MI MATAMOROS QUERIDO

When I arrived in Brownsville in 1975, I became very good friends with the owners and staff of Blackbeards, a popular South Padre Island beer and hamburger joint. I played on their basketball team and participated in many of their parties. I always had a place to sleep. Puros gringos living the good life.

Whenever they came to Brownsville with the intentions of eating and drinking in Matamoros, I was their guide. Just like we tore it up on the Island, we tore it up on the other side of the river. We were in our mid-twenties. There were no obstacles when spontaneity ruled the moment.

The Matamoros I knew was the same Matamoros that Brownsville residents, particularly men, knew. There was Portales to the south, Boystown to the east and turning right off Sixth with the large Coca-Cola sign on the left, there were spots on Diagonal.

In general we confined our activities to Obregón that took us past Garcia's and onward to the plaza. There were scores of restaurants and bars that satisfied anyone's taste for food, thirst for booze and yearning for adventure. The Zona Rosa across the Old Bridge thrived in those days. That was Matamoros.

Like most Brownsville citizens, I quit going with the surge in violence. I went at least a decade without crossing the bridge after I was used to going two and three times a week. Estanislao Contreras and I, once intrepid travelers, decided to navigate the dark waters of the Congo and in our daring went for lunch one block on the other side of Gateway Bridge at Garcia's.

We were hailed throughout our sad city for our bravery. I have become a regular at Garcia's and on occasions I go to the Santa Fe around the corner for Chinese. But that is as far south as my bravado has taken me.

When I left for Mexico City yesterday, a cabbie drove me to the bus terminal. I had traveled in Mexico frequently from 1975 to 2000, so I knew the bus station. I didn't realize it was that far from the bridge or maybe it was my trepidation getting the best of me as we serpentined through the labyrinthan streets of working-class neighborhoods.

The station was buzzing with both people and flies. I was back in Third World. But these were blue-collar people who were friendly and non-threatening. My fears started to dissipate despite the ongoing troubles throughout the nation, a country I once knew as well as any gringo.

My departure was scheduled for 6:30 p.m. on Omnibus of Mexico. The bus, a first-class vehicle built by Volvo, shined in the late afternoon sun. The baggage attendant was attentive, the driver, dressed in a shirt and tie, was courteous and a young lady distributed bottled water to the passengers. I took my seat and the accommodations far exceeded Greyhound's.

There were individual screens with free movies for each traveler as well as a contraption that opened like a folding chair on which I could rest my legs. I was impressed. The bus left at 6:30 sharp. So much for Mañanaville Mexico.

My biggest surprise was the immensity of Matamoros. I checked Google, the world's brain that has killed the need for encyclopedias or even God, and it said the population was 500,000. I don't argue with my best source for credible information, but word on the street puts our neighbor at close to a million. There is no such entity as counties. Therefore, cities encompass much larger areas.

Matamoros, and we're only talking going south, stretches on and on with the usual agglomeration of businesses and houses but punctuated by shopping centers, schools, inviting restaurants and the ubiquitous soccer fields.

It amazes me how little Brownsville, isolated in a bubble, knows about Harlingen only 25 miles to the west, but we know even less about Matamoros to our immediate south. It is a sprawling, dynamic city that left me scratching my head as the development now extends out to the airport that in days of yore was in the boonies.

I traveled extensively in Mexico beginning in 1970 when I was a college student in my home state of California. "Better dead than late" was the motto of the bus drivers. Time for them was money and a bus experience was nothing short of a rollercoaster ride. These were madmen behind the wheel and a collective fright united browns and whites alike as we stared down the center aisle paralyzed with a fear that we were moments away from a head-on collision.

Those days are over. Since I journeyed at night, I couldn't see the highways, but the government has invested the millions its politicians haven't stolen in infrastructure. We made a brief stop in Victoria and then it was a direct route to D.F. I doubt if the driver exceeded 65. It was smooth. My initial paranoia that had accompanied me across the downtown bridge had vanished entirely.

There are two main terminals in the capital. I arrived at the northern nexus. I collected my baggage, walked into the large building and found a place in a swift-moving line to pay for a taxi ticket. My destination was Colonia Jardin Balbuena near the old airport. The eventual 30-minute ride cost $7. A terminal employee took my baggage and escorted me to the front of the terminal and waved for a taxi. I asked the price of a proper tip and he answered 20 pesos--one dollar.

I have arrived at Adela's three-story house. She, and her deceased husband Ignacio, epitomized the "mi casa es tu casa" tradition. During my stay Adela and will I go to her comfortable and expansive home in Cuernavaca for a long weekend. Maybe it's too early to start counting my chickens, but Mexico may be my golden egg.

I believe it's time we stood together as neighboring countries and echoed our congressman's words: "Mr. Trump, you're a racist pig and you can take your border wall and shove it up your ass!"

That is my kind of gallo!!!