bite out of the $10 traveler’s daily budget.
It
wasn’t the money but the choice of driving in a car with the windows up (showing
that the car had once had air conditioning) or an open-windowed bus trip smelling
of Jacaranda blossoms and the heady mix of rose water and fruity hair pomade.
I had come to Mexico for
quiet adventure and time travel. Both of which were offered by the bus ride. It
was a no-brainer.
But as I waited for the city bus, I wanted to check
the accuracy of the book. I walked past the three or four taxi drivers who were
lined up waiting for fares. The second driver in line was under his car changing
his oil. (Did I mention this was Mexico?) The metal pole that my book had described
was indeed right where the book said it would be. Two empty holes showed where
the PARADA sign had been attached. Further examination revealed the sign - thrown
face-down in the weeds, exactly where the book said. I was impressed.
The
first driver in line assumed I was his fare and smiled as he asked my destination.
He was about 55 years old with the blue-black hair once popular with superheroes.
He also wore a contrasting gray mustache. A pair of needle-nosed Vice Grips peeked
from a back pocket of his knockoff designer jeans – but I may be making that up.
He admitted that the bus “used to stop here” but lately the driver just coasts
past since everyone takes a cab. He allowed that if I wanted to wait, a
bus might appear “even chili.” I’m sure he meant eventually but to my ear it sounded
like “even chili.” I showed him the entry in my new friend and translated it as
best I could. I pointed to the sign. He shrugged, moving his eyes left and then
right in the internationally understood: “Don’t look at me.” But then he did something
unexpected – he called to the other drivers to come look. They had made Fodor’s!
I
eventually rode the bus into town – a ten-minute trip – and then back to the airport
and back downtown that same night, waving to the taxistas when we coasted by their
stand and receiving their amused waves in return. It’s the sort of thing you can
do when time doesn’t matter.
My second guide book (A humorous and general
historical guide by Kate Simon) included a tip on the best way to eat ripe mangos
(Remove all clothing and sit in your bathtub). After this tidbit I was hooked
on Guides. Frommer and Fodor became constant companions. The People’s Guide
to Mexico (“Wherever you go – there you are.”) encouraged me to drive down
to Yucatan on the first of what would become five or six Gulf Coast trips. The
authors’ hit of washing clothes in a trashcan and allowing the highway be your
agitator was a winner, as were their tips on catching iguanas and hiring a maid.
The book is still a joy to read and has never been out of print.
Getting to the Point
I
can’t remember which book had it, but one extremely useful bit of advice (for
the bus traveler with limited communication skills) was to sit close to the bus
driver when meal stops were made. It figures that if the driver stays in sight
you’ll be forewarned about early departures (a rare occurrence in Mexico
– but as you know, in Mexico
anything is possible). The particular stop where I put this tip into action was
a town in southern Veracruz not far from Catemaco. Catemaco is famous for an annual
gathering of "witches."**
If
you happen to drop the fact that you’re even passing remotely near Catemalco to
a Mexican audience, your listeners will fall silent and start crossing themselves
and generally behaving as if you just told them you have the weekend booked at
Castle Dracula.
Anyway, this particular rest stop was to be 15 minutes.
After my driver announced as much, he walked into the restroom. So did I. He then
walked into the restaurant. So did I. As he ordered it was obvious he was known
to the waitresses. It was like the opening of Cheers when Norm walks in – only
in Spanish. I marveled at how relaxed my driver appeared. He settled down and
read a paper. I read a paper too, but with me it was more like looking at the
pictures. I immediately regretted it since the first four pages covered a horrific
bus collision in neighboring Hidalgo state.
Keeping one eye on the driver
- my other eye (yes, it hurt, thanks for asking) spotted a maintenance man boarding
“our” bus with the self-assurance of a veteran driver. He also wore a bus driver’s
uniform – but then again, so did a lot of policeman. He drove it in the direction
of the rear of the terminal. Routine maintenance, I figured. As I ate my meal,
I mused that we would all (driver, bus and passenger) arrive in Vera Cruz filled
with (reasonably) fresh oil.
Strangely, my driver’s food hadn’t even arrived.
I started feeling something was wrong when I didn’t notice any of my fellow passengers
dining. I rationalized by telling myself this town was their destination (all
of them?) and that by now they were all eating at home, surrounded by loving families
and recounting tales of their trip. Like the one about the foreign passenger who
kept staring at the bus driver.
Rationalization was already fading when
my driver’s family came up to his table and his wife kissed him hello. It was
fleeing pell mell when their order arrived and the family took it and started
walking home. It was a beautiful scene. It was a lonely scene from my point of
view – but beautiful, nonetheless.
Being Mexico,
with its abundance of buses, it was only a two hour delay and I really didn’t
need my luggage anyway. I was given my old assigned seat over the rear wheels.
I later discovered that these are “especial” seats reserved for tourists so they
can enjoy the nosiest part of the bus.
The lesson
learned was that you can have the best advice available and even if you follow
it to the letter - Life will find a way to torpedo it. Bullet-proof advice, horse’s-mouth
advice, even Martha Stewart insider-trading advice, there are no guarantees.
Somewhere
between Kevin Bacon and Andy Warhol is the land we call 15 Minutes of Separation
(or Six Degrees of Fame).
- Editor
*
There is no short version.
** Officially known
as the "Congreso Internacional de Brujos." | |
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