I was going to write a poem about our pending arrival in Mexico tomorrow, to the tune of Twas The Night Before Christmas. But I can’t. I’ve lost the capacity for productive thought due to the symphony of voices in my head reciting all the warnings we’ve received about all the horrible ways we can die/go missing/lose our possessions in Mexico. Just yesterday someone told us about how he was carjacked in Mexico 20 years ago and to be careful in the desert because they will shoot us dead, take our stuff, and no one will find us.
Earlier, it was easy to shrug off these warnings as extreme, sometimes bordering absurd. But as I look out over the border and see Mexico staring back, it has become more difficult to keep from wondering. What if it’s all true? What if they are waiting for us on the other side? What if Mexico is not full of smiling abuelitas, cheap avocados, and beautiful beaches? All this worry has manifested itself as two days of bad guts, which is funny considering we were warned about that too.
But all the worries and warnings are not going to keep us from heading south. So tomorrow I’m going to smuggle in the butterflies that have made home in my stomach, and hope for the best.
If nothing else, we have the power of Scott’s facial hair and a cannon to ward off evildoers.