If New Mexico is the Land of Enchantment, old Mexico -- at least parts of it -- is a country of delights.
When I moved to Phoenix, I got caught up in the Hispanic culture. The food, music, and customs intrigued me and I found myself writing about them for my newspaper as well as magazines. As a general assignment and features reporter for the Phoenix Gazette, one of my responsibilities was to cover the Mexican Ambassador to Arizona.
Raul had an office in the central corridor of Phoenix. His friendly staff kept me current on policies affecting tourism and went out of their way to make life pleasant for me. One of his secretaries, a native of Guadalajara, even brought spicy homemade burritos to the office which she shared with me.
'Do you want the Mexican style or the Gringo style burritos?' she would ask, giving me my choice. 'The Mexican style is pretty hot and will make your eyes water. I'm just warning you.''
'Mexican style, of course,' I said. The burritos were delicious and my watering eyes proved she was right.
Raul resembled Cesar Romero, the actor, in style and good looks. He was a mean poker player who often joined me at American Legion Post No. 1 or one of the other poker games the fraternal lodges hosted in Phoenix before the Indian-owned casinos got into full swing. He read and enjoyed my feature stories in the Gazette, especially my coverage of the annual Cinco De Mayo celebration.
One day he asked me if I would like to spend a week in Mexico at his government's expense.
'We will pay for everything -- airfare, hotels and food,' he said. 'We will even provide you with a car and tour guide to take you where you want to go. All you would have to pay for is the girls and entertainment.'
'There won't be any girls,' I said, smiling. 'I'm married. But let me check with my editor. Thanks for the generous offer.'
City Editor Vic Thornton thought the idea was great and arranged to give me a week off my beat.
'Just come back with some good stories we can publish,' he said. 'And don't drink too much tequila. It'll make you forget your name and even where you live.'
Raul said I could visit any two cities in Mexico and spent four days in one, three in the other. After talking it over with my wife, Nan, we chose Guadalajara and Mexico City.
We flew from Phoenix International Airport to the international airport in Guadalajara. Our assigned tour guide was Dulce, an attractive Hispanic woman in her early 20s who had a university degree in hotels and hospitality. She picked us up at the airport and drove us to the Hotel Tapatia, a charming establishment with individual cottages and cobblestone streets.
Our comfortable air-conditioned suite gave us a grand view of tropical trees and a king-sized swimming pool. The suite was well stocked with wine and Mexican beer and liquors. She told us all the means were complimentary and would pick us up at 10 a.m. the following morning.
'Tomorrow I will take you to the horse races and the cockfights,' she said. 'Our Ambassador tells me you enjoy gambling and you will certainly get your fill of it in Guadalajara.'
She showed up promptly at 10 a.m. and drove us to a race track. Families were sprawled out on the grass with their children eating, drinking and listening to strolling Mariachi bands. I made a few bets, broke about even, and then we went to the cockfighting arena.
Several hundred people were there waiting for the action to begin. Dulce introduced us to the handlers of the fighting roosters. Their hands were scarred by the blades attached to the feet of the cocks. One handed me a rooster to hold while he fastened blades to its feet. I was amazed at how tough and muscular the cock felt.
'We will dedicate the next fight to you, Amigo,' he said. I felt honored and told him so.
Dulce explained how the gambling worked. If I wanted to wager on a cock, all I had to do was point at either the red or green box where they were being held. I would then name the number of pesos I wished to bet and if one of the other people present wanted to accept my bet, they would hold up their hand and nod. All betting transactions were expected to be settled immediately after the fight.
I liked the looks of the rooster in the green box. It was strutting and seemed full of battle. I pointed at the green box and shouted, 'Two hundred pesos on the green.' A distinguished Mexican in a suit, tie and straw hat accepted my wager.
Before the cockfights began, a Catholic Priest blessed the roosters and everyone present. Then a leading Mexican vocalist sang several songs while a Mariachi band played. He finished with a rousing version of 'Guadalajara.' The crowd gave him wild cheers and applause.
The handlers released the cocks.
They went at each other like Chinese rockets, a blur of color and imagery that reminded me of a Ted DeGrazia painting. They moved so quickly I could not tell if my rooster was up or down. We were seated so close to the arena that flecks of blood hit us.
And suddenly, dramatically, the match was over. One rooster was down and it was obvious he would be doing no more fighting.
Dulce pounded me on the back excitedly, screaming, 'You won! You won!'
The Mexican gentleman paid me the money, about $40 in U.S. currency. He also said under Mexican tradition; he had the option of picking the cock in the next fight and wager up to the amount he lost. I told him that was fine and he made his selection. I won this one, too, as well as the third match.
Dulce said to my wife, 'Your husband has found a new profession.'
That evening I treated all of us to dinner at a fine Mexican restaurant. My four days at the Hotel Tapatia were unforgettable. While Nan and I enjoyed visiting the pyramids and Mexico City, with its wide boulevards and wild race car driving, it was Guadalaljara that stole our hearts.
On my final day at the Tapatia, I visited the hotel's stable and rented a horse. The stableman, who was in his 60s, saddled a slim brown mare and assisted me in mounting. The second the horse felt me on her back, she reared, took the bit in her teeth and took off on a furious gallop.
I hauled back on the reins and yelled, 'Whoa...whoa!...' but the horse kept running. There was a sharp drop-off on the right and the mare was headed for it. I could see the stableman waving and shouting something at me, but I couldn't hear him.
It suddenly occured to me. This wasn't an American horse, it was a Mexican horse. What was the Spanish word for stop?
'Alto! Alto!,' I shouted, pulling back on the reins.
SCREECH! The horse stopped 10 feet short of the ravine.
As I rode the gentled mare back to the corral, the stableman was still laughing.
'Senior,' he said, wiping his eyes, 'I was wondering when you would wake up.'
Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.
(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).
