Ariba! Ariba! I Love Mexico!

If I was cold and annoyed on the way out of Lackawanna, it didn’t last long as the scenery definitely helped to improve my mood. I swear I could look at farms all day and never get bored. It’s almost like I have the memory of a goldfish and the little plastic castle is a constant surprise. Every time I round a bend the thought is, "Wow! A barn!". I guess I’m lucky like that.
The sun peeked in and out of the clouds as I made my way towards New York, and I could see dark ones in the north that pelted my car with rain as soon as I crossed the border. Otherwise, the landscape remained the same and I said, "Wow! A cow!" to myself each time I crested a hill.

I stopped at a little bar and grill in Elmira to work on some photo editing and writing. The place was called "The Elbow Room" and it’s run by a kindly gentleman named Bill Cox whose daughter lives in Maryland. I got some strange looks when I wandered in with my laptop and set up in a booth but by now I’m getting used to it. I ordered a diet soda and a grilled ham and cheese sandwich and went to town on the computer. When I looked up again, it was two hours later. I chatted with some of the people as they walked up and asked what I was doing, and Mr. Cox came over and told me I should be sure to check out Mark Twain’s gravesite before heading north. So I did.

Then I headed straight up Rt. 14 to Geneva, where my aunt lives. Now, imagine Mayberry from the Andy Griffith show with a pretty progressive downtown area. That’s Geneva. The huge gingerbread houses put the Victorian doll houses I lusted after as a child to shame. The town even has a little league baseball field with a concession stand and ticket booth, painted to look like the ones from the golden days of baseball. I remember seeing it the last time I visited the town, and drove around in hopes of finding it to take a picture, but I couldn’t. Instead, I went to my Aunt Karen’s house. She is my godmother and I rarely get to see her, so I made it a point to stop by. However, I didn’t realize just how quickly I would make it to her house, and didn’t want to impose on her, so I left a note at her empty house and kept going. Or at least I tried. I ended up getting lost and wound up in the downtown area.

It was pretty cute. There were cafes and hobby shops and a little marquis movie theatre showing about 4 films. I have such an immense love for marquis streetfront movie theatres. I thought about seeing a movie while I waited for my aunt to get home, but I decided against it and went to the Area Record and Music Shop instead. It was just like Record and Tape Traders in Maryland, and I poked around as a guise while I eavesdropped on the staff and customers. They were debating the merits of Keith Richards before the conversation drifted to Dylan. All of the typical record store archetypes were there, it was awesome. There was The Bushy-Bearded, Flannel-Shirted Owner with Jerry Garcia glasses, The Tall, Thin, Long-Haired Twenty-Something Clerk With A Kind Smile, Odd Middle-Aged Customer Guy Who Makes Sardonic Comments On Everything Happening In The Store, and Pompous Young Customer Who Claims To Know More Than Bushy-Bearded Owner About Classic Rock And Who Will No Doubt Go Home And Finish Reading ‘Catcher In The Rye’ For The Twenty-Eighth Time. I couldn’t have written them any better.

I knew I shouldn’t buy anything, but I couldn’t help pouring over the used CD’s to tease myself. Which meant I ended up buying an Audra McDonald CD for $3, and then adding a Frames Live album.... and then Pete Yorn’s "Music For The Morning After" which I have always wanted and never bought but couldn’t pass up at the low, low price of $4.95. At the counter, I gave Twenty-Something Clerk my web site and told him to check it out.

I kept heading north, past the wineries that draw the shei-shei tourists, and up to Rt. 104, going, "Wow! A silo!" all the way. At 104 I started heading East, towards the Adirondack Mountains, Vermont, and Mexico. Mexico, NY.

I decided to get a motel room for the night to escape a second night of a red nose, white knuckles, and blue lips. I decided to keep driving until either 7 o’clock or I got to Mexico, whichever came first. I entered the town of Mexico, which was voted as having "New York’s Best Tasting Drinking Water" in 1991, and shouted "Ariba!" because I’m a huge nerd. It’s about time someplace named Mexico was known for it’s water other than it having parasites.
Downtown Mexico looked just like all of the other village downtown areas I had passed through, and I stopped at the Main Street Bar to ask where I could find a cheap motel. It was the best decision I had made all day.

Noticing how greasy my hair felt and how shiny my face was, I applied a quick layer of make-up and ran my fingers over my head, then strolled in to the bar at a careful pace. I didn’t want to spook the locals.

There were only three people in there, including the bartender. I was shocked and pleased to see that they were all around my age. I sat down in between the pretty brunette girl and the skinny baseball-capped kid and asked the cherubic bartender where I could find a room for the night. Of course it became a fantastic trio effort as they all chimed in to help. I liked all of them immediately and decided right then and there that I would go to the motel, shower, and come right back to hang out with them. They were all curious as to why I needed a room and we got to talking about the trip as they debated which place would be better, the La Siesta down the street or the Super 8 in Oswego. I had just come from Osewgo and didn’t want to backtrack, but the bartender, who didn’t look a day over 19, grabbed the phone book and called it for the price anyway. Yeah, for $66 a night, there was no way I was driving all the way back to Oswego and settled on the La Siesta for $45, even if it was a little sleazier. Beggars can’t be choosy.
The funniest thing I noticed is when they were talking about phone numbers - they told me the phone number to the bar, in case I wanted to call them if I got lost, was 4947. That’s it. I was like, "What comes before 4947?" and they giggled, because all the numbers are 315-963-**** up there. It was a funny moment.

They gave me directions and I sped to the place, eager to bathe and even eager-er to get back to my new buddies, whose names I didn’t know. The motel was your typical middle of nowhere place and I got a single room. I asked for one close to the office because I figured it would be safer, but upon entering room 12 I realized a non-smoking room is more important than one close to the "concierge". The sweet man in the office ended up giving me a double room for the single price because all of the singles reeked of smoke, which was very cool. So I got in the room and hopped in the shower. I had to let the water run for awhile because it smelled, but at least it didn’t smell as bad as the camp shower. Nothing does, I don’t think.

I got dressed and made it back to the Main Street by 8, and the place had filled up considerably at that point. Skinny Baseball Cap Kid and Cherubic Bartender Kid were still there but I was sad that I didn’t see my pretty brunette friend. I bellied up to the bar and ordered "the cheapest beer you have" and ended up with a Labatt’s Blue draft for $1.75. The bartender, whose name is Derek but everyone calls him Bub or Bubby, asked how I liked the La Siesta and I thanked him for sending me to a place so classy I could turn on the TV, which was tuned to "The Dukes of Hazzard", from a lightswitch and which offered a complimentary bottle opener mounted on the wall. Skinny Baseball Kid, whose name is Mikey and not Mike, said we should all party there later. I was in rare form myself from the excitement of meeting cool young people to hang out with, and said "Sure!".

Then they asked me a million questions about the book and the website, and couldn’t get over the fact that they might be featured in it. Mikey kept exclaiming, "That’s so wicked cool!" They all had thick, thick upstate New York accents, making it sound like "loft" when they said "left" and "keds" when they said "kids". They wanted to know about the website so I got my laptop out of the car and set it up on a table near the window, hopped online and let them scroll through to their heart’s content. We were having so much fun, shooting the shit and acting stupid, and I felt like I had known them forever. At one point a friend of theirs, Miranda, came in and they both scooped her up in their arms and hugged her. It made me stop for a second to see that, because I suddenly missed my friends. I told Mikey that that was probably the hardest thing about being on the road - not having a network of hugging friends at my fingertips. Before I finished my sentence, he scooped me up in his arms and swung me around, planting a sweet kiss on my cheek and making me break out in the dorkiest smile ever. Then Bub, or "Bubbi" as I have him programmed in my phone (like Kyle’s Mom from South Park says), did the same. It was so sweet of them. For the first time in a week, I didn't feel like an outsider.

We partied all night. Since I didn’t think I’s ever see these people again, I didn’t mind being a bit more open with them than I usually am with strangers. I told them stories I usually reserve for friends I’ve known for awhile, stories of crazy times spent in LA that make lesser people’s eyes cross. Mikey followed me back to the motel in his car, then drove me back to the bar in his car so I wouldn’t have to worry about the breathalyzer. On the way back, riding in his passenger seat, I realized I didn’t know this guy, so I kept my keys out and my finger on the pepper spray. Not that I didn’t think he was an A-1 guy, but a girl can’t be too careful. He was so funny, he kept riding with his hand covering the right side of his face and screaming, "Please don’t mace me!" When I saw an orange cloud of light in the distance I asked if it was a stadium. He said nonchalantly, "No, that's just the nuclear power plant." Whoa. When we got back to the bar, he asked me if he could call me his date. I said no.

I needed to eat so we stopped at Pauljano’s Pizzeria and the sweet girl behind the counter gave me free pizza when she learned I was trying to save money. Mike kept telling my plans to everyone we came in contact with, and that I was the coolest girl he’s ever met. We stuffed ourselves and he asked me to marry him. I said no.

We went back to the bar and played pool. Bubbi let me go behind the bar and pour my own beer and said all my drinks were on him. Mikey kicked my ass all over the table, which was incredibly embarrassing because he was playing one-handed. We played with my camera and he asked me to marry him again. I said no. He played a song for me on the jukebox, "Be Like That" by Three Doors Down, and I played "Big Country" for him. "In a big country dreams stay with you like a lover’s voice cross the mountain side." I thought it was goofily fitting.

When Bubbi closed down we bought beer and went back to the motel. Bubbi left around 4 am to go turkey hunting and said he’d be back at 7:30 to take me to breakfast. Mikey and I passed out around the same time. Before we fell asleep, he asked me to marry him again. I said, "Give me a year to give you an answer."

He left around 5 to go to work and woke me up to say goodbye. We promised to keep in touch and then I went back to sleep. Bubbi showed up right on time but we were both too exhausted to think about breakfast. He jumped on the other bed and we slept in until 9:30 and then crawled to the closest diner. Mikey stopped by the motel on his way to see a customer as we were leaving to say hi and goodbye again and I hugged him so hard for being my friend. Bubbi and I went to a diner affectionately called "Sleazy Easy’s" and I had real home fries for the first time in my life - not the shredded crap they give you at Denny’s. They were so good!

I asked Bubbi a million questions about growing up in Mexico. He grew up on a farm and lived there all his life. His family had snakes, lizards, dogs, horses, a pony, cows, and about 75 pigs. They made most of their money breeding and selling pigs. He’s lived on his own since he was 15, when his parents got divorced and he didn’t feel like living with either of them. He didn’t go to college because he didn’t think he could afford it, but worked as a technician for DishNetwork until he was laid off and now he’s a bartender. That sounded really familiar.

It was odd while he was telling me the story of when the barn burned down with all the pigs inside - it was obvious by the tone of his voice that it was a more devastating event than his parent’s divorce. The whole thing went up in a matter of a few minutes, he said, and I just hoped that the animals hadn’t suffered too much.

We argued about hunting (I think it's icky and it's, like, his favorite thing to do) as we finished up breakfast and I started on my way south to the town of Clinton to visit my cousin Kaitlin at Hamilton College. Before I climbed in the car, Bubbi asked me to come back again that night, saying I could stay at his house. I hemmed and hawed because I really wanted to be on my way, but eventually gave in, thinking it would be nice to stay in a home instead of a motel or a car. He made me laugh when he said "You just made my day!"

I took Rt. 13 to Clinton and it was a beautiful drive. I was really proud of myself that I mastered all the backroads and so was Mikey when he called me to say hi. It was great to see Kaitlin for the first time in years and odd to see her as a freshman in college. She showed me all around and I was so proud of her when she told me she wanted to change her major from chemistry to neuroscience. She is so smart and beautiful and mature. I always catch myself bragging about her like a mom. We went to the little café and I wondered why why why in the world I didn’t go to a little country college in a hippie town like Hamilton in Clinton, NY. I loved the school and the town and the AIR! The air was so..... clean! It was amazing! I found myself just wanting to stand outside and breathe for hours.

I left just before Kaitlin’s 2:30 Elementary Dance (Easy Jock Elective) class began and started back on my way to Oswego. It was kind of a good feeling to know that I was going to where someone knew me and caught myself thinking "I’m on my way home." I knew I had to stop, though, and get some work done on the laptop before all my memories started to fade.

I stopped in the small town of Camden, which is the biggest small town between Clinton and Mexico. I parked on Main Street and did Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Moe to pick which bar to set up shop in. I moe’d on a little place in the middle of the street and went in. The afternoon crowd was perched at the near end of the bar and the bartender, an older blond woman who you could tell was a total fox when she was younger, looked at me like I was a terrorist. I though she suspected my laptop case was a bomb, so I set it down on a table and walked slowly to the bar, saying softly, "It’s just a laptop." All of the customers, all middle-aged and blue collar-looking, with big smiles and laughing eyes all around, laughed really hard. I liked these people.

The bartender, whose name was Sue, smiled and said, "I thought for a second you were with the Health Department!" I was glad I wasn’t hungry after she said that. I ordered my stand-by, "just-here-to-work-and-spend-as-little-money-as-possible" diet soda and found a seat by the window. One of the customers at the bar, the only guy, came over with a ton of questions.
He was a friendly man with wonderful blue eyes named Bob Fleming, who lived upstairs from the bar and ran an open mic night on Sundays. He works at the wire mill at the edge of town, like most of the people in the area. We talked about everything - music, guitars, kids, computers, and mainly my trip. He thought it was the coolest thing and told me so a lot of times.

When he left me alone to work on some writing, I heard him behind me telling the other customers all about me. I was glad I was facing the other way so they didn’t see me blush. Bob sent another gentleman over to talk to me, a man named Quinton Hague. He was a great guy, too, and looked fabulous for the age of 79 ½. He and I chatted for awhile, and then he went to talk to his wife, Sue The Bartender. Before he left he came back over and tapped my shoulder from behind. "I have a piece of advice for you, young lady," he said. "Wherever your travels take you, girl, wherever you shall go, keep your eyes upon the donut and not upon the hole."
Bob went upstairs to his apartment and burned a CD for me of himself playing and singing with his band, Bob Fleming and the Brand. I listened to it on the way home and it was really good! A bunch of old country-western covers recorded live that fit the landscape as I drove back home... wow, I just caught myself calling Oswego County home again.

But long before I got in the car to head back to Mexico, Bob and I decided that we should have a jam session. I pulled Patrick, my faithful acoustic, out of the car and Bob invited me up to his apartment. I hated to deny his hospitality, but I didn’t really feel comfortable going up to a stranger’s apartment (YOU READ THAT, MOM??? SEE, I’M NOT AS NAIVE AS I LOOK!!!) so instead we went to a back corner of the bar. He didn’t go get his guitar so we took turns playing mine and harmonizing with each other. I really can’t even describe how much fun and how cool it was to be having this impromptu music moment with someone I would have never met, in a town I would have never known existed if my ass had stayed parked in a cubicle for years to come. So I played Jewel and he played John Pryne and we harmonized with "Leaving On A Jet Plane" and laughed and laughed. Then, as I was leaving, the rest of the patrons in the bar, which had grown considerably in number since I first walked in, all yelled and pouted that we had gone off in a corner to jam and not play for everyone else. I was feeling so spunky, energized by this incredible chance meeting that I said, "I’m down to perform if you are!" Bob shyly agreed, so I went out and got my video camera, which I handed to a husky brunette with a quick tutorial on how to work it, and Bob and I put on a show.

Before we started, he begged me to stay until Sunday and play at his open mic. I really was sad when I said I couldn’t, I needed to be moving on. So far I think that’s the hardest part of this trip - meeting so many awesome people and then leaving right afterward. I think that’s why I decided to stay at Bubbi’s house an extra day.

But we couldn’t dilly-dally with emotions then, we had a show to do! The camera rolled and Bob and I broke into "Leaving On A Jet Plane" again. I played and he sang along in a beautiful harmony. It was ironic that we chose that song, because the lyrics mirrored the situation in so many ways. When we got to the last chorus, of "Don’t know when I’ll be back again", we both slowed our singing as our eyes met and we shared a moment that almost made me misty. Then we ended the song and hugged like two friends who hadn’t seen each other in years. It was truly amazing.

When the "show" was over, everyone applauded and then I had to be going. As I put my guitar away, Bob leaned over and said to me, "Boy, you’re going to leave an impression on this little town, girl." IK giggled. Then he walked me out to my car and we promised to always keep in touch. We were both sad to see me go, but it was a fabulous afternoon anyway. The whole stop in Camden was a total whirlwind, it was so exciting. And I drove away, towards my home for the night of Oswego, with a smile on my face that nothing could wipe off and bobbing my head along to "Pretty Pamela Brown" by Bob Fleming and the Brand.