Here’s an old friend I didn’t find on facebook

Have you ever imagined what would happen if you knocked on a door you haven’t entered, or even seen in many years? You are not even sure if you know how to get in front of that door at all and yet, you try to imagine the different scenarios of what would happen if you did.

This is the story of a friend I didn’t find in facebook. It’s the story of searching for that physical door, and striking it with your own bare knuckles.

The last time I said goodbye to my friend’s family at that door they told me as they had done so many times before: “remember, el que no conoce Los Angeles, no conoce México.” It’s an old, Mexico City saying, which translates to “If you don’t know Los Angeles, you don’t know Mexico.” We always laughed at the irony. That time we all laughed harder to choke the tears back.

That was 18 years ago. Now, it was a Friday afternoon. I was sitting at a late lunch with my husband, TJ, at a restaurant in Zona Rosa. He had already been in Mexico City for a week on a special assignment with the US Embassy, but I had just landed a couple of hours ago. It was while sitting there at lunch that it occurred to me that I was closer than ever; that I should seize the opportunity to find her. After all, I didn’t have this opportunity before and who knows when I would have it again.

I didn’t have a phone number, or an email address, or a regular address. That’s how I’d lost contact with my friend in the first place. I couldn’t even remember how to get to their home, but I decided it was doable.

I put down my fork and I asked my husband: do you mind if we go visit a friend and her family? His eyes lit up. He’s always ready for an adventure. I’ve always been TJ’s guide, even in places I don’t know, so he trusted my instinct.

We finished our meal as fast as we could and took a cab. I asked the driver: do you know how to get to Los Angeles? My first fear is that Los Angeles was no longer popular or even existed. But he said yes. I looked at TJ with excitement and asked the driver to takes to Los Angeles and wait for us while we looked for someone.

Twenty minutes later, we were in front of Salón Los Ángeles. It was silent, for a change. There is usually the roar of live music even during the afternoon because of rehearsals. One time, I was there early enough to catch Paquita La del Barrio during sound check, and I was shocked to hear all the ladies of the Reyes-Urbán home singing “Tres veces te engañé” (“I cheated on you three times”) at the top of their lungs together with Paquita.

We got out of the cab and got in front of Los Angeles’ main door. Then, with TJ by the hand, I started walking left. Red door... Red door… three doors: orange one! It was a residential zaguán, the entrance hall to a building with a courtyard in the center. I told TJ this was the door to the apartments where they live or used to live –not sure at this point.

The way I remembered it, you had to knock on the orange, iron door until one of the apartment dwellers came out to get the door for you. This could take a while because the music from Salón Los Ángeles would drown your feeble attempts at knocking on the iron door. This time, there was a young man smoking by the semi-open door, so I just walked in with an air of “I belong here.”

TJ followed me all the way to the end of the zaguán. I knocked on  the last door on the right. A man opened and asked, “Yes?” I said: “I am looking for the Reyes Urbán Family.” “I’m sorry, you are mistaken, this is not it,” he replied.

Before I could say anything else he said, “I think that’s next door.” And before I was done thanking him I was knocking next door. No answer. I knocked again. Nothing. It was dark inside and there was no sound. No answer. Another hard, hopeful knock. ¡Nada!

The door directly across the zaguán had been open all this time. A woman peered out of that other apartment wearing an apron over her blouse and skirt, masa in her hands, and long, salt-and-pepper ponytail.

“Who are you looking for?” she asked as if she had heard our previous inquiry. She seemed to know her neighbors so I asked by first names. “Lidia and Elizabeth,” I promptly replied, so that she would realize I was no stranger.

“Oh, they moved away a long time ago,” she said. “A sister-in-law lives there now and she just left.”

I felt overwhelmed, as if I had just lost my friend. Again. This is not just any friend: Lidia was my maid of honor. Elizabeth was her sister. And, although I couldn’t remember everyone’s name, the rest of the family used to be like my extended family.

The year was 1992. Lidia and I were 27. Lidia was a college-degreed CPA. I was working on my senior thesis, the last piece of my Licenciatura at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. We both held prestigious positions at a European company at Reforma Avenue in Mexico City.

Cell phones were recently introduced. Our office had acquired its second computer: a 486 with a Windows operating system! It sat right next to my IBM Selectric. No email yet, only Telex. We received messages in German and replied in simple German or in English.

Lidia’s family only added to the richness of our friendship. I used to visit them often. Not just visit. I held a trusted position in the family: other than Lidia’s father, I was the only one who drove the family 1972 Dodge Dart. A car that stood out in traffic not only because of its red-orange color, but because the gears of its standard transmission would get stuck and I would have to get out of the car, open the hood and manually un-stick the gears.

I was happy with the Reyes Urbán Family and felt as if the only thing I had to offer was a student visa about to expire and a bachelorette apartment I shared with a Notimex reporter and a divorcée.

Neither Lidia nor I were in a relationship at the time.

Enter the childhood boyfriend: he came to visit from Puerto Rico, proposed, and three months later I packed all my college memories to go back to my native island to get married. Lidia came with me to become my maid of honor.

She met all my family in Puerto Rico and they adored her. The last time I saw her was when she returned to Mexico. We kept in touch by mail for about two years, which was more than the marriage lasted.

From those letters I learned that Elizabeth had become pregnant and was going to have a girl. I also learned that at some point, Lidia’s father had survived a heart attack, but wasn’t doing very well.

When I knocked on the door of the apartment where the family used to live, I had hoped that Elizabeth’s girl would answer it and I would get to embrace her for the first time. Frankly, my worst fear was not finding Lidia’s father alive.

But now, learning that they didn’t even live there was not a scenario I considered at all. And who was this sister-in-law that lives there now? Perhaps someone from the extended family who would not be willing to give me further information, or who may have lost contact with the family as well? All of this was going through my mind.

Maybe the desperation showed in my face or perhaps it was the sheer blessing of a nosy neighbor. The fact is that the lady from across the zaguán began telling us that Lidia’s mother didn’t live very far.

She didn’t have an address, but she gave us directions as if we were locals: “Go that way,” she said pointing behind her, “pass the pharmacy and Los Angeles Parish, turn after the second newsstand, cross the street and go into the least-worst-looking building. Tell the security guard you are going to see Doña Lupita and that I sent you. He’ll take it from there.”

TJ and I looked at each other. He asked her to repeat that. Amazingly, she repeated herself as if she was reading off a court reporter’s steno pad. TJ told her, “So, sorry m’am, but we didn’t understand a word you just said.” We are both native Spanish speakers. But we could not comprehend what she meant.

The lady tried in vain to wring the masa off her hands as she stepped out the door and said, “Come. I’m going to show you.” We walked behind her to the orange iron door by the sidewalk. She pointed to the pharmacy, made sure we could see the newsstand where we were supposed to turn, showed us which direction to turn to, and explained where to cross, more or less.

As we hopped back into our cab, I asked for her name. She shouted, “Sandra.” “Thank you, Tocaya,” I shouted back as I smiled at her. She returned the smile as she learned she was my tocaya, my namesake.

After that we followed her directions and were left to guess which building to enter. According to her description, it would be the least-worst-looking one. Thank God there were only two buildings on that block.

Again, we asked the cab driver to wait for us, just in case this didn’t quite pan out and La Barbie decided to escape. After all, the PGR was not too far either.

TJ knocked on the door of the first building. A guard opened.

Me: We’re looking for Doña Lupita Urbán.

Guard: Doña Lupita… Doña Lupita… which Doña Lupita? Do you have an apartment number?

Me: No, I don’t have an apartment number. Doña Sandra, from the zaguán next to Salón Los Angeles, sent me.

Guard: Oh, you mean Doña Lupita, the one who sells Avon?

As he asked that, a flash-flood memories of Lidia and I flipping through the catalogs invaded my brain.

Me: Yes! That very same one!

Guard: Sure, come on in. It’s Apartment 10.

The guard pointed straight forward to an apartment with large, Mexican Independence Day decorations. There was light inside.

It has been about four hours since my flight had landed, less than two hours since I had conceived of the idea and 18 years since I hadn’t seen any single one of the Reyes Urbáns.

Although I didn’t hesitate when I knocked on the door, when Doña Lupita opened, it occurred to me that perhaps she wouldn’t recognize me.

I hadn’t quite internalized that I had hit jackpot until I said “Hello Doña Lupita I am Sandra Aponte,” and I she exclaimed “Sandra! You are here! And Lidia! She’s here, too! Oh, my God, what a happy coincidence! How did this happen? How did you find us?”

From that moment, embraces began. TJ went out for a moment to dismiss our cab.

Lidia is the one on the right

I found my self wrapped around a woman’s arms. She held me tight and repeated my name over and over like a mantra. I recognized the voice. “Lidia!” I exclaimed as I squeezed her.

I immediately recognized that was going to be the only un-awkward moment to discreetly slip the first piece of intel she was going to need after all these years: “That’s my new husband, TJ. I’ll tell you all about him later.”

We greeted everyone, including the 16-year old girl I immediately recognized as Elizabeth’s daughter. I learned her name and said it for the first time: "Lupita!"

The biggest surprise was stepping inside the apartment and seeing Lidia’s father alive and well. During our two-hour visit I learned Lidia got married 12 years ago had been a widow for nine years. She learned that TJ and I had become parents and lost our three-year old daughter a year ago.

Don Arturo and Doña Lupita

We learned short, PG versions of the ups and downs of our professional lives, the different jobs we held, our travels. TJ and I were invited for lunch with the entire family on the next Sunday, when we filled in more gaps and reminisced on old times.

Before the weekend was over and I was wheels-up again, we had spent about six hours together. We saw photos of Lidia’s wedding, videos of Lupita’s quinceañera and they all saw photos and videos of our little Brianna.

Naturally, the entire family was very curious to know how we knew where to find them. “Obviously, it was not on facebook,” I said. Lidia said, “No, I am not on facebook. There is no Internet service in this apartment and I don’t have Internet service on mine, either, so how did you do it?”

I told them the entire Salón Los Ángeles trail story and they were happy to know I remembered the old saying they taught me.

Neither Lidia nor I could remember how we lost contact. We can guess life just took us in different directions. But we don’t want to say that out loud now that we’ve exchanged contact information again and have sworn never to lose sight of each other.

It’s a promise I intend to keep because I know that, even though it may seem like sheer luck or coincidence, the reason I found Lidia is because the strong ties that bind the Reyes-Urbán Family. They have stayed together, prayed together, and partied so much there isn’t a weekend without a baptism, quinceañera or wedding that they don’t all attend together.

And that door at the zaguán next to Salón Los Ángeles? Lidia’s youngest brother now lives there with his wife and their three children. Enough waiting or a note under the door would have eventually led me to Lidia and the rest of the family. Perhaps a bit slower than my tocaya, Doña Sandra, but a whole lot faster than facebook.