On Goodbyes and Midnight Road Trips — B.G.
August 7th, 2022, continued:
Me: “Luis?”
Andrés: “No.”
Me: “Julio?”
Andrés: “No.”
Me: “EDUARDO!”
Andrés: “No.”
…Andrés and I played a fun game last night on our road trip home. It was called “Guess-my-real-first-name,” game.
It started on Friday night during shabbos dinner.
I don’t remember how the topic of names came up, but at some point during dinner, Andrés casually mentioned that he doesn’t actually use his first name. I had had no idea that Andrés wasn’t it. My nieces and I stopped eating, intrigued.
“So what is it?” I asked.
“I’m not gonna tell you,” he replied.
“What?!” I said, indignant, and tried a different tack. “Marisol, if I asked you what it was, would you tell me?”
Marisol, as ever, was annoyingly virtuous: “It’s not my information to share.”
Outrageous! I advised my nieces that they should pester him to figure it out, because they are very good at pestering. They seemed dubious of their abilities, though. I suppose it is easier to ask Aunty for something a thousand times than it is with someone they only met a few days ago.
“But why??” I wheedled Andrés. “How come you don’t want us to know?! Do you dislike it that bad??”
“Nah, I just like to be mysterious.”
Hmph.
I decided to take a different approach:
“Girls, let’s just be aloof, okay? Who cares about Andrés’s real first name? I don’t!”
“Really?” he inquired, bemused.
“SHH I’M NOT GOOD AT LYING,” I stage whispered across the table, irritated.
“Esteban?” I asked now, in the car. “Lorenzo?”
“No and no,” he said cheerfully. “But you’ve now guessed one of my brother’s first and second names.”
We were on our way home. I finally had my driver’s license (that will be the topic of another post. It’s been a week since I last wrote and there is a LOT to catch up on), so I was finally doing my favorite kind of driving: Back country road driving.
Our original plan had been to wake up early and leave this morning. But around 6pm yesterday, Marisol and Andrés floated the possibility of an early departure.
I wished we had decided on it a tiny bit earlier in the day, but they had me at “wake up in our own beds tomorrow.”
So we cleaned up Eric and Emma’s home and said our goodbyes to the vegetable gardens and the blueberry patch. We left a bowl of peaches on their table and a little note to thank them for the loan of their peaceful oasis.
Then we went to my family’s home to say our goodbyes. I expected the girls to be a bit sad I was leaving.
I was wrong.
They were devastated.
Their thrilled smiles at my appearance in my parents’ home melted into howling sobs when they learned I had moved my departure up by 12 hours, and I felt terribly guilty.
We snuggled one last time and read a few pages out of Foxtrot. I had forgotten how hilarious that comic strip was.
Then I gently untangled myself and we all repeated our Fairy Princess Motto:
With a lump in my throat I reminded them that I’m always just a phone call away. Then, Marisol, Andrés and I piled into the car and took off toward Montreal.
Now, back in our Communauto, I continued the guessing game:
“Gabriel?”
“No.”
“Miguel?”
“No.”
Alfredo?
“No.”
“You’re SURE it’s a typical Latin American name, right?” I asked for a third time.
“I think so,” said Andrés. “It is, isn’t it Mari?” Marisol, the neutral third party, concurred.
Conversation shifted to other things as I ran out of names to guess. Every once in a while though, we would fall silent. So as I drove along the inky black country highway, I wracked my brain for every name I’d ever heard of.
“Daniel?” (Pronounced “Don-ee-yell.”)
“No.”
“Francisco?”
“No.”
“FERNANDO. ENRIQUE. DE LA CRUZ!”
“De la Cruz is a last name!” Andrés exclaimed.
“Well, I’m running out of guesses!” I retorted.
After an hour on isolated back roads with only tractors and horseback riders to be seen, we were spit out into civilization in Geneva, NY. A moment later we were thrust onto the thruway, heading East.
Then we merged onto 81, the last highway before Canada.
Civilization faded into the murky distance just as Andrés realized he had to use the bathroom.
It turns out that the downside of a midnight road trip in the middle of nowhere is that there are not too many places to stop. We played Restroom Roulette for the next 45 minutes. Everything was closed; even the brightly lit Mcdonald’s was just being mopped up; we arrived at 11:06 and it had closed at 11pm.
Just before midnight we found a gas station that was open. I led Marisol into the women’s and Andrés disappeared into the men’s.
A drunk guy in the line in front of us laughed very loudly at my banter about the triple shot of espresso I had convinced Andrés to try. The guy, really just a kid in his early twenties, insisted on high-fiving Marisol and myself for no particular reason. I think it took him a moment to realize that Marisol’s eyes are different from the rest of ours, and when he did, he was awestruck and clasped her hands instead of giving them back.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I said, physically removing him from her in support of her quiet protest.
At checkout, my debit card wasn’t run as a credit card and I needed to give a pin.
In my tired road trip delirium, I couldn’t remember my pin, so Andrés paid for the drink I had convinced him to get with the promise that I would pay for it.
I laughed some more, hysterical with adventure, sleep deprivation and only a tiny bit of embarrassment.
Back in the car.
“Jesus!” (Pronunced “Hay-seuss.”)
“No.”
“Jaumpi!”
“That’s not a name.”
“It is too! I know two of them.”
“It’s a combination of Juan and Pablo.”
“Juan? Pablo?”
“No.”
We stopped to pay a toll. I finally had cash because I’d retrieved my debit card (Mommy sent to me in the same envelope as my license. Long story. I’ll write it soon). I handed Andrés six dollars for the drinks I’d promised to buy.
“American money. So useful in Canada,” said Andrés in what seemed like an unnecessarily sarcastic tone of voice.
I didn’t care. My embarrassment was now absolved. I had paid for the drinks, as promised.
We made it to the border. This time, unlike last time, getting through was a snap. Nobody even asked for our vaccine records or our Arrivecan, which was now 6 minutes old because we had passed midnight and yesterday’s date.
The border officer didn’t even ask to see Marisol in the backseat, even though she was ready to give them excellent eye contact.
After a quick glance at our passports, she waved us through.
Then, I drove through an international border all by myself, just like a grownup!
I also forgot that I could have snuck a peek at Andrés’ passport. That would have been cheating, though. The guessing game was more fun.
As we listened to our Billy Joel playlist, I tried to think of a single name that I hadn’t guessed yet. The game was getting harder and harder.
“Sebastián?” I asked quite suddenly.
“Yes.”
“YYYYYEEEEESSSSSSSS!!!!!!” I screamed with a victory howl, more excited than if I had won the lottery.
“Oh my gosh I wasn’t even paying attention, I missed the guess!” said Marisol from the back seat.
“Iiiiiii am the champion, my friends,” I sang, and smiled my victory smile the rest of the way back, even through Andrés switching into the driver’s seat and insisting on an AC/DC playlist.
At 3am I arrived home to a warm Montreal apartment and a broken refrigerator.
Love,
B.G.
