Saturday, 25 September 2004 | Scar

[Isla Mujeres, Mexico]

She was drunk and social. Shortly after her friends left the bar with their kids in tow, she pulled her chair up to our table. Mostly I listened to her talk, following along here and there, sometimes asking Martin to translate either way.

I was pleased to be hanging out with someone who was from the island, even though she was rather stubborn and repetitive. She told me over and over, albeit in a friendly way, that I would be pretty if only I didn't have a nose ring, and that it was urgent that I have a baby. (I didn't bother arguing with her.) Regardless, it was good to interact, and to learn.

I learned that she was 42 years old (the smoking creases around her eyes made her look slightly older), and I learned that her family had lived on the island for the past hundred years. She has two "bambinos" who are in their late teens, she said, and she loves where she lives and has no interest in travel.

I also learned that she'd had a Cesarean section. In an awkward moment, she hiked up her skirt and pulled down her underwear slightly to show us that the operation had left no trace of a scar.

She left the bar after we did, but I caught a glimpse of her from a few blocks away, speeding down the street on her moped.