I should have had more water. Eghck. My tongue is so dry. It feels like sandpaper in my mouth. My cotton t-shirt has a higher water content than I do. I’m burning up. Locals pass on the sidewalk wearing blue jeans, looking comfortable, while I fry in a pair of shorts.
“ Hace un tiempo muy bueno we!”
If she was talking to me, I didn’t respond. From what Spanish I know, she said what nice weather. Oh God, how I disagree. The sun beats down so hard that even shaded areas are blistering hot. The only solution is sitting perfectly still. My mouth is open. I can hear my deep, slow breathing. . .I . . . need . . . water.
“Juan, can I have some of your water?”
“Sorry man, you can’t drink this water, you gonna get sick”
Oh yeah. I'm so thirsty I've forgotten. Only drink bottled water, they say. Make sure you drink a lot of water, they say. These are the two most vital proverbs of a tourist in Mexico, and I am not taking part in either right now. Eghck.
“Don’t worry about it, you gonna be on the plane soon, man”
“Yeah, I guess”
At the airport, the heat makes my brain feel absent and thus my farewell is less thoughtful than I would have hoped. I get on the plane. The overhead fan blows hot air at my face. The large man across the aisle undoes his top button and loosens his tie, easing the tension from his white-collar shackles. He sweats exponentially. I can smell his ripe odour. I am a tetris block inside of my two-by-two space, up to my elbows in exclusively carry-on luggage. The stewardess fans herself with a pamphlet before half-heartedly telling us to fasten our seat belts. The plane takes off.
Serve us. Come on, offer a beverage. Are you paid to stand around and look pretty? Well, partially, yes, I know, but come on. Are you hoarding all the precious water for yourself? Is that kind of thing premium on Mexican planes too? Should I ask for water? Should I ask for "agua"? Is your head as high above the clouds as the rest of your body?
She presses her back against the wall of her cubicle, shaken from turbulence and probably dehydration. She is in the same boat as the rest of us. She is the only one who has to stand for the duration of the flight.
Sweet mercy, here she comes, pushing her little cooler cart before I even got a chance to ask. I ask for a can of sprite, and just like that, she hands me one. The carbonated citrusy flavour is so refreshing, so chuggable. I love sprite. Rather than rationalizing, I drink it all. Feeling glorious and satisfied, I sit back in my coach class seat and sleep.
“Wake up, sir, we’ve arrived safely”
“Wh-Wha? We’re there? Already?”
I look out the window to see sunny skies and grass, no snow. I’ve stopped sweating but remain damp as I peel from my back rest and rise to my feet. I juggle my carry-on luggage wishing I had more hands as I stumble onto the runway.
"Quite a nice day," one says.
In a Minnesotan accent, the other replies "Oh ya, home sweet home."
Nice day? I can see my breath! No one standing outside the airport wears shorts but myself. Brrr! What I need right now is a pair of pants and some hot chocolate...
Nice day. For those dressed for the weather, maybe, but not for me. Not anymore, anyway.
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