If smartphones, Instagram, Facebook, and other forms of social media had been around and as prevalent as they are today back in 1984 there would likely be three videos of me circulating in perpetuity.

Instead there were just snapshots — think Kodak Instamatics — that I assume those that took them tossed long ago.

They were photos taken on a 12-day sister city trip to Chignahuapan in the Mexico State of Puebla that Roseville leaders organized. There were almost 60 people in the group. The Press-Tribune, where I worked at the time, sent me to cover it.

I need to set the stage. I was 28 at the time. There was much more of me as I weighed about 320 pounds. And my employer at the time required all reporters —even if they were covering a baseball game at high noon in August in the middle of Death Valley — to wear a suit and tie.

The trip, and the sister city exchange, had been orchestrated by Chignahuapan native Alberto Heredia. He had immigrated to California and after working for the Southern Pacific Railroad opened Carmelita’s Restaurant in Roseville with his wife Carmen.

Chignahuapan is a tourist destination south of Mexico City known for its thermal waters along with factories and artisans that produce the most Christmas spheres in Mexico.

Heredia arranged for various official events including an audience with the governor of Puebla and a major gathering at the hacienda of a federal senator.

The trip to the hacienda is where Kodak Moments No. 1 and No. 2 took place.

The first seemed innocent enough. The ranch hands had been pressed into service to give a “demonstration” of bull fighting. Actually, they weren’t bull fighters per se but apparently someone thought it would be entertaining to have them go through the paces with a fairly young and small bull.

After going through the paces in a corral they asked if any guests would like to try their hand at it. To be honest, having seen Portuguese bull fights before the low-key waving of a cloth and the paces the vaqueros put the young bull through seemed harmless.

When there were no takers, more than a few people in the sister city contingent volunteered me.

Like an idiot, I figured it was do-able for me. After all, I had photographed a couple of rodeos in Wheatland and Lincoln and had no problem making it atop a fence when an enraged bull or a bucking bronc went a bit wild. I knew at even my weight back then I could haul for a short distance.

Besides, what could go wrong?

Did I mention I was wearing a suit and tie complete with dress shoes? It’s not the look of a working cowboy or even a clueless green-hand.

After about three minutes of the bull and I simply walking around the corral, the bull decided it was bored. To break the monotony it went from lallygag mode all of a sudden into full charge.

To say that I made a beeline for the fence post haste would be a slight understatement. I did a borderline pole vault across the fence and did a semi-body slam into a rather dusty patch that made my dark blue suit look a bit tan. More than a few in attendance caught it on still film.

Three days later we returned for a dinner hosted by the federal senator in a massive barn. There were some 200 plus people in attendance.

At one point before the meal was served, one of the ladies in the sister city delegation who spoke fluent Spanish as opposed to my extremely limited vocabulary, came up to where I was seated and asked if I was willing to accept a gesture from the vaqueros.

She explained they were honored that I was willing to do the work of a vaquero and wanted to share their traditional Sunday meal with me.

I said yes.

Minutes later the vaqueros entered the barn. The five of them had big grins on their faces as one carried a large bowl.

I could smell it before they got within 10 feet. And that was not a good thing. It was also a darker gray than the suit I was wearing.

I was told it was a basic version of a working ranch hands’ version of goat’s soup. For those who know of the Jamaican “delicacy” of similar name, this version did not include veggies or a lot of spices. It was just the goat’s head with a couple of goat hoofs tossed in.

Now there are people who are familiar with the dish who will say it is a treat. I’m not too sure they would agree with the version that I was served.

I say this knowing the dozen or so people in the contingent that were close by literally backed away from the table where the vaqueros has placed the bowl in front of me. The smell was hideous.

The lady doing the translation said they were waiting.

Not wanting to be rude, I dipped the spoon in. The taste was repulsive but I did my best not to show it. In fact, I quadrupled down consuming four more spoonfuls in quick succession as several flash cubes went off. The vaqueros broke into big smiles and clapped. Before they departed, the lady doing the translation told me they said they were truly honored I shared a poor working cowboy’s goat head soup.

After they left the barn and people went back to what they were doing I made a beeline to the bathroom.

Kodak Moment No. 3 was on the Mexicana Air flight back to Los Angeles.

I was seated on the aisle next to two women who were not part of the group.

At one point I dozed off.

To say my wakeup call caused a commotion would be an understatement.

The stewardess at some point served the ladies next to me coffee that the one closest to me placed on her seat tray.

Apparently she was in animated conversation when she swung her arm wide and sent her coffee on a collision course with my lap.

The good part was that it wasn’t scalding hot. The bad part was that my slacks were soaked with coffee.

This is when I learned the amazing powers of club soda.

The stewardess quickly assessed the situation and retrieved a can of club soda.

At this point I was standing in the aisle facing the back of the plane where the rest of the sister city delegation was seated.

I had no idea what they were explaining to me as she was going back and forth between English and Spanish.

She then turned me a bit sideways and without warning — OK, in fairness to the stewardess she probably did warn me but I didn’t hear it or understand it — thrust her hand palm outward in the front of my pants and starting pouring club soda on my slacks.

I looked up and it looked like paparazzi a few seats back jostling to get the best picture so they could sell them to the National Inquirer.

And for the record, that didn’t even make the Top 10 of the most embarrassing moments I’ve enjoyed to date.

 This column is the opinion of editor, Dennis Wyatt, and does not necessarily represent the opinions of The Bulletin or 209 Multimedia. He can be reached at dwyatt@mantecabulletin.com