Mexico 1957

Richard decided that we'd hitchhike to the border, it'd be easy with a girl, he said. He was right. L.A. to San Diego in less than three hours. Better than the bus, and free.

'Remember,' he said. 'At the border, you're my daughter.' We did look like family, both slight and sandy-haired, and we soon would be. We would get married in Mexico where the age limit was 16. I was 17, and even though he was 35, we wouldn't have any trouble.

I expected we'd get married in Tijuana, but he said it was better to put some distance between us and the border. We braved the stares of the Mexican immigration officers, then hurried by taxi to the crowded Centro de Autobuses del Norte, where he bought tickets for Mexico City. For safety, he carried our money, my sixty and his hundred.

Three days and two nights on that bus, and Richard lost in thought the whole time, but that's what you expect of a writer. I had to get used to that. I was so excited, everything was so new. I tried not to, but found myself chattering, pointing out donkeys and villages, women carrying jugs on their heads and the cutest children and . . .He just stared.

At the Mexico City terminal, he handed me $20, told me to get it changed and go and buy some food. It was crowded. I couldn't make myself understood, and I had to buy fruit from the fruit stall, bread from the bakery, water from the water guy. Nobody sold it all like at home, but I finally got some rolls, bananas and bottles of water, then waited by the door like he'd said.

Exactly as he'd said. In our two months together in L.A. , he had already taught me to obey him, to trust him. He said he'd lead, and so far, he had. So, I waited--all night. Ate the bananas and the rolls; drank the water. Finally, at dawn, with a fistful of pesos in my pocket, I walked alone into the diesel-heavy air of the first really big city I'd ever seen.