Leaving the Valley of the Brave

           
The bar was very small and seedy. It was dark so that you couldn’t see the depressed people sitting in the corners and the cockroaches that were crawling around dashing for crumbs on the floor hoping not to be squashed by one of the customers. They were all Mexicans in there and they had originally mistaken me as Spanish. Not because of the Spanish I spoke but because of my Spanish features. They said they thought I came from the Basque country and that I couldn’t speak Spanish well because the Basques are so stupid. I believe my great-grandmother was Basque but I didn’t take much offense at their comments because I’ve never met a Basque.
               
I had met a small dirty farmer from a nearby village and had told him of my plan. There was a very small airport nearby and I had a ticket for a small prop engine plane to take me to Mexico City where I’d catch a flight to Los Angeles. But that wasn’t really part of my plan, the plan was much more extensive.
             
“So your plan is to get drunk as hell before getting on the plane so the trip will go faster? It is a very bad plan, my friend.” The strange Mexican told me.
         
“That is like saying to the greatest ballerina in the entire world, so you plan on prancing about in a frilly pink tutu on a stage.”
         
“That is different. That is aesthetically pleasing, you can see it in the way the dancer moves, but there is nothing aesthetically pleasing about you getting drunk, mi amigo.” This was perhaps the hundredth time I had heard this little Mexican address me like that, my friend, mi amigo and I hadn’t even been talking to him for more then five minutes.
         
“Mi amigo, mi amigo, y mi amigo mil veces! You Mexicans and all your friends. I’m tired of this, my friend. It may be a cold Anglican tradition but you do not call a man you just met your friend where I am from.” I said everything except the first sentence in English.
         
“No entiendo.” The Mexican said as soon as I stopped speaking in Spanish. Was he not the same man who moments before was telling me how no other man south of the Rio Grande knew Americans like he did? And yet he couldn’t even speak a bit of their language. What can a foreign man know of another peoples if he cannot even speak their language?
         
“Or we could speak Spanish until I die of the language.” I said in English still.
         
“Qué?” He asked puzzled.
               
“O podríamos hablar español hasta que muero de la lengua.” I repeated for the benefit of the man who only spoke the language I was sick to death of. Besides that I was finding my skills in Spanish lacking more with every word I spoke.
               
“Ay! Spanish has never killed a man but it has cured a great many.”
               
“You Spanish speakers, you all are so proud of this language, what is a language? It is not a thing of pride, it is a thing of necessity. Even in that your language is not very special. English is an accomplishment, I’ll tell you that, English has brought many foreign students to their knees. There is no language more complicated than English. Its beauty is in its complication, in its largest vocabulary out of all languages, for every way you Spanish speakers can say a thing, in English it can be said a dozen different ways each of subtle difference and degree. There is no language better for self-expression other than English.” I said continuing my rant in the only language the man from the rural country understood.
             
“Yes it is nice to say a thing so many different ways but the beauty of a language is in its simplicity, not its complication. You see maybe the reason why we Mexicans are not so tactful people is because there is not a dozen ways to go around the subject, with a dozen subtle ways to hint at something, but I like it that way. While speaking Spanish and you see an ugly man you say, hey ugly, and he replies, yes, because he is accustomed to being addressed this way. In English you will not do so. My uncle’s name is Feo.” The man said for an example.
           
“Feo is no name.”
             
“No it is only his nickname, his real name is Ignacio, but no one knows him as Ignacio, or Nacho, he is ugly. That is his name, ugly. Feo!”
             
“No wonder your politics are so messed up. Spanish is no diplomat’s language.” We let the thread of the conversation drop away into pensive silence as the man from the countryside worked something over in his head with a serious look on his face.
             
“Why would you leave Mexico? If you are unhappy with the people then let me take you back to my house, we will feed you and give you a bed to sleep in and show you the real people of Mexico. In the city all they want to do is rob you blind, that is not Mexico, that is the city, it is much the same in cities everywhere. Let me show you Mexicans.”
             
“No, I’ve seen all the Mexicans I can handle, show me an American, an Englishman, a Frenchman, an Italian, an African, a German, a Japanese man, a Chinese man, anyone who doesn’t speak a word of Spanish and was born somewhere else. Show me anything else other than a Mexican.”
             
“You have the wrong attitude to be walking around in Mexico with.” The man said gently.
             
“Ay, tu tienes la mala actitud.” I told him childishly.
             
“No, young man it is not I who has the bad attitude, you do.” He said suddenly assuming a more old fashioned and formal way of speech.
             
“Sí, sí. Déjeme pagar su cuenta.” I felt like an asshole and it took all my strength to get the words out. Once they were out I didn’t understand a word of what I’d said but I assumed it was correct because he gave me an answer that corresponded nicely with what I had meant to say in a language I was understanding less and less by the second.
             
“The bill is mine, I will pay it.” He was a very honest and proud peasant, if peasant is even a term still applicable to a poor farmer.
               
“No, because I was rude I’m in debt to you, I’m sorry, I’ve got to pay your bill.” I told him, if he left without letting me pay the bill I could never leave Mexico and come back guilt free, at the time I didn’t realize that I wouldn’t ever be coming back anyways.
               
“I will pay my own dues.”
               
“Yes but, this is your country, this is your language. Su lengua. And I come in uninvited and insult both in one sitting. If I don’t pay the bill I won’t ever be able to come back. I want to come back. Deseo volverme.” I realized I was repeating myself sometimes but it was all necessary emphasis.
         
“It is a very diplomatic way you English people speak.”
         
“It is how we must speak. You cannot speak outside of your language’s limits.” I told him.
         
“But you are speaking Spanish.”
         
“But first it is English in my mind, then I translate it into Spanish. But always English first. You are hearing me speak English in Spanish.”
         
“I have always wondered how it works when you speak two languages. Do you confuse the two often?”
         
“Often.”
         
“Does it take much work translating it so quick?”
         
“Not anymore. I really don’t translate it consciously, but the thoughts are formulated in English and the Spanish comes out as second-nature.”
         
“I can see how you can get sick of hearing it said one way in your mind and have it come out entirely different.” He nodded as a simple man would.
         
“I am sick to death of it.” I told him.
         
“Well I hope you at least learned something in this country.”
         
“I did.” I told him and took his bill from the big dirty bartender. The peasant was dirty too, but the dirt on his clothes was from honest work, the bartender’s dirt was a product of pure laziness and filth. He kept a shotgun under the bar and he showed it to every stranger who walked into his bar. He only warmed to me after I’d bought my fourth drink from him.
         
I did learn something from Mexico. I learned the most valuable lesson of my entire life. I learned that you should take a piece of whatever you love in the world, put it into a box and bury that box. I learned that they’ll take everything you love from you just because they can. I learned that it doesn’t matter where you are, who you are or what you are, someone will find a way to take what you love the most from you. The Mexicans took it from each other. The Americans took it from everyone. It doesn’t matter how it happens or who does it, just that it happens to everyone.
               
Take everything you love in the world, put it a box and hide it from the world and never look back. The man who leaves his valuables, his possessions and those kinds of things, out in the open will lose them without a doubt, and it is no different with your other valuables, but you can live without that gold watch you cannot live without something to love.
         
The only reason why I was going home was because everything in Mexico had been taken away from me. Everything I loved had been in Mexico and it had all been ripped away from me. The old peasant had called me young man, he knows nothing. The old trusting peasant has never loved anything. The bartender who keeps the shotgun under the bar has loved a great many things. I have loved a great many things. They’re all gone.
         
The bartender asked me after I paid my bill what I carried in the box. I told him that it was mostly business papers and he nodded understandingly because of course he knew nothing of formal business or business papers, nor what kind of thing you would carry these business papers in. He understood that he was incapable of understanding and that was all he needed, so in a way he understood. If I had told him it was everything I still loved in the world he would’ve probably pulled the shotgun from under the bar and told me to hand it over, it’s not his fault, it’s human nature.
         
He wouldn’t have wanted what was in the box anyways.
         
My family in Mexico wouldn’t understand why I was leaving without even saying goodbye. I felt bad because they were the warmest and nicest people I’d ever met. My Grandfather had left Mexico in the 1920’s and when I returned just after the turn of the next century they pretended like I’d been there the whole time. It was horrible to be leaving such a warm happy place like the house they had in Valle de Bravo, but it was time to go home. I’d lost everything I loved. I couldn’t even say goodbye. It was horrible to be exchanging the Spanish designed hacienda in Valle de Bravo for the cold apartment in LA.
             
I had barely made off with this little box. I might be losing my mind, I’m not sure, but I’m pretty sure all I’ve ever loved is in this box. I strongly suggest to anyone who has ever loved anything, put it all in a damned box and go somewhere where they won’t know what you love and hide this love forever. If you don’t someone will get jealous and take it away from you, it’s not their fault, it’s just human nature.
             
If I told you what was in this box it wouldn’t mean what it does to me now, but I’ll give you a hint, it wouldn’t be worth shit to you.