By Jerry Davis, Author of Life in Mexico, available at Amazon/Kindle
Long, long ago, beginning at age 10, our parents let us take the bus to Utica.
With our friends we would spend the day, first at Woolworth’s toy department where the floor walker kept an eye on us so that we couldn’t play with the toys, only look at them while wishing we could buy them all.
Then we would check out the hobby shop, maybe to acquire a model airplane kit and a tube of airplane glue, glue that was to construct the model, never sniffed.
The term “getting high” was not part of anyone’s vocabulary because in those innocent days the drug culture was non-existent.
After lunch, often at Woolworth’s lunch counter, we would buy a box of Karmel Korn and head for the matinee at one of the movie houses. Late afternoon found us on the return bus with some shoppers and the regular commuters.
The last time I rode a bus in the United States, from Albany to Utica, was in 1965 when my fellow passengers were some prostitutes returning from a weekend of politicking in the state capitol, minorities, a couple of smelly bums, and a handful of passengers who, like me, wished that they had been driving their own car.
Most Americans never consider saying “Let’s take the bus.”
Not in Mexico. Even if you have your own car, you do not want to drive it over the pot-holed, dusty track that passes for a road to Tierra Blanca de Arriba.
Even if you own a vehicle, you do not want the hassle of driving it to Mexico City where the police extort money from the drivers of cars with out of state plates.
You avoid, if possible, Route 52, the main road to the border because it is clogged with tractor trailers, many of them doubles.
The drive down to the Gulf Coast is spectacular, with vistas of green jungles, glimpses of colorful parrots that you cannot enjoy because of the many hairpin turns. Often there…