i remember back in the early or mid-90s i was in cancun with my parents, when the flea markets were still held under fabric tents and there were no loud clubs or prada stores. my parents had been there the year before and they'd decided to take erin and me down. we went to this local restaurant far from the beaches and resorts, down in the city of cancun. it was humid and breezy and there was no air conditioning, but it didn't really matter.
there was a table of people across from us taking shots, the waiters would pour the warm tequila down their throats and then squeeze their cheeks and shake their heads back and forth. erin and I didn't know what to think, but my parents were laughing about it so we took our cues from them and giggled. my dad would throw his sunburned cheeks back and laugh with the same deep laugh that i'd hear coming from the living room in the evenings at home when he was watching david letterman after erin and i went to bed.
i ordered this gigantic lobster, it came whole and it was the biggest lobster i'd ever seen, i had no clue how to eat it. the waiters kept calling me la rubia, and the people in the flea markets would reach out to touch my hair. it embarrassed me somehow that i could understand what they were saying with my middle-school spanish, as if i was intruding by knowing. It's because they've never seen blonde hair like yours, my mom whispered to me. It's like gold in the sun.
we stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant afterward in the twilight and smelled the sea and the cooling pavement as my dad negotiated the cab fare. we piled into the cab and he said, Remember this. That was the freshest lobster you'll ever eat. the next night i bought a tiny turquoise and opal ring in the flea markets that would miraculously survive the fire and come back to me.
we tried to go back the next time we were in cancun, but couldn't find the restaurant.
