Another Story from Puerto Vallarta - but Not a Nice One

This story is one Ive thought of countless times in my life. Im not sure why, cause it ain't pretty. For some reason, it is lodged in my mind.

When we were five, my family would roam the cobblestone streets of Puerto Vallarta exploring the coastal town. We'd window shop, investigate the smells and sights of the large, covered markets and hang out in the plaza by the crown topped church. One evening we were all out walking and my parents decided we'd buy some bread at a panaderia. Pandulce and coffee is a common dinner meal for many Mexicans and when we were in Mexico we would often practice their custom. After a long day walking, my sisters, parents and I found ourselves in a populated panaderia and began choosing our dinner treats.

At panaderias, there are racks and racks full of fresh bread and pandulce. On this night, my parents allowed my sisters and me to serve ourselves using the oversized tongs and circular, metal trays. Normally this would be awesome, but on this day it posed a problem for me. Even though I had eaten pandulce plenty of times, I was not overly familiar with the different types, styles and flavors presented in the store. In the past, someone else chose the sweet bread for me and I either ate it or didnt. There were definitely types I didnt like and I wasnt really sure which ones they were. My sisters didnt seem plagued with the same insecurity I felt. Ultimately, I followed their suit and chose one or two I thought looked good.

Once outside the store we began to snack on our pandulce, but when I bit into mine I didnt like it. Just as I feared I chose poorly. For some reason I was very ashamed of myself and didnt want to tell anyone. I reached my hand back into the bag, picked out what looked like a normal piece of bread and began eating it. Boy was it good! The bread wasnt fancy looking so I must have thought it wouldnt be missed. I was wrong again. The bolillo I feasted on was Dad's and he was mighty pissed that I had biten into it. He began yelling at me outside of the store and my dad rarely lost his cool. It takes a lot for him to lose his temper and/or patience and on this day he did both. His irritation caught me off guard and Im ashamed to admit that I began yelling back at him. I think I was either in 8th, 9th or 10th grade. My parents can both attest those were not my best years.

Twenty some years later, the facts if this incident, which made a big impression on me at the time, have altered. When this incident happened, I took my Dad's anger very personally. I felt very attacked and ashamed that I had pushed him to his breaking point, but that awareness didnt stop my bad behavior. For some reason I didnt admit the blame and just say "Im sorry." Now when I think back at that night, I believe there was a lot more "psychology" going on than what appeared on the surface. As I said earlier, my dad has the patience of Job. It was out of character for him to lose it on me about something so small. Actually, that is not true. Dad's temper rarely flared up at people. Instead it was directed at smaller things - things my mom, sisters and I deemed insignificant. The big stuff he took in stride. The reason this memory is stuck in my head is because I believe it was one of the first times his fury was solely focused on me. I made him angry. He wasnt upset at the dog or the sprinklers not working or the baseball game on the tv. His anger was focused on me and I did not like it. There might have been other extenuating circumstances too. Maybe he was tired that day or the heat and humidity had gotten to him. Maybe he was hungry and had plans for that bolillo once we got home. Maybe there was extenuating tension with my mom or me or my sisters that I was unaware of. Its possible I had been doing things to annoy him the entire night and me eating half of the bolillo sent him off the edge.

Or maybe, I was a selfish, spoiled 14 year old who hadnt learned to be responsible for her own actions. I think maybe that was it. :)