If You're So Worried That I Can't Make It Without You, Why Did You Leave?
by Maggie Van Ostrand
When a woman has what she thinks is a great idea, but since the divorce, there’s no longer a man to try it out on, she had better ponder it so long and hard as to render her faint. That’s what I should have done.
Instead, I thought it would be a great idea to buy a motor home and drive to Mexico with my dogs. I talked it over with a few hundred of my most intimate friends; I should've talked it over with the dogs instead.
THE PLAN: I easily came up with three justifications for the purchase of a motor home. (1) It would pay for itself by eliminating restaurant expenses; (2) since Mexican hotels are not hospitable to dogs, we would have independent sleeping facilities; and (3) an American friend now living in Guadalajara agreed to meet us in Phoenix and we would drive back down together. I welcomed her with open arms as soon as she uttered the magic words, “I can change a tire.”
Only another man could possibly understand the private language of RV salesmen. A motor home is referred to as “this baby,” and everything in it is called “this puppy.” My salesman, Gunther Ripoff, was quite helpful by showing me all the luxuries in their newest model, like airbags guaranteed to break your face in fewer places than ever before, cup holders just a cat's whisker smaller than your cup, pontoons in case you ever want to park in a lake, a recording which tells you in Chinese that you're about to be arrested for reckless sightseeing, a CD of "On The Road Again," sung by a chorus of Kenny Rogers' ex-wives, and a place to put a glove box, should gloves ever make a comeback.
With the dogs' comfort foremost in mind, I chose a Rialta with extra-powerful air conditioning, beds for them to lie on, windows for them to look out of, and lots of walking-around space. Besides, this model came with a free gift: a cute little thing called a "Level," to help when parking in the wilderness which lies between Los Angeles and Phoenix.
THE REALITY: The dogs didn't even want to get in it. They wouldn't get up on the beds or look out the window or sit near the air conditioner. They wouldn't walk around. They wouldn't put their coffee cups in the cup holder. Worst of all, they wouldn't help with the driving. Is it my fault the Husky left her Learner's Permit at home? Instead, they jammed themselves between the front seats arguing about which one was entitled to the passenger seat. It was like Archie and Meathead trying to get through a doorway at the same time. They were wedged in so tightly it took two cans of WD-40 to part them. Free at last, they then jumped up on the seat behind me hanging their heads over my shoulders and slobbering so profusely that I slid off the seat three times between our driveway and the freeway.
Nightfall found us at Mt. Haulapai campsite near Kingman Arizona. Ah yes, nature, raw and uncompromising. Tall pines, black sky, a million stars. This kind of living was totally different from my New York background where The Great Outdoors refers to the distance from your front door to a taxi.
Attempting to appear hip and cool, I bombarded the Park Ranger in charge with inside RV terms like "rig" and "propane." I realized how little I had impressed him with my vast knowledge when he told us to find space elsewhere. "No hookups left? No problem," I said, "This baby is self-contained. We have our own generator and that puppy can do everything from laundry to walking the dogs.”
No sooner had we found a secluded wooded area in which to settle for the night than questions came to mind: How do you get that little bubble to stay in the middle of the Level? Are you supposed to keep the engine running for the generator to work? Why does the fuel gauge read Empty, when we had 1/4 tank on arrival -- does this mean that your car still uses gasoline even though it isn't moving? What would happen if I turned off the engine? Would the propane explode? Would the airbag implode? Would the double-oh-seven pontoons eject?
Would a big grizzly slash its way into our rig to plunder and pillage? “Well guys,” I said to the dogs, “You elected me pack leader so all major decisions are mine. We won’t know what this button does till I push it.” It turned off the engine. The sudden silence was like being in a coffin when you're not dead.
With a cowardly finger, I depressed the button for the omnipotent generator. Instantly, the lights went out, the air conditioning went off, the microwave stopped flashing twelve-twelve-twelve, and in a nanosecond, it was sweltering. I wondered what Bogart would have done if the same situation had arisen in, say, “The African Queen.” The solution came to me immediately. We coasted down the mountain in neutral and checked into a hotel. It's amazing how clean sheets can salve the wounds of primitive living.
Pressing on to Phoenix the next day, we were joined by Gail, the friend who had flown in from Mexico to drive back with us. "So you bought this rig to sleep in but you're sleeping in hotels?" she said. "We'd sleep in the rig if it had room service," I replied. "And you won't use the bathroom?" she asked. "I didn't want to be the first one," I murmured, pushing my chin further into my chest. "I thought your son took the rig out for a dry run last weekend. Didn't he use it?" she asked. I mumbled, "He didn't want to be the first one either.”
If I ever sell this rig, the ad will say, "For Sale: New bathroom, surrounded by used, sap-stained motor home."
Day Three found us driving across the border at Nogales without incident, I whined, "How come they’re not inspecting the rig? Do we look too bland to be bad?” "More likely it's because no one ever smuggles things INto Mexico," she replied. When I grow up, I hope to be as smart as she is.
With Gail behind the wheel and the dogs behind Gail, I prepared breakfast. Every time she hit a pothole, another hotcake sailed out the window. "Ever crew on a sailboat?" she yelled back to me. "Do I look like I did?" I shouted back, heaving myself up off the floor. "You'll get your footing eventually," she said, grinning. "Say, Maggie," she yelled. "Yeah?" I replied. "Those eggs over easy look great on your head."
We decided that, in Mexico, Gail should sleep in the motor home, but that I was too much of a yellowbelly and should sleep in hotels. However, I wouldn’t part with the dogs and it was impossible to find hotels allowing them.
We tried a ritzy San Carlos hotel with caged exotic birds in the lobby, but they told Gail, self-appointed front man, that no rooms were available. Since necessity is the mother of invention, we created a “halter” and tied it onto the Husky's back. Wearing big sunglasses and holding the halter with one hand while flailing in the air with the other, I walked into the lobby. It wasn't difficult pretending to be blind since the humidity was so great that it fogged up my sunglasses and I couldn't see anyway. Miraculously, a room suddenly became available. Mexicans may not cater to dogs but they're great with handicapped humans. Maybe they would've let me in the first time if I had used a seeing-eye parrot.
In Mazatlán, we had successfully sneaked the dogs into a hotel and I was feeling pretty smug, when there was a knock on the door. "Do you have dogs in there?" "Not exactly," I shouted back. "They look like dogs but they're really movie actors. We're on the way to do a Purina commercial in Guadalajara." I was about as convincing as I had been with the Park Ranger. The dogs were promptly ordered to vacate the premises, and to take us with them.
Undaunted, we managed to get into another hotel by pretending to be part of a wedding reception being held there. "Hey Gail, what's Spanish for, 'Such a beautiful bride. We're her cousins.'" We were so good at the deception that the groom's family thanked us for coming such a long way to attend the festivities. I thought it was tacky that they didn't offer to pay for our rooms.
Next day, we reached the end of the luxurious superhighway we’d been on and faced a spastic 2-lane road of tar and dirt. The huge dusty trucks competing with us for road space seemed to jerk to a full stop every few feet. Mexico is probably the only country in the world where a chicken has the right-of-way.
Maneuvering like Rommel on steroids, Gail would careen out from behind a stuttering truck to pass it. Every time she did this, two things happened: centrifugal force propelled the dogs and I onto the walls, flattening us there until she swerved back, plus the refrigerator door flew open, spewing the contents onto the carpeted floor. I just wish I hadn't landed on that squishy half watermelon when Gail resumed normal speed and I slid off the wall.
At last we limped into Guadalajara, a city where the trees wear white trousers and the music is so loud, even Helen Keller was heard to rasp, "Turn that thing down, will ya?"
THE MORAL: They say women live longer than men, but I say it only feels longer.
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