I have been a nomad for most of my life. I am a project manager for a medium-sized international construction company based in the Midwest United States. The company is based there, but I spent very little time there. In the past 20 years I have been home for perhaps two or three of those years.
I spent two years building a paper plant in Indonesia; 18 months building a solid waste treatment facility in Vietnam; almost five years on a series of natural gas processing plants in Nigeria; two years on a wastewater treatment plant in Serbia, and more than three years on a housing development in Equatorial Guinea.
There were more, but I won't bore you with my knowledge of third world geography. Suffice it to say there was very little time to have a relationship, let alone raise a family. The fear of disease in disease-ridden countries made even one-night stands undesirable.
A project manager who can get things done in the most difficult circumstances is paid quite handsomely, and I am one of those. I always get the most difficult or fucked up projects. Since most of my expenses are paid, I accumulated a significant bank account over the years. A couple of years ago, when I celebrated my 54th birthday, I decided that it was time to slow down and spend some of my hard-earned money. I flew to the main office to meet with the company owner to tell him that when I finished my current project near Bangkok, I was going to retire and enjoy life. A few days later, I was back in Thailand wrapping up construction of a water treatment plant and looking forward to spending time on a lake trying to catch fish (but not really caring if I did or didn't).
One day, a couple weeks after I returned to Thailand, the owner of the company showed up at the job site. He told me that he had a project on the brink of failure and that he would regard it as a personal favor if I postponed my retirement long enough to salvage it. It was in Mexico and should take less than two years to complete. He would pay me $1.5 million (about 50% more than my regular salary) to complete it, with a $250,000 bonus if I got it done within 18 months (when the grace period on the loan expired). I asked him when he wanted me there, and he told me that immediately was not soon enough. We shook hands and I briefed my assistant, anointed him as my replacement, packed my bags and traveled to Mexico for the job that would be my last.
It took 22 hours to travel from Bangkok to Monterrey, Mexico (Bangkok to Tokyo to Houston to Monterrey). On the plane I read the project file and realized that I should have demanded more money. The project was tied up in legal red tape because the contracts were not properly drawn and there was no clear title to the land, yet construction was well underway. Contractors were getting paid standby rates to sit on their asses and do nothing. All this combined to make the project woefully behind schedule.
As soon as I dropped my luggage in the hotel, I took a shower and then called the Mexican law firm representing our company and asked if I could come in right away. When I arrived at the office, I was taken to a conference room. A few minutes later, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen walked into the room and into my life. She introduced herself as Dahlia Rivera Lada, shook my hand and offered me her cheek for a kiss, a traditional Mexican greeting between men and women.
She appeared to be in her early-thirties, dressed in a conservative suit with a skirt that came just above the knee and was slit about four inches up the back. Her high-heal shoes made her long legs look great. Under the her jacket, she wore a cream colored silk top that showed enough cleavage to create interest, but not enough to be considered unprofessional.
Other than showing off her cleavage, her attire camouflaged her figure, but it could not hide her face...her face was incredible. She was certainly like no Mexicana I had ever met: blonde hair, high cheekbones and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Her smile was absolutely radiant. She was about 5 foot 11 inches, but least four inches of her height came from the sexy high-heal shoes she wore.
I gathered my composure and introduced myself. She spoke English with just a hint of an accent. I complimented her on her command of English and she explained that she grew up in California, so she learned English at an early age. She took a seat on the opposite side of the table from me and we got down to business and poured through the contracts. Although I speak and read Spanish, the documents were in "legalese" Spanish and they could have been written in Russian for all I understood.
Dahlia, came around the table, and sat to my right. I tried to read the contracts and she tried to help me understand the complex language, but I had a hard time focusing because her perfume was intoxicating. Even though we kept a respectable distance I could still feel her nearness. Whenever I turned to look at her, or she reached across me to point out something in the documents, her blouse would gap and I could see her white frilly bra and the tops of her milky white breasts.
We eventually got through the contract, but it was after 8:30 and we were the only ones left in the office. I was starving and tired (I had been up more than 30 hours), but had no idea where or what to eat. More importantly, I did not want to end our meeting.
"Dahlia, do you want to get something to eat? Something fast and light?"
"David, this is Mexico...nothing is fast and light, but I know of a place you might like."
We ended up at a small restaurant near the office. During dinner, I discovered an excellent beer call Sol, ate some very good Mexican food (tacos in Mexico are quite different than tacos in the States), and engaged in some very good conversation.
She asked me about my family.
"I've never been married", I told her. "A long time ago I came close, but my life style strains even the strongest relationships. It certainly makes building one impossible. So I live parenthood vicariously through my sister's kids. How about you?"
"I've been married six years and have one son...four years old."
"Well, come on," I said. "You must have pictures."
I have never known a woman that does not carry pictures of her children. I have also known that the way to a woman's heart is through her children. Dahlia was no exception. She showed me more than a dozen photos of her and her husband and son. I had to admit, little Juan Carlos was pretty cute.
I saw something in the pictures that told me something was wrong. In all the pictures of just her and Juan Carlos, she smiled broadly and seemed very happy. Whenever her husband was in the picture, she looked different; there was a sadness in her eyes that was unmistakable.
"What does your husband do?"
"He is a cardiologist here in Monterrey. He is quite successful and has his own clinic." Even those words seemed strained and practiced. She may have been married, but she was not happy.
After about an hour, and despite my best effort to stay awake, I had to go to bed. Dahlia offered to drive me to my hotel.
I told her I needed to rent a car to go to the jobsite the next day to see for myself what was happening. She said that she had never been there and offered to drive me. If she had been a man, or if this were any other country, I would have thought that this lawyer was trying to increase billable hours, but the thought of spending another day with Dahlia made it alright, even if she did bill me.
