a couple of old gringos named Louie and Joe, who had once jumped ship while sailing with Jacques Cousteau:
FOR 40 YEARS NOW, I'VE BEEN GOING TO MEXICO...
AND I REMAINED A FOREIGNER, A MAN GOING ON the margin of Mexican life, until I met two old men who had jumped ship from a sloop called the Elie Monnier owned by the famous Jacques Cousteau off the coast of Acapulco back in 1948 and were now expatriates. They were about to introduce me to the country of Mexico in a way that I never knew existed.
It all began when I was in Acapulco in the summer of 1975 with a singles group from Houston known as The Leisure Tree shortly after my divorce. I was walking alone early one morning in the old part of the city along the shores of Caleta Beach near The Hotel La Palapa where we were staying: feeling a bit hungover from partying the night before in the hotel bar where we had listened to the usual international soft-rock pap, watered-down Beatles, creaky Barry Manilow, instead of the vibrant music of Mexico. As I returned to the old part of the city, I was strolling down Avenue Cerro de San Martin filled with a number of art galleries, several antique shops, and stores selling Mexican folk art. I was about to enter one of the galleries when I spotted a small restaurant across the street called The Lonely Gringo with a large red-white-and-blue neon sign in the middle of the window that read: 'Louie and Joe's: The Place for Burger and fries American Style.
I opened the door and stepped inside the first thing I took note of were the photographs on either side of the wall: large Black-and-Whites of old movie stars like Jean Harlow and Rita Hayworth and Heddy Lamar hanging on the left and on the right were equally large photos of Susan Hayward and Gene Tierney and Lauren Bacall. At the far end of the room was a jukebox which was playing Love Will Keep Us Together with The Captain and Tennille. The counter was made of polished chrome with six red stools perched in front, across from the counter stood four tables with red-and-white checkered table clothes, surrounded with two chairs on either side. Behind the counter was a older man with a somewhat grizzled-looking face in a white-apron over a yellow long-sleeved shirt wearing an old Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap turned sideways on top of his head. He looked up as I made my way to the counter and sat down on a stool as the the song on the jukebox came to an end.
You realize this is just a hamburger joint, right? He asked. I replied, Yes, Sir. He said, My name's Louie. Where are you from? Houston, I replied. He smiled. I was in Houston once. It's too god damned hot. My brother Joe and I were originally from Greenleaf, Kansas. We got the bug to go to sea about twenty-years after we graduated from high school, sold our farm and did just that. We've been here since'48. What made you choose Mexico? I asked. Didn't exactly choose, he replied. We just jumped ship and swam ashore. He handed me a menu. Joe and I, we'd been in the Mediterranean after hiring-on as deck hands with Jacques Cousteau and were on a sloop called 'Eli Monnier.' I guess we got tired of being seasick and pewking all the time...He asked my name, took my order of a hamburger with fries and a strawberry malt, went into the kitchen behind the counter, began to cook, and then began to talk. You been to Mexico before? he asked. Several times, I replied. Where? he asked. Puerto Vallarta, Zihuatanejo, places like that, I replied. You ought to give a shot at seeing the real Mexico instead of the fluff of the touristy stuff, he said.
It was then that another man appeared entering through the rear door. He wore a light brown Panama hat, a royal blue Polo shirt, J. Crew tan khakis and solid-white pair of Sperry Billfish boat shoes. His face was lined by his years in the sun, his smile somewhat polite, he was holding a framed rather large painting in both of his hands, kicked the door shut behind him, gave me a polite 'hello,' and set the painting into one of the chairs by one of the tables. I heard Louie ask, Is that you, Joe? The man said, It's me, Louie. Who else do you think it would be? I came in the back door. Who else does that? You get the painting? Louie asked. Joe replied, Yes. The Rogelio Diaz? asked Louie. Of course! Joe said rather tersely, then introduced himself, and I told him where I was from. I heard Louie yell from the kitchen, Watch out for that guy, Joe! He's a typical tourist He's from Texas!
AND I REMAINED A FOREIGNER, A MAN GOING ON the margin of Mexican life, until I met two old men who had jumped ship from a sloop called the Elie Monnier owned by the famous Jacques Cousteau off the coast of Acapulco back in 1948 and were now expatriates. They were about to introduce me to the country of Mexico in a way that I never knew existed.
It all began when I was in Acapulco in the summer of 1975 with a singles group from Houston known as The Leisure Tree shortly after my divorce. I was walking alone early one morning in the old part of the city along the shores of Caleta Beach near The Hotel La Palapa where we were staying: feeling a bit hungover from partying the night before in the hotel bar where we had listened to the usual international soft-rock pap, watered-down Beatles, creaky Barry Manilow, instead of the vibrant music of Mexico. As I returned to the old part of the city, I was strolling down Avenue Cerro de San Martin filled with a number of art galleries, several antique shops, and stores selling Mexican folk art. I was about to enter one of the galleries when I spotted a small restaurant across the street called The Lonely Gringo with a large red-white-and-blue neon sign in the middle of the window that read: 'Louie and Joe's: The Place for Burger and fries American Style.
I opened the door and stepped inside the first thing I took note of were the photographs on either side of the wall: large Black-and-Whites of old movie stars like Jean Harlow and Rita Hayworth and Heddy Lamar hanging on the left and on the right were equally large photos of Susan Hayward and Gene Tierney and Lauren Bacall. At the far end of the room was a jukebox which was playing Love Will Keep Us Together with The Captain and Tennille. The counter was made of polished chrome with six red stools perched in front, across from the counter stood four tables with red-and-white checkered table clothes, surrounded with two chairs on either side. Behind the counter was a older man with a somewhat grizzled-looking face in a white-apron over a yellow long-sleeved shirt wearing an old Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap turned sideways on top of his head. He looked up as I made my way to the counter and sat down on a stool as the the song on the jukebox came to an end.
You realize this is just a hamburger joint, right? He asked. I replied, Yes, Sir. He said, My name's Louie. Where are you from? Houston, I replied. He smiled. I was in Houston once. It's too god damned hot. My brother Joe and I were originally from Greenleaf, Kansas. We got the bug to go to sea about twenty-years after we graduated from high school, sold our farm and did just that. We've been here since'48. What made you choose Mexico? I asked. Didn't exactly choose, he replied. We just jumped ship and swam ashore. He handed me a menu. Joe and I, we'd been in the Mediterranean after hiring-on as deck hands with Jacques Cousteau and were on a sloop called 'Eli Monnier.' I guess we got tired of being seasick and pewking all the time...He asked my name, took my order of a hamburger with fries and a strawberry malt, went into the kitchen behind the counter, began to cook, and then began to talk. You been to Mexico before? he asked. Several times, I replied. Where? he asked. Puerto Vallarta, Zihuatanejo, places like that, I replied. You ought to give a shot at seeing the real Mexico instead of the fluff of the touristy stuff, he said.
It was then that another man appeared entering through the rear door. He wore a light brown Panama hat, a royal blue Polo shirt, J. Crew tan khakis and solid-white pair of Sperry Billfish boat shoes. His face was lined by his years in the sun, his smile somewhat polite, he was holding a framed rather large painting in both of his hands, kicked the door shut behind him, gave me a polite 'hello,' and set the painting into one of the chairs by one of the tables. I heard Louie ask, Is that you, Joe? The man said, It's me, Louie. Who else do you think it would be? I came in the back door. Who else does that? You get the painting? Louie asked. Joe replied, Yes. The Rogelio Diaz? asked Louie. Of course! Joe said rather tersely, then introduced himself, and I told him where I was from. I heard Louie yell from the kitchen, Watch out for that guy, Joe! He's a typical tourist He's from Texas!
Joe removed the painting from the chair, laid it aside on the floor, and invited me to come to the table and sit with him while Louie continued preparing food. He asked how long I would be in Acapulco and I replied that I would be here about a week. He laughed. You can't really capture the uniqueness of Acapulco and of Mexico in a week, he said. The photographs you take back home with you, leave out two essentials. Smell and sound. How old are you? Thirty-nine, I said. He then looked past me and said, How old were we when we got here, Louie? Louie replied, Old enough! Jeezus Christ, why do you always have to ask that when there are strangers around? Then Joe said with a rather large smile on his face, He's a little testy about us being as old as we are because he's a year older than I am. He paused. How would you like to take a tour of the art gallery Louie and I own after you finish your meal? It's just down the street.
After I finished my burger and fries and malted milk served by a rather growly-looking Louie, Joe and I went out the door and began to walk up the street to the gallery as he balanced the Rogelio Diaz painting gingerly in both of his hands. I asked, You don't miss America? He replied, Not even a little bit. The people here are wonderful and the countryside is amazing. Once we entered the gallery and he had hung the Diaz painting in the middle of the far wall, I looked around at brilliantly colored paintings combined with power and craftsmanship in a style that Joe called 'Mexican Expressionist.' Diaz is one of the better artists we have here in Mexico, he said. He then produced two glasses of iced-tea, smoked a cigarette, and talked awhile about his love of Mexico. He asked me questions. I told him that I was a former Lutheran minister, recently divorced, and that I was with a singles group from Houston called The Leisure Tree. He excused himself for a moment and said that he needed to make a quick telephone and when he returned he asked me what I was doing for the rest of the afternoon and evening. I replied that I had no solid plans and he invited me to go on a 10 kilometer drive west of the city to a place called Pie de La Cuesta and the Coyuga Lagoon. He then said, It's a part of the real Mexico. I think that you ought to see it.
We drove there in his bright-red 1955 Cadillac Coupe De ville, stopped for gas at the Zombia Gas Station, made our way along Colonia El Jarin and into a small village with rough waves on the sea on one side and the very calm lagoon on the other. Early in the evening we sat at a window table in a small restaurant sipping tequila. He asked me if I would like to take a walk. We hiked along the cliff above the lagoon, saw young men and women flirting, all eyes and glances and whispers; watched groups of men, fathers with children, old women with lovely faces and kids pedaling tricycles; there were country people in sandals and straw hats and the sound of the roaring sea. This is a place where you can stroll on the beach at four in the morning and feel safe he said.
The sky was all purple and tinged with orange from the dying sun and we were now on our way to a place that had been a fishing village for centuries, one with a few thatched huts and palm trees dozing along the far shore of the Coyuga Lagoon. There were mules toting bags filled with freshly caught fish and men and women who apparently preferred to live that way. They lived out their lives in its quiet cobble stoned streets to the familiar rhythms of day and night, rainy summers and balmy winters. Even the great upheaval of the Mexican revolution had little effect on the fishermen and small farmers who lived in this area, Joe said. It was then that I took note of the men passing by us on the streets. They would remove their sombreros and smile at Joe and say, Buenas noches, Senor Joe and Joe would then smile and reply Buenas noches. I asked, Do they know you? He replied, My brother and I went into hiding here after we came ashore in Acapulco. We were unaware of what the legal consequences might be for jumping ship. We went in their dugout canoes and fished with them. We lived in the village for over a year.
It was almost midnight when we returned to his Coupe De ville for our trip back to Acapulco and he asked me if I could dump my friends at the Leisure Tree and take a three hour drive with him in the morning. I immediately said yes and then asked, What about your art gallery, don't you have to be there? He replied, I have a fine lady from Iowa who runs it for me whenever I choose not to be there.
Shortly before ten o'clock on the following morning I found myself in the spectacular mountains surrounding the small village of Tetela. It was a spectacular sight: sheer cliffs, sudden crags, rocky formations, and behind them, other mountains rose, big and broad-shouldered - all a part of the Sierra Madre, the primordial spine of Mexico.The village of Tetela was populated with no more than about fourteen-hundred people at the most. We walked under the warming sun, to the center of town. Off to the right were cane fields and men riding horses, and on both sides of the valley were the mountains of Morales. At the top of deeply terraced hills, sitting in doorways, their eyes cloudy with the past, were a cadre of old men who sat in silence watching us. They fought with Zapata, Joe said. To this day, he remains their hero. This is where the past and present of of Mexico co join. One of reverence and melancholy and grandeur. A place that I thought you ought to see.
He then took me to the town's graveyard, where tiny cones of dust blew in the wind among the headstones. The men here died for the country they loved, Joe said. I did not know it at the time, but I would one day travel to the village of Tepoztlan 58 kilometers north of Tetela, to the place where Zapata and these men once fought. I had been coming to Mexico for several years, but the sight of the gravestones moved me in complicated ways, so I remained silent and looked down at them. It was then that Joe said, Louie used to come here with me. He doesn't anymore. Why's that? I asked. He gave a small smile, As crusty as Louie appears to be, it always made him cry...
He paused for a moment and then said, I think Louie would like it if you popped-in on him before you leave Acapulco. On my final day in Acapulco I did just that. It was early in the morning and The Lonely Gringo was empty of customers. Louie smiled and greeted me as I entered the door, invited me to sit down at one of the tables, and brought two cups of coffee to the table. Did Joe talk your ear-off? he asked. Not really, I replied. Me and Joe, we like to take folks under our wing from time-to-time. I guess you could call us 'two old farts who love their adopted country' and want to share it with other folks.
He then told me stories filled with elements of melodrama and redemption. About a women they had met from Iowa, broken by a difficult marriage, who came to Mexico with a vague hope for escape. He and his brother had given her a job in the art gallery to erase the memory of her past and give her the future that they thought she deserved. Another man had lost a much loved son to drugs; another had lost a career to whiskey; a third had postponed an old dream of becoming a painter. All had come to Mexico to live a little longer or, perhaps, for the first time. All three of them were now employed by he and his brother. Two as cooks, the third was now an artist with paintings hung in their gallery.
When those things happen, Louie said, you have to help them. You have to help them see the country that made you whole. He then smiled. Did you know that my brother phoned me when you two were in the gallery and told me you once were a preacher. He laughed . We both thought that you'd be the right kind of guy. I asked, The right kind of guy for what? He smiled, Being our Minister of Propaganda the next time you return to Mexico.
Forty-years after that, when I had moved through vast, empty stretches of parched and unfamiliar Mexican land, alone in the emptiness of Mexico, going up a rutted dirt road to see something new and wonderful, I thought of two old men who had once jumped ship into an unfamiliar land and grew to love another country more than they had their own some sixty-seven years before...
...And thanked God for that unexpected moment when I had accidentally met-up with two old men who called themselves Louie and Joe forty-years ago - as I stepped inside of an Acapulco hamburger joint called The Lonely Gringo...
After I finished my burger and fries and malted milk served by a rather growly-looking Louie, Joe and I went out the door and began to walk up the street to the gallery as he balanced the Rogelio Diaz painting gingerly in both of his hands. I asked, You don't miss America? He replied, Not even a little bit. The people here are wonderful and the countryside is amazing. Once we entered the gallery and he had hung the Diaz painting in the middle of the far wall, I looked around at brilliantly colored paintings combined with power and craftsmanship in a style that Joe called 'Mexican Expressionist.' Diaz is one of the better artists we have here in Mexico, he said. He then produced two glasses of iced-tea, smoked a cigarette, and talked awhile about his love of Mexico. He asked me questions. I told him that I was a former Lutheran minister, recently divorced, and that I was with a singles group from Houston called The Leisure Tree. He excused himself for a moment and said that he needed to make a quick telephone and when he returned he asked me what I was doing for the rest of the afternoon and evening. I replied that I had no solid plans and he invited me to go on a 10 kilometer drive west of the city to a place called Pie de La Cuesta and the Coyuga Lagoon. He then said, It's a part of the real Mexico. I think that you ought to see it.
We drove there in his bright-red 1955 Cadillac Coupe De ville, stopped for gas at the Zombia Gas Station, made our way along Colonia El Jarin and into a small village with rough waves on the sea on one side and the very calm lagoon on the other. Early in the evening we sat at a window table in a small restaurant sipping tequila. He asked me if I would like to take a walk. We hiked along the cliff above the lagoon, saw young men and women flirting, all eyes and glances and whispers; watched groups of men, fathers with children, old women with lovely faces and kids pedaling tricycles; there were country people in sandals and straw hats and the sound of the roaring sea. This is a place where you can stroll on the beach at four in the morning and feel safe he said.
The sky was all purple and tinged with orange from the dying sun and we were now on our way to a place that had been a fishing village for centuries, one with a few thatched huts and palm trees dozing along the far shore of the Coyuga Lagoon. There were mules toting bags filled with freshly caught fish and men and women who apparently preferred to live that way. They lived out their lives in its quiet cobble stoned streets to the familiar rhythms of day and night, rainy summers and balmy winters. Even the great upheaval of the Mexican revolution had little effect on the fishermen and small farmers who lived in this area, Joe said. It was then that I took note of the men passing by us on the streets. They would remove their sombreros and smile at Joe and say, Buenas noches, Senor Joe and Joe would then smile and reply Buenas noches. I asked, Do they know you? He replied, My brother and I went into hiding here after we came ashore in Acapulco. We were unaware of what the legal consequences might be for jumping ship. We went in their dugout canoes and fished with them. We lived in the village for over a year.
It was almost midnight when we returned to his Coupe De ville for our trip back to Acapulco and he asked me if I could dump my friends at the Leisure Tree and take a three hour drive with him in the morning. I immediately said yes and then asked, What about your art gallery, don't you have to be there? He replied, I have a fine lady from Iowa who runs it for me whenever I choose not to be there.
Shortly before ten o'clock on the following morning I found myself in the spectacular mountains surrounding the small village of Tetela. It was a spectacular sight: sheer cliffs, sudden crags, rocky formations, and behind them, other mountains rose, big and broad-shouldered - all a part of the Sierra Madre, the primordial spine of Mexico.The village of Tetela was populated with no more than about fourteen-hundred people at the most. We walked under the warming sun, to the center of town. Off to the right were cane fields and men riding horses, and on both sides of the valley were the mountains of Morales. At the top of deeply terraced hills, sitting in doorways, their eyes cloudy with the past, were a cadre of old men who sat in silence watching us. They fought with Zapata, Joe said. To this day, he remains their hero. This is where the past and present of of Mexico co join. One of reverence and melancholy and grandeur. A place that I thought you ought to see.
He then took me to the town's graveyard, where tiny cones of dust blew in the wind among the headstones. The men here died for the country they loved, Joe said. I did not know it at the time, but I would one day travel to the village of Tepoztlan 58 kilometers north of Tetela, to the place where Zapata and these men once fought. I had been coming to Mexico for several years, but the sight of the gravestones moved me in complicated ways, so I remained silent and looked down at them. It was then that Joe said, Louie used to come here with me. He doesn't anymore. Why's that? I asked. He gave a small smile, As crusty as Louie appears to be, it always made him cry...
He paused for a moment and then said, I think Louie would like it if you popped-in on him before you leave Acapulco. On my final day in Acapulco I did just that. It was early in the morning and The Lonely Gringo was empty of customers. Louie smiled and greeted me as I entered the door, invited me to sit down at one of the tables, and brought two cups of coffee to the table. Did Joe talk your ear-off? he asked. Not really, I replied. Me and Joe, we like to take folks under our wing from time-to-time. I guess you could call us 'two old farts who love their adopted country' and want to share it with other folks.
He then told me stories filled with elements of melodrama and redemption. About a women they had met from Iowa, broken by a difficult marriage, who came to Mexico with a vague hope for escape. He and his brother had given her a job in the art gallery to erase the memory of her past and give her the future that they thought she deserved. Another man had lost a much loved son to drugs; another had lost a career to whiskey; a third had postponed an old dream of becoming a painter. All had come to Mexico to live a little longer or, perhaps, for the first time. All three of them were now employed by he and his brother. Two as cooks, the third was now an artist with paintings hung in their gallery.
When those things happen, Louie said, you have to help them. You have to help them see the country that made you whole. He then smiled. Did you know that my brother phoned me when you two were in the gallery and told me you once were a preacher. He laughed . We both thought that you'd be the right kind of guy. I asked, The right kind of guy for what? He smiled, Being our Minister of Propaganda the next time you return to Mexico.
Forty-years after that, when I had moved through vast, empty stretches of parched and unfamiliar Mexican land, alone in the emptiness of Mexico, going up a rutted dirt road to see something new and wonderful, I thought of two old men who had once jumped ship into an unfamiliar land and grew to love another country more than they had their own some sixty-seven years before...
...And thanked God for that unexpected moment when I had accidentally met-up with two old men who called themselves Louie and Joe forty-years ago - as I stepped inside of an Acapulco hamburger joint called The Lonely Gringo...
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