Traveler

(Part I: The Acapulco Hilton Experience)

        It would seem that one of the things Lalo was born to do was travel. He is one of the persons I’ve known who has travelled the most. Not in terms of number of times, but in terms of the types of places he visited and the experiences he lived there. At his funeral, one of the things I said about him was that again, as usual, there was Lalo, going away to some exotic place none of us had gone to.

        As a baby and little boy, he travelled to the US with my mother on several occasions. They’d go up before the holidays and my father would catch up to them; later, they’d all come back down together.
        Here in Mexico, we would all frequently travel to different places for the weekends. I recall the drives over to Cuernavaca, a famous vacation spot we’d very often go to which was only about an hour away from the city. I remember the typical warnings about going to the bathroom because my father insisted he wouldn’t be stopping on the highway; the endless are-we-there-yets and the final amazing excitement at actually arriving, always when you least expected it. We’d go already dressed in our swim suits, some clothes thrown over them, to be able to peel the top layer away and run to the pool.
        Later, during his adolescence, Lalo would get away to other places in Mexico, like when he’d go to Acapulco with Carlos and his father or with other friends. Acapulco was, and still is, an incredibly popular destination for Mexico City dwellers because of its relative closeness; in those days, it was about six hours away by car or bus. On one of those occasions, Lalo had THE Acapulco Hilton Experience.
        Basically, what he told me was this. At some point during the early 70’s, he and some friends had gone over to Acapulco for some holiday or long weekend. One night, they decided to drop some acid, go out to the beach, and trip out watching the stars. After a while, they started back to wherever they were staying.  As they walked next to the surf, a little group of local hoodlums came up and cut them off.
        It was late and the beach was deserted. They knew they were in trouble because they really had nowhere to go. On the left was the sea; on the right, the beachfront areas of the different hotels, none of which they were staying at; ahead of them, their assailants. Still wired from the acid, they decided to charge.
        As they ran at the little gang, one of them stepped forward and punched Lalo square in the face. He went down flat on his back but, incredibly, sprang back up on his feet like some sort of mechanical toy, screaming like a madman. Everyone was absolutely shocked! The guy who had punched Lalo turned tail and ran away, scared out of his wits. The others, equally amazed and seeing their friend’s reaction, immediately ran after him. Victory!!
        Lalo and his friends decided to take the safe course and walked up to the beachfront area of the hotel nearest them: it just happened to be the Acapulco Hilton. They sat at the poolside chairs for a while and from there, walked into the hotel, through the lobby and out onto the avenue.
        When he told me the story, Lalo kept laughing. “You should have seen the guys face! He couldn’t believe it! I was like an animated cartoon! Nobody could believe it!”
        To him, the experience was iconic of his youth, of the times, of our country. To me, it is also like a sort of time bubble where I can still see his laughing face.

Susana Olivares Bari