"What's in your bag?"

Four simple words entangled me.

In other words, it began as innocently as most human encounters do.

I was sitting on a chic bench in Merida's poshest salon, if only because of location location location, a Manhattan Soho decor and the highest prices in town. The gringos swarmed in, not knowing the owner had a copy of  "Haircutting for Dummies" stashed in the color drawer and had no diploma or license from anywhere.  Oh and did I mention he can't cut hair?

But at the time, he hadn't been found out yet.  So, I'm sitting on the bench, waiting for my DD (that's darling daughter for you non internet people) when in walk Bob and Tom (if you can't distinguish their names, no matter, because their slime is interchangeable). Tom has an appointment for cut and color.  Sociopaths have to look just so.

Bob sits down next to me.  "What's in the bag?" I say, queen of chit chat, pointing to his Walmart plastic bag.

"Oh," he laughed.  "Diapers and vodka."

My antenna perks.  I like a good answer.  I sit up and laugh.  Could he be...an interesting person?

"Diapers for my 91-year-old uncle, and...vodka for myself."

"That sounds about right," I say.  I chit the chat learning that they just arrived in Merida a week ago having purchased a house off the internet.

"But you saw the house, of course, before you bought it?  And you visited Merida, right?"

"Nope.  We researched everything thoroughly on the internet and it all looked good.  Houses sure are cheap here and we're sure we're going to like Merida."  He had no questions in his mind.

Who does that? 

I didn't even bother saying, you're in for a rude awakening. I had sworn off befriending the new breed of gringos swarming to Merida. No more orientation, help, contacts would I share. Whereas in the past, expats were interesting and quirky, worth getting to know, the new ones tended to be largely losers, liars, clueless, petty, cheap, alcoholic gossips.

I'm still waiting for DD when Tom and Bob leave the salon. Bob comes running back in with his email on the grocery slip.  It was striking in its anonymity:  2catscooking@gmail.  I drop it into my purse and thank him ever so much.  I'm so fucking polite.  As if.  I do not give him mine.

A few days later, so intrigued am I by the idea of two guys buying a house they had never seen in a city they had never visited, I paw through the garbage for the email and invite them over for drinks.