And That Was How I Left Guadalajara

The other night I woke up and thought someone was in my room and let out a yelp and then felt ridiculous and wondered if I’d woken up the neighbors. There’d appeared to be a black shape in the doorway, a man approaching me, but it was just a combination of the upper part of the door and my early morning brain.

The night before I’d gotten spectacularly drunk with Jason and Gizelle. I had two Licor 43s mixed with milk before meeting them, then beer, then mezcal, then more beer. I don’t remember going home. I do remember being at home and making myself yet another cocktail of Licor 43 and milk and then drunkenly messaging Yunuen telling her “My name is Mark” and “I’d like to meet you.” The next day I contemplated saying, “I’m really sorry for the drunk messages last night. That’s not cool,” but within a day she responded, “I think I’d like to meet you, too.” Then last night she texted me a litany of things that “weren’t cool” about me or how I’d treated her. She said it wasn’t cool the way I’d talked to her at the end of our relationship, when we were “breaking up,” that it wasn’t cool how I’d written so many times on this blog that I had no friends in Guadalajara when I knew her, that it wasn’t cool I referred to her as “someone who gave me an aloe plant” or “Y” when really her name is Yunuen. I read all of these message and went into a brief depression, which I combatted by watching chess videos. I was already feeling sad and melancholy and weird about leaving Guadalajara, in some respects like a failure, and getting these messages didn’t make things better. I responded, “Thank you for sharing how you feel and what you think,” and this morning went into an inner rage about the messages. Why the hell would she send me that shit on my last night in GDL? Why would she send it in the first place after a month of no contact?

I get to the airport this morning at almost exactly 4am and give the driver a 10 pesos tip. It’s the first time I’ve ever tipped an Uber driver. I woke up last night at 1am, 2am, and then 3:15am and got up for good. I lay in bed for a moment, checked my phone, and then I got out of bed and carried the glasses of my own urine to the bathroom, where I emptied them into the toilet and then peed. I’ve been peeing into glasses for the last two and a half months in the room where I stayed in Guadalajara to not have to leave my room. I’d pee in a big jar and then the next day surreptitiously ferry it to the bathroom, where I’d empty it and then wash it.

People filter into the waiting area for the flight to Mexico City. An announcement comes over the speakers for a Volaris flight somewhere. There’s a commercial playing on the TV over and over. A kid to my right just got told by his mother to get off the railing. A guy in front of me is taking pictures of his friends. I count the money in my wallet. Twelve hundred pesos. I need to change this in Mexico for Peruvian Soles if I can, and if I can’t I need to change it to dollars and then Soles and thus get screwed on the exchange twice. But the alternative is waiting until Lima, where I might not be able to change it at all.

There’s an announcement for Copa Airlines flight 723 to Panama City.

The last announcement for the Volaris flight to Mexicali.

Our flight is supposed to board in 15 minutes. Thank God for aisle seats. People are still  filtering in and I think about how I’ve been here for almost an hour and a half. The air smells vaguely of farts. My stomach has been severely messed up since the night of drinking. I didn’t eat dinner last night. I had a chocolate croissant. And this morning the only thing I’ve had so far is mineral water.

Finally they make the boarding announcement for our flight, and I put my computer away and go to the bathroom one last time.  I get my ticket out, and hope there’ll be plenty of overhead space. I think about what I should do on the flight, and decide I’ll read my book about uncontacted tribes in Brazil and listen to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

The woman takes my ticket, rips off the stub,says, “Buen viaje,” and I walk down the walkway and get on the plane, touching the metal outside of it in the superstitious way I’ve done for many years now. On the plane one of the flight attendants says, “Buenos días,” and I make my way back to 15c, where there’s enough overhead room for my bag, and then sit down. I watch the people shuffle slowly down the aisle, and get out my headphones, put on the Autumn part of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and close my eyes.

And that’s how I leave Guadalajara.