A Fly In My Mexican Food

At the tender, young, and impressionable age of 13, I traveled to Mexico with my mom and dad so my mom could attend a Spanish-speaking school. She was going to be teaching high school Spanish in the upcoming school year. Another teacher (German-speaking) had won the trip and didn't want to go, and Mom was smart and said, "Thank you!" for the opportunity. I think Dad was excited because he would get to be immersed in the Spanish language again. He picked up the language on his Spanish-speaking LDS mission to Chile at age 21, just as Mom had. (That's where they met, and that's another story for another day.) I think Mom was excited because, although it would be hard work, it would also be a fun "vacation" from our routine summers (where the kids constantly said, "I'm bored!"). Plus, it would give her the actual Spanish cultural experience as well as being immersed in the language.

I ... well, I was not as excited to go. For weeks (or was it months?) before we left, I was a nervous ball of energy. I had a) never flown, b) never been out of the country, and 3) always been a home body. It unnerved me to think we would live with an actual Mexican family, eat actual Mexican food 24/7, and I wouldn't have a clue what anyone was saying. (As if Mom and Dad would have just let me wander the city alone, duh.) It was intimidating, to say the least.

Dad had big plans. He was going to teach me Spanish while Mom was in her Spanish class. We'd see the country, eat the foods, and enjoy every minute of it. Dad would probably admit now that he was a leeeetle concerned about leaving his dry cleaning shop in the hands of my oldest brother and sister, but he always did like a good adventure. Bless his heart, he and Mom worked and worked and worked with me to get over my fears of flying and leaving the country. They assured me over and over that they would not leave me alone anywhere and that the people really would be nice.

The big day came, we got on the plane, Mom and Dad filled me full of dramamine, and the next thing I knew, we were in Mexico City. The fact that we'd made it there alive was still not enough to convince me we'd make it HOME alive, but it was a small consolation prize. We gathered our luggage and found our way out of the airport and into a taxi in order to get to the hotel.

The taxi ride - oh my! Dad always rode in front with the drivers and talked their ears off. Mom and I always rode in the back seat where it was safe from "accidental" hand placement on our female bodies. (I didn't realize that was why we sat in the back seat until way later or it probably would have freaked me out. Parents are smart like that. Great information withholders, they are.) Anyway, I guess Dad asked to be taken to the hotel and for a suggestion about where we could get something to eat near the main part of town. (Every taxi driver we rode with loved Dad because he spoke the language and did it without a Gringo accent.) We quickly learned that when the light was green the taxi went. The drivers didn't wait to see if intersections were clear or if people were out of the way. If the light was green, they pressed on the gas. If they didn't? Horns honking, gestures, people yelling, even having the car bumped by the one behind you. It was pure and utter chaos. I was afraid for my life, Mom seemed a little annoyed by the immaturity of it all, and Dad thought it was pure genius and laughed the entire time.

We eventually made it to the hotel to dump our luggage and found a town square in the middle of the city. There were Mariachi bands playing, it was a sunny and warm day, and people were gathered around and moving about. The atmosphere was very laid back and easy going. We spent some time listening to the Mariachi bands under some shade trees before we decided we really were hungry and ought to eat something. Dad asked around for some restaurant suggestions and we finally settled on one. Now, I'd always liked Mexican food. American Mexican food, that is. Mom and Dad both reminded me that the food here would probably not be anything close to what we considered Mexican food at home. In other words, the restaurant was not likely to have nachos. What?!

We sat down, reminded each other NOT to order water to drink (always order Coke), and looked over the menu. Well, Mom and Dad looked over the menu anyway, while I asked, "What's this? What's that?" until they're brains wanted to explode. But they were patient and explained what things were. I felt like ordering chicken was a safe bet. Who can screw up chicken, you know? Besides, chicken enchiladas were good, chicken taquitos were good, how could whatever chicken they were selling not be good? It was the safest bet.

The waiter came and took our order. He brought out our Cokes and we enjoyed the veranda we were sitting on outside while we waited for our food. It seemed to take forever, but I think it's because we were tired from the flight. (I was anyway. I'd had enough dramamine to bring down an elephant.) Finally, the waiter returned with our food. He placed in front of me some big chunks of chicken with a dark, red - almost maroon - sauce and some rice. We thanked him, and then Dad said he thought we ought to bless the food. Genius! We should thank Heavenly Father for food we're about to partake, especially when we had no idea where it was found or prepared or cooked. It's probably what saved us from dying on multiple occasions. Seriously.

I think Dad offered the prayer, we said, "Amen!", and opened our eyes. Just as we did so, a fly (there were LOTS of flies; flies everywhere) took a nose dive into my chicken dish with red sauce and immediately died. I looked at that fly, looked at Dad, looked at Mom, looked back at Dad, grabbed my spoon and removed the fly.

Silence.

And then I said, "Well, if that sauce killed the fly, I wonder what it will do to me."

It was at that very moment that Mom and Dad knew I would survive Mexico - and probably even enjoy it. And I did! We did! It was one of the greatest adventures of my life with two of my very best friends and favorite people.

I've always felt sad about that poor, dead fly though. He missed out on a good meal.