You Need a License to Eat Here?
MysteryShrink Mexico Short
Sonia, a new university friend, and I settled into a high-backed, carved wooden booth at the Gran Ancira Hotel Bar. Monterrey, Mexico, was the first night on our Freedom Trip adventure. The day before Sonia had pulled her application with the Sisters of St. Mary Convent and I’d signed divorce papers ending a months-long ridiculous attempt to make up for my mother’s recent sudden death.*
Nineteen and with one failed attempt at adulthood behind us, we were raging for adventure. Or, I was. Sonia had spent a good part of the day on the road trying to talk me out of loitering in downtown Monterrey after dark. Then Sonia’s uncle, our host, had insisted that Monterrey at night was a bad idea for a couple of young women.
But–and I’m sure you’ll agree with me—only a crazy person would pass up the chance for a margarita in the very same bar where Pancho Villa took refreshment. And, most likely, took anything else he wanted.
Yes. The Pancho Villa.
In 1915, amidst the Revolutionary War, Pancho had galloped his lathered steed up the marble steps and crashed across the polished hardwood floor of the Gran Ancira Hotel Bar. His spurs jingled and his revolvers reeked black powder from recent battle. (Okay, I’m making up the marble, the horse sweat-lather, the floor polish, the jingling spurs and the gun smoke.) But Pancho Villa really did ride into the very bar where Sonia and I sat feeling a bit out-of-place. Which we were most certainly were.
The nature and consequences of our out-of-place status were explained by a man with a hip gun, but not Pancho. This Federale, all in brown and with a badge that certainly looked real– (Authenticity of badges and uniforms is not something you take for granted in Mexico.)—politely asked our names and where we were from. Then without further inquiry, he explained the rules.
The lead rule was that ‘unaccompanied’ women were not allowed in the Gran Ancira Hotel Bar after dark. (This encounter took place a few decades ago.)
If Sonia and I wished to continue our margarita plan, we had two choices: select an escort from the men in the bar or buy licenses to solicit customers for our favors. We quickly ponied up the money, signed our new licenses, and pictured the fun we’d have with our absolutely coolest souvenirs.
Most likely the man taking our money had purchased the uniform and badge at the Mercado and had no more authority than the ghost of Pancho Villa who was definitely around as he finished off my first margarita when I wasn’t watching.
*I’ve never regretted this lump in the tapestry of my life. Because of it, I feel little judgment or surprise at whatever crazy choices and even self-destructive choices others reveal in my office. We all do stupid stuff.
