Author: zora

Travel-Guide Trauma

I’d call it PTSD, but I’m not out of the woods yet. Two books yet to finish before the end of July.

Meantime, I’m having the following nightmares:

*I get a call from my editor at Rough Guides, asking if I can make another trip to Mexico soon. I say yes, because I know I have a week free coming up. As soon as I hang up, I realize I’m a sucker–there’s no reason I need to go back down there now. Then I realize I actually already have a trip booked for June 2 through June 9–a trip I’d completely forgotten about. The rest of the dream is me involved in various other activities, but knowing I need to get to a phone to tell my RG people I can’t possibly do the MX thing, and where do they get off asking, anyway? I wake up shaken, and run immediately to my calendar. Phew–June 2 through June 9 is still free.

*I’m in Cairo, and a friend convinces me to go to Iran with her. Awesome–always wanted to go. The tickets to Tehran are bought, it’s a couple hours before the flight, and it dawns on me that I must need a visa. The dream devolves into my more general travel-anxiety dream: packing in slow-motion, with endless distractions, plus here the bonus of not knowing how to sort out my visa issue.

Nothing a long vacation can’t fix. Preferably a vacation to a visa-less country…

A Great Day on the Job

Huh. I wrote this in a frenzy last week, and never posted it. Sad how the glory of pit-roasting wears off after just a few days back at the city grind. But right now I’m working at the building down at the WTC site, which is so beautiful, and the people in the office are so friendly, and the kitchen is so stocked with free cans of seltzer, that I’m getting a little giddy all over again…

********

Last night, while sitting at the prime table on the balcony at the restaurant at a super-prime resort in the prime tourist zone of the Riviera Maya, about to enjoy a seven-course tasting dinner, I began to experience a strange and novel feeling.

I’m pretty sure it was a sense of cheer brought on by loving my job.

And I’m not just saying that because I was being comped at this particular resort–though that certainly didn’t hurt–and not because I happened to be wallowing in luxury at that moment.

In fact, I wasn’t pleased precisely with that moment, though it was beautiful, but because I was wallowing in the afterglow of a kick-ass afternoon.

I’m drawing this out because even as I’m typing this, I’m having a hard time keeping my feet on the ground, keeping myself from jumping up in the middle of the Miami airport and clapping my hands together with glee.

Dude: Yesterday I got to cook something in a pib–a genuine Maya-style barbecue pit, with the freakin’ hot lava rocks and everything!!!!!

I should be more jaded–I mean, I started this blog back in 2004 with a post about roasting a whole lamb and a pig on Tamara’s balcony in Queens.

But there is something amazingly kick-ass about being led through a grove of palm trees to a little Maya-style hut, and then being led into the hut to find that it is 400 degrees inside, and there is a fire going in there, and it’s been burning since 8.30am, and pretty soon, we’re going to put something in there ourselves!

Never mind that this was on the grounds of a crazy-swanky resort, so it’s hard to call this an “authentic” experience.

Never mind that all we’d be putting in that giant pit was a wee little fish, because I was the only one in the cooking class.

Somehow, the fact that I was put directly to work chopping things on a wobbly table, under the bright midday sun, cut through the pampered setting. My knife was a little dull, and the handle–it was one of those all-metal Globals–was scorching from the sun. Behind me was a portable burner set in a bamboo rigging and fueled with a bottle of propane. This was rigged-up outdoor cooking in a way I could get behind.

So we prepped the fish–well, Chef Cupertino did, with that awesome take-the-bones-out-while-leaving-the-tail-intact fancy move–and covered it with crazy-red achiote sauce (magic ingredient: cloves! I had no idea) and my chopped-up vegetables. Then we stuck the whole thing in the ground! I’m about to jump up with glee again.

I cannot tell you how delighted this made me–I mean, hilarious that there was enormous fire and elaborate setup for…a teensy little sea bream. I can only imagine I would’ve fainted if we’d been sticking actual whole pigs in the ground.

The fish was crazy delicious, I got schooled on the difference between a lima and a limon (which I knew, but somehow never made the connection with sopa de lima–duh) and I got to talk shop with Chef Cupertino over lunch and yummy Mexican wine, all while sitting outdoors in what felt like the middle of nowhere. And then we tramped around in his herb garden and looked at the habanero plant that seemed to have gotten all eaten up–I never want to meet the bug that’s strong enough to eat a habanero , even if it’s just the leaves.

If I were a more helpful blogger, I’d tell you the specifics of what I learned–maybe I’ll get to that–but for now I’m still just basking in the idea that for once, on one of my research trips, I really got to do something. Usually I’m just racing around with my notebook, saying, “That looks fun–how much does it cost? And how many people in the boat? kthxbye, maybe next time…” And since I’m very familiar with my various turfs now, I rarely get to learn something new.

But throwing a fish in a roasting pit–that makes up for years of stagnation! And it was simply great to talk shop with someone about things I really cared about: cooking, what the Yucatan is like compared with the rest of Mexico, more cooking. Usually, I spend most of my days in the Riviera Maya hearing gossip about the latest condo developments.

Basically, I got a glimpse of what it would be like to write about only the things I’m really, really interested in. And then get served some amazing food on the side. Thanks, Chef Cupertino!

Lard! Glorious Lard!

I hope Rick Bayless was online recently to read The Homesick Texan’s inspiring post on DIY lard.

Bayless is such a lard advocate that Peter and I now imagine him popping up everywhere, magically, like a leprechaun, every time the word lard is uttered, or even thought, and proceeding to rub his hands with glee and proselytize as to its wonders. “Oh, Rick Bayless! How’d you get here? So nice to see you!” we say every time we pull the grease from the fridge.

And he’s definitely on the case when someone is bad-mouthing lard–or confusing it with Crisco. (When I was growing up, I knew a lot of people who used the word “lard” to refer to hydrogenated vegetable shortening. I’m not sure if this was because I was in backward New Mexico, or if it was the times, or what.)

If you’re not already a lard convert, you can start with The Homesick Texan, who explains how to make it at home, and also generally makes it sound appealing–and look beautiful. After that, you’ll be ready for the full-on Bayless baptism.

Correction in The Age

Nicely, The Age of Melbourne printed my indignant letter re: the earlier LP-was-our-idol-now-let’s-destroy-it story.

Whenever Peter and I talk about the complaint letters we’re planning to write, we just mime typing and say, “Mrah-mrah-mrah mrah-mraaaaah” in a cranky voice. It’s a rare moment I was actually able to say something more articulate, and it’s also good they published it.

It is weird, though, that they never told me they were publishing it, or even acknowledged they’d received it. Mrah.

Hopefully that’s the end of that whole media frenzy.

Experience the Glory of Queens

No, really.

And for once, I didn’t say it. John Vinocur did, in a lovely essay in the International Herald-Tribune.

The only part I’m not so keen on, predictably, is his suggestion to drive a car. And he even admits you can’t get all the way to the beach in a car, because of the parking regulations–so why even start? Though if you were to ride a bike instead, you might not want to bother switching to a horse midway through the trip, as he directs you to.

But Here’s a Better Article…

I’m so busy criticizing, I didn’t get around to posting something fairly well done: Michael Shapiro’s story for the Washington Post last week, Can You Trust Your Travel Guidebook?

I spoke to the reporter (or, really, emailed with), and he didn’t seem to have an agenda going into it, unlike Peter Munro. I think the story’s good mostly because it doesn’t seem bent on tearing down Lonely Planet. And he actually spoke to Thomas Kohnstamm. The really interesting part, though, was a sidebar: Six Guidebook Publishers and Their Policies on Freebies. No heavy-handed analysis, and quotes from execs at each house. This is decent reporting that says, Readers, you’re smart–you can make up your own minds.

Weak Journalism Plagues the Kohnstamm Affair

First, it was reporters who couldn’t even spell Colombia right, or bother to check the name of LP exec Judy Slatyer. Now it’s another scandal-loving story about Thomas Kohnstamm and Lonely Planet in Melbourne’s Sunday Age: A Guide Delusion Makes It Lonely at the Top.

I had a sinking feeling after my phone interview with Peter Munro. It was a good twenty minutes of him fishing for me to say Lonely Planet was hypocritical. There was also some back-and-forth about whether the only way to properly review a hotel is to stay in the hotel (with questions actually starting with, “So would you say that…?”). The latter I can almost agree with, but of course a flat statement like that is not really accurate. The former, though, I just cannot say.

I spent a lot of time in my phone interview saying, in fact, that I thought LP generally has great intentions, and maybe it had written its freebie policy without a loophole in mind. And executives have been very responsive to my comments on the freebies issue, which is more than I can say for any other employer I’ve ever had.

But because I was uncooperative and my rational response doesn’t make a great story, Munro just resorted to quoting my statements on this blog–without even attributing them, so Age readers can’t come here and read my full comments. Worse, it’s in a larger context that makes it sound like I have taken freebies while on the job with LP, which is completely untrue.

Tacky, lazy journalism.

I may work in an industry that has its share of ethical issues, but I feel pretty good about the work I do. Especially when I consider that I’m not an ax-grinding newspaper reporter.

Righteous Clambake Nation

Great story in the New York Times yesterday about preserving obscure native foods of the US: An Unlikely Way to Save a Species: Serve It for Dinner.

The main source for the story, Gary Paul Nabhan, raises Churro sheep (an old variety brought by the Spanish, used by the Navajo, but one that fell away when merino wool and associated weaving techniques arrived with later Europeans) and has written a book about Bronx grapes, Datil chiles and Makah ozette potatoes.

He has also divided North America into regions based on their most indigenous flavors. East Coast: Clambake Nation, yo! Though I of course can’t forsake my boyz in Chili Pepper Nation. (Except, uh, Gary, it’s Chile Pepper.) Who knew there was a Sonoran white pomegranate? And I do feel a simple sentimental attachment to Crab Cake Nation. Who’s gonna design the T-shirts?