Mexico #2: ahorita is unknowable, but memelitas are now

The bus that was supposed to leave at 9:30 leaves at 9:55, and when I say leave, I mean backs out from one bus station in town and immediately goes and parks at another. The bus does not show signs of prompt departure, as driver disembarks and says we'll be leaving en un ratito, which is a measurement of time spanning five minutes to eternity. The bus is small and rocking a quality bachata playlist. Two of the bus's occupants, Pato and myself, ate crumbly bread and weak coffee for breakfast, and are bemoaning the fact that we did not think to bring anything more substantive with us. Overwhelmed by bachata and a full bladder, I exit the bus; Pato disappears. Coming back from the bathroom, sin ganas de subir al bus, sin ganas de estar encerrada en el micro todo el pinche dia, I see Pato holding out the fruits of his secret labors: memelitas, expertly retrieved from a woman working a small griddle just outside. 

I don't know if this true for everyone, but edible gifts inspire in me an eagerness, giddy anticipation of the shared discovery we're about to have, almost like a dare -- "we're gonna taste this cool new thing together it looks pretty freakin weird hope we like it there's no knowing oops too late it's in our mouths now anyhow" -- and people who come bearing edible gifts earn a kind of gratitude from me that goes beyond any-other-kind-of-present gratitude. Something to do with being fed = being cared for on both the most basic level there is + the level I like best, that is, the level where I'm eating.  

Anyway -- so the memelitas are brought. Two corn masa griddlecakes/tortilla type things, one a black and white check of beans and queso fresco, the other a savory smear of potato and chorizo. Because Pato bought them, they're also doused liberally in chile -- the papa-chorizo with red, the frijol with green. They're both delicious, but for me the frijol wins the day. The color contrast is matched by the contrast of flavors, the salty, sharp cheese cutting through the savory-smoothness of the beans. We eat them and the prospect of a long day of bus hopping disappears; the future shrinks into the seconds it takes us to scrounge up more monedas to buy MORE MEMELITAS. In an incredible stroke of luck we have enough to get another frijol, another chorizo y papa, and a chicharron, which wins by default because it's chicharron. We inhale them before the bus makes it down the street. 

We agree that everyone else is stupid for not buying memelitas from that lady's stand (there was no line! NO line!) and that Pato earns a thousand points for being pilas and sniffing out what was good within a 100 meter radius from the bus. I have enough time to reflect before falling asleep that I'm lucky to be traveling with someone who recognizes the restorative powers of a well-timed memelita, the hope and goodwill that lots of chile and chicharron can bring. 

*The transbordando that began with this memelita-fueled episode was inconvenient but the reason behind it is worth reading more about. Read en español acá or English here.