Geocaching, Sombreros, and Trundling, Part II

Miss Part I? Read it here

After 2 days and 3 nights of camping and hiking in the desert, we were hot, sweaty, dirty, and tired. When we were finished packing up camp, our professor announced that him and the TA’s were taking one of the vans and that we were allowed to take the other on our own, in case we wanted to stay in town for dinner. This was probably an unwise decision on his part, if he had known us a little better – an invitation for us to get into more shenanigans. 

However, we set off, excited about the prospect of being on our own without supervision (hey, we WERE only college juniors, can you blame us?). Since I had spent a short time living in Barstow when I was young, I told the boys I had memories of a Mexican restaurant from my childhood, one with food so glorious it made you want to weep. Meals that tasted like there were beautiful Spanish women in colorful flowing skirts dancing on your tastebuds. I raved so much about this place, I talked the boys into going there for dinner. 

Since I couldn’t remember the exact location of the restaurant, we had to drive up and down the main strip of the city a few times before finding it. Luckily, it’s a small town. I swore that we would know it as soon as we saw it, because the restaurant from my memories was a magnificent pueblo-style building with bushes of gorgeous flowers bursting through every window, and hand-painted murals of Spanish art on the walls. So, when we finally pulled up at the small, run-down, faded building with the word “Rosita’s” feebly painted on the side, peeling off in places, that should have been my first hint that my 6 year old imagination might have exaggerated slightly. 

We were too hungry to complain, so we went in, sat, and ordered. That was when I recalled a vague memory of celebrating someone’s birthday in this same restaurant when I was a kid. I knew I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to potentially prank or embarrass one of my fellow classmates, so I told the table I had to use the restroom, and set off for the kitchen to speak with our waiter. 

After informing him one of the gentlemen at my table was celebrating his birthday and would like to be surprised later, I was halfway back to the table when I bumped into my friend Rob, who had a mischevious look on his face. Knowing Rob as the trickster of the group, I figured he was up to the same thing I was, so I let him in on my little secret. We agreed who the victim at the table would be. 

After our meals were settling in our stomachs, and everyone at the table was peacefully reclining in their chairs, I was all aquiver with anticipation for our “dessert”. When our waiter finally approached us and asked who the “birthday muchacho” was, Rob quickly pointed at our friend Jim. Jim, thinking this was entirely Rob’s fault, pointed the finger right back in Rob’s face. Luckily I was there to back Rob up, and there was a moment of blind panic on Jim’s face, as he realized he had been duped. 

Suddenly, a trio of costumed waiters appeared. One slapped a giant sombrero on Jim’s head, one was sporting a tiny guitar, and one a set of maracas. They proceeded to dance and sing the Mexican Hat Dance around our table, while Jim sat there looking ridiculous, the tiny pom-pom balls swinging off the edge of the hat and into his face. It came so far out of left field, that I thought I was going to pee my pants laughing. 

As their song came to a close, the mariachi wannabes told everyone at the table to lean in for a picture, and they snapped a Polaroid. I don’t know who has it now, but I still wish to this day I had a copy of that photo. Lesson learned: it seems like the more remote/random a restaurant, the more likely they are to have some silly tradition for celebrating a birthday. And the more friends you are with, the higher the chance someone is bound to rope you into dealing with it. Always carry your own camera. 

Stay tuned for Part III...