“Everything okay?”
She nodded. “Yes. Carlos had a quick question about a delivery. He’s helping out while I’m gone. Thank God for international cell service.”
“He’s the best.”
Jaime presented her with the blouse.
She blushed. “Jaime. You shouldn’t have.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
The voices around them were a symphonic blend of laughter, bargaining, and the rhythmic cadence of Spanish. Jaime caught snippets of conversations, his limited Spanish intertwining withhis excitement, creating a melody of linguistic exploration. Almakindly translated random words when he asked, and he vowed to become fluent in Spanish when he returned home.
He had tried before. Maybe he was bad at languages. The harder he wanted to learn, the more difficult it seemed to be.
Maybe he just needed to be here. Immersed in the culture.
Drawn by the sound of mariachi music, they found themselves in the town square. A group of musicians clad in silver-buttoned charro suits played with such passion that the notes seemed to dance in the air. Alma swayed to the rhythm.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked her.
“You danced so well the other night,” she said, coy, twirling a strand of hair around one finger.
“I was just warming up.” He winked and held out his hand, then pressed his body against hers, her heart beating in time with the music against his chest.
They continued their exploration, each turn bringing new wonders. In a quaint café, they savored a cup of rich, aromatic coffee, its flavor a bold embrace of the region’s spirit. The barista shared stories of local legends, his words painting pictures of mystical creatures and brave heroes.
When they were done exploring the city center, their driver took them on a long journey out to the farm.
The afternoon sun was rising over the vast expanse of the agave fields, making the endless rows of spiky plants look equally menacing and beautiful.
The driver stopped and let them out. Jaime pulled Alma into his chest. But he didn’t kiss her.
In the midst of this sea of green plants, a woman stood, her hands wrapped around the handle of a tool. Her skin was kissed bythe sun, and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead, but her eyes sparkled with a passion for her craft.
“Welcome. My name is Gabriela. I’m a jimadora. I’m excited to welcome you to my farm.”
“Nice to meet you, Gabriela. I’m Jaime, and this is Alma.”
She smiled and pointed to the tool. “This is a coa, the traditional tool used to harvest agave.”
Gabriela began to tell them about her story. She had grown up on this plantation, learning the art of tequila making from her father. He had never had any sons but proudly passed his knowledge on to his daughter, who became one of the first female jimadores, or jimadoras. It was more than a livelihood; it was a heritage, a tradition that flowed in her veins as surely as the agave sap flowed through these plants.
Gabriela gave Alma and Jaime a tour of the farm, but she spoke in Spanish. Jaime was struggling to follow the conversation, and Alma jumped in as his translator when he seemed frustrated.
Gabriela left them alone for a few minutes and returned with a tall man who had deep-set eyes.
“Allow me to introduce you to Alejandro. He has come to teach me new fermentation techniques.”
Jaime introduced Alma to Alejandro using the best Spanish he could muster. Then Alma spoke to Alejandro in Spanish at such a rapid pace that Jaime didn’t understand a word they were saying. Jaime was relieved when Gabriela led them all to the plants.
Alejandro showed Gabriela a new method of cutting the piñas, the heart of the agave plant. His hands guided hers, and they worked in tandem.
Jaime clutched Alma’s hand, a spark of electricity bolting between them. Then it was their turn to harvest.
Jaime helped Alma chop the piñas, enjoying being close to her and working in the fields, the warm sun at his back.
So, this was where tequila came from? He had never given its origins a thought when he drank it, not caring about where the liquor he was imbibing came from. And here these men and women took so much pride in their country’s heritage and the long history of producing this beloved liquor.
He dropped a piña through his hands.
