Creative Nonfiction

Hotel Cadiz by Suzanne Roberts

We were in the Cuernavaca station, waiting for another bus, going on another date that we called an "excursion," as if renaming it could turn it into something else, something permissible. As if I didn't have a husband at home.

David and I had met at a Spanish language school, though we weren't in the same class. He was fluent, a Spanish teacher taking classes toward his credential. I was trying to learn enough Spanish to fulfill the language requirement for my doctoral work. We had met our first weekend in Mexico on one of the program's cultural excursions, a trip to Teotihuacan, the ancient Mayan city. Strolling along the Avenue of the Dead, David had made me laugh harder than I had in months.

Now, we were headed to the Grutas de Cacahuamilpa, a large network of underground caves. I watched the curve of David's face. He wiped his forehead and said, "I sweat a lot. Sorry."

"Sweating is good for you," I said, and David smiled.

We sat on wooden benches among other travelers and sipped bottled water. Women with baskets full of fruit and bread weaved through the crowds. Taxi drivers leaned against old cars, waiting for fares. Dogs sniffed the streets for food, noses buried in garbage. A neon sign flashed red and blue.

I moved my hand from my lap and onto the bench, hoping gravity would pull David's hand to mine. Instead, he held a ripe grapefruit between his fingers and peeled it, exposing the naked flesh. He handed me a triangle of fruit, red and wet, with skin as soft as paper. As we ate, the peels curled on the bench like question marks. I wiped my sticky hands on my shorts.

Eventually, the bus rattled down the dusty road.

"Vámonos," David said. "To the caves." I swallowed water, dry air, and dust and followed him to the bus.

***

David and I shared a too-small bus seat even though there were plenty of options. The Mexican landscape moved past the windows, and I watched ladies selling sundries on the side of the road, construction crews repairing asphalt. It seemed as if every American love song from the 1980s played on the radio: REO Speedwagon's "Can't Fight This Feeling" and Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is." When Journey's "Open Arms" came on, I felt like I was back at a junior high roller-skating party, where my talent for skating backward had gone unrecognized because nobody had ever asked me to couples' skate. I remember standing there in my Flashdance sweatshirt, hoping I looked approachable but not desperate.

Now, somebody was clearly asking me to skate. What a feeling! I was a teenager again, in that dorky-but-alive way. Did I really have to go backward to go forward?

Would I really have to cheat on my husband to feel alive again?

I had carefully crafted the life I'd always imagined—the tenured teaching job, the husband who liked to ski, the cabin in the woods, our large network of friends, even the furry mountain dog. I'd told myself this two-week solo trip to Mexico was just a break from my life, and that once I returned, I would be happy again. I told myself that all the arguments where we both started sentences with "You're the one who . . ." would magically end.

David held my hand and read to me from his guidebook. Las Grutas was one of the largest cave systems in the world.

When we arrived, David led the way past other tourists, mostly Mexicans, to the entrance. We went through the turnstiles where the Chontalcoatlán and San Jeronimo rivers merge and learned that we could not enter the caves without a guide. A Spanish-language tour was leaving momentarily. My Spanish wasn't very good, but David could translate what I missed.

We crowded with the other tourists into the living Cacahuamilpa caves, where water still cuts into rock. Inside, the air felt sparse, quiet, humid, still. David reached for me through the darkness. When our hands met, both were damp with sweat.