(If you haven’t had a chance yet, check out the “About The Trip” tab to the left for some background)

Let’s start at the end.

That’s me at my father’s grave. He’s buried next to his parents in this massive cemetery - Panteon de Jardin– in the heart of Mexico City. I say “next to” but looking at the tight confines of this place, and the mere coffin-width size plot, apparently, “atop of” is more accurate. You sure better get along well with madre y padre when you’re looking at being sandwiched between them for all of eternity.

I don’t know if you can tell from the picture, but the gravestone is wet. Young kids hang around the cemetery with a bucket of water and a brush, and when they see you looking at a grave they run over and wash it off like the squeegee guys who used to attack your windshield at stoplights in New York. Unlike with the latter, you’d have to be a pretty cold bastard not to toss an 8 year old girl a few pesos after she swabs your old man’s final resting place.

One thing I should mention-if you look at me in the picture, I’m kinda serious-looking, but to be honest, that was mostly for the benefit of my aunt taking the picture. I was actually feeling pretty upbeat standing at that grave. Inspired really. There was something about looking at his name (mine too in a way, seeing as I was born Hector del Prado like him) and the “born/died” dates that sent… this is going to sound weird… a little excitement through me. Seeing how abruptly the expiration date can arrive has a way of kicking you in the ass and reminding you to plow ahead and milk every moment.

As a kid my friends and I used to play flashlight tag in the cemetery across from my buddy Toofie’s house and I remember hiding behind gravestones that… speaking of weird… had names beginning with “H” and I would imagine my father, Hector, lying in there. I was probably about ten, and I’d sit there wondering what he was thinking about. It wasn’t a creepy morbid thing or anything, but rather very much like I felt yesterday standing at his grave in the middle of Mexico City-a sort of “…you’re going to die soon enough, might as well blow it out while you’re here…” reassurance. Anyway, I know this a kind of odd jumping off place for things, but the point is, while my deceased father is the impetus for this trip, my mindset going in certainly isn’t to dwell on losing him so early in my life, but rather to do as he did and blow it out while I’m here.

Officially the 52 day gambling trip hasn’t begun yet. I wanted to first spend a few days visiting Mexican relatives in Boston and Mexico City to find out more about my father before heading off after his passports. Some of the more entertaining stories I’ll include in later posts. The hardest part I’ve found is getting past the polite, sanitized tales they think his son would like to hear, and get to the fun ones he really wants to hear. From what I gather he was quite a free-spirit, and so I’m hoping to find out more about that side rather than whether he called his mom every Sunday. The way I look at it, if I have kids and years from now they were to ask about me, I’d much rather my sister tell the story of my mom having the cops out looking for me at 7 AM when I blew off curfew for the chance at a late night skinny dip with a certain Becky who will go last name-less.

The next couple days should dredge up some of these stories. My godmother, Margarita, is going to take me around to meet some old friends of Hector Senior. In the meantime, she and my Aunt Lucero are stuffing me with so much food and drink that I’m beginning to suspect they have made some sort of secret bet of their own to see which one of them can make me hurl first. Don’t get me wrong, the food has been phenomenal; it’s just that they keep putting things in front of me, and so I keep eating it or drinking it. You haven’t seen hospitality until you’ve received Mexican hospitality. It’s like a rugby scrum trying to grab the check at a restaurant with my aunt and godmother. This afternoon after a meal of espinazo con verdeloga (ox, I think), chili rellenos, flor de something-that-meant pumpkin flowers (although I’m guessing I mixed up something in the translation), and multiple cervezas con chili sauce, my aunt made a break for the waitress as she tallied the check. Lucero stiff-armed me as I tried to go for the check myself. Margarita then leapt in and crackblocked Lucero, grabbing the check from the waitress . She almost got her purse out in time, but I think Lucero caught her with an open field tackle and ripped the check out of her grasp. I’m not sure though…my memory is a little hazy after the godmother/aunt tag team pile drive when I pulled my wallet out.

Next time that check’s mine even if I have to commit some sort of senior assault.

As far as the food goes, my mouth has been on fire. But no way am I going to sully what little Mexican cred I have by turning down the chili sauce they offer up with everything. I may not be able to speak Spanish and may look like el blanco, but I’m willing to torch my insides with whatever crazy chilis I’m given to prove my Mexican half is in there somewhere. For those of you awaiting the tales of gambling misadventures, sorry nothing yet, but they’re coming soon Here it’s all futbol and no football, but I’m getting pumped about the first bet on the Super Bowl. Last I saw, the line was Steelers -7. Anyone with an opinion on which way to go, feel free to drop me a line.
I’ll be back with more Friday. Right now I’m off to meet with an ex-grilfriend of my father’s, nicknamed “Gallo”. According to my aunt this girl used to wake up their whole house in the middle of the night by singing for him from the sidewalk. Hence the nickname, “Gallo”. I’ll save you from looking it up as I had to…

…The rooster.