It’s been a long road back from back surgery, and I’m not out of the woods yet, I still have healing to do, but the minute I had the tubes finally detached from me and I tasted a little freedom, Sean and I were leaving on a jet plane, headed for sunny Mexico.
One of my favourite offbeat comedies is The Mexican – totally incidentally, I’m sure. In it, Brad Pitt has shit luck. He’s the lowest rung of organized crime and is being sent to Mexico, against his will, “for one last job” to pick up a beautiful antique gun that just happens to be cursed. His girlfriend, Julia Roberts, is tired of this shit. She’s tired of her relationship going according to some mob boss’s whim. So they break up, profusely. He goes to Mexico and puts on a pretty good gringo act, and she drives to Vegas in her Bug, a woman scorned. Until she meets James Gandolfini, who kidnaps and holds her ansom for the ancient pistol.
I’m totally charmed by this movie every time I watch it. I love how Brad Pitt and JK Simmons are openly mocked by the Mexicans. I’m positively tickled by it. And I adore the chemistry between Roberts and Gandolfini. It’s not to be missed.
The Mexico in The Mexican is not the one tourists normally see. It’s dirt floors and seedy bars and low riders. It may be a Mexico that only exists in movies. Sean and I were in need of some rest and restoration, so opted for the good old all-inclusive resort side of Mexico (which is not real Mexico either, but it sure tastes pleasant), with the cheerful Mariachi bands and the frozen margaritas with salty rims.
We stayed on the Mayan Riviera and sunk our toes into the hot, white sand. We got uneven sunburns from underneath palapas. We renewed our vows beside an ancient temple, a ruin on a rocky island just metres from the beach. It was beautiful, as Mexico always is.