Breakfast is oatmeal with quinoa and flax, mango and apple, prunes, raisins, cranberries, and slices of fresh ginger. We add nuts and thin rounds of banana. I want to eat this every morning of my life.
To market to buy a new harness for Lucky the burro. I purchase a kilo of addictive, salty peanuts with whole garlic cloves and chili peppers to replace the batch that I polished off at T's house. If I had a gas stove at home and room in my luggage, I would have bought a comal, a flat clay dish you set atop a stove-top flame to warm tortillas.
We stop off to visit a friend of T's who is providing a bag of corn for Lucky. The fellow lives in a town grown prosperous from the sale of naturally dyed rugs. A. buys four coasters, and I purchase a wool mat with asymmetrical geometric designs in shades of blue, red, orange and green. We drink mezcal and take photos with the young man, whose family has spent generations dying wool. They continue to work with all natural dyes -- with indigo to produce blue, of course; with cochinilla , which yields hues from burgundy to red to purple; and withpersimmons, which make yellow)-- and to weave and sell the beautiful results.
We lunch in Tule, home of an enormous and famous tree. We order two huge quesadillas each of quesillo, mushrooms, and squash blossoms. While we wait, A. goes to the aid of a woman with heart problems, who has passed out in her seat. A. advises the husband to take his wife, pale, clammy, and clutching her head, to the hospital. Half an hour later, they are still in the parking lot and a little while after, they return to the comedor and order lunch. I eat my food and down a huge glass of horchata and, although my stomach is stretching and hurting, I wonder why I didn't try the barbacoa that I see everyone else eating. The oven-roasted sheep is served with tortillas, whole spring onions, and cilantro to people who are licking their fingers with pleasure.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Party Time (Oaxaca, Mexico)
I sleep in one bedroom, with a fidgety dog at the foot of the bed. A. claims the living room couch. We wake up early, to the sounds of the animals braying, crowing, and barking.
We eat sweet bread with cinnamon and raisins and guzzle freshly brewed coffee. Breakfast, in an hour, will include the freshest of eggs made into an omelet with quesillo, the local string cheese (think mozzarella), and huge oyster mushrooms. There's fruit salad and more coffee.
We accompany T. to a birthday party for 4-year-old Carlitos, the spirited son of some of his friends. Some poor guy is dressed in a Buz Lightyear suit. A fast-talking clown and his cowboy sidekick (another guy costumed as a character from "Toy Story") draw all the children into fast-paced activities, from tug-o'-war to team competitions that involve lining up pairs of parents' shoes, to relay races with balloons carried between knees and deposited in baskets, to musical chairs and more. Food is plentiful: tamarind ice pops, snack foods, fresh fruits and vegetables, sandwiches, a to-die-for nut cake with mocha icing and bitter chocolate sauce, and a to-die-from orange and white gelatin, molded in the shape of guitars. Decorations include baskets of white carnations and other flowers, shaped into cute-as-a-button puppies. Pinatas expose the passive or violent natures of little children in the ways they swing the bat and swoop up the candies.
All the children, as well as we gringo guests, receive gift bags. T. gets a plastic container for his lunch, a Disney book from the movie Cars, and candy. I get a water bottle; donitos, a pale orange, fried dough junk food, especially tasty when doused in hot sauce, of which I am overly fond; a bag of Cheetos flavored with chili and lime; and tons of candy. A. gets lots of sweets, but I try not to taunt her too much with the fact that my bag is better than her bag.
We eat sweet bread with cinnamon and raisins and guzzle freshly brewed coffee. Breakfast, in an hour, will include the freshest of eggs made into an omelet with quesillo, the local string cheese (think mozzarella), and huge oyster mushrooms. There's fruit salad and more coffee.
We accompany T. to a birthday party for 4-year-old Carlitos, the spirited son of some of his friends. Some poor guy is dressed in a Buz Lightyear suit. A fast-talking clown and his cowboy sidekick (another guy costumed as a character from "Toy Story") draw all the children into fast-paced activities, from tug-o'-war to team competitions that involve lining up pairs of parents' shoes, to relay races with balloons carried between knees and deposited in baskets, to musical chairs and more. Food is plentiful: tamarind ice pops, snack foods, fresh fruits and vegetables, sandwiches, a to-die-for nut cake with mocha icing and bitter chocolate sauce, and a to-die-from orange and white gelatin, molded in the shape of guitars. Decorations include baskets of white carnations and other flowers, shaped into cute-as-a-button puppies. Pinatas expose the passive or violent natures of little children in the ways they swing the bat and swoop up the candies.
All the children, as well as we gringo guests, receive gift bags. T. gets a plastic container for his lunch, a Disney book from the movie Cars, and candy. I get a water bottle; donitos, a pale orange, fried dough junk food, especially tasty when doused in hot sauce, of which I am overly fond; a bag of Cheetos flavored with chili and lime; and tons of candy. A. gets lots of sweets, but I try not to taunt her too much with the fact that my bag is better than her bag.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Paradise Revisited (Oaxaca, Mexico)
In the year since I last visited T., he has lost one dog and acquired three, gained four cats and a burro, added a couple more hens to his flock (including one named Finger Lickin'), and added a young man to his household, who seems to be taking care of T. and the animals in a way that is good for all. T's garden has become lush -- herbs, flowers, trees, vines, cacti all maturing at a pace unheard of in more northern climes. The exterior of the house has been repainted in a rainbow of happy hues: purple, bright pink, blue,and orange, with green trim. It may sound garish, but it is delightful.
The mountains, in the not-so distance remain as I remember them: majestic, shrouded in mist, and blanketed by trees. Except for the early morning wake-up call of the rooster and the erratic, ear shattering brays of Lucky the Donkey, and the barking of Marcelo, India, and Mondy, this place is pleasure, this place is peace, this place is Paradise.
The mountains, in the not-so distance remain as I remember them: majestic, shrouded in mist, and blanketed by trees. Except for the early morning wake-up call of the rooster and the erratic, ear shattering brays of Lucky the Donkey, and the barking of Marcelo, India, and Mondy, this place is pleasure, this place is peace, this place is Paradise.
A Week in Oaxaca (Oaxaca)
A. wants the opportunity to speak Spanish, something she doesn't get to do often when we are together. We're either speaking in English or I'm doing the talking en espanol. Therefore, we have agreed to separate and meet up on the weekend to spend three days with our favorite expat anarchist American, T. In the meantime, A. is staying with a Mexican family and studying Spanish, while I take up residency in a hostel.
T. picks us up from the bus station. It is pouring, and there really isn't room in the front and only seat of the truck for four people and two people's luggage, even though the two people travel light. So we humans all scrunch into the cab while the luggage, for the most part, gets thrown into the open back, and as we bounce along, we squash each other into various shades of black and blue and, at least one of us realizes that she could afford to lose another 20 pounds in order to make this small section of the planet more comfortable.
We go to a health food restaurant, so A. and I can eat salad and whole grains, while T. and his young friend, O., indulge in chocolate pie a la mode, which also qualifies as healthful, given all the antioxidants and the happiness generated by eating what looks to be a lot tastier than our salads and grains.... At least one of us tries not to covet my neighbor's order.
Both A. and I are staying on the outskirts of the historic center of town. T. drops off A. first, me next. I am happy to arrive but cannot find my printed confirmation of my reservation, and there is no record of my arrival in the the hostel's reservation book. Lucky for me, there is a vacant room and a promise of an even nicer one the following night.
*****Monday
Breakfast is included in my room rental, so I tuck into huevos a la mexicana, refried beans, and tortillas. I make the mistake of adding chemical- substitute-for-cream to my coffee, so after gagging and dumping the vile beverage, I take my java straight.
The lovely owner of the hostel, Norma, tells me she is a masseuse and gives me a brief demonstration back rub. I may stay here forever.
But no, the call of the outside is strong. I spend the day roaming, re-acquainting myself with this charming city, inquiring about dance lessons and stopping into several galleries to view photographic exhibits of immigrants. The day passes quickly.
At 5:00 pm, I find myself back at a dance studio, talking to the instructor about classes. He's an award-winning salsero and, whether due to his fame, talent, or the scarcity of salsa lessons in Oaxaca, he charges near-US prices for each hour of class. There's a special deal for five hours, but I commit to only one this evening.
I end up staying for three, in part because there is no clear delineation between the end of one lesson and the start of another. I learn some new moves and that there is only one place to salsa in Oaxaca. And it is open only on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. I decide that I would not be able to live here.
****Tuesday
I meet my young friend, Guillermo, at one of the cafes off the Zocalo. While we are talking, Gary -- the head of the Oaxaca Learning Center -- strolls by. As I had planned to catch up with him later in the day, I waylay and invite him to join us. I want to discuss the possibility of volunteering as an English conversation partner or tutor while I'm in town. I start tomorrow.
A few minutes after Gary says goodbye, I. and B., friends from my Mexico City hotel, happen by. They sit down for a while before they have to leave for their return to D.F. Our conversation about how small the world is takes place in English, German, and Spanish.
Guillermo and I meet his cousin's cousin, Lorena, and drive to a mall. I am looking for pants to replace the ones I brought with me, which are now two sizes too big. Lorena has to pick up some packages. Guillermo goes along for the ride. We ride and run around a bit. I decide that I will wear my pants as hiphuggers and hope that they don't slide off.
At 6:00, I meet Lazaro at the Oaxaca Learning Center. His English is excellent, and he really doesn't need my help.
When I return (in the pouring rain) to the hostel, I learn that A. has stopped by at least three times already. I ask Norma to tell her, should she come by again, that I will be eating tacos at a place around the corner.
And that's where A. finds me a little while later.
****Wednesday
I wander around town again and meet A's host family. A. and I spend the afternoon touring the Convent and Museum of Santo Domingo. In the early evening I tutor Gerardo, a young man who's about to enter his first year of university, where he'll major in languages. He's already got English well under control.
A. and I meet again for a documentary film about migrant tobacco workers and their families, who are contaminated and often killed by the chemicals used on the crops. From the filmmaker, we learn that the problem has been mostly resolved; the tobacco fields have been converted to other purposes, and the workers (those that have survived) are now unemployed.
We go back to the taco place, where we meet a young Spanish documentary film maker and his Australian lady friend and one of A.'s classmates. The tacos really are tasty! The place is jammed, and I'm loving the killer quesadillas .
****Thursday
I'm trying to cover a lot of territory in a little time: I tour the Benito Juarez House Museum and the Rufino Tamayo Museum (featuring lots of impressive pre-Columbian artifacts), the Templo de San Felipe Neri (an ornate church), the Museo del Palacio, and two markets. I meet Gerardo for our last session, because by tomorrow afternoon, I'll be at T's place.
A. and I go to La Candela, Oaxaca's salsa venue, at 9:30 pm. The promised dance lesson never materializes. The club steadily fills with young foreigners, all women, and a handful of Mexican men. A. and I dance a few numbers together and leave early. No way I can live here.
*****Friday
My last day in the city, I am darting in and out of art galleries until lunchtime. In the restaurant's courtyard, I make a new friend, an elderly professor who insists on paying for my coffee and walking me back to my hostel.
T. calls to say that traffic is impossible and he'll be delayed. I walk over to A's house and tell her that he'll meet us at my hostel when he can get through.
We spend the evening touring T's garden and relaxing. And eating. We heat up rice, beans, deliciously herbed, roasted chicken. We throw together a salad of locally grown greens, carrots, spring onions, and tomatoes. We pick, chop, and add garlic chives, oregano, and basil from the garden. There are tortillas and other flat breads. We feast and catch up with a year's worth of stories.
T. picks us up from the bus station. It is pouring, and there really isn't room in the front and only seat of the truck for four people and two people's luggage, even though the two people travel light. So we humans all scrunch into the cab while the luggage, for the most part, gets thrown into the open back, and as we bounce along, we squash each other into various shades of black and blue and, at least one of us realizes that she could afford to lose another 20 pounds in order to make this small section of the planet more comfortable.
We go to a health food restaurant, so A. and I can eat salad and whole grains, while T. and his young friend, O., indulge in chocolate pie a la mode, which also qualifies as healthful, given all the antioxidants and the happiness generated by eating what looks to be a lot tastier than our salads and grains.... At least one of us tries not to covet my neighbor's order.
Both A. and I are staying on the outskirts of the historic center of town. T. drops off A. first, me next. I am happy to arrive but cannot find my printed confirmation of my reservation, and there is no record of my arrival in the the hostel's reservation book. Lucky for me, there is a vacant room and a promise of an even nicer one the following night.
*****Monday
Breakfast is included in my room rental, so I tuck into huevos a la mexicana, refried beans, and tortillas. I make the mistake of adding chemical- substitute-for-cream to my coffee, so after gagging and dumping the vile beverage, I take my java straight.
The lovely owner of the hostel, Norma, tells me she is a masseuse and gives me a brief demonstration back rub. I may stay here forever.
But no, the call of the outside is strong. I spend the day roaming, re-acquainting myself with this charming city, inquiring about dance lessons and stopping into several galleries to view photographic exhibits of immigrants. The day passes quickly.
At 5:00 pm, I find myself back at a dance studio, talking to the instructor about classes. He's an award-winning salsero and, whether due to his fame, talent, or the scarcity of salsa lessons in Oaxaca, he charges near-US prices for each hour of class. There's a special deal for five hours, but I commit to only one this evening.
I end up staying for three, in part because there is no clear delineation between the end of one lesson and the start of another. I learn some new moves and that there is only one place to salsa in Oaxaca. And it is open only on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights. I decide that I would not be able to live here.
****Tuesday
I meet my young friend, Guillermo, at one of the cafes off the Zocalo. While we are talking, Gary -- the head of the Oaxaca Learning Center -- strolls by. As I had planned to catch up with him later in the day, I waylay and invite him to join us. I want to discuss the possibility of volunteering as an English conversation partner or tutor while I'm in town. I start tomorrow.
A few minutes after Gary says goodbye, I. and B., friends from my Mexico City hotel, happen by. They sit down for a while before they have to leave for their return to D.F. Our conversation about how small the world is takes place in English, German, and Spanish.
Guillermo and I meet his cousin's cousin, Lorena, and drive to a mall. I am looking for pants to replace the ones I brought with me, which are now two sizes too big. Lorena has to pick up some packages. Guillermo goes along for the ride. We ride and run around a bit. I decide that I will wear my pants as hiphuggers and hope that they don't slide off.
At 6:00, I meet Lazaro at the Oaxaca Learning Center. His English is excellent, and he really doesn't need my help.
When I return (in the pouring rain) to the hostel, I learn that A. has stopped by at least three times already. I ask Norma to tell her, should she come by again, that I will be eating tacos at a place around the corner.
And that's where A. finds me a little while later.
****Wednesday
I wander around town again and meet A's host family. A. and I spend the afternoon touring the Convent and Museum of Santo Domingo. In the early evening I tutor Gerardo, a young man who's about to enter his first year of university, where he'll major in languages. He's already got English well under control.
A. and I meet again for a documentary film about migrant tobacco workers and their families, who are contaminated and often killed by the chemicals used on the crops. From the filmmaker, we learn that the problem has been mostly resolved; the tobacco fields have been converted to other purposes, and the workers (those that have survived) are now unemployed.
We go back to the taco place, where we meet a young Spanish documentary film maker and his Australian lady friend and one of A.'s classmates. The tacos really are tasty! The place is jammed, and I'm loving the killer quesadillas .
****Thursday
I'm trying to cover a lot of territory in a little time: I tour the Benito Juarez House Museum and the Rufino Tamayo Museum (featuring lots of impressive pre-Columbian artifacts), the Templo de San Felipe Neri (an ornate church), the Museo del Palacio, and two markets. I meet Gerardo for our last session, because by tomorrow afternoon, I'll be at T's place.
A. and I go to La Candela, Oaxaca's salsa venue, at 9:30 pm. The promised dance lesson never materializes. The club steadily fills with young foreigners, all women, and a handful of Mexican men. A. and I dance a few numbers together and leave early. No way I can live here.
*****Friday
My last day in the city, I am darting in and out of art galleries until lunchtime. In the restaurant's courtyard, I make a new friend, an elderly professor who insists on paying for my coffee and walking me back to my hostel.
T. calls to say that traffic is impossible and he'll be delayed. I walk over to A's house and tell her that he'll meet us at my hostel when he can get through.
We spend the evening touring T's garden and relaxing. And eating. We heat up rice, beans, deliciously herbed, roasted chicken. We throw together a salad of locally grown greens, carrots, spring onions, and tomatoes. We pick, chop, and add garlic chives, oregano, and basil from the garden. There are tortillas and other flat breads. We feast and catch up with a year's worth of stories.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Promises, Promises (Mexico City)
My good friend A. is back in town. Once we settle into our room (we've opted for quiet, as opposed to light, and we've received the bonus -- at no extra charge -- of an eau de sewer smell that seems to permeate rooms at the back of the hotel), we walk half a block to a restaurant featuring cuisine from the Yucatan. The waiting line is long, and when we are finally seated, we are placed in the smoking section. I refuse this assignment and request a seat in the main, non-smoking area, so we continue to wait.
Our new table is near a window and not too far from the talented musicians who are performing on a small stage in the center of the room. As is the norm, most people are ignoring the music to focus on conversation; A. and I are multi-taskers, able to focus on the entertainment and each other simultaneously, while ignoring the chatter that surrounds us.
We share a couple of the specialties suggested by the waiter: little, thick, round corn tortillas mounded with beans; others with shredded chicken, avocado. I heap on the pickled onions and chili peppers that are delivered to the table. A. orders what turns out to be the world's tiniest margherita; the two miniature straws sticking up out of it dwarf the drink.
While we're munching our savories, I notice that everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE else in the restaurant, is tucking into a turkey leg (not the same one). I promise myself that next year, I will request my very own turkey leg; although, if this is a fad (and how would I know?), next year's must-order might very well be a sheep shank, a manta ray wing, or a cactus flower. I'll have to be more observant.
A. is knocked out from her travels, so she returns to our room, but not before I've extracted her promise to go dancing with me tomorrow. In exchange, she's made me promise that men will ask her to dance. "Of course, they will," I swear. Of this, I am certain.
****
We are all dolled up, with someplace to go. It's two-for-the-price-of-one night at the dance hall, so men are waiting three deep to find women with whom they can enter. Two guys appear out of somewhere and escort us inside.
A.'s escort asks her to dance as soon as we settle into our seats. We both end up dancing with few breaks over the next couple of hours. All promises should be so easy to fulfill!
****
There is little that is quite as decadent as churros and chocolate. We eat a light, yogurt-and-fruit breakfast, so we can indulge our sweet teeth.
El Moro features nothing but these long, ridged donut fingers dusted with sugar, and five types of hot chocolate: Mexican, with cinnamon and vanilla; Spanish, dark, thick, and sweet; French, less sweet, less thick, and not dark; another type which the sugar overload has expunged from my head; and the Special, which is higher priced, less sweet than the Spanish, and highly recommended by the woman who waits on us. We both go for the Special, although I still remember fondly the addictive richness of the Spanish drink I practically overdosed on last year.
The frothy chocolate arrives, accompanied by two week's worth of greasy, luscious carbohydrates that we alternate between dunking in our cups and plunking straight into our mouths. The waitress brings over half a cup of Spanish chocolate, so we can taste the difference. I am immensely enjoying what I perceive is my last day as a nondiabetic. I promise myself that I will not do this again until the next time.
Our new table is near a window and not too far from the talented musicians who are performing on a small stage in the center of the room. As is the norm, most people are ignoring the music to focus on conversation; A. and I are multi-taskers, able to focus on the entertainment and each other simultaneously, while ignoring the chatter that surrounds us.
We share a couple of the specialties suggested by the waiter: little, thick, round corn tortillas mounded with beans; others with shredded chicken, avocado. I heap on the pickled onions and chili peppers that are delivered to the table. A. orders what turns out to be the world's tiniest margherita; the two miniature straws sticking up out of it dwarf the drink.
While we're munching our savories, I notice that everyone, and I do mean EVERYONE else in the restaurant, is tucking into a turkey leg (not the same one). I promise myself that next year, I will request my very own turkey leg; although, if this is a fad (and how would I know?), next year's must-order might very well be a sheep shank, a manta ray wing, or a cactus flower. I'll have to be more observant.
A. is knocked out from her travels, so she returns to our room, but not before I've extracted her promise to go dancing with me tomorrow. In exchange, she's made me promise that men will ask her to dance. "Of course, they will," I swear. Of this, I am certain.
****
We are all dolled up, with someplace to go. It's two-for-the-price-of-one night at the dance hall, so men are waiting three deep to find women with whom they can enter. Two guys appear out of somewhere and escort us inside.
A.'s escort asks her to dance as soon as we settle into our seats. We both end up dancing with few breaks over the next couple of hours. All promises should be so easy to fulfill!
****
There is little that is quite as decadent as churros and chocolate. We eat a light, yogurt-and-fruit breakfast, so we can indulge our sweet teeth.
El Moro features nothing but these long, ridged donut fingers dusted with sugar, and five types of hot chocolate: Mexican, with cinnamon and vanilla; Spanish, dark, thick, and sweet; French, less sweet, less thick, and not dark; another type which the sugar overload has expunged from my head; and the Special, which is higher priced, less sweet than the Spanish, and highly recommended by the woman who waits on us. We both go for the Special, although I still remember fondly the addictive richness of the Spanish drink I practically overdosed on last year.
The frothy chocolate arrives, accompanied by two week's worth of greasy, luscious carbohydrates that we alternate between dunking in our cups and plunking straight into our mouths. The waitress brings over half a cup of Spanish chocolate, so we can taste the difference. I am immensely enjoying what I perceive is my last day as a nondiabetic. I promise myself that I will not do this again until the next time.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
A Pleasant Interlude (Queretero, Mexico) Precedes the Taxi Ride from Hell (Mexico City)
Art and I meet Kim and Guillermo, two of my acquaintances from the US, in a popular downtown Queretero cafe. The couple, she a type A gringa and he, a more laid back Mexican national, live just a few blocks from Art's house. I haven't seen them for about a year and a half, since they left Virginia to spend six months on Guillermo's family's farm in the middle of nowhere (according to Kim) and their subsequent search for the right city in which to build their future. I had heard they'd been living in Queretero from one of my occasional dance partners, but had only just managed to get in touch and arrange our meeting a few weeks ago.
It is a treat to see them.
Guillermo, with Kim's marketing expertise, is starting up a quality house painting service: written estimates, no thinned-down paint, we show up when we say we will, and other things taken for granted, perhaps, in the USA, but not necessarily givens in Mexico.
We eat dinner in a funkily graffitied, grotto-like eatery, where a ladder rises to a loft above our heads and from which a fork falls, tines downward, almost skewering Kim. We enjoy our sandwiches and conversations, and I have the feeling that, in time, my three companions will become good friends.
Art leaves to attend a meeting concerning his work on the upcoming bicentennial celebrations (he's involved in painting a mural and scripting a sound-light-dance-orchestra-theater extravaganza that will run through all of Mexican history in a couple of hours). Guillermo -- tired, after a full day's physical labor -- heads back to the apartment. Kim and I walk back to the center of town, to listen to a band playing jazz in the plaza. We knew each other only superficially in the States, having worked on some community projects together and greeted each other at meetings; tonight we have the opportunity to sit and really talk. I will look forward to seeing her again when she returns to the US and will enjoy catching up again when I'm back in Queretero.
In the morning, Art drives me to the bus station. In several hours, I'll be back in D.F.
The bus ride goes smoothly. I purchase my cab ride into downtown, historic D.F. and get in line for a "secure" taxi. The cab driver grabs my two bags, places them in the trunk, and gets into the vehicle. I am already seated in the back, digging for the seat belt, which I never manage to unearth.
We take off and drive a little ways off, when the cabbie requests my ticket. I hand it to him and tell him the address of my hotel. He swivels all the way around, looks me in the eye, and says, "Senora, do you speak Spanish?"
When I say yes, he tells me that, due to the demonstrations taking place downtown, there is no way he can drive me to my hotel. He can drop me at any of four locations which I've never heard of, but I'm likely to be attacked and robbed, once the demonstrators notice that I'm a foreigner with luggage.
I ask why they didn't inform me of the problem when I was purchasing my ticket and he says that the people there don't know anything and wouldn't say anything if they did. I point out that I've paid to go downtown, and that he needs to take me somewhere I know and from which I can safely reach my hotel.
The driver starts arguing about the impossibility of my request. In the meantime, I dial my hotel and ask the clerk if the streets are closed off. She tells me that there's no problem getting there, and I relay that information to the driver.
He is becoming increasingly irate. At every red light, he mumbles under his breath. If a car passes in front of us, he leans on his horn and curses. He weaves in and out of traffic, dangerously close to nearby vehicles and pedestrians. His back becomes stiffer with every passing second, and I am becoming more and more concerned about his sanity and my safety.
Although traffic appears no worse than at any other time I've taxied in from airports or bus stations, the driver has started ranting. "Who will pay me for my time? Who will pay me for my gas?" He shoots angry looks at me via the rear-view mirror. These are obviously not rhetorical questions. "Are YOU going to pay me for this?" he yells.
"I've already paid to be taken to my hotel," I tell him.
"I only get part of that money!" he screams and seethes.
"It is your job to take me to my hotel," I insist, but I am scared. "You can drop me off right here," I say when we've reached familiar territory. "I'll just walk the rest of the way."
"It won't make any difference!" he shouts.
When we pull up, across the street from the hotel, I am wondering if he will drive off with my belongings. I hop out of the vehicle and stand next to the trunk. He opens it but doesn't make a move to help. I pull out my bags, as he stands over me, glaring.
I am shaking but I am safe.
It is a treat to see them.
Guillermo, with Kim's marketing expertise, is starting up a quality house painting service: written estimates, no thinned-down paint, we show up when we say we will, and other things taken for granted, perhaps, in the USA, but not necessarily givens in Mexico.
We eat dinner in a funkily graffitied, grotto-like eatery, where a ladder rises to a loft above our heads and from which a fork falls, tines downward, almost skewering Kim. We enjoy our sandwiches and conversations, and I have the feeling that, in time, my three companions will become good friends.
Art leaves to attend a meeting concerning his work on the upcoming bicentennial celebrations (he's involved in painting a mural and scripting a sound-light-dance-orchestra-theater extravaganza that will run through all of Mexican history in a couple of hours). Guillermo -- tired, after a full day's physical labor -- heads back to the apartment. Kim and I walk back to the center of town, to listen to a band playing jazz in the plaza. We knew each other only superficially in the States, having worked on some community projects together and greeted each other at meetings; tonight we have the opportunity to sit and really talk. I will look forward to seeing her again when she returns to the US and will enjoy catching up again when I'm back in Queretero.
In the morning, Art drives me to the bus station. In several hours, I'll be back in D.F.
The bus ride goes smoothly. I purchase my cab ride into downtown, historic D.F. and get in line for a "secure" taxi. The cab driver grabs my two bags, places them in the trunk, and gets into the vehicle. I am already seated in the back, digging for the seat belt, which I never manage to unearth.
We take off and drive a little ways off, when the cabbie requests my ticket. I hand it to him and tell him the address of my hotel. He swivels all the way around, looks me in the eye, and says, "Senora, do you speak Spanish?"
When I say yes, he tells me that, due to the demonstrations taking place downtown, there is no way he can drive me to my hotel. He can drop me at any of four locations which I've never heard of, but I'm likely to be attacked and robbed, once the demonstrators notice that I'm a foreigner with luggage.
I ask why they didn't inform me of the problem when I was purchasing my ticket and he says that the people there don't know anything and wouldn't say anything if they did. I point out that I've paid to go downtown, and that he needs to take me somewhere I know and from which I can safely reach my hotel.
The driver starts arguing about the impossibility of my request. In the meantime, I dial my hotel and ask the clerk if the streets are closed off. She tells me that there's no problem getting there, and I relay that information to the driver.
He is becoming increasingly irate. At every red light, he mumbles under his breath. If a car passes in front of us, he leans on his horn and curses. He weaves in and out of traffic, dangerously close to nearby vehicles and pedestrians. His back becomes stiffer with every passing second, and I am becoming more and more concerned about his sanity and my safety.
Although traffic appears no worse than at any other time I've taxied in from airports or bus stations, the driver has started ranting. "Who will pay me for my time? Who will pay me for my gas?" He shoots angry looks at me via the rear-view mirror. These are obviously not rhetorical questions. "Are YOU going to pay me for this?" he yells.
"I've already paid to be taken to my hotel," I tell him.
"I only get part of that money!" he screams and seethes.
"It is your job to take me to my hotel," I insist, but I am scared. "You can drop me off right here," I say when we've reached familiar territory. "I'll just walk the rest of the way."
"It won't make any difference!" he shouts.
When we pull up, across the street from the hotel, I am wondering if he will drive off with my belongings. I hop out of the vehicle and stand next to the trunk. He opens it but doesn't make a move to help. I pull out my bags, as he stands over me, glaring.
I am shaking but I am safe.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Margheritaville (Guadalajara, Mexico)
Day One.
I am staying in the nicest hotel I will experience in Mexico. That's because I am being treated to the accommodations and a per diem, in exchange for accompanying a colleague to meetings in virtually every department and with every employee of the impressive and enormous University of Guadalajara. The hotel boasts an exercise room (a closet, really, with two stationery bikes that I could bend and break by merely staring at them) and a kidney-shaped pool about the size of 1,372 bloated kidneys. My room is actually a suite, with a large living area and a good sized bedroom with a working TV and my very own bathroom. There is a door leading to a kitchen, but it is locked and unavailable to me. I am not upset by the thought that I won't be cooking or washing dishes.
After settling in, I go outside to scout out a restaurant in which I can enjoy a leisurely and delicious late lunch. Ambling around the residential neighborhood, I discover several interesting possibilities. Unfortunately, none is still offering eats at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon.
I wind up at a Chinese buffet that looks like it will either kill me or make me stronger. The food tastes better than it looks, although I am unable to identify half of what I eat as either Chinese or food.
I retire early. Actually, I'll probably retire 20 years after my death, but in the meantime, I go back to my room, watch movies and music videos (the closest I get to the mariachis for which Guadalajara is famous), am foiled in my attempt to swim in the pool -- which has closed for the evening, read, and go to bed early.
My colleague and friend, McK will arrive sometime this evening, and I anticipate a full day tomorrow and during the rest of our stay.
*****
Day Two.
I am up and about at the pre-crack of dawn. (I can't sleep late unless I'm deathly ill or just plain deathly.) After bathing and dressing, I go downstairs to partake of breakfast in the lobby.
Breakfast is served on the latest in stryro-ware. There's yogurt, in flavors ranging from nut to prune; cereal; juice; toast; and airline-approved coffee (read: weak). I read a newspaper, eat my carb allotment for the day, and chat with a young Mexican American, who invites me to join him for a walk to a nearby mall. I turn down his offer, because I am uninterested in malls and because I am sure that my colleague and friend, McK, who arrived at the hotel sometime last night, will be appearing at any moment.
Two hours later, my new friend returns from his walk, surprised to see me in practically the same position as when he departed. He tells me that they've closed off the major thoroughfare to allow people to bike, skateboard, and walk for miles and how the whole of Guadalajara appears to be taking advantage of the beautiful weather to do so.
In the interim, I have read the last month's newspapers and every brochure for every restaurant and tourist attraction in Guadalajara, checked to make sure that McK actually arrived (he did), and flooded my body with dishwater (read: coffee).
New friend goes up to his room, but I continue to wait. At noon, I have reached the outer limits of my patience, and insist that the desk clerk ring McK's room. He's either dead or unconscious, and I want to know what to do next. McK doesn't respond to the call, so I am beside myself.
"He could be in the shower," the clerk suggests.
We wait 45 minutes before calling again. No answer.
"He could have gone out," the clerk says.
I am ready to do the same, when McK comes in the door. He'd sent me an email to say he'd meet me at around 2pm for lunch, but as I had no access to a computer, I hadn't received the message. Up even earlier than I, he'd gone for a run, along with the rest of the population. I am relieved that he is alive, well, and back.
McK goes up to his room to clean off and re-dress. Within half an hour we are outside, joining the masses, and on our way to downtown.
We debate taking a bus or a cab, but we're so engaged in conversation that we don't catch a ride until we're two blocks away from our destination. We pop in and out of every historic building in the centro, including the theater, museums, and the sites of murals from all the famed muralist native sons of Guadalajara.
Having worked up both a sweat and an appetite, we start scoping out likely lunch spots. We end up asking someone for a recommendation, and we have a satisfactory experience at La Chata. Afterward, we grab a cab to visit just one more museum before we head back to the hotel, but it's already past museum-closing time. Instead, we go to the "Shoe Mall," where we drown our sorrows by buying Flexis, a Mexican brand of comfortable footware.
We return to the hotel with plenty of time to swim before the rain hits.
****
Day Three.
Our driver, Ismael -- with his background in hotel hospitality -- is an intelligent and interesting character who gets us where we need to go by the skin of his and our teeth, and relates funny stories well, in Spanish and/or English. Our schedule is tighter than a pair of size 2 jeans; every hour we find ourselves at a different Facultad. There are speeches of welcome and tours. A highlight is a meeting with the heads of pediatric and adult emergency services at the university's hospital and a look at the isolation unit in which victims of failed suicide attempts, exuding poisonous vapors that would kill anyone coming into contact with them, are hosed down and the oxygen in the room exchanged every couple of minutes.
We are taken out to lunch -- at La Chata. As Guadalajara is known for its tequila, I am easily convinced to down a Margherita. I am a cheap drunk, but I hold my own, to the best of my knowledge. After more meetings, we are treated to a lovely dinner, where I drink a tamarind Margherita and finish the tequila-infused sorbet that is served at the end of the meal. I do not have any memory of the rest of the day...
****
Day Four.
See Day Three. Skip the hospital visit, add more welcoming speeches. After a while, I tell McK that I finally understand why he invited me along on this trip; he has been giving me small boxes to store in my purse, which he requests whenever we meet with people he's known from previous trips or with new, important folks (like the Rector of the University or the Director of Directors). I then pass him the package, without ever discovering what is contained therein. "I am the mule," I say.
Sometimes McK and I are given our own packages. I get a key chain, a pen, and three books that I "mistakenly" leave in my hotel room. To the best of my recollection, the titles are: Feminist Writings in Early 18th Century Mexican Letters to the Editor; Rural Road Construction in Places You Still Cannot Access; and The World's Most Beloved Bedtime Readings About Educational Topics.
We end our meetings early. McK reunes with one of his colleagues, while I go to lunch with a Cuernavaca friend's partner. He offers me a choice of venues, including Chili's, which I give the cold shoulder to. In a lovely, non-US, non- chain restaurant, we dine on fish, and I don't drink anything stronger than lemonade.
When I return to the hotel, McK suggests that I join him as guest of a friend and some colleagues for dinner. "There should be some interesting conversation," he tells me, plus there will be another woman there who will probably welcome my presence.
The evening consists of long waits for the other people to show up; long, drawn-out speeches; long, drawn-out monologues; and a longing to return to our respective rooms. I am actually amused, but McK's eyeballs have been rolling for several hours, and he is tired.
*****
Day Five.
A fond goodbye to McK. Taxi to the bus station. Back to Queretero.
I am staying in the nicest hotel I will experience in Mexico. That's because I am being treated to the accommodations and a per diem, in exchange for accompanying a colleague to meetings in virtually every department and with every employee of the impressive and enormous University of Guadalajara. The hotel boasts an exercise room (a closet, really, with two stationery bikes that I could bend and break by merely staring at them) and a kidney-shaped pool about the size of 1,372 bloated kidneys. My room is actually a suite, with a large living area and a good sized bedroom with a working TV and my very own bathroom. There is a door leading to a kitchen, but it is locked and unavailable to me. I am not upset by the thought that I won't be cooking or washing dishes.
After settling in, I go outside to scout out a restaurant in which I can enjoy a leisurely and delicious late lunch. Ambling around the residential neighborhood, I discover several interesting possibilities. Unfortunately, none is still offering eats at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon.
I wind up at a Chinese buffet that looks like it will either kill me or make me stronger. The food tastes better than it looks, although I am unable to identify half of what I eat as either Chinese or food.
I retire early. Actually, I'll probably retire 20 years after my death, but in the meantime, I go back to my room, watch movies and music videos (the closest I get to the mariachis for which Guadalajara is famous), am foiled in my attempt to swim in the pool -- which has closed for the evening, read, and go to bed early.
My colleague and friend, McK will arrive sometime this evening, and I anticipate a full day tomorrow and during the rest of our stay.
*****
Day Two.
I am up and about at the pre-crack of dawn. (I can't sleep late unless I'm deathly ill or just plain deathly.) After bathing and dressing, I go downstairs to partake of breakfast in the lobby.
Breakfast is served on the latest in stryro-ware. There's yogurt, in flavors ranging from nut to prune; cereal; juice; toast; and airline-approved coffee (read: weak). I read a newspaper, eat my carb allotment for the day, and chat with a young Mexican American, who invites me to join him for a walk to a nearby mall. I turn down his offer, because I am uninterested in malls and because I am sure that my colleague and friend, McK, who arrived at the hotel sometime last night, will be appearing at any moment.
Two hours later, my new friend returns from his walk, surprised to see me in practically the same position as when he departed. He tells me that they've closed off the major thoroughfare to allow people to bike, skateboard, and walk for miles and how the whole of Guadalajara appears to be taking advantage of the beautiful weather to do so.
In the interim, I have read the last month's newspapers and every brochure for every restaurant and tourist attraction in Guadalajara, checked to make sure that McK actually arrived (he did), and flooded my body with dishwater (read: coffee).
New friend goes up to his room, but I continue to wait. At noon, I have reached the outer limits of my patience, and insist that the desk clerk ring McK's room. He's either dead or unconscious, and I want to know what to do next. McK doesn't respond to the call, so I am beside myself.
"He could be in the shower," the clerk suggests.
We wait 45 minutes before calling again. No answer.
"He could have gone out," the clerk says.
I am ready to do the same, when McK comes in the door. He'd sent me an email to say he'd meet me at around 2pm for lunch, but as I had no access to a computer, I hadn't received the message. Up even earlier than I, he'd gone for a run, along with the rest of the population. I am relieved that he is alive, well, and back.
McK goes up to his room to clean off and re-dress. Within half an hour we are outside, joining the masses, and on our way to downtown.
We debate taking a bus or a cab, but we're so engaged in conversation that we don't catch a ride until we're two blocks away from our destination. We pop in and out of every historic building in the centro, including the theater, museums, and the sites of murals from all the famed muralist native sons of Guadalajara.
Having worked up both a sweat and an appetite, we start scoping out likely lunch spots. We end up asking someone for a recommendation, and we have a satisfactory experience at La Chata. Afterward, we grab a cab to visit just one more museum before we head back to the hotel, but it's already past museum-closing time. Instead, we go to the "Shoe Mall," where we drown our sorrows by buying Flexis, a Mexican brand of comfortable footware.
We return to the hotel with plenty of time to swim before the rain hits.
****
Day Three.
Our driver, Ismael -- with his background in hotel hospitality -- is an intelligent and interesting character who gets us where we need to go by the skin of his and our teeth, and relates funny stories well, in Spanish and/or English. Our schedule is tighter than a pair of size 2 jeans; every hour we find ourselves at a different Facultad. There are speeches of welcome and tours. A highlight is a meeting with the heads of pediatric and adult emergency services at the university's hospital and a look at the isolation unit in which victims of failed suicide attempts, exuding poisonous vapors that would kill anyone coming into contact with them, are hosed down and the oxygen in the room exchanged every couple of minutes.
We are taken out to lunch -- at La Chata. As Guadalajara is known for its tequila, I am easily convinced to down a Margherita. I am a cheap drunk, but I hold my own, to the best of my knowledge. After more meetings, we are treated to a lovely dinner, where I drink a tamarind Margherita and finish the tequila-infused sorbet that is served at the end of the meal. I do not have any memory of the rest of the day...
****
Day Four.
See Day Three. Skip the hospital visit, add more welcoming speeches. After a while, I tell McK that I finally understand why he invited me along on this trip; he has been giving me small boxes to store in my purse, which he requests whenever we meet with people he's known from previous trips or with new, important folks (like the Rector of the University or the Director of Directors). I then pass him the package, without ever discovering what is contained therein. "I am the mule," I say.
Sometimes McK and I are given our own packages. I get a key chain, a pen, and three books that I "mistakenly" leave in my hotel room. To the best of my recollection, the titles are: Feminist Writings in Early 18th Century Mexican Letters to the Editor; Rural Road Construction in Places You Still Cannot Access; and The World's Most Beloved Bedtime Readings About Educational Topics.
We end our meetings early. McK reunes with one of his colleagues, while I go to lunch with a Cuernavaca friend's partner. He offers me a choice of venues, including Chili's, which I give the cold shoulder to. In a lovely, non-US, non- chain restaurant, we dine on fish, and I don't drink anything stronger than lemonade.
When I return to the hotel, McK suggests that I join him as guest of a friend and some colleagues for dinner. "There should be some interesting conversation," he tells me, plus there will be another woman there who will probably welcome my presence.
The evening consists of long waits for the other people to show up; long, drawn-out speeches; long, drawn-out monologues; and a longing to return to our respective rooms. I am actually amused, but McK's eyeballs have been rolling for several hours, and he is tired.
*****
Day Five.
A fond goodbye to McK. Taxi to the bus station. Back to Queretero.
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