Thinking of Sachiko

Yesterday, self decided to figure out whether she had imbibed any liquor recently.

Let’s see, did she have a glass of red wine with her dinner?  No, not in at least a month.

What about a beer?  Has she had any beers?  Recently?

No to that as well.

Self, what are you waiting for?  Here you have a fridge practically stuffed with hubby’s Pacifico and Smithwick’s, and you go days, weeks, without having a beer?  Holidays are always so much better when accompanied by drink!

Self decides that, starting today, she will make a determined effort to deplete this humongous supply of beer (Although she thinks she remembers reading somewhere that beer is extremely fattening.  She remembers the policemen in Manila, parading around in tight-fitting uniforms, “beer bellies” hanging ostentatiously over their belts)

Which then puts self in mind of a Stanford roommate, Sachiko H.  Sachiko was Japanese, had matriculated from the University of Tokyo (the Stanford of Japan, or so self has heard) and was in Stanford to pursue graduate studies in Anthropology.  She was fluent in Spanish, which made her the perfect companion for a two-week escapade to Mexico.  Sachiko was all about seeing ruins.  We saw Chichen Itza.  We saw Teotihuacan.  We spent days circling the exhibits in the National Museum of Anthtropology in Mexico City.  We spent a wild two weeks trekking around Mexico by third-class bus, the kind with chickens on the roof.  We tried every market taco stand we encountered, even when the vendor handed the delicacies to us with fingers rimed with dirt.  Self never got Moctezuma’s revenge, for she had taken the precaution of drinking half a bottle of Pepto-Bismol every night.

Things would have been satisfactory if Sachiko had not insisted that we end each day with a stint in a bar.  She desired only one thing:  tequila.  This was a confusing discovery to make, for self was under the impression that all Japanese women were demure porcelain dolls who never cursed or swore, much less indulged in hankerings for tequila.  Self had never drunk so much tequila as she did with Sachiko.  There was one time she couldn’t walk straight and thought the corridor was tilted and she was walking on the ceiling.

“Sa-chi-ko,” self remembers warbling plaintively.  “Why is the room crooked?  Why?  Why?  Why?”

She doesn’t remember Sachiko ever responding.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers.  Stay tuned.

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