Yo quiero mi moto

I love my scooter. It may be the greatest thing I have ever owned, absolutely, no kidding. At first, after arriving in Huatulco, I had assumed I would get around by walking, bus, or, since they're so cheap, taxi. But the buses only run to the university twice a day, and are not terribly reliable, so I'm told; the taxis may only be 20 pesos (about 2 dollars), but multiply that by at least 4 times a day, 5 days a week (just to get back and forth to work) and soon we're talking serious money; and quite honestly, I'm kind of a sweaty guy under the best of circumstances: if I walked everywhere (and the town is rather spread out) I'd never dry out. So a scooter I bought.
I knew I didn't want anything too big or fancy; never having ridden one before, I didn't feel up to learning how to shift gears and all that with my hands. Just seemed like more trouble than it was worth. I asked around about used ones, but as another teacher pointed out, unless you know something about them (I don't), you don't really know what you're getting, and the new ones come with some free services and a warranty.
On the advice of several people, I went to Elektra, sort of a cross between Best Buy and Ikea, tvs, stereos, dining sets and mattresses. And there it was, a perfect little putt-putt, on liquidacion, only 7000 pesos (700 dollars). We talked to the guy about it for a little bit, it was automatic, no gears, exactly what I wanted. I told him I'd take it. He said he didn't have any. What about this one on the floor? It's sold. Then what the hell are we talking about, I didn't say, but was thinking, frustrated and disappointed.
After going to the Yamaha store (20,000 pesos) I finally settled on a little Zanetti from Super Che, kind of a Wal-Mart type store on Boulevard Chahue. The guy told me to come back that night, about 8; they had to get it ready, check it out, whatever. Hours of restless anticipation pass. 8 finally rolls around, I head to the store, hand over my receipt, the woman says something over the loudspeaker, another guy comes to get my receipt, disappears toward the back. Minutes pass. Another new teacher comes in, Gary from Sheffield, England. He's bought the same scooter, only blue, and is picking it up. He also speaks fluent Spanish, which seems helpful. Mine comes out first, fire-engine red and oh-so-pretty. We all head outside, me, Gary, two guys from Super Che and Thor, another American who was staying with me until he could move into his own place. One of them begins showing me the controls, blinkers, lights, ignition. It's a simple machine. He turns it on, hits the electric starter, and my scooter roars into life. A glorious, beautiful noise. The Super Che guy guns the throttle on the right-hand grip a bit and it leaps forward a couple feet, taking him with it, but he brings it to a stop, grins a bit sheepishly. Then he does it again, my pretty scooter shoots out into the parking lot, the guy running alongside, and suddenly, somehow, it's sliding, scraping, screeching painfully on it's side on the concrete and the guy is flying over it, rolling on the ground and none of us quite believe what we're seeing. He's fine, but my scooter, which I haven't even touched, has some nasty gouges, there's a few bits of plastic scattered around and my stomach hurts. So close. They say they'll fix it, I just have to come back the next day. Sigh. Gary gets his without incident.
The next day, they bring it out, the scraped panels have been replaced, everything seems fine, the guy puts the back stand down, which raises the rear wheel, to demonstrate the throttle, and I am in possession of my scooter. I climb aboard, and tentatively, cautiously, having received a graphic object lesson in what could wrong, give it some gas. I wobble around the parking lot, encouraged by watching taxi drivers and customers, who, though obviously laughing at the gringo, do so good-naturedly. I come to a stop by the Super Che guy and Gary, who came down to help if need be. "Esta bien?" "Esta bien," I say.
And since then, while I needed to take it back to have the gas gauge and speedometer fixed, which the speedometer was and the gas gauge wasn't, causing me to run out of gas on a downtown street, but also letting me know exactly how far I can go on a full tank (100km precisely, it was a little eerie), I have taken my scooter to the beaches, around town, grocery shopping, on unnecessary errands and just joy-riding. Thor, who is something like 6'2" and 220, will never ride on the back again, but Nanci, Barry's fiance, who has been an extraordinary help to us, and comes up to my chest, is always welcome to a lift. I've gotten to know all the potholes in my neighborhood and I'm learning how to lean into the turns, though I still slow down more than is necessary. Everybody passes me, including the occasional cyclist, but I just smile and keep on putting along. I love my scooter.