Three months ago, if you’d have asked me if I’d have been content to drive around in a stuffy, weird-smelling pickup truck listening to nothing but Mexican oompa music on a spotty radio station, I would have said hell no.
But due to the circumstances that are my life (and certainly my choosing, at least in concept. See: Life is like a box of chocolates for the potential depth of that statement), there’s only one station that comes in – AM or FM – on the truck radio, and that’s all it plays – jangly, lively Mexican music that is almost exclusively about amor or ’don’t forget me’ or ‘kiss me’ or ‘remember me.’ This, in turn, is dotted with the very occasional WTF offering like George Michael’s “Father Figure” or The Backstreet Boy’s “I Want It That Way”.
Those are the moments that I find particularly thrilling, in that memory lane/clash of cultures kind of way. Yay English! And – seeing as I went through a George Michael phase in Middle School (who didn’t???) – yay Father Figure, a song to which I actually know the words. Truthfully, to my shock, I know a surprising amount of Backstreet Boys lyrics. That I can’t explain so well. Collective unconscious?
Anyway, mostly it’s just me and the truck and the dust and the loud noise of the not-so-awesome power steering and the cranked up strains of Mexican music.
And so it is.
Well, except at 6pm when they do the news. In Spanish. And I catch every tenth word. Which is roughly the same as understanding absolutely nothing.
So in contrast – and although I wouldn’t exactly say I enjoy said Mexi tunes – on a sunny day when it’s warm out and the light hits the ocean just right and you feel kind of free and independent and generally good about life – there is a certain infectious, exuberant ebullience to the liberal (if not excessive) use of brass instruments and accordions and words about love and loss.
And it’s kind of growing on me.
Or maybe that’s just the tequila talking?