Behind Bars

John left last week to go to Texas for business, so CeCe and I had a couple of girl’s days, enjoying each other’s company as we explored the city, swam in our pool, and danced to music on the iPod.

And of course there was some excitement, too – mind you, the sort of excitement that would have never happened when John was working with me all day, every day in our little casa. It had to happen one of the three days he left town.

CeCe and I were waiting for the water guy to show up and deliver our big 20-liter jug of purified water. It was 2:00 and he was supposed to have come at 1:30. We were anxious for him to arrive because it was getting close to nap time, and we wanted to take a swim before going to bed. (It was hot, and CeCe loves the pool!) So after waiting, and waiting, I decided to take one last peek out my front door before getting into the pool.

Our doorway, by the way, is two-fold. There is a big heavy wooden door with a secure lock leading into our house. This door opens in the middle, but one side is always bolted shut with prongs that extend down into the cement floor, and up into the cement archway. Then there is a space of about 18 inches and an outer wrought iron gate that also latches in the middle and goes the full way, floor to top the arched entry way, of our door. Even though Merida is known for being the safest city in Mexico, we bought a padlock to put on the outer wrought iron door, just in case.

When I went out to see if the water guy was cycling his way down my street, the padlock was on the wrought iron gate. And as I peered out the gate to look, I heard an immediately disheartening “click” behind me. CeCe loves to close doors, and with that one little push she had managed to simultaneously lock me in AND lock me out. I was trapped between locked doors – without, you guessed it –keys.

I panicked. My thought process was something like: “John is in Texas. My nanny is gone for the day. I don’t know the phone number or last name of our landlord. I don’t have my keys. It’s so hot out here!” But most disturbing of all, by far? “CeCe is home alone, inside the house! What trouble can she get into?!?”

I tried to bang against the door to the house with my back and legs … to no avail. I couldn’t get a run at it because the space I was in was a mere 18 inches or so. Plus, all it did was make CeCe, who was sitting in the corner by the door, cry harder. So I took my case to the streets.

I flagged down an old guy on a bicycle as he slowly wheeled by, and was pretty blunt with him in Spanish. “I need help right now,” I said. “My baby locked me in here and she is alone in the house.” He looked at me like I was crazy, but agreed to help. He said he knew a locksmith who lived “right down the street” and would go and get him. Imagine that – it was almost too good to believe. But after about 10 minutes of waiting for him I thought it most certainly was too good to believe, so I flagged down another guy driving by in a car. He promised to call the cops.

As it turns out, I should have kept the faith in my friend on the bicycle, who returned with the locksmith as promised. The locksmith tried the outer padlock for about 10 minutes, as I talked to CeCe through window in the door. (Also covered in wrought iron, by the way, or I surely would have punched through that.) She could hear me and whimpered a bit occasionally, but didn’t move from her corner right by the door. He couldn’t pick the padlock (which, after I was freed, actually made me feel kind of good) and squeezed his arms through the iron gate to work on the door itself. He got that one in about 5 minutes. Thank God!

I scooped CeCe up – she was still in the corner. She was clutching one of John’s flip flops and was blotchy and red in the face from crying so much.

I thanked the men profusely, paid the locksmith his fee of 100 pesos (about $10) and gave my friend on the bicycle a tip of 50 pesos for delivering the godsend of a locksmith. The cops showed up about 10 minutes after I had been freed from my prison cell – two squad cars, lights a’flashing, four cops, no less. Immediately after we got back into our house, CeCe and I took that long awaited, much deserved swim.

And the water guy? He wheeled up at about 5 pm that day … about 3 ½ hours later than I had expected.