For Thursday, April 23, 1998 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 707 words

Back again

Wait. There's more. I'm not finished with Cabo. More happened in Mexico than I could fit in last week. That timeshare business took up a great deal of my column, just as it took up a great deal of our arrival in Mexico.

Before I begin, however, I want to thank all the people who sent me rubber bands. I have enough to last my whole career, if I recycle them. I also want to thank the few who have emailed me with comments over the last month. Walter, thank you for the letter in the newspaper. Of course, I remember you.

Now, to segue, let me share a letter written by Oliver Greenwood, a former student of mine and local folk hero. It concerns the hat I brought home:

"Dear Mr.Gibbs,

"Sounds like Mexico was a blast. I strongly suggest purchasing a blanket

next time you are south of the border. This way you can curl up in the

blanket on the way home. Not only do you get the joy of smelling Mexico,

but also the added pleasure of smelling like Mexico. You'll be the envy

of all your pals.

"God Bless

"The Good Rev Dr Oliver Greenwood"

Olie makes me laugh, and never charges a fee.

So, there we are at the SF airport. Ron, Jane, and Susan go through. Not me. The America West rep doesn't like my birth certificate. None of us have passports, and those three have reprints from their home county offices. I have my original hospital certificate with my little footsie prints pressed across the top. She says with finality, "We don't accept hospital certificates for international travel. I cannot give you a boarding pass into Mexico. You must obtain a notarized travel certificate."

I offer to remove my shoes and show her my big footsies, but she isn't interested. We make a flight change in Phoenix, and I find a notary public at the international service desk. He asks only for my driver's license. He glances at it and for two bucks stamps my travel pass. He doesn't want to see any footsies at all. No fuss. I cross an international border with a driver's license and two bucks.

Another word of advice for new travelers to Mexico, at least to Cabo San Lucas. Write down the phone number to your hotel and carry it with you. It requires a Ph.D. to learn to how to use the public telephones. Some phones are only for long distance, some require a prepurchased card, and then there are local phones, none of which have phone books. And there is no 411. It took Susan and me over an hour to call our hotel, where Ron and Jane were waiting to rendezvous for dinner.

We asked a local clerk for help, and she didn't understand the phones either. She asked the operator how we could find phone numbers, and the operator didn't know. Finally, a waiter down the street dug up the number in a travel brochure and dialed it on his portable telephone. We tipped him grandly.

We tipped everyone, all the time -- cabbies, desk clerks, waiters, bartenders, bellmen, anyone who provided a service, even store clerks. I bought postcards in a gift shop and the girl said, "Twenty-four pesos, please." I gave her 30. She said, "Do you want your change?"

I said, "Yes." She put her hands on her hips, cocked her head at me, and gave a wee smile. "Ah, keep it," I said. "Buenas tardes."

On the streets little girls in frilly dresses and their weathered grandmothers sell gum for one peso. The older men comb the beach selling t-shirts, jewelry, hats, kites, carvings, and such. And the Americans are digging the scene. Everyone is tipping like Sinatra, high rolling, big spending, rich Americans on parade.

I had just come from Reno, where we celebrated my son's birthday. I had a fat pocket full of 50-cent pieces. I passed them out like candy. They're big, and rare, and of indeterminate value just long enough for us to slip out of places. "Here," I would say. "Compliments of Cal-Neva!" Off we'd go.

Then the sun would set.

Wait. There's more.