Nobody Looks for you in Mexico
A road trip through central Mexico sends two longtime friends on a quest for volcano summits, rabbits, mescal and the shared meaning of death and running.
Photos by Rickey Gates
I found Jon at a corner table with a glass of mescal, half gone, in front of him. Though the bar was crowded with young Mexicans, his Scandinavian features—bronzed skin and wheat-blond hair—brought him no less attention than a two-horned Viking helmet covering his head. If his appearance didn’t distinguish him enough, a thick, trying, surfer-like accent, where the roll of the Spanish r and the rhythm of the Latin tongue didn’t come easy (or at all), had prohibited him from blending in throughout Latin America.
It was an Irish pub called O’Reilly’s or Limerick or something, where you could buy a can of Guinness, overpriced and expired. I ordered three more shots of mescal from the sauntering bartender and joined Jon at the table.
Two for me, one for you, hombre.
This small, colonial city of San Miguel de Allende, a half-day drive north of Mexico City, is where I had parted ways with Jon during a motorcycle tour several years ago. It only seemed right to reacquaint here.
Salud, pesetas, y tiempo para gastarlos.