(Whitney at Yale)

Not long before his death in February 2005, Bill Whitney had started putting some reminiscences of his time at Yale down on paper with the thought of possibly self-publishing them in book form. Here are two excerpts his "work in progress," that may bring back memories of some of your own extra-curricular, but "life-enhancing," experiences at Yale. These excerpts are followed by Bill's poem "How I Got to Be an Antique," which succinctly encapsulated his life since graduation.


"Willie" Whitney	"Mig" Farina	"Bill" Hernandez

ADVENTURES TO THE SOUTH

        Three of us were roommates - Bill (Guillermo,) Mig (Amerigo,) and Willie (myself) - and the other - John - was a close friend. It was our last year at Yale, and it was clear that life was passing us by. We had a two week vacation coming up; something had to be done. I had a '39 Ford and we were all crawling with ignorance. We would drive to Mexico!

        My mother, who didn't really seem to understand, insisted that this was not possible: we'd never make it. Perhaps we'd do better with her somewhat later Buick. That was OK. As a matter of fact, that was pretty good. It was a deal! We packed, laid in a supply of bread and peanut butter, decided we had enough money, and off we went.

        There was a long way to go. Our goal was Mexico City. It probably would take several days, but we were young. Two would sleep in the back seat while one would drive and another ride in front to keep him awake. When we needed gas, we would stop and get that, replenish our bread and peanut butter (and sometimes jam) and tend to our bodily requirements. We would drink water from bottles we had brought and, miraculously, we agreed beer was not allowed until we arrived

        Roads in those times were not quite what they are today. In fact, the best we found between New Haven and Monterrey was the Pulaski Skyway, out of New York, and that was pretty short. We didn't know any better, so they seemed all right. We were all awake for the start of the journey. We had four drivers, so it shouldn't be too tough. Then our roommate from Colombia, Bill, took a turn at the wheel. After a terrifying few miles, he was replaced. Now we had three He was very decent about it, and went to sleep. So did one more of us, and the remaining two took that driving shift. Things went pretty well, although having to go through every city and town along the way did slow us up considerably.

        Somewhere in the mid-South, we had a blow-out. We didn't feel it appropriate to go on with the longest trip any of us had ever driven without a spare, so we had to replace the tire. That was the equivalent of a lot of peanut butter, but we had no choice. The investment made, we forged on. John had an uncle in Texas, so we stopped for a wash and a meal, but no more. The trip seemed longer than we had expected, and we were dedicated to success.

        We could hardly believe how big Texas was, but we finally arrived at the Mexican Border. The tourist agreements said that entry would pose no difficulty. That, it seemed, was for US Citizens; Bill was Colombian. “Forget it,” he assured us. This was the beginning of Latin America, where they had proper respect for even modest amounts of money. He disappeared into a small office with a Mexican border official, and damned if he wasn't right! Out he came, there were smiles and handshakes, and the problem had vanished. We were off again.

        By the time we reached Monterrey, we had been driving for sixty-four hours and our original goal still seemed a long way off. We decided to adjust and stay where we were if we could find reasonable accommodations. After being disappointed by the costs of even modest hotels, we hit pay dirt. A perfectly beautiful place, with a courtyard and fountain, and right on a lovely park, would let us have a large room with two double beds for one dollar a night, each. It seemed extraordinary, and so it was!

        It was still evening, so Bill set out to introduce us to Latin American customs. Traffic in the park was highly formalized. Girls, seemingly all pretty, walked around it, clockwise. Men went counterclockwise. Frequent meetings were thus assured, but each girl had at least one dragon in attendance. Bill made a few trial sallies in Spanish, but little seemed to come of them. He did make an impression, we later learned. He received a letter from one young lady addressed to G. Hernandez, Yale, USA. The Postal Service must have had a soul in those days. As nightfall came on, it made sense to look into another custom. We would learn about tequila.

        Drinking this potion was, we were told, also fraught with formality. First lick the back of your left hand, in which you are holding a wedge of lime between thumb and fingers, and salt liberally. Lick the salt off your hand, toss off a shot of Tequila held in the right hand, and suck on the lime. All must be accomplished with a continuous smooth and graceful gesture. Nonchalance was, of course, essential. Experience was certainly needed. We practiced for several hours. Our expertise assured, we felt our way back to the lodgings. The following day disappeared, but on the third morning, we were once more ready for adventure.

        Exploring the city, which was delightful, took most of the day. We also made a careful reconnaissance of the facilities for evening entertainment. Local urchins provided advice, usually involving mythical sisters, as did other contacts. By late afternoon, we knew where to find a highly recommended house specializing in professional women.

        After dinner, we repaired thereto and discovered that it did, indeed, provide female companionship of impressive dimensions and very friendly dispositions. We bought drinks extensively and had our laps sat on a bit. Luckily (?) we checked on the bill after a time, and found that we had spent most of our vacation money, and couldn't afford another thing. We also couldn't weasel out of paying, so we had to go back to base camp to regroup and replan. During the night, which we spent worrying, there was enough foot traffic past our door that we finally figured out that we had been patronizing a competitor. We might have done better to stick to local opportunities.

        Being broke absolutely made our vacation. There was no more tequila, and little beer, since we couldn't afford it, though we did buy a bottle of mesquite from an extraordinarily attractive young woman in a nearby town. I think it cost about twelve cents. After trying it with soda, Coke, orange juice, and even sugar and grapefruit juice,

we poured it into the pool surrounding the fountain. A number of turtles, as I recall, left in high dudgeon. We had nothing to do but explore the countryside.

        We drove up into the mountains. We went to a wild area and rented a burro (just one) and hiked and rode, each for his share of the time, through woods, over (and through) streams, and seemingly everywhere. We discovered a man with a trained bear, and got to feed it a Coke right out of the bottle, as well as watch it do tricks. We received directions to the Cave of the Virgins, found it, and climbed the mountainside to its entrance. They must have been off for the day, so we climbed down again. Later we learned that there were lots of rattlesnakes around there. Luckily they were off, also.

        We found small towns and explored them (including the one with the mesquite lady.) We had lunch in a very modest cafe where the proprietor set his two-foot son on a chair to recite a substantial poem, starting “Me-hi-co, Me-e-e-hi-co!” Broke or not, that called for a tip, plus proper expressions of admiration. We came upon a protest demonstration march, from which we had fists shaken at us, plus some other hostile gestures. We felt no pressing need to debate whatever they were worried about, and left abruptly. If our money had held out we would have wasted all our time drinking and carousing, but we were saved that. We assured the small boys that we did not wish to meet their sisters, and threw something or other at one little bastard who suggested perhaps we would prefer his brother. And time flew on 'til, sadly, we had to start home.

        It seemed a long trip to the Border, and when we got there, we feared we might have to stay. Bill was welcome back into the States, Colombian or not, but Mig was deemed a suspicious character. He had been born in Italy, and had nothing to prove that he was a US citizen. He could show that he had been in the Navy, but that didn't do it. He had his drivers' license, with picture and address: not enough. Our border guards did not have the respect for money that served the Mexicans so well (and luckily we had brains enough not to make overtures.) Finally we got through with the three of us swearing to Mig's identity and status and the guards taking pity on us. How would they have felt about it if they had known they were relying on the perceptions of three guys who took the better part of a week to figure out that they were living in a whorehouse?

        It appeared that New Haven had moved quite a bit further north while we were in Mexico. Also, between gasoline and peanut butter, our money situation deteriorated rapidly. By the time we went through New York and headed up toward New Haven, we were so broke that we had to avoid the occasional tolls along the way. I called that close budgeting. I also called the whole trip one of the best vacations I had ever had. No one ever contended otherwise, then or later. And I have not changed my mind in the half century since.

Excerpt 2

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