I thought I would spice up the blog with a humorous and entertaining story from one of my travels. I will call it my “Mexican cat-call story.” There’s not much insight into the world of professional tennis in this story compared to my other blogs, mostly it’s just funny.
I will start first with the necessary prologue to the story; my classification of the “cat-call” system in the latin-speaking countries I’ve visited. This includes Mexico, Venezuela, Spain and Argentina.
Mexico is by far number one on the list for rudest cat calls. You cannot go out and walk on the streets in shorts, especially if you have light skin and light hair, without getting a “pssst, pssst,” whistle, “oye mami” (hey mama) or a “que guapa,” (very pretty) directed your way as you walk by.
Spain is second on the list of worst cat-calls because of how often you hear them, but they vary from the cat calls in Mexico because of the simpler type of cat-call used. In Spain, from what I observed in my experiences, the men are satisfied to stick with the classic, “psst, psst,” as they watch you walk by.
Argentina is third on the list of worst cat-calls and second on my list of preferences (second only to a no cat-call scenario). When explaining my experiences in Buenos Aires to my parents I told them that “I really feel like people mean their cat-calls here, and it has a way of actually making me feel attractive.” This is because they do not whistle at everything that walks. The frequency of, “psst, psst” and “que guapa” sounds is just enough to make you believe they truly appreciate what they are seeing as you walk by.
In Venezuela I speed-walked my way through the streets, a 200 meter stretch at the maximum, because I did not feel safe. Therefore I actually have nothing to say about Venezuelan cat-calls and Venezuela is 4th on my list of worst cat-calls simply because of the safety factor. It’s not really a fair placement on a cat-call list, but lack of safety puts anything at the bottom of the pile.
And now, finally, we begin my:
Mexican Cat-Call Story
I am in a town called Coatzacoalcos, Mexico and staying at a house that is walking distance from the beach. It is not a nice beach, but it is a beach. There was another player staying with me in the house and we decide to go the beach one day on a day off (lots of times they stagger first round matches on Tuesday and Wednesday so you don’t play your second round match until Thursday—this is because of umpire availability).
We walk down the beach in the midst of cat calls from Mexican workers doing some construction work on homes nearby. No problem, they are just cat calls.
My friend sits down at the beach to relax and I decide I want to do some sprints on the sand, since it’s a day off and everything. I take off my shirt and have my sports bra on underneath and the beach seems to be empty except for a lady sitting over by the street and another person way down on the other side. I put a line down on the sand and start doing my sprints hoping not to land on some glass that might be buried in the sand—like I said we are not visiting a super nice beach.
I see the lady over by the street get up and start walking towards us—I try to ignore her and not think anything of it but pretty soon she starts approaching me and trying to speak to me in Spanish. I can kind of understand her because I speak Spanish. She compliments me on my athletic physique and points to her own bulging tummy and says, “Oh you are so fit, not like me, look at this stomach,” --at least that is what I understood from her mixture of grabbing her stomach, flapping it around and complimenting me.
Then she asks me a question that I don’t understand in Spanish. I say, “What?” and tell her I don’t understand. She kept saying the word “salchicha,” and I knew I heard her correctly but at the same time could not understand why she was talking to me about a sausage. Finally she asked me, very slowly, “A ti te gusta a las salchichas o a las mujeres?” (Do you like sausage or women?)
Well, I told her that I was not into women and she bashfully said, “OK, OK,” and went back to her spot up by the street. She was genuinely trying to get herself a date!! I finished my workout and we left the beach.
About two days later my friend was sun-bathing in the backyard of the people that we were staying with and the son informed her that a bunch of Kindergardeners were coming over for a party (the mother was an English teacher in a nearby school). It probably would not have been appropriate for her to continue her tanning activities in the backyard.
Determined to get her tan on, my friend decided to go down to the beach. I asked her if she was crazy going to a public beach in Mexico with blonde hair and a bathing suit. We can’t even walk down the street in shorts without being whistled at, who knows how people would react if there was actually some real skin showing!
My friend was determined, and also from a country in Europe called Latvia. Europeans are typically less averse than Americans like me to showing some skin, especially on beaches. This particular girl is quite a free spirit anyways, and she wanted that tan. Sooo, we made the trek down to the beach- I knew I had to go with her because two is always safer than one.
We arrive at the beach, marauded by the usual cat-calls from the construction workers on the way there and she takes her outer wear off and lays on the beach. I stood there, looking at the ocean, fully clothed-bored but the sun is going down so I know we won’t be there for long. The beach appears relatively empty.
All of a sudden I hear my friend say, “Oh my God, Oh my God,” and I look over to find the woman from two days ago standing over here, having sprinted from wherever she was, saying, “I love you woman! You so sexy!! I love you!” in English and running around in circles in the sand around my friend who is in her swimsuit on the ground.
After maybe two minutes of this show and having said her piece, the lady turns and sprints back to her hiding spot. She apparently had forgotten all about the episode from two days ago because she didn’t even look at me—she loved the sight of my friend in her bikini too much!
Well, my friend grabbed her clothes and we high-tailed it away from the beach and back to the house. The people we stayed with (our “housing” in tennis lingo) were quite amused by our stories about the lady at the beach, and we didn’t return to the beach again on that trip.
Story
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