The Harp - 1982

 

 

Bettina had moved to Berkeley after threats from her father in L.A. that he'd shoot me and put her in a nunnery if she continued to stay at my apartment.  My fear was serious enough that I bought a bullet-proof vest and encouraged her to move out.  But Bill Campbell and I still went over to Berkeley often to visit.  On one of these occasions she planted the seed that she would like to learn a musical instrument.  I think she was, at that time, strumming away on an old guitar.

My current project was going well.  PEMEX stands for Petróleos Mexicanos, the nationalized Mexican Oil company.  At the request of PEMEX, I had organized the project into two teams, one Mexican and the other American, but with some PEMEX people temporarily relocated to San Francisco and several Rand people, usually me, spending weeks at a time down in Mexico City.  I agreed to do the documentation in English and Spanish, so we were continually doing translations.  For my part, as I staffed the Rand team, I hired native Spanish-speaking people whenever possible.  There were about 12-15 people on each team.  On occasion, we entertained the entire crew in San Francisco, including a taco dinner at my Coleridge Street house with the Mexican men doing the cooking.  They were impressed with my neighborhood food shopping around 29^th and Mission, Little Mexico.

When I used to go down to Mexico City for a stint, the PEMEX staffers would always take the opportunity to drag me out dining and drinking.  They tried to shock me with exotic foods, but I loved this sort of thing.  One place prepared pregnant eel, only lightly cooked so that the baby eels still wriggled as I spooned them down my throat.  These days I much prefer the Japanese style of cooking eel, it is deliciously flavorful.  One night we went to an authentic Spanish restaurant whose specialty was baby pig.  The pigs were so young that you could eat the whole thing and that's the way they served it, one to a customer, apple in the mouth so that the belly would swell up while cooking.  The ritual was for the serving waiter to grab a pottery plate and strike the pig's belly.  This, after they bring the swollen piglet, steaming to your place.  With a flourish, the waiter's stroke bursts the piglet's belly with a loud pop, the waiter tosses the plate into a nearby fireplace smashing it to bits.  The more adventuresome ate the eyes and brains; I did eat the ears and skin and the luscious meat inside. 

There was this one occasion, where there was a Mariachi band playing at the restaurant.  But besides the trumpets and silvery get-ups, one unique twist was that the band also included a harpist.  Not your regular symphonic harp, but sort of a medium sized one, four-foot-tall rather than six and with fewer strings.  The music that came out of that harp was fantastic and it mesmerized me.  They told me that we were at a Vera Cruz style restaurant and that this was a Vera Cruz harp. 

The Harp

I told them, in an off-handed, bantering way, that I would love to get one of these instruments for my girlfriend back in the States.  They picked up on this immediately and began negotiations with the harp player.  He said that it was hard to get them except in Vera Cruz, and I felt relieved.  I was flying back the next morning and didn't want pressure to go on a shopping trip.  But then came the translation, "He will be glad to sell you his, how much would you offer?"  I discussed this around the table, we wound up with $200.  He agreed, to my dismay, and left the harp: my Mexican team-mates rolling in laughter; me trying to figure out how to get this white elephant back to SFO.

I get to the airport the next day, luggage checked through, with the harp in my hands.  "I'll be carrying this on with me."  I said to the check-in woman.  She said she didn't think so but didn't stop me.  "I'll be carrying this on with me."  I said to the ticket collector at the boarding ramp.  She said she didn't think so but didn't stop me.  "I'll be carrying this on with me."  I said to the flight-attendant at the entrance to the plane.  "Let me call the Captain."  She said.  He and I agreed that the harp would ride in the crew's luggage stowage area.  The Captain himself would personally oversee it; and hand it to me on the other end.

 

Bettina and Peter in Mexico City 1981

There was no case for this instrument, made of wood that was old and fragile.  I had been sure that if I had checked it through, I would wind up with a pile of sticks by the time we got to SFO.  My fear was a reverse dè já vu.  Two years after this episode, after a week in the Burgundy wine country of France, my friend Bill and I were returning to England, each with a suitcase containing a dozen bottles of wine.  As the airport carousel chug-chugged away, we began to hear the tinkle of broken glass, then as our suitcases hit the peak of the ramp and started their downward descent, we saw the rivulets of fine French wine leading the way down the ramp. 

I got the harp home OK and two days later Bill and I paid a visit to Bettina and said, "Close your eyes for a present."  She loved such surprises.  "What is it?" she said, and I explained.  She was shell-shocked at the enterprise that had gone into this venture just for a gift for her.  She took three lessons from someone, but it just became a conversation piece.  She was my travel companion in those lonely years on the road: London, Paris, and Mexico City, a youthful party girl, but Valedictorian of her Berkeley graduating class.