San Miguel De Allende 
 

A couple months prior to our departure 
 

      I could hear my dad downstairs on the phone. “GREAT, that’s GREAT.” He was talking to his friend Gene and was obviously excited about something. Moments later he came running up to the kitchen. My mom was cooking dinner, something with tofu, and I was sitting at the table trying to do my homework. It was hard, considering my dad’s voice carries, like he is projecting, but all the time. He was even louder than usual.

      “Guys, I just got off the phone with Gene!” I lifted my head up from my math homework, any excuse not to simplify logarithmic equations.

      “This year the fool’s reunion is in Mexico!” The fool’s reunion is an excuse my dad and his friends make to get together and get really drunk… for a weekend. It’s usually in Sonoma at Gene’s house, and I usually don’t go.

      “Where in Mexico?” was my mom’s reply, she probably wasn’t listening. Tofu can be tricky.

      “San Miguel De Allende; it’s where Gene and Mary met, the trip will be an anniversary celebration as well as a fools reunion, isn’t this great? I’ve wanted to go back to Mexico; it will be a great family trip, a month and a half in Mexico!” It was at this time I began to be involved in the conversation.

      “Do I have to go?”

      “Yes of course. We are all going, it will be fun.”

      “It will not be fun, there will be no one my age, it’s not by a beach, and it’s a huge waste of my summer. Summer is only two months you know, and I don’t want to spend it with a bunch of old people.” At this point I had thoroughly convinced myself that if I had to go on this trip I would die.

      “You’re going.”

       My mom intervened

      “Dinner, we will talk about this later.” That was the end of that particular discussion, but it was the first of many. As my dad continued to make arrangements for the trip, I continued to resent the fact that I was going. I didn’t want to go, and he wanted me to. As I got angrier he got more stubborn. We had an argument at least once a week and I got nowhere. I even had my mom on my side. She understood that there would be no one my age and I would be bored. She tried to help, but the best she could do was cut my time in Mexico from a month and a half to a month. I was still VERY unhappy.  
 

At the Airport

      My plan was to stay in my room so they would have to leave without me. I was really going to do it until I saw my mom; she was standing over her bags with a huge stressed yet very excited smile on her face. She had finally stopped running around the house, satisfied that everything was in order she was ready to go, and when my mom is ready to go it’s time to leave. She was freaking out about getting there on time. I couldn’t make her late. She had tried so hard to get my dad to see my side, constantly reminding him of what it felt like to be a teenager. The car ride there was… tense. I didn’t want to go, and I wasn’t talking to my dad.  As we pulled in to the airport all I could do was not cry/scream/hit my dad. I already knew what it was going to be like. I would have to walk around with my mom and dad, do everything they wanted to do, be bored, and be constantly embarrassed because my only friend was a three year old. Great. Once we got through airport security, which took a million hours and I thought to be a good indicator of how the trip would be, we met up with Fawn and James and their daughter Mackenzie. Fawn is Gene and Mary’s daughter, and she, like my parents, was very excited for this trip.

      “You’re going to have a great time!” I know she meant well, but I felt like hitting her over the head with my carry on.

      “No, I’m going to be bored.” I stopped trying to be polite

      “You know, I went here with these same people when I was your age. It was great, I met my first boyfriend. He and his family were super religious and he wouldn’t even hold my hand. It’s a really cute little town; you’ll find stuff to do!”

      “Fawn, I really appreciate you trying to cheer me up (lie, I really didn’t, I was perfectly fine wallowing in self pity.) But I don’t think I will have the same experience, plus you had people close to your age with you, I have no one. I’m going to be so bored.” As stupid as my argument was, at this point I was near tears; I wanted to stay in Berkeley so badly. What could be worse then being bored for an entire month? Just then our boarding call was announced; we got on the plan and started our trip to Mexico.

Our Arrival

      I didn’t like it already. I was sweating, tired and unhappy. As I walked through the airports sliding doors, I was expecting to see deserts, cactus, people, instead the view was of an old coke advertisement and a parking lot. It was even hotter outside, I felt like my skin was going to melt off me. It was the kind of heat that makes breathing unsatisfying, you know, like every breath you take hurts because the air is so dry. It’s the worst in your nose. I heaved in unsatisfying breaths and sweated to the point of dehydration. My dad had told me that we would be picked up by the realtor who was renting us the house we were staying in. As I looked around for a shiny new car, I saw a little man in a clean suit waving to us. He was leaning against an old beat up brown pickup truck. I wasn’t sure we were all going to fit. Oh but we did. My mom and dad sat in the front seat, leg room galore and I sat in the back seat; the fabric on the seats seemed older then the car itself, it was rough and smelled like mud. The back seat was made for midgets… with no legs. With my knees tucked up under my nose we began our drive to the town where I would spend my next month. I was finding it increasingly harder to keep my eyes open, but the one thing I did notice was the view from the car window was not much better then the view at the airport. Old building, fruit vender, hot dust, fruit vender, hut, you get the idea. At this point I wanted nothing more then to get to the stupid ugly house in the stupid ugly town and sleep for the rest of this stupid ugly trip.

      “Gabrielle, sweetheart, we’re here.” My mom coaxed me awake. I opened my eyes to a dingy little road. We were going uphill and the sun was just coming up; even I had to admit it was pretty, all that soft pink and blue contrasting with the hard orange everywhere else, but Jesus I was tired.

      “How long was that drive? My head hurts, and I’m so tired I could puke.” I whined.

      “It was about two hours; you can sleep when we get to the house.” Just then our driver, I think his name was Pablo, informed us that we were driving up our street. The first thing I noticed was this house. It had white flowers climbing up its rough orange walls. I followed the flowers up to the roof fenced off by harsh metal bars. The contrast between the delicate white flowers, and the unnatural unfinished building, made the entire house sort of eerie. 

      “Is that our house?” I asked

      “No, it’s this one here, the orange one with the gate,” Pablo told me. I was a little disappointed, which was fine it only added to my sour mood. I got out of the car and used all my remaining strength to lift my suitcase out of the back of the rusted pick up. Once we got in the house all I wanted to do was sleep, and that’s exactly what I did for the next four and a half hours.

Week One

      “Mom, this is shit. I’m already bored.” We were sitting in our house on the second day.

      “Gabrielle, try to keep an open mind, we only just got here.” My mom answered, not really paying attention to what I was saying.

      “You’re not bored. You’re boring.” This was not the first or by any means the last time I would hear this from my dad. Every time he said it I felt like I could kick him.

      “DAD that’s the dumbest saying EVER. It makes absolutely NO sense, I HATE when you say that. You’re so annoying” Instead of an answer, a snicker slipped out of my dad’s mouth. This made it ten times worse. I felt like was a little kid again. When I was younger I had a really bad temper. I remember one time, I through a tantrum, who knows what about, and I was crying so hard that my aunt laughed at me. She wasn’t trying to be mean, but I was just being so ridiculous. Looking back it seems so dumb, but her laughing at me made it worse. Made me so angry I turned blue screaming. Nothing made me madder then being laughed at. I stormed out of the room, but came back about five minutes later because, my room was boring. The only TV was in the living room with my parents, and even though it only played Mexican soap opera’s, soccer, and MTV Mexico, it was my only savior.

       “Can I watch TV?” I asked my mom.

      “Sure”

      “Not right now ‘G’, I’m trying to read,” my dad again answered. I didn’t point out that I hadn’t asked him. 

      “You can read anywhere in the house. This is the only TV.” I said emphasizing only, a little dramatic yes, but I mean it was serious problem.

      “But I’m comfortable here; go find something else to do.” Was he trying to piss me off?

      “So the thing is dad, there is nothing to do in this house, actually there is nothing to do in this town (I knew I was being irrational. I mean I hadn’t even been into town yet.) This is an awful trip and I couldn’t be having a worse time. I don’t want to be here and I am going to do my best to make your trip as bad as mine.”

      That last bit pissed him off. Made him really angry, the kind of angry where the person turns red and looks like there eyes are going to explode out of their head.

      “Gabrielle, you are being a BRAT, if you ruin my trip I will ruin the rest of your summer. Let me enjoy this trip. I don’t want to here another negative word come out of your mouth!” I stormed into my room and found myself yet again crying out of self pity.

The Third Week

      Every week had been the same; I was bored miserable and constantly complaining. My mom was really trying to help me out: despite my awful and sometimes hurtful attitude. She was trying to come up with fun things for us to do, but they weren’t that fun, I had to do everything with my mom and dad. We went to water parks, we went to museums we went shopping, but I had a negative attitude with every new thing we tried. At this point I think I was trying not to have fun to prove a point to my dad. It’s horrible really, now that I look back on it. I see myself as the brat I was being. What makes it worse was that both of my parents were trying their hardest (maybe not my dad, as much as my mom) to make the trip fun for me.

      “Hey, ‘G’, come down here.” My dad shouted up the stairs to me. I was at the computer; it had recently gotten internet connection. It was a step up from Mexican T.V.

      “What? I’m doing something.” I exhaled loudly at the end and tried my best to sound as annoyed as possible. I wasn’t really doing anything; I think I was on friendster. I walked down the stairs five minutes later and sat down on the hard white couch, it was cold and a nice break from the heat.

      “Do you want to go horse back riding?” My mom asked. I thought about it for a second and decided it was probably worth the embarrassment of being seen with my parents. What else was I going to do?

      The next day we headed out into the country. I actually had a lot of fun on the horse back riding trip, to my parent’s and frankly my own surprise, I even admitted it to my dad. We all got our own horses and just went on a trail for about three hours. I never once was bored. I felt like I went back in time. There were no houses, just fields: miles and miles of soft yellow fields. From far away it looked like you could walk on the tall yellow grass, it was so thick. After the actual ride we went back to the villa where the owners of the ranch served drinks.  It turned out they were from New York. My parents hit it off really well with them. I was sitting in their hammock when Ellen, one of the owners of the ranch, came up to me and said:

      “My daughter and you would probably get along; she wears that same thing. A wife beater with her bra strap showing. I’ll talk to your parents, you guys should meet.”

      This shallow assumption pretty much changed my entire trip. She invited me over to meet her daughter the next day. I was nervous, and a little annoyed, you know how when grown ups see two teenagers they think that they will obviously get along so they make you sit next to each other. That’s what I felt like, and in any other circumstance I probably would have been too jaded and stuck up to take her up on her offer, but since I was just so miserable I decided to go.

      As we stood in front of Ellen and Paul’s huge red door, my stomach was turning. What if she didn’t like me? What if I didn’t like her? Was this going to be too awkward to handle? (Awkwardness: every teen’s worst nightmare.) Ellen opened the door and invited us in.

      “Hi guys, Leila’s not back yet, just sit down in the living room and I’ll get you both a drink.” She was very friendly. The kind of person you feel at ease with right away. 

      Their house was gorgeous, you walked in and there was an outside courtyard, in fact the whole house was pretty much outside. The living room was a couch under an overhang, the kitchen was classical Mexican tile and very open. The only rooms with doors were the bedrooms and bathrooms. It was a “Mexican villa” my mom later told me. I had never seen anything like it. My mom and Leila’s mom started to talk, I think about art, and just then Leila showed up. She wasn’t really who I expected. She was sort of heavy set and had bushy brown hair, but we were introduced and we started to talk and ended up getting along really well. That night she said she would introduce me to her friends. When we arrived at the town square, that I would soon get to know very well, I was overwhelmed. I felt socially retarded, not only did I not speak Spanish (I took French!) but I hadn’t interacted with any one my age in what seemed to me as years.

      That first night was the most uncomfortable, but it wasn’t so bad. From there it got much better; Leila took me out with her and her friends. We started at the town square: the center of the teen social life. There were venders on all sides and in the early evenings families inhabited all the benches. Trees lined the sides and there was constantly a game of tag going on. After about a half an hour everyone there would decide what bar they wanted to go to and we would all leave together. Every night went this way. It was fun and exciting. I was 16 and getting into bars, of course my trip had improved. My parents knew I was going to bars, but they were fine with it. I think they were so excited that I had found a friend that they didn’t really care what I was doing (To a certain extent. Don’t worry they weren’t completely nonchalant about my well being).

      Unfortunately my trip made this dramatic change in the middle of my third week in Mexico, and too soon it was time for me to go back to Berkeley. Now don’t get me wrong, I was very excited to get back home and see all my friends, but I had some regrets.

Heading Back

      The plane ride back was pretty uneventful, which is never bad for a plane ride to be. It gave me a lot of time to think about the trip. As awful as those first few weeks were, I felt guilty for acting so badly. I was a brat; I constantly complained and didn’t even try to have a good time. That was the worst part; I think I could have had a good time, even just with my parents and their friends. The second I started having a good time, I forgot about my parents. My dad said nothing, but I new he had to be disappointed I wasn’t spending any time with the family. I was in Mexico, even though there was no ocean or anyone my age, it was new place. There were new things to see and do, and I took absolutely no advantage of them. Instead I shut myself off to having fun. It took having a good time to see that having fun was possible. I wanted to thank my parents for taking me, thank them for putting up with me, and thank them for constantly trying when I didn’t. I never really officially apologized to my dad. I take after him, and was too stubborn to accept responsibility. Similarly to the trip there, I found my self near tears, just for the opposite reason.