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Posted from Mexico City, Mexico at 10:33 AM local timeSuckered!It finally happened. Having spent time in several dozen countries and shared meals with complete strangers on a number of occasions, I was duped for the first time last night. I'm out $25 - but now have a story to tell for years to come... "One more stop," I muttered to Pat after we stepped out of the Bosque de Chapultepec yesterday afternoon. "I want to get out to the Basílica de Guadalupe before we leave." After an enjoyable but full day of museums, Diego Rivera and Rufino Tamayo murals, an iglesia or two, and a good deal of wandering the city on foot, we headed out to the famous site just before sunset. After working our way through both the old and new basilicas (the old one sinking rapidly, as seems to be the case with many of the large old buildings in the former lakebed that is Mexico City), we pause momentarily in front of the Capilla de Indios. "Se está hundiendo," says a dapper older man looking on beside us. "Es bonita, pero se está hundiendo." He looks at us: "¿Entienden español?" I reply that yes, we do understand the language - and thus begins our 90-minute friendship with "Roberto." Moments later, we are talking about family and friends, our homes, and all the best places in Mexico. Roberto is from Tampico, at least that's what we're told. He is an engineer, about to retire after 33 years of service with Pemex (the Mexican oil giant), and he's in town for a couple of days. He looks the part - clean suit, polished shoes, silk tie. He asks if we've seen la Cascada de la Virgin. I respond that we haven't. Roberto kindly escorts us to the waterfall and then up the stairs to the hilltop Capilla del Cerrito overlooking the city. I ask about his family. He has a son and two daughters and speaks fondly of his wife. He compliments my Spanish and lowballs the numbers when guessing our ages. About halfway up the stairs, he points out a small pool of water and offers us a coin apiece. The Virgin, it seems, will grant wishes if coins are properly placed in the pool of water. Wishes are made and coins tossed. (None of us hits the target, though I'm guessing Roberto's wish for the evening was ultimately granted.) At the top of the hill, he pauses at the closed door of the small chapel. "Por favor," he says politely, excusing himself to caress the door and perform the usual Catholic rituals. We watch the sun sink beyond the haze of Mexico City. "Ah, Mexico," he mutters. So beautiful yet so polluted. We take turns pointing out the landmark buildings. Finally, a guard arrives and tells us the place is closed. Roberto apologizes politely and we head down the stairs. In front of the old basilica, he once again pauses to cross himself, explaining that he's a devout Catholic. Back outside the grounds, I broach the subject of Mexican food. I ask him to list his favorites. He smiles - and provides a five-minute synopsis, pausing to rub his belly on occasion and purse his lips for playful kisses from his fingers. Of course, my question about food is the opening he needs. He invites us to join him for dinner, and being enchanted by this kind old man, Pat and I agree. Roberto asks a traffic cop for directions, and we hop on a bus. He pays our fares, refusing the coin I thrust in his hand. A frail old woman climbs the steps of the bus. He jumps up and helps her into the seat beside him. "Muchas gracias, señor," she says, clearly appreciative of his gesture. "Such a gentleman," I think. "Such a sweet old man." We talk a bit more. He pulls out a pair of pills, explaining that they'd been provided by his doctor to combat the high altitude of Mexico City. He shares that he's planning to see a fútbol game or attend a concert later that evening. There's a ticket office nearby, but first we should get some food. The three of us hop off the bus. As we do, I notice him grab Pat's arm and help her navigate the street and crowds of people. Again, I make note of the old-fashioned kindness. I am surprised, however, when our new friend points at a nearby Sanborn's. After all the talk of traditional food, it seems odd that he's suggesting the Denny's of Mexico. It's not what I think of first when looking to sample la comida tipica de México. He does give us the option to go elsewhere, but we decide to make things easy and agree that Sanborn's will do. (I should mention that just two nights prior, Pat and I visited another Sanborn's - and she ended up feeling sick the next day. Thus, the restaurant wasn't high on our list of potential dinner destinations.) Our waitress points at an open table in the middle of the room, but Roberto opts for a booth on the side. We slide into the booth, Roberto placing his bag next to my backpack. After ordering drinks and soup, he asks the waitress about the nearest phone. Talk turns back to his evening activities, only now it seems he's inviting us to join him. I look at Pat. Hmm. Do we ditch the guy or give it a shot? After a few tentative glances and awkward moments, we settle on music over football. Roberto excuses himself to buy tickets next door, brushing aside my "¿Cuanto cuestan los boletos?" and insisting that we'll take care of such details later. Until this point, Pat and I had little reason to distrust our friend. Personally, I have had dozens of similar interactions with people in other countries - and it is generally these encounters I cherish most. We'd spent an hour-and-a-half with Roberto, and he'd been charming and polite. Unfortunately, it was all a ruse. Moments after he leaves the table, I step out to wash my hands. I encounter Roberto near the phone. He indicates that tickets are available but is short on cash. I reach into my pocket - and not finding enough to pay for even one of our tickets - insist on getting back to Pat (who has more cash). We scrounge through our pockets and hand over the cash. A thought flashes through my mind: "What if...?" But no, I completely trust him. He puts a bill back in my hand and indicates he'll return shortly. So Pat and I sit down and begin eating. Roberto's bag sits beside my backpack. After about ten or fifteen minutes, we look at each other. "What if there's nothing but garbage in his bag," Pat jokes, "and he's not coming back?" "Wouldn't it be funny," I respond, "all the times I've done this without incident in other parts of the world, and this old fella dupes me." We chuckle at the thought, recognizing the possibility but still trusting that he'll be back. Later still, our food is gone and Roberto hasn't returned. We look at the bag. "Ten minutes," I suggest. "Ten minutes and we're opening his bag." We order coffee and wait, now laughing and retracing the progression of events. After exactly ten minutes, I grab the bag, open it, and laugh aloud. Inside is nothing but garbage - an empty instant noodles container and half-spent bottle of Pepsi. We'd been had! We linger for a little longer, marveling at the genius of the old man. Smartly dressed, warm and courteous, he played us like a pro. For 90 minutes he engaged us. Dedicated family man and engineer. Respectful Catholic. Asking the policeman for directions. Paying for our bus. Obvious gestures of courtesy. Pills for the unusual altitude. Knowledge of and fondness for Mexico. Animated descriptions of food. Thrusting a bill back in my hand. Everything - every last detail - had been orchestrated perfectly. Clearly, "Roberto" engages tourists for a living. Normally, we figure, he makes off with a free meal. Three-quarters of the way through a meal, he excuses himself to use the restroom and never returns. In our case, he did even better. It's probably rare that he gets many takers on the soccer and concert offers. We bit - and Roberto went home a happy man. Pat and I got a good chuckle out of the incident. We considered the alternative forms of extortion and figured ours was a benign case. No sense of danger, no bodily threats, no loss of irreplaceable possessions. Given the reputation Mexico City has for being dangerous (slightly exaggerated in my opinion), being duped by Roberto was pretty harmless. Still, it's unfortunate that such things happen. More than being out a little cash, I walked away lamenting the insincerity of the encounter. What had been another pleasant exchange with someone from a foreign country turned out to be a farce. I was left with a feeling of hollowness. I told Pat that the incident wouldn't change my willingness to engage with the locals in the future. If you trust, you may be burned on occasion - but what you stand to gain is generally worth the risk. The next time I meet a potential Roberto, I'll opt not to shun him. I'll be a little less quick to hand off money for concert tickets, but I hope I'll still engage. Oh, the one other disappointment was admitting that Roberto's kind words had to be dismissed. Perhaps my Spanish was lousy after all. Maybe we weren't really the engaging, nice people he'd suggested we were. And no, it's unlikely that Pat really looks 24 years old!
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