My friend, Bob, and I were traveling together in an area that neither one of us had ever been, but we had a map we were trying to follow; we also sought to follow the advice of drivers regarding possible shortcuts or ways to view historic sights. As a result, we found ourselves on a highway in the broad city of St. Louis that was not in our plans. We inquired of bus and taxi drivers how to return to national highway #66. Following some confused driving, we found ourselves back on the right highway going in the right direction, which reminds me of an unusual incident that occurred that night. Since we had no designated times or places for urination or evacuation, we often made use of the rest rooms of gas stations. That evening in a gas station in St. Louis, we talked with a couple that was very upset because a mistake was made by the husband who was driving. Coming on to the highway, he turned the wrong way and they rode for about 400 kilometers in the wrong direction. Bob and I offered to drive the car for them in the right direction. We would have been very happy to do so, although I realize that that would have been a very difficult decision for them to make. And they refused our offer. It had now become dark and Bob and I were wondering where we might sleep. Since we started hitchhiking about 7 o’clock that morning, we had traveled over 1000 kilometers in over 15 different vehicles. At different times and in different vehicles, one of us would sleep while the other one would carry on a conversation, if necessary, but we did get a little rest in the process. (1344)
Looking at a map of the fifty states in the United States of America, a variety of factors related to their location, size, shape and name may be immediately noticed. If the Mississippi River is considered the dividing line between east and west, about half of the states are on the east side and about half on the west. States east of the Mississippi River are smaller, have more natural borders and more peculiar names than those on the west. Hitchhiking from Chicago to Mexico in 1946 took me through three states I had never entered before. Their names (Missouri, Arkansas and Texas) were probably derived from native languages, influenced by Spanish and French. One of the characteristics of names of American states, cities, towns, villages and other places is the irregularities of their pronunciations. The last six letters in the name of the state of Arkansas (pronounced Ar-ken-saw) are the same as the name of the state of Kansas, but the pronunciation is completely different and there is no clear indication of any relation of the two names. The capital and largest city in the state of Arkansas is Little Rock, which is said to have been named by a French explorer, in comparison to another rock further down the river. Reading my simple pencil-written record of my hitchhiking trip from Chicago, Illinois to Mexico City, Mexico in June 1946 and returning by way of California and Oregon in August, stimulates many memories. The most disappointing part of the trip for me occurred in the state of Arkansas. Following a night in which neither of us got much sleep in the roadside grass, we began hitchhiking in the small-town of Hoxie, about 5 o’clock in the morning. We were there for 5 hours before we were given a ride, the longest wait we had on that trip. (1345)
While we were standing along the highway in the Arkansas capital of Little Rock, I took a sign I had made before beginning this trip and had kept in my suitcase until then. Attached to a cord that I hung around my neck were these words, in capital letters, covering my chest: “MEXICO OR BUST.” It informed car drivers of our desired destination. On both sides of the state line between Arkansas and Texas and just north of the state of Louisiana, there are cites named Texarkana, whose names reflect their location. On the way to Texarkana, we stopped for a short time in the city called Hope, which also reflected our mental condition. One driver who was attracted by the sign enjoyed giving us detailed information about Mexico, its food and lifestyle. In Dallas, Texas, we were reluctantly given a ride by a couple we talked with at a gas station and in San Antonio, we took time to visit the famous historic site called the Alamo. Not only did we have contact with different kinds of drivers, but we rode in different kinds of vehicles also. Along with the regular passenger cars, we rode in a station wagon, where one of us could sleep while the other one talked, in a bakery truck, the back of a pickup truck and in the cab of a very large truck. One ride we did not appreciate was the trailer we were permitted to board after a flock of animals had been transported, but before the trailer had been cleaned up. We had to find (or make) a place for us to stand or sit along with our suitcases. Although we appreciated the ride, we were uncomfortable as long as we remained in that trailer. (1346)
According to my pencil-written, difficult-to-read, 46-year-old record of my hitchhiking trip to Mexico City, the final (33rd) vehicle I boarded in this country was a station wagon that stopped for me in the Texas city of San Antonio, which is the Spanish term for St. Anthony. In the southern part of Texas, Spanish is a very common language and the driver of the truck was a Mexican named Manuel who did not speak English. The sign, “Mexico or bust” which I wore on my chest, attracted his attention and he wanted to know the meaning of “bust” (which he pronounced “boost.” ) In my elementary Spanish, I tried to explain that “bust” may denote the dismal failure to achieve one’s goal following a prolonged effort. Actually, the station wagon, which I boarded, was the first of two; Bob boarded the second one, driven by Manuel’s son, Alejandro. Although we were still hundreds of kilometers from the Mexican border and over twice that far from Mexico City, Manuel agreed to take us all the way. Among the many interesting stories about Mexico he told me was the explanation of why they were driving two American station wagons to Mexico City. Manuel purchased them in the U. S. and will sell them at a higher price in Mexico. This is something he had done before and would do again. Needless to say, Bob and I were very thankful that we were taken for the last two hundred kilometers in the U. S. A. to the major port into Mexico on the Rio Grande River. We found an inexpensive hotel in which to have supper and to spend the night, the first such accommodations we had since leaving home and were looking forward to our departure the next day for Mexico City. (1347)
As a 19-year-old university student, crossing the border between the United States of America and Mexico would be the first time I had ever left my homeland, so it was an event I was looking forward to with considerable anticipation. On the morning of June 27, 1946, Bob and I boarded the two station wagons driven by Manuel and his son, Alejandro, and went on a bridge over the Rio Grande River, which is the dividing line between the U.S.A. and Mexico. The city on the American side is Laredo, which is also the name of a city in Spain, and the city on the Mexican side is Nuevo Laredo, meaning New Laredo in Spanish. The official on the Mexican side of the border, however, would not let Bob and me disembark because we had no Mexican address or connection. We were simply hitchhikers without plane, train or bus tickets to some place in Mexico. I do not now recall the details of the reason(s) for the refusal to let us in. The explanation was all in formal Spanish (between Manuel and the official), but later, Manuel explained to us that if we gave the official a bribe, the problem would be solved and we could enter the country. We had heard before stories of the common use of bribes to gain approval under certain conditions and in some cases, bribery is expected, but both Bob and I were conscientious pre-seminarians and were not ready to offer a bribe. While Manuel continued to discuss the matter with a Mexican official, Bob and I walked back over the bridge, hoping we could return to our country without a problem. We did, but it cost us a nickel each. I am not sure what the nickel was for. Then we waited for Manuel at the Greyhound Bus Station—on the American side of the river. (1348)
While Bob and I waited for Manuel in the bus station at Laredo, we hoped that we could legally enter the country on the other side of the river. When Manuel arrived, however, he did not bring any new news. We had to choose whether to offer a bribe to a Mexican official or to show valid public transportation tickets to a Mexican city. Manuel graciously offered to take us in his vehicles to Mexico City, about 900 kilometers away. Bob and I bought bus tickets to Monterrey, the first main city along the way. At Nuevo Laredo, we had to get off the bus and have our bus tickets approved as customs workers hurriedly examined the contents of our suitcases. While we waited for the bus to leave, children and young people surrounded us, urging us to buy refreshments they were selling or to let them shine our shoes for a modest fee. At two or three bus stops along the way, Manuel and his son met us and assured us that they would meet us at the Monterrey bus station; but at that bus station, a telephone call from Manuel informed us that they would not be able to do so and Bob, who took the call, did not understand the reason why. We called the local airline office but since no one answered, we decided to take one of the many taxis available. Before we got in, we asked the driver how much the fee would be. He told us it would be two pesos. The office he took us to, however, did not make reservations so he took us to another office two blocks away. There, the reservations were too expensive, so we had him take us back to the bus station. Thinking we should give him a tip to express our gratitude, we gave him five pesos rather than four, but he insisted that he took us on three trips, so we owed him six pesos. We gave him that amount, symbolizing our first Mexican taxi ride and bargaining experience. (1349)
Bob and I boarded the bus again in Monterrey and arrived in Mexico City on Friday, four days after we had begun hitchhiking from Chicago. Ever since Manuel and his son picked us up and after crossing the border into Mexico, we had been using the Spanish language insofar as we were able to do so. In Mexico City, Bob rented a room at the Y.M.C.A., while I took a taxi to the luxurious home in the upper class residential area of the city, where Benito, who had invited me to his country, lived. Although he was not at home when I called on the telephone, I spoke in Spanish to his mother and when I arrived, I was greeted at their ornate gate by Benito, his mother, his sister and Margaret, his sister’s friend from Kentucky whom she had met in college and had invited to come to visit as Benito had invited me. On Saturday morning, following a typical Mexican breakfast made and served by a couple of maids, Bonito’s sister took Margaret and me downtown by buses to the University of Mexico where our classes would begin on Monday, July 1st. I was happy to meet Bob, my hitchhiking companion there. Bonito’s daily schedule prohibited him spending much time at home, but that first evening he took me to meet a group of his friends. They were waiting for us, while drinking beer at a tavern. Obviously, it was not a peaceful group. I was told that the gash on the forehead of one of the fellows was the result of a recent brass knuckle hit. One fellow had a 12-inch long knife; another had a black jack and Benito carried a pistol in his pocket. They were surprised to learn that I did not smoke, drink or dance and that I was expecting to become a Protestant “priest.” That was the first and last time I met with that group. I had never imagined that Benito would be a member of such a gang. (1350)
Following a typical, enjoyable Mexican breakfast on Sunday morning, which we ate according to our individual convenience, I received a telephone call from Bob. I then boarded the bus that took me to the place to board the other bus to take me downtown. This was the first time I went by myself. I had been informed that other buses followed the same routes but were more expensive because they were preferred, first-class vehicles. I met Bob and we went together to the El Divino Salvador Presbyterian Church, the largest Protestant Church in the country. In Mexico, church buildings were owned by the government. A Roman Catholic congregation originally used this church building so there were many small alcoves in the walls where images of saints had been placed. Due to a large reduction in the number of members of the Roman Catholic Church and the opposite movement of the Presbyterian Church, the church building was transferred to the Presbyterians, who took down the images of saints and wrote Bible verses on the alcoves. One Sunday evening when we had invited Manuel and his son to attend, they came. It was the first time Manuel had attended a Protestant church and he genuflected before entering the pew. He was surprised to see the alcoves without images of saints. “Where are the saints?” he asked. “You are surrounded by them,” I replied and was able to clarify to him the meaning of the term “saint.” “Where are the saints?” I explained that, in the New Testament, the term translated “saint,” meaning “holy one,” “one consecrated to God,” is used for all living Christian believers or followers of Christ as is reflected in Paul’s letters (Romans 1:7, for example). (1351)
As noted previously, my reason for going to Mexico was not to attend a university; it was because a friend, Benito, had invited me there. But since my visit coincided with the 6-week summer session of the University of Mexico, I had decided to take advantage of the opportunity and had received the necessary approval to attend classes on Spanish composition and conversation and a class on phonetics before arriving in Mexico. During the regular school year, there were about 22, 000 students in attendance at that university, including some 2000 Spanish-Americans from various countries, and there were about 1000 Americans enrolled in the summer school classes. There was no central campus, so schools were scattered around the city. Since all three of my classes were in the morning, I was free in the afternoon. Bob and I were both involved in the formation of a Protestant Christian group in the university, which included Bible studies. Although letters mailed from the Chicago area usually took less than a week to arrive, the suitcase I had filled with many items finally arrived about a month later. When I went to pick it up, I was informed that I would be required to pay about $150 American dollars to claim it. Otherwise, it would be sent back to the sender at no charge. Of course, that is what I requested to be done. Because Benito works everyday in a factory, I rarely see him. Unfortunately, a couple of days after we arrived in Mexico City, Bob received a telegram informing him that his father had died. He immediately made a reservation, left by plane for Chicago, and was gone for a week, but did return. I used my spare time to visit historic or naturally beautiful sites, to prepare for classes, to write letters (which my mother saved and which I am now using as reference material for these messages) and to memorize passages in English from the Gospel of John. (1352)