Author: zora

Mexico: Cars Suck

Driving through Chiapas I fully realized how dull traveling by car is. Here, where you can rent a car for about US$15 a day and gas is about 70 cents a liter, and that car gets 40 miles to the gallon, it’s hard to argue for taking the bus, especially when you’re more than one person.

But driving takes all the sense of accomplishment out of your day. I was envious of the guy who rolled up at Frontera Corazal and wound up sharing a boat with us to to the ruins of Yaxchilan. He’d planned all the previous day, to get on the combi at the right time, and then to negotiate with the cabbie who drove him the 15km down from the highway. All along, the jungle got denser, the road got worse, the animals along the side of the road got bolder. He got to sit back and soak it all in. More important, though, by taking public transport, he gave up control, which makes it an actual adventure.

By car–ho hum. The road got worse–I chose to drive a little more slowly, whereas the combi driver probably didn’t. It got hot–I gave up my aspirations of keeping it real and turned on the a/c. I arrived cool yet stultified.

But single backpacker dude probably spent the morning dozing on and off, waking up occasionally to see the jungle suddenly thick (whereas I just saw it get gradually denser–not so remarkable). Or maybe he spent the morning having random, stilted conversations with the other people in the combi–tiring, but memorable. He’s been thinking, This is how people really get around in this country.

I was just staring at the road ahead of me, and occasionally checking the map. I was keenly aware that people do not normally get around in an air-conditioned PT Cruiser.

It all just confirms my suspicion that cars suck, and suck the life out of you. I would really love to come back here and actually have time to travel on buses and combis, and wait randomly by the side of the road for hours, and just give up all the responsibility that driving entails.

You’re probably thinking, Silly girl–two minutes of public transport and she’ll be totally eating her words. But no–I have done this, for a week, the one research trip I fucked up and forgot to get my driver’s license renewed. I still think fondly of my weird series of buses and taxis, of the combi I got on where everyone carried a machete, and driver was goggle-eyed to see me. Of bouncing around in the back of taxis, on my way to ruins that no one ever visits. Of popping off the bus at a transfer point and eating incredible snacks from the vendors there.

Next time, next time…

Mexico: The Wrap-Up

So, my phone now speaks better Spanish than I do: I popped in a Mexican SIM card, and all the menus switched over: mensajes, adreses, you name it. Why can’t I do that with my brain?

I contemplate this from my little beachfront prison where I’m not speaking Spanish at all: I’ve been in writing lockdown here in Cancun for these last few days. I’ve always imagined doing this–a little beach time, a lot of writing–but it never works out. I’ve told this plan to people I know in Puerto Morelos so many times–and not followed through–that it’s a little embarrassing. Oh well–if I were in PM, I’d be eating my fool head off all day long and never getting anything done. Through the miracle of Hotwire, I am staying in a relatively posh hotel that is populated with so many large, sunburnt Americans that I really am not tempted to spend all day by the pool. And if I want to eat, I have to walk at least a kilometer. (Mmm–good tortas yesterday, though, overlooking the lagoon! Spongy lunchmeat never tasted so good, slathered with mayo and habanero salsa!)

Yesterday I did venture out for a morning swim (all you Cancun haters: you clearly have never been in the water–it’s unreal, and shark-free!), then retreated to my shady hotel room for the rest of the day. The maids must think I’m violently ill or on a drug binge, as I don’t even let them in to tidy up or replace the towels.

I went out at night to see a movie–the first time I’ve gone to the movies in Mexico, I realized, because I usually don’t have the time. I like to go to movies everywhere, just to see what you can get at the snack bar–here, nothing special, but at least popcorn is called palomitas (“little doves”). I saw a film called Stellet Licht, made by a Mexican director but set in a Mennonite community in north Mexico, in Chihuahua. After I got over the idea that maybe I could understand the Plautdietsch, which sounds enough like Dutch to fool me, I managed with just the Spanish subtitles OK. It helped that those Mennonites are a terse bunch. There were 10-minute stretches where no one said anything, so I had plenty of time mull over the incredibly basic sentence I’d just read at the bottom of the screen, and finally go “Ohhhh.” There were only about 12 people in the theatre: me and a huge whole family, including great-aunts and grandmas. When they left, they were all laughing because most of them had just fallen asleep.

What else has happened? I’ve fully recovered from my little “moment” in Merida. B got off OK and is home in ABQ now. I’ve seen a few more clowns. They’re just a regular part of the street fabric here, like the raving drunk guy and the impossibly small 90-year-old woman and the guy walking by with mangos on a tray balanced on his head. No one bats an eye. The buses are still filled with roving accordion and guitar players.

My last night in Merida, I ran out to check a few last-minute things. I was hightailing it back to the hotel when a guy in a doorway said hello to me. Then he asked if I spoke English. I slowed down my walk and reluctantly said yes. Next thing I know, he’s asking me to translate a poem he’s trying to read, about a Japanese guy giving an anti-nuclear speech in 1957. I have to explain that yes, it says the flowers are smiling, and that’s weird, but it’s poetry, right? After 10 excruciating moments, and me gesticulating more than talking, he lets me go. I think I believe him about only needing help with the first two stanzas.

This morning I walked up the beach to this little coffee place attached to a mall (everything’s attached to a mall here). I vaguely remembered having a nice breakfast there in November. Halfway into my latte and my obligatory cream-cheese-filled pan dulce, my waiter says, “You were here before, weren’t you?” Either they get no customers, or I was much chattier then than I recall. He remembered my whole story–guidebook-writing, etc. Extremely sweet. Especially since he didn’t charge me for my pastries in the end. Aw. Later, walking down the beach and replaying the conversation we’d had in Spanish, I realized I’d answered half his comments/questions wrong. Oh, _he_ would like to speak more languages! Whaddya know–it’s not all about me.

So I’ll be sad to leave, especially as this marks the beginning of a long lull in the update cycle for the Mexico books. I won’t have reason to come back here until late 2009, and by then my cookbook project with Tamara (which is a go, I have not mentioned!) will be out, and who knows what that will bring?

Mexico: I Spoke Too Soon

That thing I said about never being sick in Mexico? Whoa.

Try instead eating a lovely meal at someone’s house (home-cooked food: what a relief, after two weeks on the road). Then you get to the last bite and realize something is Terribly Wrong. You make a break for the bathroom (“Cairo, I’d love to tell you about Cairo! But first, I really, really have to use the bathroom!” I said with all seriousness and calm). But instead you start to black out just about the time you get halfway there–the fridge is the last thing you see, and you put in an extra sprint toward the bathroom door in hopes of getting there on auto-pilot.

You come to, after what feels like the most restful dream-filled full-night’s sleep but was really about 20 seconds, slumped in the bathroom doorway and covered in your dinner, in many forms.

That hasn’t happened to me since I was a kid.

Anyway, to be fair, the kind of sick I got was really not Mexico’s fault. It was completely mine, for stomping around in the noonday sun, with no lunch and only the merest suggestion of Gatorade. I hadn’t been eating because my gut had not been flawless (OK, that’s sort of Mexico’s fault), and I just didn’t want to eat another taco. I was holding out for this delicious homey meal that night. And ooh, baby–I got to enjoy it coming and going!

I have gotten this same kind of sick once before, not in the third world, but in NYC, after tromping around in the noonday sun in the summer, stupidly wearing corduroy pants and drinking nothing but beer. By sundown, after arriving at another long-awaited home-cooked dinner, I had a sip of a gin-and-tonic and promptly yakked. I spent the rest of the night in a darkened bedroom, moaning, occasionally dragging myself out to vomit as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the dinner party that continued on without me.

Some people might think this last point is demented, but I think it’s essential. The Dinner Party Must Go On! The last thing a sick person wants is for everything to grind to a halt while everyone crowds around and looks on in shock and pity, and then quickly says their goodbyes.

And to my impeccable hosts’ credit last night, they did carry on. Presto, my utterly soiled clothes were in the laundry (what luck! I’d spilled eggplant on my skirt earlier in the night–no need to worry about those oil stains!). I was led to the shower, and given a whole new, cute outfit to wear and an open invitation to all the assorted lotions and products. Then I came downstairs and drank some tea. I went on to vomit a couple more times (demented again, but I actually don’t mind this at all–good thing I like my body, or I would be a class A bulimic), while the lovely lady of the house served my mother dessert.

I got driven home in an air-conditioned car, the non-bumpy route, with bags of assorted things to get me through the night and assurances that a doctor could be summoned if need be. This morning I feel fantastic, and I even ate a teeny bit of the cake from last night.

Now that is true hospitality, and that is why these flawless hosts also run one of the finest B&Bs in Merida.

I’m sorry I had to get so violently ill just to test them, but hey, I’m just doing my job, you know?

Mexico: Chiapas

My lingering fears about Mexico being, well, what Americans are meant to fear about Mexico have still come to naught. People in Chiapas are exceedingly nice. The highway along the border with Guatemala is completely paved and not even traveled by slow- or crazy-fast-moving trucks. Anyone looking for off-the-map adventure down here I guess should be looking to bunk down in an EZLN camp…and I’m not planning to put those details in the guidebook.

I really don’t have any brilliant adventures or insights to share. This trip is going so smoothly in part because B is with me. When your mother’s along for the ride, it makes you pick the safe option more often than not. When I’m by myself, I end up getting into disastrous adventures because I think, “I’ll just do this one last thing before dark…” or “I’ll just save another ten bucks…” or “I’ll just order one more dish, to really test out this restaurant…”

Still, today was not record levels of comfort. I subsisted on nothing but two pieces of toast and a handful of macadamia nuts roasted with chile (OMG–yum! Buy them at the little stand by the entrance to the Tonina ruins–they same little stand that has a propane-fueled espresso machine). And a Coke.

We’re in Frontera Corazal, just having taken a boat up the river to the ruins of Yaxchilan–an amazing ride on the water, then ruins that are straight out of a movie set. I even saw a little bit of a monkey in a tree on the way back. That was on the Guatemala side of the river. Clearly, Guatemala is much cooler.

Tomorrow, back up the road to Bonampak, where now you can rent bicycles to ride up to the site, rather than taking a special combi ride. If I were alone, of course I’d do the bike, and get all sweaty and sunburned and dehydrated. But I’m with B, and I suppose we’ll take the combi instead of riding several miles in the jungle heat. We’ll have another lovely day. Oh, alas.

OK, one observation: People pronounce Google here like it’s a Spanish word. That is, Goog-LAY. Hee hee.

Uh, gotta go. A toad is lurking about a foot from my desk, and won’t stop staring at me. Maybe he’s one of those poisonous ones I’ve heard so much about…

Mexico: Rain in Palenque

B and I were walking around checking out hotels in Palenque today. Actually, we’d just eaten lunch, and I was thinking about visiting hotels. I really, really hate doing hotel inspections–or I hate thinking about doing them. Like so many things, they actually end up being kind of fun and informative in the end, but I never can remember that at the start.

Anyway, first hotel we stopped in was shiny bright and clean–a nice change from last night’s cabana, which was a natural refuge for at least seven distinct specias of Chiapas spiders. Also, a translucent frog–translucent the way geckos are. B saw that and said, Aren’t those the poisonous ones? Always a nice thing to think about right before bed.

Anyway again, we see this nice clean hotel–really, sparkling. M$200 a night (aka US$20). Parking. Continental breakfast delivered to your room. We smile, we take a card, we walk to the door…and the sky opens up. Total deluge. We turn around and book a room. We nap to the sound of rain spattering on the metal roof. It worked out swimmingly.

Except, of course, for all the charming places we visited after the rain stopped, where the people were so nice we actually felt guilty for not giving them our business as well.

We were walking up the main town drag today when a giant parade float went by, covered in red heart-shaped balloons and teenage girls in white leotards and glittery angel wings.

Also, oh yeah, saw yet another clown yesterday.

Back on the subject of hotels: the reason B and I were in the Palenque Spider Reserve last night is that as soon as we pulled into the alleged best cabanas on the road to the ruins and saw one dude with dreadlocks, I just could not bear it. I could already hear the late-night drum circle and the annoying talk about shamans. I put the PT Cruiser in reverse and we hightailed it to the most random, only-reachable-by-car-and-therefore-not-accessible-to-backpackers cabanas we could find.

This reaction makes me think I am no longer qualified for this job. Though it’s not entirely my fault. The reason I cannot go the backpacker route, and instead drive around in a rental car, is because backpacking requires time–and I cannot afford to take the time, or I would never be able to make my book deadline. So I can’t actually live the lifestyle I’m allegedly researching. I like to think I’m not a fraud, but sometimes I wonder.

On the upside, I saw some great ruins today. I heard howler monkeys. I bought a beaded shrimp keychain. I got served more than half a chicken for lunch. And I got to nap on the spur of the moment at a very clean hotel.

Tomorrow: Ocosingo, and some waterfalls. (Or that’s the plan…actually failed to spend any time at the cacao plantations I mentioned in the last post, thanks to some monstrous highway construction, and also lingering over a giant breakfast shake of chocolate milk, oatmeal, granola and every kind of fruit you can think of. You can see how that would’ve slowed me down a little.)

Mexico: What I Forgot

Always exciting, the day after I arrive somewhere, to discover what I’ve forgotten.

1) My hat. Top of head melting. Face getting blotchy. I tried on hats today in a craft store, and they were all for people with 2-year-old-size heads. I guess that would mean 2-year-olds.

2) Forgot my iPod and my clever little voice recorder, which made my last research trip so much better. A breakthrough at the time…now squandered.

3) Oh, I forgot to learn Spanish. I mean, I forgot to relearn my Spanish, or even just study…or even bring my dictionary. My Spanish mastery of, say, three years ago, has already crumbled. On this trip, I suspect even my mother may surpass me in fluency, and that’s not saying much.

4) Forgot to tighten the lid on my mouthwash. I guess if something’s going to leak in your toiletry bag, mouthwash is the best one to do it. All my clothes smell minty fresh, and the evaporating alcohol made them cool to the touch when I unpacked that first night.

Anyway, now that the major mistakes are taken care of, it’s just on to the work. I tried once again to like Progreso, but it’s one of those places that makes me think, Gah, people will do anything to live near the sea. It is just not a town with any kind of soul that I can discern.

Then we went to Campeche. Now that city’s got soul, and it’s getting more all the time. First time I visited, in 2003, the historic center was very cutesy-museum-piece, with no useful businesses at all. I got grumpy and cursed the fake “trams,” which are just open-sided buses.

Now Campeche has tons of stuff going on–you can buy a fridge, eat a Whopper or get some espresso in the center. You can hang out on the plaza on a Saturday night and play the loteria with the old ladies, or sing karaoke to a crowd. Or, best of all, you can wander over to the musical fountain!

Believe me, if I were in, say, Vegas, and someone said “musical fountain,” I would roll my eyes and walk the other way. Somehow, in Campeche, where the pleasures are simpler, the three fountains choreographed to Mexican anthems and classical excerpts hit the spot. Especially because everyone else seemed so happy with them. Kids were jumping around. An older man with a cane was boogying, while his wife looked on and giggled. Three nuns sat on a park bench, and one took pictures of the fountains with her cellphone. Those fountains rocked.

Yesterday we got into New Territory. I’ve been coming to the Yucatan since 2003, and this is the first time I’ve set foot outside of the peninsula proper. When B and I crossed the border into Tabasco, on our way to Villahermosa, I couldn’t help but think of all the usual stereotypes of Mexico. Maybe this is where I would be robbed by bandits, get violently ill and be shaken down by a policeman.

So far, no. People drive a little more aggressively here, but that’s it. The food is totally different, and tasty–there’s some crazy kind of chile here, only as big as a caper, that’s in all the salsa. There’s some crazy river fish with nasty teeth, a pejelagartos, that everyone eats. It tastes like mud, like all river fish, but I like the way it made our waiter swoon and say “It’s awwwwesome!” last night. And instead of a basket of tortilla chips, we got a plate of deep-fried plantain crisps with lunch today. Brilliant.

I was also a little leery of coming to Tabasco because of the terrible flooding that happened last November. It wasn’t until we’d been walking around for a while today that we noticed the high-water marks on a lot of buildings. Everyone has “Yo [heart] Tab + Que Nunca” (I heart Tabasco more than ever) bumper stickers on their cars. And the malecon is lined not with shiny rectangular stones, as we thought last night in the glare of the headlights, but with stacks of sandbags taller than my head. I’ve got to say, overall, this place still looks a million times better than New Orleans. Hooray for Mexico’s response in a crisis.

Tomorrow, more driving: some cocoa haciendas, some Maya ruins, and hopefully Palenque by nightfall. All new! All thrilling!

PS: I got an unwanted “upgrade” to a PT Cruiser when I picked up my rental car in Merida. Attempts to swap it for a more modest conveyance have failed. Tonight I cranked up “Ice Ice Baby” on the radio, at least, so I feel like I’m making good use of it. And people often stop to let us go by, even when they have the right-of-way. I am a little leery of driving it into Chiapas, though. Chiapas…PT Cruiser…Chiapas…PT Cruiser. Those words were never meant to go together.

PPS: Running clown count: 4. All in one day, in Campeche!

The Foodista

I had the pleasure of meeting The Foodista herself in person last night. I’ve occasionally perused her blog in the past, as a fellow Astorian–I just never realized we could meet in person.

Anyhoo, she attended our Primary Day Cafe party at Tamara’s last night, where we gorged ourselves on nachos and watched TV, and it was a pleasure to have her company.

Yeah, nachos–sooo highbrow.

But we talked about serious things. Shout-out to Ed for explaining the whole superdelegate issue. To quote Tamara, “Why am I 39 years old, and only just now hearing about this?!” An illuminating evening (uh, that’s the first time I’ve really heard Obama speak, and looked at him–it doesn’t really count on the radio; oh, and also: I always thought Ron Paul=Ron Popeil. I didn’t even know he was a real candidate!), along with some tasty food: democracy in action.

I know.

The comments. It sucks. I’ve been knocked back to super-idiot-level web status. I cannot figure out how to fix this, mostly because I do not have time. I honestly don’t grasp the larger abstract issues re: programming languages, but I’m very, very good at following instructions, which is how I designed this whole blog in the first place. So if anyone can send me a link to some instructions on how to fix the current issue (thanks, spam comments), please do. Otherwise, I’ll look into it more in March, when I’m back from my Mexico trip.

Aw, yeah. That means more Travails of a Guidebook Writer nightmare posts. And my mother will be with me. Brace yourselves.

Or, as they say in Mexico, ay yi yi.

Madrid Memory Game

I was looking around on my hard drive for a very random file (too random to explain at this juncture, but let’s just say it involved a lot of words copied out of a library book, and I had some plans for them).

Instead, I found this, from summer of 2000:

5 Interesting Things I Saw on a Walk Around Madrid, and Having No Pen and Paper, Developed a Mnemonic System for Remembering

1) Small window display for wig shop containing slightly small-scale man’s head, nearly bald, from behind which came a mechanical arm that slowly placed, then removed, a toupee [imagined a bald head with ONE hair]
2) Pesetas abbreviated as pts., so that I felt like I must play skeeball before I could buy anything [imagined rabid basketball fan shouting, TWO points!]
3) Bulk frozen foods on sale in covered market, all displayed in a deli case–crinkle-cut fries, carrot/raisin salad, peas and carrots, etc. [imagined THREE-bean salad in icy deli case]
4) Dusty, dark, unmarked liquor store selling drinks over the counter–samples, perhaps? [one more FOUR the road]
5) Poster advertising: Live in Concert, Deep Purple, the Romanian Philharmonic Orchestra, and Ronnie James Dio [FIVE rhymes with “live”; counted on absurdity of line-up to stick in my head]

An example of why, no matter who you’re traveling with, it’s always fun to walk around by yourself for at least an afternoon. The funny thing is, even just about a month ago, I thought about these very items. Or the idea of these very items–I could no longer remember the actual things I’d seen. Vague memory of something about a funny heavy-metal poster…and maybe a shady-looking storefront. Ah, Madrid.

The one thing I did remember was something that wasn’t on this list: Calle Lechuga (Lettuce Street), which seems like where I wouldn’t mind living if I were ever to live in Madrid. (Our friend Bob has ruled out many an apartment based on a preposterous street address: “Petunia Avenue! As if!” I don’t blame him.) Even weirder is that I recall I tossed C/ Lechuga from my list because I couldn’t think of a solid mnemonic for it. Yet here it is, still rattling around my brain.

Panera Comes to Astoria

You all read my expletive-filled rant about the demise of the French patisserie, the only source of decent bread in this benighted pseudo-Euro neighborhood of mine. (I mean, it’s enlightened for a million other reasons. Only on the subject of bread is it still in the dark.)

I don’t feel the urge to swear and hurl things anymore, like I did last summer. But I still wouldn’t mind a good chewy baguette now and then.

So, Peter and I are walking along 35th Avenue today, over by the megaplex near Steinway. If you haven’t been there, just imagine the burbs: there’s a Starbucks, and a Pizzeria Uno. Also a FedEx/Kinko’s. And a Carvel. Even the non-chain restaurants, Cup and Cinema Paradiso, look like chain restaurants.

Peter and I are walking, and past the Pizzeria Uno, we see a new Applebee’s! “My god! This landlord must be stopped!” we gasp. (Ironically, the Applebee’s has replaced a Gold’s Gym.) This is just too much of the suburbs to bear! How can so much mass-market horror be packed into such a few short blocks?

And then just as I’m done sucking in my breath, and my eyes have settled back in their sockets, I see a smaller sign (perspective at work) just past the Applebee’s:

Panera.

Now, just up until last week I scoffed at this chain. But there I was in Santa Monica, and I was instructed to go buy bread for dinner at the Panera, and I followed orders. The bread was not bad at all. There was a good selection–various baguettes, loaves, boules–and the sourdough was actually, really sour. I’m more west-coast-oriented in my food roots, and I appreciate a serious, California-style sourdough bread–goes great with apricot jam for breakfast, and with sloppy joes for dinner.

So Peter and I went in. The soft jazz was toodling, the cheesy overstuffed armchairs were filled with bright-eyed folks using the free wi-fi. The muffins and scones were as big as your head. But they had some alluring sourdough, and some crunchy-looking baguettes. In this case, the fact that it looked exactly like the Santa Monica branch (5th & Wilshire) was encouraging.

We got our bread home, and it really is sour and delicious. And the crust is crispy-chewy like it should be. (We also, incidentally, passed Applebee’s and felt a twinge of too-well-off-for-our-own-good guilt. “I guess Applebee’s is great if you don’t have a lot of money,” said Peter. “Where else are you going to go out for dinner?” “Oh, yeah, huh,” I admitted. But later we had boreks from Djerdan! $8.50 for, like, three servings’ worth! True, no ambiance at all, unless you count guys in track suits, and no blue cocktails.)

So, I give. If we can’t keep the damn French guys in business, can we at least keep Panera going, and buy enough sourdough that they don’t stop making it?

(PS: Panera’s bagels look like an abomination: crazy flavors like “french toast” and “crazy sweet-and-chunky something-something”–OK, I’m paraphrasing. But if you order one, they dump it into the most hardcore-looking slicer, a piece of industrial machinery that is both brutal and elegant, not to mention ten times larger than it needs to be. When the counter girl used it, let me just say that Peter and I were not the only people to say, “Whoa!” out loud. It almost made me want to order one of those crazy bagels.)