The Maine Mutiny

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I thought you might like a souvenir of your interview with Katie.”

  “How thoughtful,” I said. “I’ll take it with me on the trip. I don’t know if my friends get American television in Mexico. I know they’d enjoy seeing this.” I didn’t mention that one of those friends was my publisher, who would have more than a passing interest in any publicity that might increase book sales, especially mine.

  I was lucky to get a seat on a mid-morning, four-hour flight to Mexico City. School was out and the tourist season had begun, filling planes to all the popular places. Olga and Vaughan had told me they usually took a bus from the Mexican capital to San Miguel, although they complained about its erratic timetable and frequent breakdowns in the air conditioning system.

  “Fly to León instead,” Olga had suggested. “You’ll save hours of wear and tear on the road, and we’ll send someone to pick you up.” So I booked a connecting flight, and e-mailed the Buckleys my itinerary.

  Upon landing in Mexico City, I learned the flight to León would be delayed. “Technical problems,” a sympathetic gate agent said, shaking her head sadly. The plane wasn’t leaving until that night. Since the bus was no longer an option—my luggage had been checked through to León and there was no way to retrieve it—I resigned myself to the wait.

  “Take a taxi to the Zócalo,” Vaughan said, when I called to relay the news of yet another delay in my travel plans. “It’s a short cab ride, unless there’s traffic, maybe twenty or thirty minutes. But make sure you use the official cab stands. Don’t take a ride from anyone who approaches you in the terminal. There have been a lot of tourist robberies in those kinds of taxis.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That’s good to know.”

  “There’s a beautiful café on the terrace of the Hotel Majestic. They have wonderful food and a spectacular view. Have a late lunch, relax, stroll around the square.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “But if you do that, watch out for pickpockets. If you’re wearing any jewelry, take it off and hide it somewhere on your person. And stay away from crowds. Perhaps you shouldn’t purchase anything. You don’t want to be flashing American money.”

  “I bought pesos before I left,” I said, a little taken aback by all his warnings. “Maybe I should visit the Zona Rosa instead.”

  “I wouldn’t. It’s not the elegant neighborhood it once was. It fell into decay about twenty years ago. It’s being gentrified all over again, but it’s still a shadow of its former self and far too trendy for my liking,” he said. “I hear Olga calling me. Listen, Jessica, just hang on to your pocketbook, and have a good time. We’ll see you later.”

  I hung up and wondered if I would be better off simply reading my book in the airport, but quickly discarded that idea. Despite it having been many years since I’d visited Mexico City, I remembered the beautiful architecture, the broad avenues, the wonderful museums, the exotic ruins, and the charming people. It was certainly worth giving the city the benefit of the doubt, I thought, as I joined the lines going through immigration.

  The main hall of the Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City is an immaculate monument to marble—with sweepers pushing long dry mops across the gleaming floors, every twenty feet it seemed, never allowing so much as a dust mote to land on the colorful stone. It was also jammed with people. The hub not only for flights to anywhere in Mexico but also to a good portion of Latin America, the airport handles more than 20 million passengers annually. It looked to me as if a million of them were there when I exited customs. They were leaning on the ropes that separated the travelers from those who welcomed them, crowding the souvenir shops, clothing stores, coffee bars, and magazine stands, jostling me as I walked the length of the terminal, and lined up outside at the “official” taxi stand, manned by yellow-jacketed staff holding clipboards. I stood in line to buy a ticket and waited in line again until it was my turn to climb into the back of the taxi, a small green car in which the front passenger seat had been removed, presumably to accommodate luggage, which I did not have. I told the driver the name of the hotel on the Zócalo that Vaughan had recommended and leaned back against the cracked leather seat for the ride into town.

  “Welcome to Mexico, señora,” the driver said. He ñ pronounced it “meh-hee-co.”

  “Muchas gracias,” I said, showing off the little Spanish I knew.

  “Do you come for business or pleasure?”

  “Definitely pleasure,” I replied, smiling.

  “You are traveling alone, yes?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “You must be very careful traveling alone in the city,” he said. “There are some not nice people—bandidos—who will try to take advantage of you.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  He leaned back in his seat, drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to me over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the road. “If you want someone reliable to take you around, show you all the beautiful and historic places, very cheap, you call me. I am Manuel Dias. I don’t let anyone cheat you. I take good care of you. Guaranteed.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I’m not staying in Mexico City. In fact, I’m leaving this evening.”

  He clicked his tongue. “We are sorry to lose you,” he said. “Where do you go? Acapulco? Cancun? I have a cousin in Merida. Very good man.”

  “I’m going to San Miguel de Allende to visit friends. They’re sending someone to pick me up in León. My flight leaves this evening—at least I hope it will.” It hadn’t occurred to me till just then that I might have to stay overnight in Mexico City if the “technical problems” were not resolved and wondered if I should buy an extra toothbrush just in case.

  “This is terrible,” the driver said.

  “What’s terrible?”

  “I have no one for you in San Miguel. In León, maybe yes. I could find someone to help you, but you don’t stay there.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine. My friends will take good care of me.”

  “You be careful going to San Miguel,” he said, shaking a finger. “The country is no safer than the city.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I said, leaning forward and extending my arm. “Since I won’t be needing it, here’s your card.”

  “No, Señora. You keep it. You must go back to the airport tonight, yes? I will drive you. That way you’ll be safe. Some taxis are not reliable. What time is your flight?”

  I told him.

  “Give my card to the desk at the hotel. They will call. I will pick you up right away. In Mexico, we are very modern. I have the latest in technology.” He held up a cell phone.

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

  “But to be sure, you tell me what time to be at the hotel, and I will be waiting for you.”

  With Manuel Dias providing running commentary on the places we passed along our way, we set out for the Zócalo. The roads into the city funneled traffic from the wide boulevards of the outskirts, where he kept a heavy foot on the accelerator, to the clogged narrow streets around the downtown square. He guided us forward in agonizing inches, squeezing through impossible openings, and cutting off myriad vehicles to move ahead. Other drivers shouted at him, furious, and he responded with equal vehemence. I was grateful I didn’t understand what was being said, and was convinced that the only reason the angry exchanges of frustrated drivers didn’t result in violence was that no one had enough room to open a door. The trip took over an hour, and I calculated how much time I could realistically afford to spend in Mexico City before braving the traffic back to the airport in time for my flight. Manuel let me off on a side street around the corner from the front entrance of the hotel, instructing me to meet him at the same place when I was ready to leave. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to move from that spot till I got back.

  Vaughan’s recommendation was a good one. The rooftop restaurant on the terrace of the Hotel Majestic not only overlooked
the bustling Zócalo—reputed to be one of the largest public plazas in the world second only to Moscow’s Red Square—but afforded a spectacular vista of the city beyond. The hostess ushered me to an empty table by a stone wall from which, by leaning forward, I could observe the goings-on in the plaza below, or sitting back, rest my gaze on the city beyond it. The hot sun poured down on the terrace, but white umbrellas shaded the tables and a steady breeze made the air comfortable.

  I ordered pollo almendrado, almond chicken, and a glass of orange juice. While I waited to be served, I peered over the wall and watched a group of youngsters dressed in traditional costumes doing an elaborate dance for a throng that encircled them in the square. The boys wore white pants and shirts with multi-colored bands at their waists; the girls were in white dresses with black aprons, red ribbons trailing from small headpieces fluttered as they twirled around. Even from my perch seven floors above them, I could hear snatches of the music and the steady beat of a drum. A burst of applause greeted the end of their performance. They bowed to the audience, then ran to surround the man who had kept time with the drum, presumably their instructor, before he lined them up, two by two, and led them out of the square.

  I opened my shoulder bag, pulled out a guide book I’d bought in New York, and identified other buildings that bordered the Zócalo. To my left was the Metropolitan Cathedral, a jumble of architectural styles that nevertheless resulted in an impressive baroque building with a pair of towers flanking one of several grand entrances. My book said it was begun in the 16th Century to replace a cathedral built by Cortes, and that it incorporates not only stones from the ruins of the Temple of Quetzalcoatl, an Aztec god, but also a wall of skulls of Aztec sacrificial victims. Taking up the entire east side of the plaza was the National Palace, built in the 17th Century and home to government offices and the celebrated murals of Diego Rivera depicting the history of Mexico. I glanced at my watch to see if there would be enough time to view the murals or stop into the cathedral. Maybe if I ate quickly, but it didn’t look promising.

  All thoughts of having a quiet lunch evaporated a few minutes later when a mariachi band—two trumpets, two guitars, a violin, and a vocalist shaking maracas—stepped onto the terrace. I watched those around me look up happily as the band played the first notes of a song, the spirited music coaxing smiles from even the most serious diners. The waiter brought a basket of bread and kept my glass filled with juice until my chicken was served. I ate and listened to the band members as they threaded their way between the umbrellas to serenade each of the tables, my foot keeping time with the lively beat.

  The music helped ease the tension of my hectic last few weeks. It was nice to be on vacation. I love to travel, but book tours can be exhausting—a real “if this is Tuesday, it must be Boston” experience. While I enjoy meeting new people, especially readers, seeing new places and learning about them, it’s always a pleasant prospect to contemplate a few weeks with nothing specific to do but sit back and relax. No notes to take, no schedules to meet, no rush to catch another plane. Vaughan and Olga were the perfect hosts. They had a busy life of their own, and insisted I was to use their home as it were mine, and join them—or not—as I wished. They had promised that I wouldn’t be in their way. “We’ll even ignore you, if that’s what you want.” Which, of course, wasn’t what I wanted at all. What I did want was time. Time to renew our acquaintance. Time to stretch out with a book. Time to take leisurely walks in the charming town. Perhaps some gallery or museum visits, or a concert I could treat them to. Just a peaceful vacation with old friends. It sounded wonderful. But I was in for a rude awakening.