Looking back on my life as an expat, I tend to remember the funny stories better than the traumatic ones. One story – that could be looked at either way – happened while in Mexico a few years back.

I was walking on an isolated road in the northwestern part of the country enjoying the quiet country atmosphere. A truck passed by me lifting a cloud of the fine golden silt the road was made of. I held my breath as it trundled past and felt the warm exhaust mixed with the fine powder on my skin. The quiet returned and the dust soon resettled awaiting the next disturbance that may not come for hours.

A natural predator

A long bend in the road provided me with the luxurious feeling that I was alone in this wondrous natural setting with no one to disturb the peace enveloping me. I was enjoying the contrast provided between the reddish cliffs, the golden dust and the true blue sky.

It wasn’t until most of the bend had disappeared behind me that I realized the truck had stopped on the side of the road. Its driver was in the cab looking back, with his hand on the door handle. As I approached, the man began fumbling with the lock saying something unintelligible to me.

My mind raced back thirty years to my high school Spanish. My brain reeled with forgotten phrases as I approached the truck and its driver all the while saying in my painful excuse for his language that he need not disembark as I was fine. Little did I know of his intentions.

Jumping down from his truck, his dusty cowboy boots landing on the powdery sand with a thud, this giant of a Latino lover stood all of five feet tall. His western shirt bleached white by repeated washings provided a sharp contrast to his dark skin and darker hair. He smiled as he awaited my approach. White teeth shinning through parted lips, a pink tongue licking his chops.

I thought to myself: “How kind that he would stop to ensure I was alright, that I wasn’t lost.”

“No, no, Señor.” I assured him: “Todo esta bien.” He could see that I was fine but he wanted to chat.

“De donde estas?” The trucker asked me where I was from, where I was heading, and where was I living. To be polite, I told him Los Angeles, just walking, and at the Mission Inn. At that point, he was very quiet as though considering my responses. He had nothing else to say.

When is polite too polite?

Ever the diplomat, I asked him: “De donde esta?” Where was he from and where was he living? His first response was an unfamiliar name and, in answer to my second question, he pointed to a two-storey yellow brick house on the hill.

Calling upon the deep recesses of my memory, I exclaimed: “Esta muy linda!” (it is very nice). The gusto with which I expressed my feelings was entirely for my surprising linguistic abilities but may have been misinterpreted by the trucker for an inordinate degree of interest in his home. I imagined him living there with his good Catholic wife and many sons and daughters, maybe even a few grandchildren.

“Vamos, Vamos.” Let’s go. Go where? Oh, he wanted me to follow him up to his house. Probably to meet the family, maybe have a cup of coffee, get to know each other. How nice.

He repeated his invitation: “Vamos, Vamos.” I looked up at his house and as I turned to look into his eyes to gauge the sincerity of his invitation for coffee, I caught him stealing a glance at my bra-less breasts. Shit.

My earlier decision to forego a bra – giving more consideration to comfort than propriety – was instantly regretted. The sweatshirt I had donned for warmth and coverage had been peeled off after an hour of sweaty walking. My instincts finally kicked in and I started walking away from his entreaties to follow him. Not entirely sure about his intentions, I laughingly responded: “No, gracias, no” and just kept walking with my back to him.

Whether it was to demonstrate my unflappable character or my untouched pride, I don’t know, but I continued in the same direction I had been walking rather than returning to town. I was just beginning to relax when I came upon a billboard facing the opposite direction. I turned around and saw the sign was for a motel – a yellow house – just a short way up the road promising a homey atmosphere for its guests.

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