Miguelito in Mexico

Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes!

2011-09-01T14:48:00.000-07:00

What follows is the story of how I ended up moving from Mexico City to Barcelona. Many of you know the basics, so feel free to skip this installment if you like. The new and predictibly more exciting Barce stuff will begin flowing soon. In the meantime, feel free to drop me a line at strawdogs66@hotmail.com on what you’re up to. I promise I will read it!!

Well, after four marvelous years in Mexico, Miguelito is moving on to new adventures in Barcelona, Catalunya, Spain. For most of you, this news is not a big surprise. Given the length of time since the decision was officially made—June 9—and my use of the new “social media” a la Facebook, the cat has long been out of the bag. Still, I thought a more formal explanation was in order to provide details to those not so in the inner-loop of my life, serve as a cathartic exercise for myself, and place a book-end of “closure” on my Miguelito in Mexico blog. (That reminds me, I need a new name for this thing. Any suggestions?)

HOW and WHY? I was all signed up and ready to hit the ISS and Search Associates fairs in San Francisco in early February in order to get an administrative/instructional support position somewhere. There were lots of prospects out there and I was excited. Then, the position of Academic Dean opened up again at our school. After being one of two finalists for the same position two years earlier, and in the meantime taking over as lead IB history teacher, serving as a successful social studies department head and MUN director, continued support from a large number of the staff, and unyielding dedication to the institution (not to mention the universally acknowledged disaster of the previous person’s tenure)—I figured my time had come. The only catch—I’d have to skip the fairs this year in order to do the interview. I knew nothing was certain, but felt the odds were in my favor. And besides, Ale was (we mistakenly believed at the time) pregnant, and perhaps starting a new job in another country with a new baby was not such a great idea. So, I skipped the fairs (missing a chance to see just what a hole in the wall my friend Andy lived in in SF) and put all my eggs in the ASF basket. I prepared long and hard and thought I represented myself well at the interview, but it seems (both from my impressions of the experience and reports from those on the panel) that the powers that be had other ideas (and other people) already in mind for this position. And so, for the second time I received the thanks-but-no-thanks response.

I was disappointed, no doubt, but I decided I’d simply enjoy a fifth year in Mexico, having a relatively easy time teaching the IB and MUN courses I’d already developed. Come next February, I’d hit the job fairs and not leave until I’d secured an administrative position somewhere.

However…

I kept receiving these updated emails from the job recruiting companies about openings. I ignored them for the most part, thinking I’d already committed to one more year. Most of the admin jobs were gone and I decided I wasn’t interested in a lateral move to teach somewhere else, when another year in Mexico would have been so relatively easy. Besides, as the spring wore on, most of the openings were for schools in desirable places like Somalia, Afghanistan and Libya. OK, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but not by too much. Given the poor prospects still available and my prospects for a final easy year at ASF, I was simply deleting the updates without reading them. Then one day—bored I guess—I opened one up. And there it was: IB History Teacher at the American School of Barcelona. Now, THIS might be worth a lateral move after all. Still, how many people must be applying to work in such a desirable city? And how many are not 45 year old married guys with a non-teaching spouse and a kid that’s going to cost them tuition? Probably lots. Still, Barcelona... It couldn’t hurt to send in my resume, right?

So, I did. And the next thing I know I was doing a Skype interview with the high school principal. Then follow up interviews with the director. And something very pleasant was happening during these discussions—there was a lot of obvious connection and agreement. Lots of smiling and head nodding and yesing, and I hear-youing. Lots of feeling like there was a shared sense of what good educational theory and practice was all about. This was a feeling I had not experienced so much recent years. And I liked it. I guess they liked it too, because they offered me the job.

THEN WHAT? Keep in mind, this was June 9th. Most international schools have their hiring well completed by then; after all there are visas and moving arrangements to make, and these can take time. For Ale and I—smack in the midst of buying our second apartment with a government employee program were suddenly under the gun to wrap the deal up before I went off the books at ASF. Thank Vishnu, the director of Human Capital had the heart to let my contract continue to the end of its natural cycle in August so we could make this purchase happen. After a lot of Mexican red tape, we finally prevailed. Next (after some time back in NJ) was a flurry of packing our stuff and furnishing the new apartment. We’ve managed to secure new ASF teachers as tenants—which was a HUGE relief. A buddy of mine, also going to ASB, has ordered a large transport container (think: The Wire, Season Two) and has room for us to sublet in there; though, honestly, there’s not much stuff we taking. Some clothes, books, computers and my family. Packing for this move has made me realize that I am not a materialistic person at all. That’s was a nice realization to have.

We also had some hoops to jump through with the Spanish embassy, which proved to be almost as confusing as Mexican beauracracy, changing the requirements with each visit, differing information between the paper forms and those on the website, vague explanations to questions. Ale said—“Hey, where do you think we learned it from? We got the good looking and you got the smart!” However, the application is in and our fingers are crossed. As expected, the visas were not ready when I flew out two weeks ago. The virtual national shut-down that appears to take place in Spain during August does not appear to be helping.

I stayed in a temporary place right near Las Ramblas during my first week while I met the other ASB newbies, took some Spanish classes and secured an apartment uptown in the neighborhood of Sarria. The city is quite amazing. I arrived just in time for the Gracia street festival that lasts a week, which includes the streets in the neighborhood decorating their streets in themes, using recycled materials, in a competition. There was some amazing designs to see and some wild times in the evenings with food, booze and music everywhere.

Compared with my beloved Mexico, the food and the weather here have been a bit of a disappointment so far, (the weather too hot, the food not too hot) but I have a feeling both will improve with time. The other new teachers seem like a good bunch, but I don’t see too many replacements for the many I came to love so much in Mexico. Again, time will tell. I will say the director and the admin team here continue to impress. That, in and of itself, is exciting. Being away from Ale and Miguel for so long has proved quite difficult, especially for her, with the two year old in tow. So, we’ve decided to have them come over soon, even if it means paying for all three of us to return to collect our visas. In the meantime, I’m working my way through the new staff orientation at work and continuing to settle into my new life in Barcelona. Tales of such are sure to follow. Stay tuned!

Heeee's baaaaaack...

2011-01-11T21:20:00.000-08:00

Hello Everyone, it’s Miguelito in Mexico!

I know it’s been a long time since you’ve heard from me, but, quite frankly, I’ve been busy. (Well, and, perhaps even more frankly, I can be lazy and lacking in focus.) Between the demands of the job—which often include working at home—and the demands of Miguel the boy-wonder—which can be draining of both time and energy—I often have difficulty moving from thoughts of writing up a blog update to the actual typing of one. It always seems like a bad time to get started because I won’t be able to finish, or maybe because I don’t feel I have a new tale of adventure with which to entertain.

My good friend Jamesthemathteacher has inspired me to redouble my efforts at more regular communication in the blog format. He is good for one or so a month these days and I do enjoy catching up with him, as it were, via his email alerts. It doesn’t take too much effort to drop him a quick couple of lines back, and presto, we’ve kept in contact. Honestly, I wish more of my friends and family would shoot out these types of updates so I could know what is up with them. Anyway, not only is James better at blog regularity, he’s also better at keeping them short enough to want to read them all in one sitting, which I’m going to work on from now on. If I’ve got a whale of a yarn, I’ll do installments like I started to do last year. But, I’m going to work on short and sweet.

When I first started this blog, it was primarily for friends and family in the states, to let them know what I was up to and to offer some insight into the Mexican ex-pat experience. After 3 ½ years (can you believe it!?) I feel like I’ve done a pretty good job of offering a sense of what life is like here. And it’s still quite good, but feels more and more like “home” and less like the new place. However, I’ve made so many new friends here that have moved on to new places, I’m starting to feel I need to make an effort at just sending out some basic updates and less like I need to write an epic tale of Mexican hijinks.

So, here it goes:

It’s been a great year since I last logged one of these. Miguel continues to grow and continues to be a beautiful, special boy. We found him a new guarderia that he doesn’t cry at every time we drop him off, so we are happy about that. It’s not free like the state-run day care we gave up on, but it’s only about 12 dollars a day.

My brother came to visit for spring break and I really enjoyed showing him around. Will, Avi and Juan came at the end of the school year to visit and we headed to Chicago to see them over Thanksgiving. Freaking cold is all I’ll say. Well, that and I’d like to see Chicago again not during the winter. More good buddies also moved on from ASF and we wish you all well.

I continued to squeeze out some travel, spending a week in Holland last winter on a school MUN trip, hitting Chiapas last summer for some Spanish classes and exploration and a weekend trip to the desert town of Real de Catorce. Together with Ale and Miguel, we visited another sweet Hacienda along with beach trips to Mazatlan and Puerto Vallarta.

I took on the MUN class this year (no one else dumbest enough to do it?), which is bound to add some stress to my life as we head through the next few months of planning the two day conference for 900 students. But, generally work is enjoyable. Even so, I’m going to take a look at some opportunities in administration out there over the next month or so. I’ll be heading to San Fran for a job fair in February and looking into some openings here at ASF as well. I could continue to be Miguelito in Mexico, or maybe I’ll become Miguelito in Shanghai. We’ll see…

Though I haven’t written much over the past year, I have managed to take a lot of pictures, including a shit-ton of pictures of Miguel, including some videos. That’s mainly the point of this message—check out these pictures.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/ (click on a set, then slideshow)

In the meantime, I’ll be working on my next update. I swear.

PS. There was something else I wanted to say…Oh, yeah, we’re pregnant!

Abuelitos in Mexico III

2009-12-26T23:58:00.000-08:00

But, as they say, the night was darkest just before the dawn. I was perhaps so busy worrying as I drove steely-eyed onward (though trying not to show it, of course) that I failed to notice the rain had begun to diminish. Finally, we could all breath a collective sigh of relief. Now, it was just the time between us and San Miguel, so I suggested we should play 20 Questions. This is a game I love and one in which I engage with a great of focus and seriousness. But, these three were amateurs. At first, my dad didn’t want to play at all. “How can I say yes or no to that question, not possibly being able to know everything about that person?” My mom and Ale played along willingly, but they played along, “Has this person ever been to Iowa?—ha, ha, ha!!" Normally I would have been more annoyed, but I was happy to get us all involved in an activity that was taking our minds off of the road. And, mercifully, within an a couple of hours, we were coming over the ridge and looking down onto the quaintly cobble-stoned streets of San Miguel de Allende. And even more mercifully, we very quickly found a reasonable hotel one block off the main square, at none other than: “Hotel San Miguelito.” I shit you not. Hopefully, this had to be an auspicious sign.

Ale said she was tired and would stay in with the baby. My parents said they thought they would stay in as well. Ale has been to San Miguel on several occasions so she could afford to miss this part of the agenda. Her excuse that she was too tired to come out would stand. (Plus she’s my wife and I always go along with what she says.) But, blisters, soaking wet, long day, old people—none of these excuses were going to fly with me! “I really, really think you should come on out for a little bit, at least. After all...we came all this way.” (As if they needed reminding.) And come out they did. Weren’t these the people that always used to make me do things? I really thought they were going to tell me to buzz off at this point. But, they were real troopers and came out for a stroll on the town and a drink at the very classy Tio Lucas restaurant. As we sat relaxing, listening to jazz, snacking on some delicious appetizers, chatting and sipping our whiskeys, the whole long, scary, crazy drive seemed to melt away into the distant and harmless past. Or did it? It was during our tranquil time at Tio Lucas that my parents decided to share with me that their trip to Mexico had prompted them to rewrite-up their will right before they left, and that I would be the executor of such. Geez, I laughed uncomfortably, what could have made them think their lives would have been at risk by coming to see me in Mexico?

The next day we woke up relatively early and I took my folks on a daylight tour of that most delightful of Mexican cities that is San Miguel de Allende. We had coffee and molletes off the little zocalo before strolling through the town, taking a peek at some cathedrals and parks before strolling through the market and buying some fruit. By mid-day we were back on the road, headed toward Guanajuato by way of Dolores, the town where Mexican Independence was born. Dolores is nothing particularly special, but it was cool to stand in the very spot of the original Grito de Independencia. Plus my folks got to see me bribe a cop in order to secure prime parking on the street. I’m not sure what they thought of that, but they definitely appeared to enjoy the extremely scenic drive over the mountains to Guanajuato, where we got out several times to snap some photos.

Guanajuato: the picturesque European-like city that would surely impress my parents of the wonders of Mexico. This would be a hit for sure. Of course, it can get a little busy and crowded on Saturday. And my parents had experienced a rough couple of days, so, I hoped it wouldn’t be TOO lively there. But, this tour was apparently about suffering, not hope. So, it was only fitting that we should arrive in Guanajuato on the last Saturday of the Cervantino Festival, a month long theatre, art and DRINKING bonanza that every Mexican teen and twenty something pilgrimages at least once in their lifetime. Just looking at the crowd made me ill. This would be the point where my parents said, “enough!” But, it was time for a bit of luck. Making our way through the obscenely crowded streets would have been unbearable—I’m not sure my parents would have survived—except for the saving grace of having the stroller with us. Contrary to intuition, the stroller is not a hindrance in situations like these; it magically serves as a Moses-like staff that parts the Red Sea of even the most crowded and drunken crowds. People see you coming with a baby in a stroller and they make way without any complaint. Using this method, we managed to get through the mob, check out the beautiful town, and find a seat in a nice restaurant in the Jardin Central, where we enjoyed another tasty Mexican meal, including pozole. I bought my mom a snazzy poncho and we even squeezed in some silver shopping before heading back to the Jeep for the final leg of our journey.

A four and a half hour long leg, in the dark, over the mountains to be exact. I too was beginning to feel the wear of such action-packed four days; but the circle needed to be completed. And besides, my friend Micah was having a Halloween party that night! So, I drove like a man possessed for the DF. This time there was no apocalyptic rainstorm—oh no—only some ridiculously blinding fog throughout the windy, mountainous roads. Once again, I drove through it all with unyielding focus, playing it cool without letting on to anyone of my own fear and self-doubt, squinting through the fog and somehow managing to get us all to our destination in one piece.

And even though we arrived home in time for me to technically make it to the party, I decided to stay in and hit the hay. Tomorrow would be the last day of my parents trip, and I wanted to be in shape to enjoy it with them. Sunday ended up being like a day like we would have had at home in NJ. Ale, my mom and I went shopping in the morning which allowed me to take a detour and show her the ASF campus. While we all pitched in a bit on the cooking in the afternoon, my dad and I watched the Eagles beat the shit of the Giants. (Sweet!) “Dada” and “Nana” took the opportunity to goo-goo, gah-gah with their newest grandson on the bed. It was everything I missed about not having them around. It was a relaxing and refreshing day of quiet family time that I hoped would leave them rested, refreshed and ready to catch their plane the next morning after a good night’s sleep.

But, I already told you that this trip was about suffering, not hope. So, I shouldn’t have been surprised one bit when I came out of my room, ready to head to work Monday morning to find out that my mom was having another “spell.” She was lying on the couch, pale and quiet. She then confessed that she normally doesn’t do great getting up in the pre-dawn hours and that she’d felt lightheaded on several mornings in our apartment. It then occured to me that I had not seriously considered the well documented draining effects of the high altitude of Mexico City on my newly-arrived, aging, parents as I drug them all over tarnation. (Did I mention that I am an idiot of sorts?) We had been planning on putting them into a radio cab and sending them on their way, but suddenly that plan was out the window. Ale quickly seized control. She’d go with them to the airport and I’d stay home with Miguel, work be damned. Luckily, when Louanne hit the cool air outside the airport, her system rebooted and she was able to board and fly home without incident.

Of course, I didn’t find this out until much later in the day when I received and email to that effect. In the meantime, I spent the day thinking, "Dude, what is wrong with you? You practically killed your parents with this trip!" And even though I was thinking that mostly tongue-in-cheek (I was pretty sure, despite the frenetic pace, that they had had a quite a good time) I then found myself taking this a step further, allowing the most dreadful scenario to play out in my head. What if this time my mom did not recover from her spell on the plane and make it safely home to NJ? I spent the day pondering what I already know to be true, that these two most special and important people in my life will someday come to the end of their tour here on earth. The hollow and ugly feeling was practically unbearable, and yet I know it is only a smidgen of what the real feeling will surely be when the awful time comes. I love them both so much I can hardly continue typing these words right now. In fact, I couldn’t. I had to stop and cry for a few minutes.

It is quite obvious as I type now, that I spent so much effort trying to show my parents a good time because I love them more than I can possibly describe. And because I was eager to share with them what a good life I have here in Mexico so they can know for certain that I am happy, because I know that’s important to them. I can only hope that they enjoyed their visit to Mexico more than they endured it. I'm fairly certain that is the case. I know I am definitely glad they came. And Mom and Dad--next time you come down--I PROMISE, we’ll take it easy.

Abuelitos in Mexico II

2009-12-21T20:04:00.000-08:00

And next? A day off? A break? Oh, I don’t know—how about a thousand mile tour around Mexico in two days? (If you are a regular reader of this blog, then you’ll know that I am an idiot of sorts. But, let me just take the opportunity to say it directly: I am an idiot of sorts.) Yes, you heard me correctly. After a stressful day of travel that had the stewardesses calling “is there a doctor on the plane?!” for my fainting mother, after an arduous city walking tour followed by a day exploring castles, museums and a cathedral, I then took my aging, weary parents and my barely 3 month old son and wife on a two day, thousand mile tour around central Mexico in our Jeep Grand Cherokee. Yup, I did that.

It started with a trip up to the ruins of Teotihuacan, a set of pre-Aztec gargantuan pyramids. Unlike the El Greco exhibit, my father had specifically requested that we visit this most famous ancient site. So, I felt pretty good about this bit. But, this part of the tour did not come without its own glitches. First, I pulled into the first parking lot that I saw upon entering the park, which was near the visitor’s center and some shops, but over a mile from the main temples. So, the visit began with—you guessed it—more walking. Not that it was so bad; it was a beautiful day, not too hot, blue skies with fluffy white clouds playfully rolling by overhead. (Well, that’s how it all appeared when we started our journey into the park.) We finally arrived at the Temple of the Sun, which my dad and I climbed without too much difficulty. (Funny how being excited about a project will make you forget about your blister problem.) I could tell my parents were impressed and enjoying themselves. We took a break for Ale to feed Miguel and then headed over to the little shops to purchase some mementos. My mom even bought herself a pair of sandals she was very pleased with. It was all going so well. And then, suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, dark ominous clouds swallowed up the sky. And just like that, some mile or so from our car, the deluge began.

Getting rained on can be a drag no matter what. And getting rained on with your parents whom you are showing around is really not great. But, throw into the mix that you’ve also got a baby in a stroller in tow and then things get really crappy. Because of that, we had to take the long way around on the gravel path instead of a quicker more direct route that required us traversing several sets of steep steps. By the time we got back to the Jeep we were thoroughly and utterly soaked. (The one umbrella we thankfully had with us was used to protect the baby.) We ended up taking off our wet shirts and putting on the brand new t-shirts my folks had just bought as gifts for the family back home. “Oh,” she said, “I’ll just iron them when I get home and they won’t know the difference.” (Sorry to blow your cover, Mom.)

I drove around the park until I found a restaurant, and ran in for some food. Everyone else opted to stay in the car and attempt to reset their body temperatures. When I came out with some barbacoa tacos and mushroom quesadillas, I learned that there had apparently been a pow-wow in the car without me; and the consensus was that perhaps we should just call this a day and head home. You know, being soaked and tired and blisters re-aggravated and such. Maybe we should reconsider the long trip to San Miguel de Allende that evening. “Blasphemy!” I thought. If we go home now, we’ll have a hard time logging the thousand miles we so desperately need to make. Mexico City is great; it’s fantastic and amazing and splendid. But, now that you’ve seen some of it, you simply have to see some other parts of Mexico. So, despite the rain that continued to pour (it couldn’t possibly last much longer, the rainy season was supposed to be over for crying out loud) we headed onto the highway toward San Miguel via Queretaro.

And that’s when it happened. The REAL rainstorm began. Everything up to this point had been a relative drizzle. As night fell, so did the buckets upon buckets of violent water. The visibility was for shit. I mean, literally nil. Everyone in the car was surely thinking that this mad tour guide had finally gone too far. This would be the first and last tour of Mexico. It would all end here. And poor little Miguel strapped helplessly in the back seat would never live to see his first michelada. The lightening storm that ensued was literally the greatest I had ever seen in my entire life, an incredible etch-a-sketch of electricity in the sky. Long winding Jackson Pollock like displays that hung longer in the air than I had previously known was possible. It was breathtaking and beautiful. A truly natural fireworks display. Not that I was supposed to be watching any of this as I barreled along through the ever-growing lake sized puddles and the crowded, erratic traffic, both hands clenched to the steering wheel, torn between giving my parents the Mexico tour they surely deserved and the thin black line of tragic family car wreck. But, I couldn’t help but drive on and watch it all unfold.

I had already overruled the goup and committed us to getting to San Miguel de Allende, so press on I did, praying (cursing?) for the rain to stop. Trying to calmly breathe the air in the Jeep, so heavy with the doubts, fears and judgments of those I loved most. The silence was almost as defeaning as the rain beating upon the Jeep. Just as I thought we had reached some level of resignation, that things couldn’t get any worse--blink. On goes the interior light. Ok, whose door is open? Check. No one’s. Ugh. My father offered that maybe the water he’d been feeling leaking in under the dash was now affecting the electrical system. Suddenly, a quick painless car crash seemed the least of my worries. What we were looking at was an electrical failure that would leave us stranded on the side of the road in Mexico, in the dark, during the storm of the century.

Final installment to follow...

Abuelitos in Mexico!

2009-12-19T18:36:00.000-08:00

My friend Pete, who is smarter than me, wrote me after my last blog to say, "Hey, this is good shit, but I wonder how many people manage to finish reading them when they are so long. Why not issue them in smaller installments." So, I'm going to try that this time. If I get more feedback from people saying this helped them read them and enjoy them, then I'll make it a new thing. If not, then Pete doesn't know shit. I wrote this blog while on a tour of Baja California Sur, a truly amazing place. Mexico is so diverse and incredible. Don't know if I'll squeeze in a blog about that trip, but I'll surely have pictures of it (as I already do of my parents visit) posted at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157622745419733/show/ Check 'em out!

My parents came to visit us last month. At the October/November Cusp. Day of the Dead/Halloween. All that. Not that this is why they came then. I needed to use the last three days of my “paternity” leave before November 1st. So, that’s when I told them to come on down. Of course, I’ve been telling them to “come on down” pretty much since I’ve been here. (You know, like for my wedding.) But, circumstances (read: global financial crisis and housing sales slump) and a longstanding provincial attitude about international travel kept them from responding to the invitations. Enter Miguel Alberto. The little guy had only been on the planet for a month and a half and he already had my parents buying plane tickets to Mexico. Well done, Son. I didn’t really care what had pushed them over the edge. I was simply ecstatic that my rents would finally be joining us in Mexico to get a first hand view of our lives. It’s weird that I care so much. At what age do you stop wanting your parents to be proud of you? I know I’m not an old man, but the signs indicate that I am getting “older”—the eyesight is failing, the libido is not as chipper as it once was, the recovery time after intense physical workouts is longer. (The recovery time after intense partying, however, seems to be lessening—this is probably a bad sign.) At any rate, at 43 years old I was totally stoked that Mike and Louanne would be visiting us and I counted the days down until their arrival.

Of course, looking back, it's clear that my enthusiasm got the better of me; I took them on a whirlwind tour that left my mother barely able to catch the flight home to NJ. Of course, she didn’t arrive in the best of shape either. My mother and some of her other siblings suffer from a rare condition that causes fainting at times. I can remember my uncle Patrick (the eighth of eight children, and thus only a year and a half older than me) sprinting away from the Fourth of July parades whenever the fire engines would approach, blaring their sirens. Apparently, for some reason, that would kick off his fainting spells. And I can also remember my aunt Margie being found passed out on the bathroom floor of my grandparents’ house when I was little. In recent years, my mother has developed additional physical quirks, like occasional migraines and something else that causes her to experience uncontrollable rapid heart beats. (I can’t remember the names for any of this stuff.) Not that any of it happens frequently as far as I understand it, just that it happens, sometimes. My mom is a sweet and fragile person, nothing terrible in that. So, when my parents confessed shortly after arriving in Mexico City on Tuesday night that my mom had passed out on the plane on the way to Mexico and given themselves, and everyone on the plane a good scare, it was not all that shocking of a surprise. But, I probably should have taken heed.

But, I didn’t. And the whirlwind tour commenced immediately after dropping their bags off at the apartment by walking them down the street to the Califa taco place. I’ve shared a lot with my family about the delights of Mexican food and wanted to introduce them right a way. This wasn’t the street tacos that I adore, but Califa is pretty tasty. So, we headed over there and had some tacos al pastor and some gringas shortly after they arrived at our apartment at 11pm. They seemed to enjoy them well enough before we went back home and finally put them to bed in Miguel’s yet occupied room at 1am after a long day of traveling. Oops, that was 3am their time. Sorry guys.

Still, the tour needed to continue (like the Milgram experiement), so the next day we got up and quickly started their personalized walking tour of my surrounding neighborhoods—Hipodromo, Condesa, Roma Norte, Juarez. We hit Buena Tierra for brunch, then Parque Espana and Parque Mexico, the Cibeles and Diana Fountains, Reforma, Little Korea. We did stop for a rest at Cafemania off of Parque Mexico. As we headed home after this long first day, I heard some mention of blisters emerging on their toes and “I haven’t walked this far in a long time.” Oops again. (Did I mention my parents are in their mid-sixties?) Sorry again guys. Well, not sorry enough to not schedule a dinner out at the Lebanese place we like so much with 12 of my closest friends. I really wanted my awesome friends to meet my awesome parents. Of course my folks were slightly subdued for the event, given the 3am bedtime the night before and the ten mile walking tour. Even so, we had a nice time, finishing off the evening by toking on the hooka. My friends got a glimpse of the two people responsible for making me me. Afterwards, I’m certain both my parents were asleep the moment their heads hit their pillows.

But, hey man, there is a lot to see in this great city of mine. So, the next day after breakfast we headed up to Chapultepec Castle, which I’d pointed out to them from my 9th floor apartment windows. After walking up the long steep hill that leads to the castle, we toured the residential portions of former emperors and presidents and headed into the museum portion for some more when my mom suddenly decided she needed some air. Too stuffy, she said. Gee, Mom, sorry about that. Ale went outside to sit with her. My dad and I hurried through the rest of the museum in order to catch up with the girls and Miguel outside.

Still, the day wasn’t over yet. Shoosh, it was only 3 o’clock or so. The show must go on and all that! We drove downtown, after a stop for some street quesadillas, to the Bellas Artes Palace to show them the El Greco exhibit that I’d heard so much about. Ale and I had been dying to see this and had waited specifically for my parents’ visit to finally go. When I heard my mom saying, “who exactly is El Greco again?” it dawned on me that Ale the art buff and me the history buff were perhaps not thinking straight when we set up this part of the itinerary. (Still, it was really cool, set up in the dark with highlight lights on the paintings. Better even than the normal showcase in Toledo, or so I’ve been told.) We left the museum and headed down toward the Zocalo, the huge central plaza of the city. (They assured me their feet were up for the mile walk or so through the old weathered buildings of El Centro.) After taking in the wonders of that mighty plaza, peeking inside the Catedral Metropolitana and taking a gander at the ruins of the original Aztec temples upon which the city is built, we headed over to the La Casa de las Sirenas restaurant and enjoyed some truly fine Mexican cuisine, garlic trout, chile enogada, and mole con pollo. It was on this satisfied note that we headed back to the apartment to put day two in the books. Way to hang in there you two!

Installment II to follow...

Working Vacation

2009-10-26T00:31:00.000-07:00

At the second welcome party I attended during my first week in Mexico, a teacher described the life here as, “A working vacation.” Boy, did that have a nice ring to it. And man, he wasn’t kidding. I’m on year three here and I still feel like I’m on a working vacation. That’s not to say we don’t work hard at our school. Like most teachers, we work ridiculously hard, often ten hours a day and sometimes more on the weekends. However, when we are not working—then it’s pure vacation-like fun.

I realize I have already extolled the many wonders of Mexico City in previous blogs, but let me just say that after two years here, I continue to be fascinated, surprised and enchanted by all this city has to offer. Just recently, I went to have some happy hour drinks with my pals Ryan and Dean in a restaurant that has two lions in the courtyard. (They were in cages, not wandering freely among the tables.) And despite being in relatively small cages, they behaved in a way that made me think there were not entirely unhappy, playing like two cats. So, living in Mexico City continues to be an exhilarating experience, unique and exciting.

And then, there’s the rest of Mexico; so much to explore. The people I work with are constantly heading out to the beaches for surf fun, off hiking volcanoes, or white water rafting, or just visiting the scores of beautiful Mexican colonial towns. Every weekend someone is off somewhere. And like so much of what we do here, whether it’s watching football at Caliente’s—the gambling house with all the games on—playing Frisbee, followed by lunch on Saturdays, going to see our buddy Jason DJing at a local venue, meeting for Sunday morning barbacoa at Parque Espana, visiting a new show at a museum, the weekend excursions are often done in groups as well. A constant flow of new opportunities at each weekend or vacation: awesome people, great friends, traveling around together in Mexico on their ongoing working vacation.

One such weekend occurred not to long ago. We were invited to celebrate our friend Erin’s birthday by getting a house with a pool by Lake Tequesquitengo. And get this—jumping out of airplanes too! (With parachutes.) Unfortunately for Ale and I, my RSVP to Erin’s boyfriend Hector sat unsent in draft email form without me realizing it. Consequently, we were only able to get in on the deal for Friday night. Luckily, I had some paternity days I was able to cash in, so I took off Friday and we headed up before the rest of the group to have the house to ourselves for the day. The house was quite nice, with a large patio area with a pool adjoining a nicely landscaped yard over looking the lake.

We arrived in the early afternoon and after a quick shopping trip to the local tienda, we settled in to our weekend villa. While the maid made us lunch and drinks, we took Miguelito for his first swim in a pool. He was slightly freaked out at first but eventually got into it. He was naked, so I was slightly concerned about him squirting some of his mustardy yellow shit into the water. Thankfully, he maintained some self control. After our swim we sat in the yard reading and drinking some more until the sun began to go down and we were all ready for a nap.

After a few hours of blessed sleep—naps are not something I often get to enjoy much since the baby arrived—we got a call from the rest of the gang looking for some directions, as the place was a bit tough to locate. We got up and began our Friday party as people trickled in throughout the evening. One of the cool things about this weekend was that there were a lot of people there that I had never met. Erin has a knack for meeting random people and befriending them. So besides some of our core buds, there was a dose of new people, some meeting each other for the first time. There was a guy from Spain, a couple of guys from England, a computer dude from Oregon, a girl here doing her PhD work, all interesting and friendly folk. Miguelito came out for a while and was passed around among the girls. Soon, someone was cooking up some quesadillas with mushrooms and we laid into those. With a big day ahead for many of us who would be skydiving, people trickled off to bed one by one and two by two. Jordan and I, well into a bottle of Jack Daniels, were the last men standing in the wee hours of the morning, and bonded even further with a skinny dipping session before heading to bed. Suddenly, I had a brilliant idea. I went up on the balcony and threatened to jump into the pool. Since the “deep end” was only five feet deep, Jordan argued against it. I was still not dissuaded until he pointed out how stupid I would feel if I was unable to skydive the following day if I had broken my ankle the night before. For once, I erred on the side of caution.

Despite the significant drinking until 4am, I lept out of bed at 7:30 am eager to jump out of a plane at 13,000 feet. Driving to the jump location, we passed several groups of burros, some practically blocking traffic. When I commented on this, Tina—ever ready to argue with me—said definitively that they were mules. She explained that mules were half-breeds between horses and burros. I told her that I was aware of what constituted a mule, only the little shaggy spindly legged things on the side of the road were, in fact, burros. “Did you grow up on a farm, Mike?” she challenged. It was with great pleasure that I was able to say, with some truth, “Yes, Tina, I did.” (I didn’t point out that while we had a horse and a pony, chickens, geese and rabbits, we never hosted any burros.) The rest of the crew in the car burst into laughter. Tina’s bluff had been called! The great and frustrating thing about my arguments with Tina is that they are virtually never resolved. But, this time, she was stumped. (Though, I’m certain she’ll never admit it.)

When we arrived at the skydiving place, we got a good gringo laugh to discover they were not open yet, even though it was past the advertised opening hour. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the workers arrived and we began our training. There had been some nervous joking about using a Mexican company to skydive, being that attention to detail is often not the strong suit of Mexican business. But, this place was legit. Very professional, friendly and thorough. My tandem guy spoke perfect English, having studied in Miami for college. He talked about how much partying he had done there, and I thought perhaps that was why he was now a jump instructor. As we floated down to earth an hour later, I would come to find out how very wrong I was. His father owned the company and he’d been jumping since he was five years old. He was a nuclear physicist who had just finished his masters degree in Belgium and was heading back to Munich for his PhD. In a sad commentary on Mexican progress, he admitted he’d need to work in the U.S. or Europe after he graduates, since there is no nuclear energy program to speak of in Mexico.

The jump was fantastic. I’d skydived once before and it was so mind boggling and overwhelming that I remember landing on the ground and feeling like I had just woken up and didn’t properly savor the experience. This time, I was much more relaxed and really focused on enjoying both the freefall and the float down. Also, the first time was in a bigger plane in which you had to “jump” out. That part was hard. Your brain is telling you very clearly that jumping out of a plane when everything on the earth is just little dots is a stupid idea. This time, the plane was much smaller, and we worked our way out of the small door onto a metal leg jetting out to the plane. He stood on that with me strapped beneath him and he did the release into the great wide open without me having to make an act of volition.

After our jump, we headed back to the house and got into a serious pool party. The maid was busy making drinks and snacks while we all enjoyed the sun, the pool and the view. By mid-afternoon it dawned on me that we must have been at a significantly lower elevation that Mexico City because the temperature was significantly hotter. There were swim up tables where the pool and kitchen met, so staying cool in the pool while you had your drinks became the name of the game. Throughout the day, even more people showed up; at the height of the party there might have been 25 people there. More than once I said, and heard others say—drink in hand, floating in the pool, overlooking the lake—“this is some life we are living.” Later in the afternoon, the maid cranked up the grill and cooked up a slew of meats and vegetables we had purchased, along with some quesadillas. It was a fantastic feast that left us all quite stuffed.

As the evening wore on Ale and Miguelito and I snuck off to take another brief nap before getting ready to go out for Erin’s birthday dinner. The owner of the house actually owned the restaurant and the meals were included for those paying to stay at the house. (Some people were sleeping in tents in the yard—though we didn’t volunteer that information to the owner.) The meal was OK—nothing to write home about--but it was a good opportunity to further get to know some of the new people I had met during the weekend. I got to hear more about the PhD girl’s investigation into Mexican-Cuban relations during the Seventies and was jealous of her being a student.

After the cake came out and Erin blew out the candle, Ale and I packed Miguelito in the car to drive back to Mexico. Our room would be occupied by Dean and his girlfriend and her sister that night. (I keep forgetting to ask Dean how that went, as there was only a large, single bed in the room and two sisters to share it with!) Our friends Kristen and Jordan decided to join us for an early departure. 24 hours of straight partying had taken its toll, and there were extra people who could use their room. Waking up at home in their own beds, ready to watch football was a prospect well worth the two hour drive home at midnight.

All in all, it was another fantastic “working vacation” weekend. And the truth is, it’s just one example of the many great trips we take throughout the year. For some reason, it’s the sort of thing I would rarely do in NJ. But, here, hitting the road with friends for adventure is quite the norm. I heard later that those who stayed on Sunday continued the pool party, even jumping in groups from the balcony into the pool. The pictures I saw sure made it look like fun. I KNEW I should have jumped when I had the chance!

VIVA MEXICO!!

2009-09-16T10:40:00.000-07:00

For those many gringo friends of mine who somehow still manage to think Cinco de Mayo, or the 5th of May, is the date of Mexican Independence, let me clue you that Mexican Independence Day is celebrated on the eve of September 15 and the following day, September 16th.

It all started 199 years ago in 1810. The world had witnessed the American Revolution transform British colonies into independent states, whose laws and institutions were firmly based in the ideas and values of the Enlightenment. The French soon followed with an attempted Enlightened Revolution of their own. Lacking the historical and cultural democratic experience of the Americans, the French Revolution spiraled into a bloodbath of beheadings and wars until a general named Napoleon assumed control, declared himself emperor, and effectively ended the first attempt at a true French republic. As Napoleon expanded his control and influence over much of continental Europe, he placed his brother Joseph on the throne of Spain. Consequently, Mexican authorities found themselves beholden to a crown they rightly rejected as illegitimate. Many upper class Spaniards migrated to Mexico, where they fomented anti-French and Mexican nationalist sentiments. One person caught up in this new movement was a creole (a Mexican of pure Spanish decent) priest who was both as popular with the mestizo (mixed race Mexicans) and natives as he was unpopular with the church (he was tried by the Inquisition) for his Enlightened ideals. He was working with other anti-French and Enlightenment influenced creoles on a plan for armed insurrection when the plot was prematurely discovered in the nearby town of Queretaro. Before the authorities could squash their plans, he quickly rang the bell of his church in Dolores, where he addressed his congregation in the town square (or zocalo) just before midnight.

No record of his apparently inspirational speech survives, but the reenactment of this call to arms (El Grito—“the shout or cry” in Spanish) is the centerpiece of the celebration that kicks-off Independence festivities every year in Mexico. Today's El Grito consists of some reconcrtucted version of the original cry being recited, followed by acknowledgement of the founders, "Viva Allende!" (crowd): "VIVA!" "Viva Morelos!" (crowd): "VIVA!" "Viva Hidalgo!" (crowd): "VIVA!" And it ends with,"Viva Mexico!" (crowd): VIVA! (repeated three times). These reenactments happen in zocalos big and small in cities and towns all over Mexico at 11 pm every September 15th. The reenactment of El Grito is followed by fireworks, dancing, singing and drinking into the night. This explains why the national day off from work for independence occurs on September 16th, not September 15!

Hidalgo and other early revolutionaries were summarily captured and executed, but the revolutionary genie could not be put back in the bottle and the war against the French illegitimacy raged on and was almost immediately turned into a war for complete independence from any foreign crown. Spain finally acknowledged the reality of an independent Mexico in 1821.

Ale and I celebrated our first Grito on our first weekend away together to Queretaro, and then to San Miguel de Allende, home of another early founding hero, Ignatio de Allende. On September 15, the quaint colonial square in San Miguel was awash in a festive atmosphere, filled with tourists, vendors of all sorts and Mariachis throughout the day. By evening it was completely packed with celebrants waiting for the mayor to appear and reenact the “Cry of Dolores.” After El Grito, when the fireworks went off on the huge towering carrousel built in the plaza, the people crammed underneath it began a mad dash in all directions away from the falling flames, burning gunpowder and choking smoke. This, of course, caused a ripple effect in the crowd which resulted in us almost being crushed. We were literally being lifted off our feet and moved feet at a time. It was quite scary for a moment, yet most around me were laughing. (If you are asking why authorities didn’t cordon off the area underneath the fireworks carousel, you obviously have not lived in Mexico.) It was exciting and crazy experience, and devolved into dancing and merriment in the streets; no harm no foul.

This year, a head cold had me feeling a bit under the weather so we invited some friends over for a few drinks and some “servicio a domicilio” or food delivery. My friends showed up, Ryan wearing a national futbol team jersey, and Tim sporting a giant Mexican mustache, sold along with Mexican Flags on the streets during this time of year. The mood was mellow, but enjoyable. We were hoping for sushi but discovered that us dopey gringos had waited too late on Independence Eve and had to settle for cheeseburgers and curly fries. THE Zocalo in El Centro here in Mexico City is ground zero for El Grito, where the president conducts the reenactment before tens of thousands in front of the National Palace and for millions on TV. It rained—hard—all evening, so those who stood there for hours were true patriots. By 11pm the rain had slowed enough for us to go up onto the roof of our apartment building and watch the fireworks from the Zocalo. The HUGE red, green and white bursts were impressive even from a few miles away in the rain. Simultaneously, there were visible displays from at least four other distinct launch sites, as well as various other wannabees launching the occasional missile from around the city. The sounds and sites of Mexican independence reigned down across the cityscape of 20+ million like the rain coming down from the heavens.

The next day we slept in (well I slept in, Ale was up early feeding the baby) and awoke to a beautiful sunny day in which the city appeared washed clean by the heavy rains. After I finish writing this blog, we are going to check out the Bellas Artes museum downtown where there is a visiting El Greco show. If that’s closed today, (the website makes no mention of being closed for the holiday) we’ll maybe head over to Chapultepec park, the giant forest filled with museums, a castle, lakes and an amusement park. It’s a great day to live in a great city, in a great country, in a wonderful world. Viva Mexico!

PS. If you’re still wondering what the hell Cinco de Mayo is all about, quite simply it is a celebration of the victory of a smaller Mexican Army over a much larger invading French Army at the battle of Puebla, on the plains outside the city of the same name that lie a few hours south east of the DF. The French, who had come ostensibly to force Mexican repayments of defaulted international loans, eventually ended up conquering Mexico and installing Austrian Prince Maximilian on the throne, until liberal forces, supported by the US, helped overthrow his French puppet government restoring Benito Juarez to the presidency. Still, the victory symbolizes Mexican pride and resistance to foreign influence and control. Why this day has become a significant holiday in the U.S. (it’s not big here) is likely because beer, chip and dip companies needed a spring holiday to push their products. May Day, the international socialist workers rights day, just doesn’t have the same festive ring to it.

Photo: President Felipe Calderone issuing El Grito in the Zocalo from the Palacio Nacional.

Ya Llego! (He's finally arrived!)

2009-08-06T14:05:00.000-07:00

Well, it was a long time coming, 39 weeks to be somewhat exact (I still have yet to get a firm grip on the due date predicting process) but on August 1, 2009 at 8:53 am, in Torreon, Coahuila, Mexico, our son Miguel Alberto Hennessy Diaz Alvarado was born. It wasn't exactly pretty. I mean, maybe it was pretty as far as Cesarean surgery goes, but from a layman’s perspective it was pretty gruesome. They just sliced her open and yanked him on out of there, no "gootchie, gootchie-goo, are you ready to enter the world, little fella?" Nope, they just grab 'em by the ankles and yank con mucho gusto. Ale had no clue what was going on as her view was blocked from all of the gore. I tried not to look, but when I did, I was reminded of the first ten minutes of Saving Private Ryan. I literally saw her guts oozing out. Not cool. Really, really not cool. (We would learn a week later that her bleeding had been abnormally profuse.) Thankfully, Ale was completely oblivious to the horror show talking place in her abdomen. Why wouldn’t she be? She was locally numbed and mildly jacked up on happy gas. And there were no obvious clues for her. The doctors were goofing around during the operation like they were socializing at an after work happy hour. The anesthesiologist sat off to the side reading a Harry Potter book. (Is this proper procedure?) So, I played along too, telling Ale that “it doesn’t look so bad, and everything is fine.” And meanwhile, on the inside, I was totally freaking out. I tried not to react outwardly—like squeezing the shit out of her hand—which I caught myself doing—and just kept chatting with her to keep her distracted and calm. I was cracking jokes to her like, "hey, while you're in there how bout sucking out some fat, or sewing up my stomach a little tighter, or taking a look for my missing USB..."

But, I don’t want to mislead you; this birthing process hasn't been all fun and games. Some of you have already heard about the insurance disaster that befell us on the road to parenthood. We had reviewed my insurance policy manual from work before we were married and were happy to learn that all we had to do was tell them we were married and "poof!" Ale was covered under my plan. The insurance offered a pretty good maternity package—not enough to cover everything soup to nuts—but enough to make it very bearable, so we decided to get right to work (if you know what I mean!) as soon as we were married, which we did. But, of course, this being Mexico and all, there had to be a glitch somewhere. Such as my school renegotiating the insurance plan over the summer in a way that altered the previous maternity coverage, and not alerting the employees (read: me) to this fact. Yes, (as they would later enjoy pointing out to us) they had put a new insurance manual in every teacher's mailbox at the beginning of the school year; but, it was one of many, many things shoved into my mailbox that first week of school. And I had no reason to believe it wasn't exactly the same manual as the same colored and titled manual I had received a year ago when I started working at ASF. I was very wrong.

It seemed there were many significant policy changes reflected all over the new manual, including this little beauty that had not been in the manual we used to make our decision to get pregnant: "childbirth is covered only after a waiting period of 12 months." Of course, we did not discover this minor point until Ale had been on the policy for six months, just three months before we were due to give birth (I say "we", knowing she did all the work in the pregnancy and birth—if you know what I mean). This was when Human Resources informed Ale that the 9,000 pesos of reimbursement she was seeking for prenatal doctor visits was unavailable to her according to the new insurance policy. She further learned that even though I was an employee in good standing who had been paying into his insurance policy for two years, and was legally married to a woman who had been an officially declared dependant member of my insurance plan for 6 months, we would not be receiving any maternity coverage. ANY COVERAGE. Zero. Zilch, Goose egg. Or as they say down here in Mexico, “nada.”

Sometimes things are so screwed up you just can't even get too upset about them. And in life (and perhaps especially in Mexico), you almost begin to expect this kind of stuff. So, I didn't go postal on anyone, though the urge was there for about two minutes. Our baby was going to be born four months before Ale would be eligible for any maternity coverage and there did not appear to be much we could do about it. We would have surely waited four months if we had known and saved ourselves thousands of dollars. Though I must say now, as I sit here typing and looking over at Miguelito in the crib beside me, I wouldn't trade this particular baby for all the insurance coverage in the world.

Besides, in the end, things got much better for us with regard to the maternity costs. At a meeting I had with the school's director, he and the head of Human Resources, said we were indeed uncovered for childbirth but at least were honest enough to admit it would have been a good idea to have notified the employees that the insurance coverage had changed over the summer. “Note to self for next year,” he said, and actually scribbled a note on a pad, (though it could have been an obscene sketch for all I know, like that guy in The Big Lebowski drew when he pretended to write something down). In a good faith effort he said he would talk to the insurance company and see what he could do. I wasn't expecting much, so I was pleasantly surprised when he came back and said he had talked them into covering 20,000 pesos of the total costs. Not too shabby. Of course, we are waiting to find out how many of the receipts will be accepted when we turn them in. One t left uncrossed or i left un-dotted in standard Mexican bureaucracy is enough to get you a "no podemos aceptar esto”—we can’t accept this.

We definitely appreciated the efforts of my boss in getting us 20,000 pesos of re-imbursement coverage. That was nice for sure; but from our perspective it was the lack of communication on their end that caused us the problem in the first place. It was what happened next that really floored us. It happened at the end of the year party I hosted to honor and celebrate the ASF friends that would be leaving us at the end of the year. The centerpiece of the event was a 17 minute slideshow I put together featuring pictures of us all laughing, playing, traveling, laying on beaches, climbing mountains, rafting rivers, partying, singing, dressing up in costumes, watching bullfights and futbol matches, dancing, and…well, yeah, and drinking little bit along the way. After the slideshow was done, my good friends Jordan and Will unexpectedly jumped up front of the room, busted out a bunch of items and began telling everyone it was time for the drawing of the raffle they had conducted previously at school. WTF? A raffle we would come to find out raised 12,000 pesos for the “Miguelito Birth Fund.” Wow. We were shocked, elated and humbled. I thought of the movie, It’s a Wonderful Life, where Clarence the angel writes to George, the despaired man, “no man is failure who has friends.” It was an overwhelming gift and an awesome display of friendship. We are sincerely indebted to everyone who contributed, especially Jordan who apparently spearheaded the idea.

These two windfalls were great, but they only got us about half way to full maternity coverage, so we decided to do something drastic. We’d have the baby in Torreon, Ale’s home town, a thousand miles north of Mexico City where the hospitals are just as nice--if not nicer--and half the price. And it was also the place where Ale’s cousin had graciously offered to deliver the baby for free. This meant that immediately after coming home from a visit to NJ in early July, Ale would have to head to Torreon and begin the final preparations for D-elivery day. Meanwhile, back in the DF, I took some Spanish classes in the mornings and spend my evenings remodeling the Miguelito’s room and painting the apartment. It was a long time for us to be apart, but we needed to focus on saving money. Any sort of abnormality with the birth and we would be flying without an insurance net. And we remained acutely aware of the loss of income from Ale in the months following the birth.

After three and a half weeks living alone I hit the road in the 1996 Jeep Cherokee that my buddy Will sold us. (Well, he left us the keys to the car when he left for Chicago. He’ll be lucky to see one peso of that money. Sucker!) Driving to Torreon would take about 12 hours—without any sort of complications. My plan was to drive to Zacatecas, a beautiful colonial silver mining town a little over half-way on day one, spend the evening poking around the town and be in Torreon by Friday afternoon to take Ale to the hospital for her scheduled admittance for a C-section by Friday evening. For anyone who’s toured around Mexico on the highways, you know that you often see cars on the side of the road with their hoods propped up and the 16 passengers standing around scratching their heads in the heat. When I see this, I probably think the same thing everyone else does, “Poor bastards; man I’m glad that’s not me.” And for me, I always follow that up with, “What the hell would I do if I were to break down out here in the middle of nowhere? I wouldn't know where to begin."

So you can imagine my utter terror when I felt the truck jerking spastically up a hill and I looked at the dash to see the engine light flashing angrily. By the time I came to a stop, steam was flowing profusely out from under the hood. Will had mentioned something about a coolant leak before he left for Chicago—maybe this is what he meant. I looked around in all directions at the long straight highway and at the unending stretch of Mexican wilderness. Not forest, not desert, just miles of semi-arid terrain, replete with red clay, scrubby trees, cactus, and giant flat mesas in the distance. What I didn’t see was any signs of civilization. FUCK ME. Ale is going to kill me if I die out here and do not make it to the birth of our first son. I suppose I could hitch-hike, but that has its downside in Northern Mexico, where the Narco-traffickers’ second favorite pastime after beheading each other and the police over drug business is kidnapping people who they think have money—like gringos stranded on the side of the road. Or I could try to walk to somewhere across the vast plains, but would I be eaten by wolves or just die of exposure?

OK, so I was overreacting. Just a little. I had seen some signs a while back indicating a call box for highway assistance. I called Ale and told her I was going to wait for the truck to cool down then drive slowly to the next call box station. “That thing is not going to work!” she scolded. “This is Mexico!” But, I had to try. And though the line was slightly garbled, it did work. And get this: a guy in a brand new service truck showed up in less than two minutes and began filling my radiator with water. For free. No lie. I’d like to see you find that sort of service in the U.S.

Salvation. This was going to be a breeze! This elation lasted until I started the car and watched the water flowed out of the bottom of the engine like Niagara Falls. It was obvious that the water pump had died in the heat of the drive.

Now, let me say a word about my communication skills in situations like this. Since I speak English all day at work, all evening at home with my bi-lingual wife, and all weekends with my English speaking gringo and/or bi-lingual Mexican friends—I rarely speak the Spanish outside of ordering food, buying stuff and ordering taxi drivers around. I rarely “have to” speak Spanish, so I usually don’t. (Trust me, I loath myself for this laziness.) Generally speaking, I can make myself generally understood in a multitude of situations. But, what I have trouble with is understanding people who speak quickly, with poor diction, and in colloquial phrases and expressions not found in a Spanish textbook or in technical language unfamiliar to me—which is to say, the way a highway service truck driver talks. So, after we figure out that water isn’t going to fix this problem, he starts laying out my options while I try to follow. What I basically understood was that I had two choices—well, three, if you count dying of exposure—but he was explaining two: 1) call and wait some significant amount of time for a tow truck to take me to Aguascalientes, the next town up the highway, or 2) Let him bumper-push me there. The road service was free, since it is part of the benefits you get from paying the ridiculously high road toll fares in Mexico-the other benefit being not having to dodge giant car-swallowing pot holes. At this moment I realized I would never complain about the toll costs again. Still, I couldn’t quite make out whether the tow would be included or would cost extra. But, before I clarified any further, I quickly decided on the bumper push. The jeep was in pretty good physical shape, except for a slightly bent bumper in the back, so it wouldn’t hurt anything. Shit, maybe this would event help bang it back into place. But, more importantly, I had to get to Aguascalientes in time to find a mechanic who was still open. It was already 6:30 pm.

The bumper push ride was weird, I’ll admit. I felt retarded, like I was pretending to drive down the highway in a soapbox go cart without an engine. And it felt wrong. No way would they ever let a truck bumper-push another car down the right hand lane of a four lane interstate highway for 20 kilometers, complete with tractor trailers passing in the left lane at 80+ miles an hour. (I felt less stupid about how I must have looked when on the way back from Torreon, I witnessed an old beat up pick-up truck from the 70's, with six people in the front and a horse standing tied in the bed, being pushed in the same fashion.) I say 20 kilometers because that’s the best estimate I came up with as we drove—as he drove and I coasted—toward Aguascalientes. Soon after we got started, I saw a sign that said, Aguascalientes, 15 kilometers. Some quick math in my head told me that was about nine miles. Not too close, but not too far. After well over five minutes of being pushed at around 30-40 mph, I figured I must be less than ten kilometers away, making good progress. Until I saw a second sign, Aguascalientes: 14 kilometers. Gotta love Mexico. Once on a trip with Jim Weathers and friends we passed a sign that said: Pachuca 74 kilometers; then in less than a minute later saw another reading, Pachuca 57 kilometers. We all laughed knowing we had just passed through a Mexican time warp.

By the time I was shoved unceremoniously off the highway onto a road within the Aguascalientes city limits, it was after 7 pm. After he gave me directions on where to find some mechanic shops, I offered him 60 Pesos to which he made a sincere an honest gesture of “thanks, but that’s not necessary.” He made it clear once again that the help was free, and I made it clear to him that it was my pleasure to tip him.

I located a strip lined with ratty looking mechanic shops on the outskirts of town, identified by the often hand painted signs on the cement walls. As I drove past I saw, Closed… Closed…Closed. Then, Open—but with three cars in front with their hoods up. Great. This guy was the only one open and he was already busy. If I was going to get this problem solved immediately, he was going to ass rape me for it for sure. Or not. The guy was actually really nice and spoke some passable English. I told him I needed to be in Torreon the next day for my son’s scheduled birth and therefore really needed this repair completed that evening. After he had some discussion with the other guy working there they said they could have it done by 10 pm, but warned against driving out onto the highway that night. After my brief panic on the side of the road, I knew what he was talking about. I’d test drive it that night to make sure the repair had done its job and head out in the morning light. Which is exactly what I did. The repairs went off without a hitch, I picked it up by 10:30 and paid 150 bucks. I’m not sure what it would have cost if I didn’t need a rush job, or if I was able to seek competitive prices from other places, but given the circumstances, it all seemed to be worth it. The mechanic directed me to a very decent hotel for 25 dollars a night and I passed the time waiting for the Jeep by walking around the center of Aguascalientes. It was OK, but nothing too special. Most importantly, when I drove around town for about 30 minutes after I picked up the Jeep (I think the shemale hookers thought I was actually on the prowl) there were no signs of overheating. I was good to go.

The next morning things got off to an auspicious start when outside the hotel I saw a taco stand already open at 9am. I love many, many things about Mexico, and the tacos are definitely up there with the best of the rest at the top of the list. I had three tacos of various types of pork and a fresh squeezed orange juice before I hopped on the freeway and headed north. The further north I drove the more isolated the highway became. This was classic Mexican northern desert terrain. Complete with cacti, rocks, mountains and sky—and little else. I suddenly realized how lucky I was to have broken down where I did the day before. THIS was barren middle-of-no-where. And another thing had changed; I was no longer on a nice toll highway with road service. Break down here and there's not service truck to the rescue. Plus, instead of two lanes heading in each direction in true highway fashion, the road had become two single lanes in opposing directions--with a twist. Each lane had a half a shoulder on each side. When I say half a shoulder I mean just that. There was a dotted line with half a lane on each side of the lane. And beyond that, was a significant drop-off or a ditch. Like much of driving in central Mexico, many parts of the road are often steeply uphill, and many of the cars and trucks are slow, so it is necessary for cars to be able to pass in order to avoid long back-ups of traffic. But, on a simple two lane highway, how can this be done?

Well, in Mexico, it’s done by having the slow cars on both sides of the highway sliding over onto the half-a-shoulder so that a third lane is created in the middle of the road for the passing cars. Pretty ingenious, if this is all the flat road surface with which you have to work. I suppose. (Of course, on the other hand, if you’re going to go to the trouble of building a highway across a mountainous desert, why not go all the way and build four lanes?) So, for the next 150 miles I was passing cars and trucks down this improvised middle lane at 80 miles an hour. This may sound simple enough, but understand that it is a delicate dance that only works if all the dancers are aware of each other and dancing together. If everyone isn’t paying close attention, it can quickly turn into a frightening game of head-on chicken. There were times when I was leisurely scoping out the harsh, but beautiful, landscape when I realized that the oncoming traffic was in a middle lane passing situation, one vehicle half way on the side of the road and the other screaming directly at the front end of my car. Luckily, I always managed to notice this before the deadly, inevitable contact. Or, there were other times when I was passing a slow moving truck in front of me, hoping and praying that the oncoming driver realized he needed to get on the half-shoulder before we sent each other into a fiery inferno. Luckily, they did. Perhaps the worst was passing agiant semi with another 18 wheeler coming the other way. It was like the “you’re going the wrong way” scene from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles. Seriously scary shit.

So, I managed to avoid a catastrophic head-on collision and arrived in Torreon by mid afternoon. By 9 pm Ale and I were settled into our maternity suite, which consisted of surprisingly nice digs. Sort of a clean Best Western feel. While she filled out paperwork and got some tests done and an IV inserted, I headed over to the mall next door to get something to eat.

In between the hospital and the mall was the Terraza Garibaldi restaurant (sort of a Mexican Fridays of sorts, with music blaring 1oxs louder). While I stopped to inquire about the food, I also told him about my impending fatherly status. “Felicidades Cabron!” he congratulated me before telling me they didn’t do food to go. So, I headed into the adjoining mall to get some fast food. Just my luck, everything was already closed. When I explained this to the host on the way back to the hospital, he told me to wait while he talked to the manager. I can only suppose he told him I was at the hospital next door awaiting the birth of my first son, because all of a sudden I was being given the VIP treatment. They didn’t allow people to sit at the bar, but they grabbed a chair from a reserved table and set me up there with a beer and a shot of tequila that the manager made a big show of saying was on the house. I ordered some food and began watching the music videos on the large screens throughout the restaurant, while I sipped by beer and tequilia. The place was totally packed, and the food was taking quite a while, so I ordered a couple more shots of tequilia as I waited. Then something strange began happening. The waiters in the joint were literally falling all over themselves trying to serve me. Sometimes pushing each other out of the way to stand in front of me. "Pick me to wait on you," they seemed to be saying, though it was hard to hear anything with the music blaring. Apparently, they had misinterpreted the managers actions to mean I was someone rich or important. They were clearly unaware that I was just an average guy. And they also did not understand that I was waiting on food to go because they kept coming over and trying to set up a placemat and diningware for me. I literally had to tell five different waiters that I dind’t need their help, as they groveled for a chance to serve me. I could tell that people were watching this and wondering who I was and what was going on. It was a bit surreal to say the least. The buzz I took back to the hotel was just enough to get me to sleep without too much tossing and turning on the not-so-great bed the night before the big day.

The next morning came soon enough and we headed down into the OR for the big event. Ale went in before me and as I was filling out the paper work to be allowed into the surgery, the woman asked me who the doctor was performing the operation. Umm… “Ale’s cousin,"--all I knew at that point,--was probably not going to be enough information. Then somehow my feeble brain remembered her first name, “Marcela!" I said proudly. She gave me a blank stare. When she realized I had nothing else to offer, she asked another woman who stood nearby if she knew a doctor Marcela something, and she replied, “That's Dr. Almaguer.” Just as she was finally getting the answer she needed, this really hot chick came walking down the hall, big black Mexican eyes, bright smile, shapely legs supported by bright turquois-blue high heals that matched her blouse, earings and hairband. I’m doctor Almaguer!” she said, turning toward me, immediately recognizing me the gringo husband she'd heard about. Jesus, I thought, this is the doctor!? Ale told me she was cute, but this was over the top. Thank god she would be covered during the C-section from head to toe with surgical attire or this hot doc would be distracting me in the worst possible way at the worst possible time. Ale’s pretty tolerant about me appreciating women out in the world, but I’m fairly certain that ogling another woman while your wife is giving birth to your son is a absolute and unforgiveable no-no.

Actually, technically speaking, sexy Doctor Marcela was not covered from head to toe—her surgical mask covered only her mouth, leaving her nose exposed. Now, I don’t know much of anything about how to do surgery on pregnant women, but I’m pretty sure that for surgical masks to be effective, they need to be covering both the mouth and the nose. I was also pretty confident that this well dressed and beautiful doctor did not have any serious communicable diseases—you know, like tuberculosis or malaria—but it was the principle of the matter that bugged me. God forbid she sneezed some common cold germs into the open cavern before her, the one containing my wife’s exposed entrails, or into the very first breath of my emerging three kilogram son. I’ll admit, this actually bugged me quite a bit. But, the fact that she was doing this surgergy for free prevented me from saying anything. That, and the fact that my focus was on getting Ale through this traumatic experience as best I could.

As described at the beginning of this narrative, the birth of my son was all somewhat surreal: Harry Potter, comedic doctors, Saving Private Ryan, oblivious Ale, and then they yanked this little naked man from my wife’s stomach. Guero, ("whitey") she said matter of factly as they pulled him up by his ankles--though he looked quite purple to me at that moment. And even though I “knew” that she was pregnant and I had watched her stomach had grow tremendously over the months, it was almost a surprise to see him appear like that. Holy shit! There really IS a baby in there! He wasn’t in front of us for long, the pediatrician gave Ale and I a quick look-see and quickly carted him off to an unseen room in the back.

And then it began. The worrying. Welcome to the worrying. We were parents for all of five minutes and already we were racked with concern. Why did they take him so quickly? Is he OK? What are they doing to him back there? What debilitating and expensive disorder had they discovered? Before Ale was done being sewed up, she demanded I go and check on our son. When I got back there, they doctor was busy jamming a suction probe up his nose and down his throat. “Look” he said reassuringly in broken English, “Five toes and five hands.” Yeah, pal, I get the point; but even as he lifted the tiny hands for me to see I was almost afraid to look—what if he actually did have six fingers and eight toes, or any number of other problems? Ugh.

We spent the next few days watching TV, reading a baby book, allowing Ale to recover from surgery, and waiting for the nurses to drop Miguelito off to us for various stints before taking him back for tests and check-ups. On the third night, they gave him to us for keeps, or so we thought. The next morning, Miguelito recieved a final check-up while we packed. Then, as were waiting for them to hand him over for the last time, they announced that his bilirubin count had jumped from 6 to 10 over the last two days. He was turning yellow with jaundice (which his inexperienced and obviously terrible parents had failed to notice) and he would require another 24 hours in the hospital receiving “photo therapy.” This is a fancy way of saying he needed to lay in a baby tanning bed for a while. He looked pretty weird laid out in all his scrawny glory wearing a pair of eye covers attached to his face with Frankenstein bolt-like Velcro buttons glued to his temples. Before we left the hospital we jumped on the internet and Googled bilirubin, finding to our horror that this relatively normal condition, if extreme, could cause brain damage. BRAIN DAMAGE!? So, the worrying rocketed to a new level. Ale and I were racked with dispair as we headed home from the hospital without our beloved newborn son. That night, Ale’s mother mercifully bought me a bottle of Jack Daniels so I could take the edge of my hysteria and get to sleep. (Have I mentioned that I LOVE my mother-in-law?)

The following day Miguelito was released from the hospital, his photo therapy had brought his bilirubin count down a bit to eight. Apparently the light rays make it easier to break down these naturally produced toxins and get them out of his system through his natural bowel movements. The cause of the problem was the incompatibility of blood types between him and his mother. We learned that, other than exposing him to sunlight, one way to get him to pass these natural toxins is to get him eating lots of breast milk, a natural laxative, and in turn, getting him to shit out these toxins more quickly. So, when we took him home the next day, our immediate concern was getting him sufficient breast milk to cause him regular bowel movements. Problem was, Ale was not yet producing much milk. In fact, she wasn’t yet producing any actual leche at all, only the pre-milk substance called colostrum that precedes milk for several days when mothers are breast feeding. And to make matters worse, this milk is further delayed in women who have Caesarian births. Ugh, again.

So, for the next few days most of our worry revolved around getting our beautiful and perfect child to suckle frequently at the magnificent and enormous breasts of his mother. This was done with limited success, so we needed to supplement his feeding with formula from a bottle. But, the frequent crapping, so famous among the lore of newborns, and the salvation from brain damage that this crapping would bring, remained elusive. A couple of rabbit-like pellets here, some greenish skid-marks there, but no quality dumps. And so, our parental fretting grew. We were sunbathing Miguelito in indirect sun throughout the day in order to help his body process these nasty bilirubins, but he needed to start evacuating his tiny bowels regularly in order to fully ensure he would not be brain damaged and grow into some sort of demented serial killer. Or worse yet, a Dallas Cowboys or Boston Redsocks fan. The stakes were high. So, when two days later, we woke at 2 am to find a mound of squishy shit in his diaper, Ale and I rejoiced over this blessing from the gods. “Yay!!,” we literally screamed as we high-fived each other. And then it hit me like a ton of…shit. People had been telling me that being a parent was going to “change my life in ways that I could not imagine.” Suddenly, I knew what they meant. Here I was, 43 years old, a well educated professional, successful teacher, part time musician, frequent world traveler, lover of good food, drink, movies, music, etc., and the thing that was bringing me a joy beyond all possible comprehension was a pile of steaming poo in my son’s diaper. Yeah, I’d say things have changed.

Days later, we would visit the pediatrician again to learn, despite all our fears and paranoia, that our son was as healthy and normal as any parent could expect. Miguel Alberto Hennessy Diaz Alvarado was doing just fine, even if his mother and father are in for a lifetime of more worry and anxiety. But, especially a lifetime of love!

Travel in the Time of Swine Flu

2009-06-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

So, you’ve heard the reports, you’ve seen the pictures, you’ve pondered the horror—now, a first hand account from a survivor of Swine Flu at viral ground zero: Mexico City.

Of course, it came out of nowhere, as most global catastrophe’s do. It started on Thursday night, just as I was getting into bed. The gospel music on my phone which indicates a new text message began playing. Who could be texting me at 11:30 at night? It was from Tina, and it read: NO SCHOOL TOMORROW BECAUSE OF THE FLU. THIS IS NOT A JOKE. To which I immediately thought: THIS MUST BE SOME KIND OF JOKE! As tantalizing as an unexpected day off from work sounded, I wasn’t about to turn my 6 am alarm off. Then I got a second, very similar, text from Jacky. OK—something is up. But what, a conspiracy to make Miguelito miss work—or something much more sinister? I was too tired to figure it out, so I went to bed.

I still left the alarm on, but decided I would check the website first thing in the morning after it went off. And, low and behold, there was the announcement that school would be closed until further notice due to something called “swine flu.” After checking out more news on the internet it became clear that we were in deep pig shit. A new, virulent, contagious and deadly flu, a mixture of pig-bird-human viruses, was spreading throughout Mexico City like the spirit of death during the Passover in Egypt. A real Hot Zone/Outbreak moment had arrived and we were right in the middle of it.

Fortunately, we were already scheduled to get out of town that weekend for Ale’s brother’s wedding in Torreon, so we gladly jumped on a plane that afternoon and left the deadly virus behind. When we arrived in Torreon, there was (surprisingly) no screening from anyone at the airport but plenty of questions from our family. Already, reports had circulated indicating over fifty fatalities. Luckily for us, they weren’t scared enough to want to quarantine us, they took us home for dinner before dropping us at the hotel.

Now I know I’ve shared with you many times before the many fun and quirky things about living in Latin America. It’s what keeps things “interesting” and me on my toes. So, just a quickie: One of the reasons we booked the hotel was that it had a pool. Torreon lies in the state of Coahuila, in the desert of northern Mexico, which is “hot as hell”—to use a technical meteorological term—meaning “really fucking hot.” So, when I saw the alberca cerrada, “pool closed” sign on the pool door I grew concerned. Torreon is not what you would call a bastion of high culture, unless you consider highly air-conditioned large malls and fast food establishments “high culture.” This town is only about a hundred years old and lacks the colonial plaza and architecture that serves as the main attraction in so many Mexican cities and towns. Being able to sit by the pool, dipping, snoozing and reading was supposed to be a highlight of my weekend. “Hey, is this pool going to be working tomorrow?” I asked. “Umm….let me check…uh, yeah, it will be ready by 10am tomorrow.” But, of course, when I went down the next day to take a swim before I had to get ready for the wedding, I was informed that the pool would be available sometime Monday. They always tell you what you want to hear, rather than deal with a problem

The wedding was in a really cute chapel, and went as well as a Catholic Mass/wedding can go; which is to say I didn’t slit my wrist from listening to a gay guy in a glittery frock giving out wedding advice in a language I barely understand. Since we stayed late taking pictures, then went home to change, we (Ale, her sister and her son Dario, and a friend) finally arrived after all the tables were filled and the food served. So much for the idea of a family table. We managed to get them to set up another table and enjoyed some tasty Mexican staples, including tacos with various fillings and Mexican-style rice. Not exactly your gringo first-choice of wedding fare, but better than many a wedding buffet I’ve endured.

It was indeed “hot as hell” on this Saturday afternoon in Torreon, so I did my best to keep under the shade of the tents, avoided being sucked onto the dance floor for too long at a time and visited the two enormous industrial fan/misters frequently. Despite the heat and the setting—which was sort of a swim club recreation center—it turned into a pretty good party as the sun and the temperatures faded. And true to form, Ale’s parents and their merry group of party friends made sure it lasted to the very end—and beyond. They had brought several bottles of whiskey, vodka and tequila which they drank along with the beer being served by the wait staff. When that ran out I went on a beer run to keep them going. When that ran out, we left the wedding reception (the very last ones to go, I assure you) and headed over to one of their houses to play guitar and drink, eat and smoke some more. Honestly—I couldn’t keep up. After being served a triple sized shot of tequila (and finishing it, OF COURSE) I begged off and went back to the hotel, begrudgingly admitting defeat at the hands of my 6O+ year old in-laws and their bohemian fifty-something friends. Once there, Ale and I split a humongous Carl’s Jr burger and double sized michelada (spicey/Cubana style) we had delivered, before passing out.

It was at the wedding reception that I recieved word that all Mexican schools would be closed for another week and a half. Really!? Cases of the flu continued to rise and now it was showing up in the U.S. WTF was going on? I mean, so far it all seemed unreal and probably overblown, but now I was starting to wonder. Should we even return to the DF? Especially Ale, who was pregnant, and unable to take antibiotics. Hmmm. An obvious choice? Well, this should give you a pretty good idea of how boring Torreon is—when presented with the question of whether or not she should stay—she decided to take her chances in the DF. So, we donned our surgical masks and headed home.

By the time we arrived almost every person in the city was wearing a mask. Though, sadly, many people seemed unclear on how they were supposed to protect them from the virus. For example, some people wore the masks only over their mouth but left their nose exposed. Others wore the mask, only to take if off to be better understood when speaking to others. I saw some who wore the mask in their cars—while riding alone. They didn’t seem to get that the virus was spread in bits of saliva breathed, coughed or sneezed out into the air you breath or onto surfaces you might touch and put into your eyes or mouth. Clearly, not covering both your mouth and nose at all times in public was as good as not wearing the mask at all. And wearing a mask alone was protecting from only yourself, who either already had the flu or not. Duh!

Even though I still suffer from the knee-jerk reaction of immediately loving the idea of unexpected day off (snow day! in NJ), ultimately I am a slave-driving-content-obsessed teacher who wants my kids to learn as much stuff as possible. So, my concerns shifted to school, where I headed on Monday to gather some work and get myself organized for the week and a half off. There too was Will, Marlowe, and Ryan Davidson, who were doing the same. Just as we were getting ready to leave a loud and wailing siren kicked off--?????????. Oh, right, of course, an earthquake. Well, never a dull moment! Later that day I watched the American newscasters report about our day in Mexico City: deadly flu + earthquake. My mother must have been beside herself…

Though Ale was content to work from the safety of our apartment, I knew I’d go stir crazy under those conditions. I was already sick of wearing the annoying mask every time I went outside for fear of bringing the deadly virus home to my wife and unborn kid. When Jim Weathers suggested a trip north to Hidalgo to explore some towns and forests he’d heard about up there, I jumped at the chance to get out of town again.

We hit the road with Jim’s girlfriend Laura and his friend/surrogate Mexican mom, Terri. Heading due north up Insurgentes (the longest avenue in the city, and, some claim, in the world) to the state of Hidalgo which none of us knew much about. We had heard about some little towns with cabanas nearby in natural settings. After being unimpressed with Pachuca, the state capital, we headed into the mountains to discover some quiet colonial, former mining towns. The drive through this region was quite nice. At Mineral del Monte we took the Turibus around the town to the old mines and the graveyard. The graveyard was still reserved for only the Cornish miners who originally worked the mines in the region and their descendants. It really was a lovely little town, but most of it was closed due to the flu. After moving on to even smaller towns and hamlets we did come across some cabana places that looked OK, but we were having trouble finding places that were open. According to them, they had all been shut down by the government as part of the “flu contingency.” We found a couple that were willing to rent to us if we would agree to hide our car around back. OK—fine then, let’s negotiate. You’ve got no business and we don’t want to pay your inflated prices, so let’s talk. Nope. Not a chance. Jim and I moved on, shaking our heads at the apparent lack of business sense.

After driving deep into the forest we came upon a very isolated place that featured ATV rentals and a trout fishing pond next door. These simple, but new/clean, cabins sat on the side of a hill, overlooking a field with sheep. This was perfect—except they too had been told to shut down. Well, with darkness descending we pressed hard for an exception, but our failed negotiations at lowering the price were no longer an obstacle. 900 pesos for the night, as I recall, which was 225 pesos each (about 20 bucks) for a two room cabin in a pristine setting. Not cheap, but not bad.

So, we enjoyed ourselves on the balcony, made some fires, played the guitar and had some beers. We headed into the little colonial town we’d passed through the night before and found one place open for breakfast. Already we were seeing large government produced signs explaining the dangers of this swine flu or “flu porcina” and the many ways to avoid contracting it.

After breakfast we walked around town before moving on to the Chico national forest. Surely the forest is open enough to be open during the pig plague. Guess again. They wouldn’t even let us in the ranger station to get a map or info. So we followed the road straight through the other side of the park where we found another tiny, but extremely charming colonial town, Mineral del Chico. Once again, the flu emergency dominated the experience. Most places closed, barely anyone out and about, and those who were wearing masks and gloves, signs warning of infection everywhere. And this was in the middle of nowhere, we thought, what chaos must be unfolding back in Mexico City? We discussed potential scenarios upon our return that might reflect movies like 28 Days Later, Siolent Green, Escape From New York or Omega Man/I am Legend.

After a walking tour of the town, where we saw signs advertising zip lining and rappelling, we headed up the mountain to find another “campground” featuring cozy cabins. This place, perched on the side of the mountain and sporting an amazing view of the Mineral del Chico in the valley below, boasted hiking trails, communal outdoor grills, picnic tables and paint ball. Awesome! (We are definitely going back to this place with more friends during the next school year.) We got ourselves set up in the cabin and then headed back into town to try to find a restaurant. After all, we had not eaten since breakfast and it was getting late.

Good luck. There were only three restaurants we could locate in this little weekend-home village, and they were all closed. The more we drove around looking for something, the more desperate to find something we became. Just as we were about to settle for crackers from the convenience store, we passed a place that we had seen earlier with a sign saying, solo para llevar, or “take out only.” But, now there was no sign at all and not even a window for us to peer through. Was it even a restaurant? With nothing to lose from knocking on the door, we sent Laura and Terri to do just that. Lo and behold a man answered, first saying they were indeed a restaurant, but that they too were closed. But, they could see people eating inside, so they turned on the charm and sob story, managing to talk our way into this secret refuge of fine food. An underground restaurant! Terri and Laura went in the restaurant while Tim and I parked the car, only to be faced with a dilemma—lock the car and secure the computer and other belongings, or leave the windows down (and doors unlocked) and ensure Toby, Terri’s pug didn’t die from the heat. Tim, being the good friend he is, chose his computer and guitar, leaving Toby to fend for himself. Good luck, little buddy!

(This last for all of about five minutes before he leapt up from the table with a change of heart and rushed to Toby’s rescue.)

The chef/owner was somewhat disheveled, but friendly and warm, even going out into the garden to pick spinach for our salad. We had trout, the house dish plus chiles en nogada, the current special (and a MUST have Mexican dish if you visit). Both were fantastic and we stayed there until dusk, enjoying the view out the back of the restaurant into a lovely garden and the tequila the owner brought over to our table. As the Tequila flowed, so did the Espanglish and the laughter. We had gone from hungry and desperate for anything to the equivalent of a home cooked meal at a friend’s house. A feeling of rightness in the world came over me like…well, like a Tequila buzz, I suppose. We spent a second evening enjoying the smells and sounds of the Mexican outdoors while drinking and singing some more in the mountain air. Then we headed home the next morning. What we would find upon our arrival at ground zero was anyone’s guess.

After three days in the forest with Jimmy and crew I arrived back home to find a city that was noticeably dead. By order of the government, restaurants were shut down, along with futball matches, plays, concerts, museums and most anything else that involved more than ten people in one place. Hordes had fled to less infected parts of the country. The city was like the Morrissey song—Every Day is Like Sunday—since Sunday is the one day each week the city isn’t completely frantic. I could finish unpacking, Ale told me to get ready to go to San Miguel Allende to visit our friends Sonia and Enrique, and their magic baby Mila who never cries. She was tired of being cooped up. Fine with me, this place was becoming a creepy ghost town. Any minute now the flu zombies would begin staggering down the street looking to devour our flesh. Time to leave again…

So we loaded up the truck Will had left to us—his escape from the viral killer led him all the way to Budapest—and took the 3 hour or so ride out to San Miguel, in the state of Guanajuato. I had been there before when Ale and I went for our first ever weekend date during the Grito, the Mexican Independence celebration. It’s a pretty big deal there since the Mexican revolt against Spain began in Guanajuato, in a nearby town. San Miguel de Allende is named after an early leader of the independence movement, Ignacio Allende, who had some early success against the royal forces, but was later captured, executed by firing squad and beheaded. The town is also interesting because the art school there accepted GI scholarships after WWII, making it a haven for both ex-pat Americans and artists alike. Today it is as well preserved a Mexican colonial town as you can find, filled with boutiques, restaurants, bed and breakfasts, and lots of retired Americans, visiting or living there. I’d say it’s a must stop for anyone traveling through central Mexico.

Enrique and Sonia, who live near us in Mexico City, had rented an apartment in San Miguel while Enrique laid low after the company he was working for, Stanford Funds, turned out to be running an international Ponzi scheme that rivaled Bernie Madoff’s. He had worked there for years without a clue, taking orders, sending them off to the banks in the Caribbean, distributing dividends, etc. He had a nice office in one of the best buildings in the city. He had even broken a personal rule of his and invited his friends and family to invest in this amazingly “solid company.” And then, he found out his boss was a crook the same way everyone else did, by hearing about it on the news. Some of his co-workers had been “quarantined” as official witnesses, so he headed to San Miguel in order to avoid such an experience, since it likely meant being slapped around by the police in a motel until you paid enough for better treatment. Ah, Mexico!

As this town is a major tourist attraction, it was not “shut down” like the places I’d just been to in Hidalgo, but there were still plenty of surgical masks about, and restaurants were making you wash your hands before entering. We had several different dining experiences there. The first was at El Pollo Feliz, a chicken chain with a party attitude. You could order chicken, fries and tortillas (of course) along with a salad bar. The place is plastered with adverts featuring their “happy chicken” character in the role of famous movies or icons, like The Godfather or even popular commercials in Mexico. It was cheap and tasty and we went there twice. Ale and I also hit an Italian-Argentinean restaurant nestled in a beautiful outdoor garden setting on one of our walkabouts. The third place, Harry’s, was first rate, a New Orleans styled place downtown, expensive but excellent. During the meantime we enjoyed our days playing with Mila who was just starting to learn to crawl when she wasn’t sitting around cooing and smiling. I also spent a fair amount of time on the computer, conducting “remote learning” with my students online.

After our dinner at Harry’s, Enrique, who was going a bit stir crazy in this quaint, sleepy town, decided it was time to take me out to the pelodromo, or “hair circus”—an old school name for strip clubs. I pointed out to him that today, with all the designer shaving going on, it should be now called the pielodromo, or “skin circus”. Either way, he was bent for some action, and I wasn’t going to stand in his way, so we dropped the ladies off at the apartment and headed out on the prowl. (Yes, the wives knew what we were up to and let us have our fun—one of the benefits of marrying a Mexican woman.) Prowling, however, is all we ended up doing. There would be no howling as it were, being a Monday night in a provincial town during a flu epidemic. After driving around chasing the directions several people had given us and finding only darkened buildings on the edge of town, we realized it was not going to happen. We had a couple drinks at Berlin, a hole in the wall bar we found open in town and went home to drink for cheap. We tried to sell a wild night story to the girls but they were somehow on to us and laughed at us for coming up empty handed. Finally, I was pissed. I had been willing to suffer a number of inconveniences from this flu epidemic, but when it started to interfere with my strip clubbing—now things had gone too far!

The next evening, Ale and I packed up our belongings and headed back to the DF. I was scheduled to get back to work the next day, I wondered how many of my students would show up. Many had been shuttled out of the country to some U.S. relative’s or vacation spot. Surprisingly, attendance was nearly full and about 70% had completed their online assignments. We spent the next two weeks having our temperature checked and washing our hands upon entering the campus, but other than that things were pretty much back to normal. In the end, our ability to demonstrate that significant “remote learning” had taken place during the flu contingency exempted us from having to extend the school year for two more weeks as many of the Mexican public schools had to do. And THAT would have really pissed me off.

As it turned out, the monstrous flu porcina virus, initially thought to be exceptionally virulent and contagious, was mostly just another strain of flu in a world full of influenza. The deaths attributed to the swine flu were re-estimated to be lower than first thought. New cases steadily declined in Mexico, while they continued to increase in other countries. It seemed the prudent (some said drastic) measures taken by the government were appropriate and kept things from getting out of control, nipping it in the bud. Better safe than sorry, right? And besides, it gave Miguelito the opportunity to get out and explore more of Mexico, which is always a good thing.

You can read this, and other amazing blogs, in a snazzier format at miguelitoinmexico.blogspot.com. You can also view photos related to this blog at flickr.com/miguelito2066.

Miguelito in...Nicaragua? or The Worst Vacation Ever or Lessons I (re)learned about My Wife, Traveling and Nicaragua

2009-05-31T10:45:00.002-07:00

I’ve always loved traveling and make a point to take advantage of time off from work to get away to some place new. As Spring Break approached, I had my eyes set on Cuba. As an American, Cuba is not only a Caribbean island destination; it’s also a mysterious forbidden zone. While most Americans know that U.S. (ridiculously outdated) policy forbids Americans to travel to Cuba directly, many Americans fail to realize that the rest of the world visits Cuba all the time. And many Americans do so by way of other countries. Several of my American friends here have been there for vacations and have loved it. (I won’t mention their names as there is supposedly a ten thousand dollar fine from the U.S. government.) I believe it is only a matter of time before the Castro regime is a thing of the past and Cuba will become a popular Caribbean tourist destination for Americans, perhaps the most popular. But, I would like to get there before that happens, to see for myself what life is like there. The people I know who have been have had very good things to say about it, despite the obvious limitations of its current government. It was definitely my first choice for this vacation.

Unfortunately, Ale did not share my desire to spend Spring Break in Cuba. But not because she doesn’t think it would be fun. One of her good friends loves all things Cuban and visits frequently. The problem was that she thinks visiting Cuba would be too much fun. Being pregnant, she said she couldn’t bare the thought of having to take it easy there, missing out on the mojitos and late night clubbing, going to bed early while I wandered the streets filled with hot Cuban women for hire. I tried to tell her that we could make a nice time of taking easy days on the beach and spending our evenings eating fresh seafood listening to live Cuban music, but she said she didn’t feel like being seen in a bathing suit in her bloated condition. I reminded her about the “pregnant glow” concept and assured her no one in his right mind would judge a pregnant woman in a bathing suit. But, she wouldn’t hear it. So, Cuba was a no-go.

The other option I was promoting was Guatemala. Semana Santa (Easter Holy Week) in Antigua Guatemala is an experience you can find nowhere else. The colored Alfombras (“carpet” art on the streets made of grains, flowers, leaves and colored sawdust) and the many Easter passion processionals complete with floats, bands and “Roman soldiers” are some of the most elaborate in Latin America. I’ve been to Guatemala twice, once during Semana Santa, and loved it so much that I wanted to show it to Ale. We also had some friends, Kristen and Jordan, going there that week and I figured we could meet up with them for part of the time. But, Ale wasn’t interested. She kept complaining, “but you’ve already been there.” Additionally, the rest of my plan included a boat ride down the river to the Caribbean-Black town of Livingston, requiring significant time on a Guatemalan bus on Guatemalan roads. In her pregnant state, she wasn’t game for hot, crowded busses on bumpy roads. And just like that, Guatemala was kaput.

Her counter-offer, an all inclusive eco-resort in Panama looked OK; but for me, being in the same hotel all week seemed limiting. And the prices for the eco-activities associated with the resort seemed really expensive. And besides all that, I was worried the temperatures would be too severe. I had spent a Spring Break in Costa Rica just north of Panama once and it had been murderously hot. Painfully hot. Cry-out-loud-it’s-so-hot hot. So I couldn’t get on board with her idea either. We briefly discussed a variety of other options but could not come to any consensus. It wasn’t like we were arguing or anything; we just could not come to a meeting of the minds.

So with only a week before the break, we were still undecided. Everyone at work was telling me of their travel plans and asking me about mine. “Don’t know yet,” I would tell them as they shot me a look of surprise. As I lay in bed surfing the internet for info and ideas that week, I came across the blog of someone who had traveled extensively in Central America. He spoke about a country that was safer and cheaper than Guatemala these days, and filled with undiscovered potential: Nicaragua. I surfed some more, looked at some photos and did some quick reading; and as Ale slept next to me without a clue, I booked two tickets to Nicaragua and was done with it. Problem solved. Vacation booked. Sure it was impulsive; sure it was risky; but I figured Nicaragua was off the beaten path enough as to have the allure of the exotic and new. You know, adventure and discovery. Sometimes going with your gut can really pay off. And sometimes, well… not so much.

I decided not to tell Ale where we were going until we were at the airport. And get this—when I said, “OK where do you think we are going?”—she lights up, smiles and says hopefully, “Cuba!??” I was like, OMG! I could have booked us to Cuba and she would have been fine with it. But, deep inside I already knew that. Why didn’t I just book it? When I told her “Nicaragua” she was… well, let’s just say she was not overjoyed. She was more like, perplexed. “Ahhhh, hmmmm, yeah…Ni-ca-ra-gua, Okaaayyy...” Ugh.

Which leads me to the first lesson I (re)learned about my wife: Ale sometimes doesn’t really know what she’s talking about. Which means to say, sometimes she doesn’t really mean what she says. I know this. Sometimes she likes to be contrary. Sometimes she’s just not thinking things through. So, I need to get past that and somehow get her to let go of her contention when I sort of know that we are probably closer on an issue than it seems. Or, in this case, I probably should have just grabbed the bull by the horns and chosen Cuba, which I pretty much knew, in the end, she would have enjoyed. But, nope, she had originally said no to Cuba, so I respected that, and now we were heading to Nicaragua.

Minutes after this revelation, I (re)learned my next lesson from this trip, which had to do with baggage: If you have a connecting flight, especially if your layover time is short, it is best NOT to check your luggage. I already knew such an obvious thing, but I was not really in my right mind when I made the decision to check our largest piece of carry-on luggage. First of all, I was still reeling from the realization that if I had booked tickets to Cuba, Ale would have been happy with that. Plus, for some reason she was adamant about checking the bag. As some of you married men out there may understand, whenever possible, it’s best to let your wife have her way. This philosophy makes life really enjoyable. However, there are times you should put your foot down and not let your wife have her way. Like, when she wants to check your bag and you have a 50 minute changeover in an airport in El Salvador and you’re transferring between Mexican and Central American airlines. Wow. As I type that it sounds really stupid that I listened to her and checked that bag. But, as I said, I was in a slight state of shock after realizing we could have been on our way to Cuba, and consequently was simply following my husbandly instincts to let Ale have her way.

As you have probably already guessed, things did not work out well with this particular piece of luggage, which arrived in Nicaragua sometime after the two of us. So, we ended up having to stay in Managua one night longer than I had planned, which is to say, one night more than zero nights. What I had read about Nicaragua made it clear that Managua was nothing to get excited about. I can now confirm this for you. The city became the capital relatively recently in 1852 as a compromise between the forever competing/alternating capital colonial cities of Leon and Granada. So, Managua doesn’t have any colonial “old city.” And what commercial downtown area it once had was completely destroyed, along with most of the city, by a massive earthquake in 1972. Not too long after that came the Sandinista Revolution, followed by the Contra Civil War. As a result, the city has only recently begun to be built back up. In Mexico, many moderate to major cities have lovely colonial downtown areas, which are surrounded on the outskirts by the not-so-pretty areas of lesser money, lesser architecture, lesser paint, lesser clean streets, etc. The further you move into the outskirts, the crappier it gets. Managua is just all crappy outskirts.

Nonetheless, if we wanted our luggage we had to stay for the night. We found ourselves a decent enough place and settled in, ordering some Pollo Campero, a popular chain in Central America that Ale was excited to get, having had it previously in a trip to El Salvador. Pretty good stuff, I must admit. We made some phone calls to ensure someone at the airline were thinking about our baggage and I also used the “down time in Managua” to research hotels and towns in order to set up our itinerary for the week. I had not had much time to do so before the trip because our friends Bob, Yoonhee and Sunshine had arrived in town just days after I had bought the plane tickets. By the time I went to sleep in Managua I had mapped out a rough itinerary for the week. Which leads me to yet another lesson I (re)learned on this trip, it’s best to do thorough and extensive research before you go on your trip to: a) make sure it’s a trip worth taking, and b) avoid having to do such research while you’re actually on the trip. (I have a good friend, Tina, who lived in Nicaragua for two years doing a stint with the Peace Corps. Unfortunately, at the time I was planning our trip, she and I were locked in an ongoing pseudo ideological struggle for the future of a secret organization to which we both currently belong. So, stupidly, did not take the advantage of my opportunity to pick her brain ahead of time about Nicaragua.)

It was lucky for us (and the LACSA airline people at the Augusto Sandino airport, trust me) that our baggage was there in the morning. I’m quite certain Ale would have freaked out otherwise. Despite being raised in Mexico, her tolerance for incompetence is lower than mine. So we grabbed our bag and were off to Leon on what appeared to be a relatively new highway along the edge of Lake Managua, one of two enormous lakes in Nicaragua. Leon is actually the second incarnation of itself. The first Leon, built in 1524 right on the shore of the lake, was destroyed by a volcanic eruption a hundred years later. The current Leon was built about further west toward the Pacific Coast and is famous for being the liberal university town of the country. As we drove along, I was impressed by the size of the lake and the Volcano towering above it. As we moved inland I was further impressed. It was amazing how utterly dry and barren most of the landscape was. This was not the luscious Central American jungles I have seen in Belize, Costa Rica and Guatemala. This looked more like the Kalahari during a drought. Not pretty. So far, this country sure was impressive, in a sad way.

Then we arrived at the outskirts of Leon about an hour and a half later, where I was further impressed with how unimpressive it all appeared. The city is filled with one-way streets which made it difficult to navigate, and after a confusing bit of being turned around, we ended up at a dead end filled with run down houses, giant pot-holes and litter in the streets, and dirty faced children standing around looking at us with the expression of stray dogs. It reminded me of the neighborhoods Ale and I had seen in the recent gang videos we had watched about the Central American gang, MS13. Friggin’ great. Plus, it was really, really hot. So, this dead-end was not a great moment on our trip. Why exactly--I am asking myself—did I decide to come to barren, dusty, hot-as-balls and poor-as-hell Nicaragua? The thought of being on the beaches of Cuba, drinking rum drinks, with the ocean breeze blowing through my hair, while I looked at obscenely sexy and barely covered Cuban women walking up and down the beaches was enough to melt my brain.

“Ya know, HONEY…not for nothin’, but if you had not been so obstinate on us going to Cuba we could have been there right now instead being stuck here in this shithole!”

“What are you talking about?!! YOU bought the tickets to this god forsaken place, though I have no idea why! So don’t blame this on ME!!!”

This basic exchange went on for a few more minutes in various forms until Ale stopped talking to me.

But, another lesson was about to be (re)learned; when touring another country, it is often darkest before the dawn. And though strange places may seem terrible under stress, they usually aren’t as bad as they may first seem. Soon, I managed to find my way into the nicer area of town. And we located one of the hotels I had wanted to check out, The Austria. It was pretty nice, with a well groomed central garden, but it lacked a pool, a feature that was clearly going to be mandatory in this heat. So, I headed over to another hotel that had been highly rated on the Trip Advisor site, La Perla. As soon as we pulled up we became excited. Things were looking up. It was a ridiculously beautifully restored hacienda, a posh little boutique hotel with a dozen rooms. It had vacancy and a pool, and was only ten dollars more, at 70 bucks a night. Now, I know this isn’t exactly “cheap” in terms of shoestring travel budgets, but it was a great deal for a hotel of this quality. We checked ourselves in, cranked the air conditioning in our antique-like furnished hotel room and headed out for the small pool. (Suddenly, Ale had no problem wearing a bathing suit while pregnant—even in the presence of other guests at the pool. Go figure.) I made use of both the room mini-bar and hotel poolside bar service over the next few hours while dipping myself in and out of the pool, reading and catching a buzz. Ah, yes, finally, vacation time. As the sun began to set a few hours later, it was time for a little detour to Naptown.

After we awoke, we strolled around town, which seemed much nicer now. Leon is actually a cute town with a lot of potential. The people seemed nice enough and everyone was out enjoying time with their families in the cool evening air. Revolutionary murals on the walls, as well as graffiti proclaiming, “Bush genocide, enemigo de humanidad,” reminded you of its status as the birthplace of the Sandinista revolutionary movement. Sure, overall the place could use a facelift, but considering what the country has been through, it’s remarkable that it’s as pleasant a town as it is. Leon is filled with an abundance of beautiful colonial churches, though many are in dire need of restoration. The central cathedral is enormous, and supposedly the largest in central and South America. The story goes that the plans for both the cathedral of Leon Nicaragua and Lima Peru were sent over on the same ship from Spain. Along the way the two drawings were mixed up—was someone paid off?—and Leon ended up with a monstrosity while Lima today has a relatively moderate cathedral. Eventually, our stroll led us to a beautiful little restaurant, with a very nice central courtyard, featuring Mediterranean food. The food was delicious, but what got me excited was the Jack Daniels, which went for about three dollars a piece. This was great news for someone like me who has the unfortunate luck to have as my favorite drink a brand that tends to be ridiculously expensive in all the countries all over the world.

The next day, we enjoyed the tasty breakfast included with the hotel price and then I sat in the shade with a beer and surfed the internet reading more about Nicaraguan beaches. It was then that I met Jim, the owner of La Perla, one of many Americans finding success in Latin America. He had spent years working as an engineer, then in various businesses, then moved himself down south of the border to work “for fun.” He and his partner had done the hotel together, remodeling the historic hacienda from near collapse into the gem I was now enjoying. (It was never clear to me if “partner,” which he said frequently, meant strictly business or not. This large, husky, Midwestern guy did not trip my normally astute “gaydar.” But, as good as my gaydar is, it’s not full-proof. I’ve been in enough gay bars to know there are many exceptional gay men who can look and act like anyone from Archie Bunker to Charlton Heston to Mickey Rourke.) He took great pride in talking about the hotel and in giving me a tour of the casino he was having built across the street. It was clear he was pinning his future hopes on things improving in Leon and Nicaragua. He was proud of the many people he was employing and the work he was doing with the local chamber of commerce. As you can imagine, he was not thrilled with the recent “election” of Daniel Ortega from the socialist Sandinista party, and he was waiting to see how this new administration will treat foreign investors, especially Americans.

Interestingly enough, Daniel Ortega had been a sort of hero of mine after he became famous for leading a popular revolution against a U.S. supported Somoza dictatorship in 1979. The Somoza dynasty (along with their U.S. business partners) had been ravaging and exploiting the country and the people for some 50 years. After winning the revolution, Ortega became president. Initially, he seemed a relatively moderate “communist” and accepted the hand of friendship and diplomatic recognition from President Jimmy Carter, whose “moral foreign policy” found legitimacy in the Sandinistas revolutionary cause. Unfortunately, cold warrior Ronald Reagan came to power soon afterwards and cut all ties with those “commie bastards.” First in Nicaragua—the argument went—then up through Guatemala and Mexico would come the march of the hammer and sickle, straight from Moscow to the United States of America. Forget that the reason “socialism” appealed to the poor people of this country was not because they were card-carrying Marxists versed in Leninist theories of revolution, but because the “capitalist system” they had been familiar with had long abused them unmercifully, and without democratic redress. I often think that if Carter’s approach had been maintained, and relations had been allowed to normalize and develop, we might have created a functional relationship that respected the common people of Nicaragua which would have also generated a moderating influence on the Sandinista regime in Nicaragua. After all, Norway and Sweden are essentially “socialist countries,” and we have good relations with them.

But, that was not to be; and Reagan was soon supplying weapons, supplies and military advice to those in Nicaragua looking to overturn the revolution and the Sandinistas. The “Contras,” as they were called, were the remnants of the former dictator’s National Guard, and defenders of the upper business classes. The CIA trained Contras were so brutal, dirty and destabilizing that the U.S. Congress rejected Reagan’s requests and outlawed any U.S. support. Not to be stifled, Reagan’s subordinates (allegedly without his knowledge) continued funding the Contras by illegally selling weapons to Iran, the sworn enemy of the U.S. (Truth can truly be stranger than fiction.) The Contras used that money to create a painful insurgency that impeded the literacy, health care and agrarian reform efforts of the new government. The Contras also managed to murder American Benjamin Linder, who had taken his engineering degree to Nicaragua to build hydroelectric dams in rural areas. These dams provided lights for evening literacy classes and refrigeration for vaccines. These projects also made the new socialist government look like they were doing a good job for the people of Nicaragua, so in the minds of the Contras and the Reagan administration, they had to be stopped. You know, in the name of freedom and the American Way and anti-communism and all that shit. Ben Linder is still a recognized hero in Nicaragua. In Leon I came across a café that bears his name. (It was closed for Holy Friday, so I didn’t get to sample the wares.)

Under pressure from the U.S. and other Nicaraguan groups critical of the Sandinistas censorship of the press and draconian measures taken during the Contra War, Ortega did something truly amazing for a communist revolutionary leader—he held free and fair elections and stepped down when he lost. It was the U.S. supported Violeta Chamorro, a former Sandinista supporter and the wife of a newspaper editor murdered by the last ruling Somoza, who represented the opposition coalition and assumed the presidency. She then did some remarkable things herself, keeping some former Sandinistas in her administration, continuing with many of the Sandinista social programs, and collecting and destroying all the weapons in the country, burying them all in cement in “Peace Park.” This last act is one reason that Nicaragua is less dangerous than Guatemala, where the weapons from their similar civil strife during the 80’s still abound. Unfortunately for Chamorro, once the Cold War ended in the early nineties, the U.S. had no reason to support her against the communist threat. Aid to Nicaragua was cut and the still wounded and struggling nation soon became the poorest country in the hemisphere, behind Haiti—which is saying a lot. With Nicaragua in dire straits again, the Sandinistas enjoyed a resurgence of popular support and Ortega recently won the presidency again—though the results of the election are widely disputed. Other than the ubiquitous fact that ugly pink billboards of him are currently plastered all over the country, claiming his election is a fulfillment of a promise from God (how un-Marxist!), it is unclear what his return to power will mean for Nicaragua. Foreign investors and entrepreneurs like Jim are holding their collective breath, that’s for sure.

One thing I learned from Jim during our talk was that there was a road, currently under repair with a 10 million dollar U.S. grant, that headed due west to a little beach town called Poneloya. He clearly did not think there was much to the town now, but hoped the road would foster development there, including a beach club spin-off from his hotel. Some of the travel guides described it quite favorably—“sleepy little fishing town with natural beaches”—so Ale and I hoped in the car in hopes of enjoying the sand and surf for the afternoon.

First of all, “under construction” is an understatement. This road was as new and rough a road as you can imagine. It was basically a swath of recently cleared land. Heavy equipment lined the road. Remarkably, Jim would tell me later that this road, even in its completely raw state, was better than the remnant of the previously existing one. Ale was not thrilled with the bumpy ride, and I was later quite pissed off when a splash of some sort of oil/tar, something black and greasy, was sprayed all over the side and hood of my white rental car. I mean, sprayed ALL OVER the side and hood of my white rental car. For the next few days, we received stares and looks of pity and disgust for this mess. Some folks, when walking by our car in traffic, would wipe a finger across the splatter in curiosity to their own chagrin when they realized they were stuck with the oily gunk on their hands. Suckers!

The “beach town” was a joke by any standard. And I’m not being a Jersey Shore snob when I say this. I’ve been to poor beach towns in Ecuador, Guatemala, Costa Rica and Mexico, so I can say this place was in a particularly sad state. Since it was a holiday, there were some people there. We went to the one area of the beach that seemed to be a public spot, only to be further disappointed. The beach itself was actually quite nice. But, there were a series of booth like cabanas there, mostly made of plastic plastered with beer advertisements with dirty tables set up. I didn’t see anything that looked like real food, but there were plenty of drinks to be had. The beach consisted of the typical volcanic sand I’ve encountered in Guatemala and Costa Rica. It is not (usually) as fine and soft as white sand, and it can get twice as hot. Since there were no umbrellas for rent, and no palapas (thatched shade) set up on the beach, we knew it would be uncofomfortable to sit in the sun for more than a few minutes. Unfortunately, the only shade to be found was in the make-shift beach bars which were accompanied by deafening reggaeton music. And while I like some Mariachi, and LOVE Cuban salsa and Colombian cumbia, that raunchy obnoxious reggaeton gets on my nerves quickly. So we moved on, driving through the little strip, past some houses half abandoned, some so-so and a few very nice, until we spotted a passable looking restaurant where we stopped and had some decent seafood. All I could think about was what incredible potential this place had, just like Leon. When the new road from Leon is completed hopefully there will be some serious effort at concerted and thoughtful development. Hopefully it can be done in a way that offers some opportunity and fairness to the desperately poor of the country, whose presence is everywhere.

The next day, after faithfully lounging by the pool with my pregnant wife, Ale encouraged me to check out some options for eco-tourism. There was a place advertizing tours a block away, selling trips onto the lake and hikes up the nearby volcanoes. You can zip line down some volcanoes and even “surf” down the ashes of others. Pretty cool stuff. But, I took my time getting there and showed up ten minutes after the last tour left. Bummer. The young guy who owned the shop was also a an American who shared the same guarded optimism about business prospects in Nicaragua with Jim at the Leon Hotel.

After breakfast and a swim the next morning, I took a walking tour of the city, snapping a boat load of pictures. I checked out a couple of other nice, but more modest, hotels and found prices from $25 dollars (with a fan) to $45 (with air conditioning). Afterwards, we packed up our retarded-looking black speckled car and headed southwest to the beach part of our trip. After seeing the state of the beach near Leon, we uncharacteristically considered a well regarded all inclusive beach resort we had read about online. Unfortunately, enough other people considered it this holiday week to fill the entire hotel. So, where to go? We decided to skip any other “sleepy fishing towns” described in the guides—afraid we’d find more duds than gems—and headed straight for one of the best known beach towns in the country, San Juan del Sur. This once “sleepy fishing town” has been put on the map in the past ten years by cruise ships which have made San Juan del Sur a day stop on the way up the west coast. The town has also received notice brought by Matthew McConaughey who visits the town for its well regarded surf. We had located some decent looking hotels online, but they too were all booked up, it being Semana Santa. Still, we decided to take our chances and headed there anyway. I could have been in Cuba this week, and, by God, I was going to have some quality beach time!

There were two routes to San Juan. The first took the new highway back the way we came around the lake and through Managua. The other, more direct route cut straight across the western plains of the country. Naturally, I preferred the straight line. However, shortly after turning off the main road there were some highwaymen there, blocking the road with a rope, ready to jack us up. Luckily, they were only about seven years old and armed with a smile and a shovel. You see, the road was in such poor shape that these kids would “fix” it by filling in the pot holes and then charging passersby a toll for compensation. There was little to no work actually being done on the road, but the kids were really cute (and poor) so we paid up and took their picture. As we sat there, looking at the dilapidated road, I pondered whether to move forward (NO) or head back on the newer road we knew was intact (YES). There were the occasional other cars heading down this way (DID YOU NOTICE THEY ARE ALMOST EXCLUSIVELY LARGE SUV’S?) so I decided it must be passable. I asked Ale, Do you mind if we take the more direct and yet un-driven road ahead? “Sure, Bebe,” she said, “take which ever way you want.” And we moved on.

I don’t know how long it was before I fully accepted that this was a giant mistake. I suppose it was after we had gone far enough that I felt turning around was not an option. The little kids collecting a toll? That was cute the first 20 times. And while I was able to simply ignore them and drive on by without any consequence, I began to wonder how easy it would be for some nefariously minded folks, armed with more than a smile and an old shovel, to cause us serious harm. The further we drove, the worse the road became, and the less of any kind of civilization we saw. I began to feel like a slow moving target. But, given Ale’s increasingly foul mood, I thought it best not to bring this up. Before too long, she had begun complaining about the constant slowing, stopping, zigging and zagging required to avoid the ever present potholes, bumps and rocks in our path. There were actually times when driving on the shoulder was preferable to the washed out road. Earlier that morning, she had mentioned that she feared she might be getting the cold Bob and family had brought from Philadelphia, since she had a sore throat and headache coming on. Oh, and did I mention she was 5 months pregnant? It was hot and dusty and barren, and she was miserable. “Why did you have to take this way, menso?! (dummy) This is no kind of road for a sick, pregnant woman!” She was right, but what could I say, I had asked her and she had given me the green light. I should have used my head and not base my decision on her response. For the second time on this trip I was being given the silent treatment by my wife. And for the second time I was learning, once again, that there are times my wife doesn’t really know or mean what she is saying. All I could do was keep moving and pray the totally fucked up road in front of me ended soon. Thank God for the radio station I found, which played a great selection of 70’s and 80’s soft rock. Phil Collins never sounded so good.

As I looked out at the barren landscape of Nicaragua, I thought about the conversations at the environmental and political groups I was involved in during my college years. I had heard about the environmental horrors happening in Nicaragua caused by the slashing and burning forested lands in order to create grazing land for cattle. It was difficult to reconcile the dry, desolate countryside I was observing (while avoiding car swallowing pot holes) with the fact that Nicaragua was the number one supplier of foreign beef to American fast food chains like McDonald’s and Burger King during the 1970’s. If I had seen with my own eyes how devastating the long term results of this short sited policy would be, I would have probably been arrested (even more than I was during those years) for some civil disobedience antics at Ronald McDonald’s.

Beef exports!? Are you serious?! The few cows I saw along the road looked as if they had just escaped some Holocaust concentration camp for cattle. This bleak place couldn’t support ten cows, much less commercial cattle ranching. At least, not anymore. So, whose bright idea was it to raise cattle in Nicaragua and destroy the countryside? Well, suffice to say it was the people who had a monopoly on the meat processing and distribution for Nicaraguan beef. You guessed it, none other than the Somoza family, who owned the largest slaughter house in Nicaragua and six meat packing plants in Miami. Not only that, they contributed to the deforestation by making deals with American lumber companies, wherein their family was paid millions for the rights to harvest Nicaraguan timber without any legal obligation to reforest. Yeah, Anastasio Somoza (Sr. and Jr.) were ginormous assholes. (Like father, like son.) And these brutal dictators were hand picked, installed and supported by the U.S. government. Somoza is the guy about whom FDR supposedly said, “Yeah, he’s a son-of-a-bitch, but he’s our son-of-a-bitch.” Gee, Thanks America! And people wonder why the Nicaraguan revolutionaries were attracted to communist ideals? I don’t.

So, on and on I drove the barely intact road, dotted with the saddest hovels you can imagine. I drove even slower now, with Ale asleep, and pondered how the U.S. has loomed over central America the way the huge volcanoes I was seeing towered over the Nicaraguan countryside. And thankfully, like a visit to the dentist, the road from hell eventually came to a welcome end; and after a couple more hours we found ourselves approaching the town San Juan del Sur. Finally, I was going to get myself some quality beach time!

Yeah, right... Maybe in some other blog (like one about a trip to Cuba) there would be a description of my happy times chillin’ on the beach. But, this is about the worst vacation ever, and Miguelito was not going to spend one minute of bliss with his toes in the sand. Not one.

The first order of business was getting a hotel. We had about an hour of daylight left. The town is small, nestled at the foot of some hills and around the mouth of a small, well defined bay. The streets were filled with cars and people, some already drunk. (The people, not the cars.) After getting the “no room at the inn” treatment from four or five places, I couldn’t help but identify with Joseph of old, feeling like a schmuck for coming into town during the Passover holiday season without a reservation, and with a pregnant wife in tow. One guy, trying to be helpful, recommended a place “just out of town.” After winding over the hills for a mile or two, we found ourselves in a posada across the street from a large graveyard, sporting a dirty unswimmable pool and a large parrot screeching something in Spanish every 20 seconds. And like all the other places in town, they were charging twice as much as the beautiful hotel we had just left in Leon. So we thanked the man for his ridiculous offer and headed back into town where we somehow managed to find a room a block away from the beach.

The hotel was OK. The rooms were basic and drab, but it had a TV and an air conditioner, so it would do. We decided to rest in the cool air and watch some TV and/or nap until dinner. Sounds logical right? But, no, this is the worst vacation ever, so of course there was some jackass below our window in the parking lot beside the hotel with his hatchback open cranking his 80’s metal out of his subwoofers, drinking beer and playing air guitar by himself. Loser. I know enough about Latin American culture to know complaining about such a thing is useless. It’s a good thing that I didn’t have a rifle with me or I’d be writing this from a Nicaraguan jail. So I turned up the TV and air full blast and we did our best to relax for a while.

The main strip of San Juan runs along the curve of the beach with hotels, shops and restaurants. It was filled with pedestrians and street vendors. It reminded us a bit of Puerto Escondido. At the far end of the strip—away from the hotel, thank God—were a couple of portable inflatable nightclubs set up on the beach pumping out “poochie-poochie” music (as Ale calls it). After a stroll and some people watching we settled on an open air restaurant on the beach, where we enjoyed a delicious meal, some drinks, a table serenade and an unexpected fireworks display. On the way back to the hotel, there was a parade down the main strip, consisting mostly of alcohol sponsored floats topped with scantily clad young girls. It was lively and festive and perhaps, I thought, this was all going to work out OK. Tomorrow we would head to the beach were I could read and swim and relax. Ale headed back to the hotel early and I found my way to a little surfer bar, The Iguana, where I had some drinks and watched a surf video on TV. It was literally a movie about San Juan del Sur and how it’s fame as a surfing spot has transformed it from a “sleepy little fishing town” into a vacation destination of some repute. There’s no surfing to be done in the main bay, which like Puerto Escondido is without any waves and filled with boats. However, apparently both north and south of the town there are some of the best surfing nooks and crannies in the western hemisphere. The guys in the videos talked about how in the old days, they had to walk hours to get to these spots, but now there are four wheel drive vehicles that will shuttle you back and forth. I must admit, the surfing I saw on the video was some of the most impressive I’ve ever seen. Really incredible stuff. I did not spot Mathew McConaughey, who I understand also patronizes this bar when he’s in town.

While watching the youngsters in the Iguana get drunk, I was thinking: tomorrow we’ll get up and head to the beach. We’ll rent a palapa, or an umbrella, stick our toes in the sand and enjoy the ocean breeze. This vacation is going to work out fine. It all seemed so within reach. But when we arrived to the beach the next morning, it was obvious we had made some huge assumptions. The beach in San Juan is the ugliest beach I have ever seen. In fact, I hesitate to call it a beach. At least Peneloya beach near Leon had sand—rough, black and hot, though it was. This “beach” consisted of mud, covered everywhere with large rocks ranging from 1 to 4 inches in diameter. There were no palapas and no umbrellas. There was no one set up on the beach in day-at-the-beach fashion, only people standing and walking and some, mostly clothed, jumping in and out of the shallow, calm, dirty looking water. You MUST be fucking kidding me. I tried desperately not to think about Havana and what could have been...

Given this disappointment, and the lackluster and overpriced hotel we were in, we decided to get some brunch and leave a day early for Granada, the last stop on our tour. We found the perfect spot to eat and get on the internet at the Espresso cafe. A new and trendy place filled with tourists that represented perhaps the best of what Nicaragua can become. The several British girls working behind the counter made me suspect that, admittedly, it too, was foreign owned. (Obviously, local owned is better, but foreign investors can help by creating jobs and modeling good business practices.) While there, we met an interesting German couple. These two older women had shipped a motorcycle from Germany to Alaska and were half way through their year long trip down the Pan American highway. They talked about how much they loved the beauty of the American Northwest and the style and personality of San Francisco. They said they enjoyed much of Mexico, and the jungles and ruins of Guatemala, but they were not too impressed with Nicaragua. (I feel you, man.) They also shared with us their difficulties adjusting to Latin American culture. If you think it’s tough for Americans to deal with some of these special ways—imagine the same for a German! It was quite funny and sad to hear her relay a story of frustration concerning their failed attempt to mail some postcards home from a post office in Mexico City, such a seemingly simple task completely FUBAR’ed by apathetic incompetence. The woman admitted she had a meltdown on the spot and burst into tears. I wondered how they were going to fare for six more months of this. Hopefully they won’t give up before they arrive in Chile and Argentina, which I understand are more European in many ways than the rest of Latin America.

I understand their frustration. I deal with it all the time. In fact, I dealt with it immediately after hearing their story. Upon returning to the hotel, I asked if there was anyone around who would/could wash the black, greasy spatter off my white car. I was tired of being looked at like I was an idiot. Two separate people working behind the desk assured me there was no one around who could help me with my request. However, when I went out to the car to load up our things, the attendant there was wandering around with a hose wetting down the parking lot, presumably to keep the dust down. He was more than happy to wash my car for a couple of bucks. So without pondering too long on why the hotel workers had offered me such obviously wrong information, we drove on to Granada. Unfortunately, I had lost the signal for the cool radio station the day before and could not get much more than several stations of Christian music. Sure, the music was sort of sappy, but I couldn’t tell what they were saying so it was better than nothing for me. Ale, on the other hand couldn’t take it. She had woken up to it the day before on the way to San Juan, with her first words, “Why are you listening to this shit!?” Despite my best efforts, including asking the women—an old lady, daughter and granddaughter—to whom we gave a lift for a while, I was never able to relocate the station. (It’s likely these poor Nicaraguan ladies did not listen to 70’s soft rock in English.) It didn’t matter though, because Grenada was only about an hour away, and our luck was about to change for the better.

As disappointed as I was entering Leon, I was just as ecstatic entering Granada, which shines with newer paint, groomed parks and gorgeous architecture. The central plaza is lined with a series of hotels that rival (but don’t top) La Perla. Horse drawn carriages line the square ready to take you on a tour of this magical colonial town. I was excited beyond control. THIS is what I meant when I was thinking earlier in the week about what the city of Leon could become if it lived up to its potential. I suppose this was to be expected. I had read that in the long rivalry between Leon and Granada over the location of the capital and government, Granada had been the town of the conservatives, whereas Leon had been the town of the liberal intellectuals. It’s no wonder then, the Sandinista Revolution began in the university town of Leon, or that the first Somoza was assassinated there. Granada sits on the edge of Lake Nicaragua, which, unlike Leon, has access to the Caribbean—and thus to Europe—by way of the Rio San Juan, which separates Nicaragua from Costa Rica. Granada is a resilient city. Access to the seas made it a rich town. It also made it a target for English pirates who periodically sailed up the river, crossed the lake and sacked the city. It was also completely burned to the ground in 1857 by William Walker. Walker was an American swashbuckler who came to Nicaragua at the request of the Liberals of Leon in order to aid them in their fight with the Conservatives of Granada. He and his mercenaries defeated the Conservatives, and then refused to leave. Walker finagled his way into the presidency for a brief time before being overthrown by an uncharacteristically united Leon/Granada front. Upon his retreat, before being captured and executed, he destroyed Granada, even going so far as to erect a grave marker reading, “Here Lies Granada.” Looking around Granada today, you’d never know it.

Ale and I checked into the very nice Hotel Colonial, just off the main square, immediately got ourselves poolside at one of the two available pools. And once in the pool, I quickly got myself bar-side at the swim up bar. After two days of rocky roads, barren landscape and shitty “beaches,” we were back to full-on “vacation relaxation.” We chatted up a retired American couple who were living in Costa Rica. Due to the slow, bureaucratic process of achieving residency there, were forced to leave the country every six months for a week. Mandatory vacations! After our time at the pool we headed out to find the restaurant the couple had recommended to us. Along the way, we discovered a well lit cobblestoned strip of restaurants, bars and shops. It was clear that this city was making a conscious effort at earning tourists’ favor. The restaurant they had recommended was closed, so we ate at a steak place before having drinks outside at another bar, watching the local street kids perform break dancing and other physical feats, as well as some Semana Santa processions.

The next morning, we had brunch in the nifty café right next to the hotel, where we did some reading and internet surfing in the indoor/outdoor area in the back. The place had a sort of hippie-community vibe. Adjoining it was a used book store and there were various rooms with hammocks and areas for private conversation or studying. Flyers on the wall advertized poetry readings (Nicaraguans are famous for their love of poetry) and “blind massage.” (I guess I can see how getting a massage from a blind guy might be cool, but it also struck me as a bit creepy.) After Ale went back to the hotel I managed to get myself into a game of ping-pong with some guys that were playing at a table there. I haven’t played ping-pong in quite some time, and am usually better than average players. However, these dudes obviously played every day and simply destroyed me. I think I scored 2 points the first game and 6 the next, and it was clear they were just toying with me. I was thinking that maybe I should be playing the blind guys I saw sitting around the café, apparently waiting for clients. I might have continued with my efforts to shake the rust off my game and make it competitive, but I was already soaked with sweat. Even though it was in the shade, at it was barely noon, it was blazing hot. So I went next door to join Ale at the pool for the afternoon. There was a tour agency next to the hotel advertizing trips to the mountains, the volcanoes and onto the lake and it’s many islands, but I was over all that and ready to chill with my wife for the remainder of the trip.

And that is exactly what we did for the next two days. More pool time, more food and drink, more reading, more strolls around Granada. I enjoyed my time chatting with a mother and daughter working in a hotdog place about politics. They, being from Granada, were not fans of Ortega and the Sandinistas. All in all it was lovely. And, perhaps, just lovely enough to make the entire crazy week worthwhile. But, then again…probably not. Why not? Because the craziness wasn’t over yet.

Since the connection in El Salvador had caused us problems, I was happy that our flight home was a direct flight to Mexico City. Or so we thought. As we approached the DF, we were flying above massive cloud formations. They were white on top, but I could only imagine what was going on below. Soon the pilot came on to tell us we were flying to Queretaro to circle for a while in the sky due to severe weather. When the weather didn’t break soon enough, we were told we would be landing in Guadalajara to wait things out. Great. But, it gets better. Meaning, it gets worse. After sitting in the plane on the tarmac for 45 minutes, and hearing that we may be there for hours, people started to get restless. “We need to get off this plane!” people began telling the stewardess. “Sorry,” she replied, like Sonny in A Bronx Tale, “now yous can’t leave.” You see, they had brilliantly decided to land our plane in the domestic terminal of the airport. So, because we were an international flight, they couldn’t process us through immigration. Some people on the plane were actually meant to fly to Guadalajara, with a stop in Mexico City, so they were naturally eager to get off the plane and get on with their business. “Give us us free!” people cried like the captured African in Amistad. “Nope, you are all going to have to stay here, fly back to Mexico City and try to find another flight back to Guadalajara.” It was insanity. It’s a good thing the German dykes weren’t with us, they would have gone NAZI on their asses.

Thankfully, after a near mutiny by the passengers, they set up a make-shift immigration and luggage receiving area and processed us through. Those destined for Guadalajara were allowed to move on. The rest of us were shuttled to a terminal where we had to go through check-in again before boarding the plane. After a three and a half hour delay that lasted longer than the original flight from Nicaragua, we were finally back in the air heading home. Well, not so fast. Once again, as we approached the DF, the pilot came on to tell us the weather was a still a problem and we would have to head to Queretaro again to circle for a while longer. It seemed the worst vacation ever just would not end! I couldn’t believe that they had sent us back in the air before things had cleared up. But, I was keeping my cool. I had gotten a good look at our pilots in Guadalajara and they both looked under twenty five years old. I told myself it was better to circle around in the sky a little longer than to REALLY make this the worst vacation ever and die in a fiery high speed explosion. Mercifully, we only circled for about twenty minutes before heading back to Mexico and finally landing. But, it wasn’t quite over. Unbelievably, they landed our plane in the international section this time, even though we had already been processed into the country. When a woman asked us for our immigration forms (which we had handed over in Guadalajara) and then told us we had to fill out new ones, Ale almost strangled the woman. It was all so very Mexican.

So, let’s recap the lessons I (re)learned from this trip. Well, first, I (re)learned that sometimes I need to apply what I know about my wife and ignore what she is actually saying to me. Would she have had a great time in Cuba? Probably, and I should have known that. And I also (re)learned something about travel too. Should you plan a vacation to an unknown destination without doing thorough research? Probably not. (But, if you never take a shot at getting off the beaten path you’ll never have the amazing discovery of some unexpected wonder.) Certainly, I (re)learned that you should not check baggage small enough to carry on a plane. And I definitely (re)learned that touring requires flexibility and a positive attitude. I also (re)learned that Nicaragua, like many Latin American countries, has suffered enormously from the shitty policies of its northern big brother. Finally, I (re)learned that the world is an interesting and varied place, full of wonderful differences and captivating histories. I love being out in it.

Would I recommend Nicaragua for a vacation—not exactly. If you are into traveling cheap, and willing to do the hostel tour and climb some huge volcanoes, then maybe it’s worth a visit. If you are into surfing hidden coves with monster waves, definitely. If you’re looking for silky white beaches with beach town amenities, definitely not. I can only hope that Nicaragua will continue to grow and develop in a way that is good for the majority of the people. And perhaps in ten years, it will be a place with more to offer. Maybe I’ll head back someday and find out. But, then again, I think I’ll go to Cuba instead.

You can view a whole bunch of pictures from this trip in a slideshow format at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157617050536714/

Little Miss Sunshine Tours Mexico City

2009-04-21T21:58:00.000-07:00

As you know, I really love living in Mexico City. Sure, it’s got its quirks and hassles, but they are mostly outweighed by the museums, sculpture, restaurants, parks, nearby colonial towns and beaches, pristine nature, and the overall freshness of living in a new environment. I relish the opportunity to show my friends and family from home around my new city, and even put them up while they are here. Regretfully, I haven’t been able to extend that hospitality as much as I would like, the lone visitor to Mexico City so far being my very well traveled friend Nik. That’s why I was totally pumped when I learned that we would be hosting Bob and Yoonhee, and their beautiful daughter Sunshine, for the first part of my spring break week.

The first benefit of having visitors from back home is their impending visit lights a fire under your ass in terms of getting things in order. First, we went out shopping for a crib and stroller/car seat for Sunshine to use. Honestly, though I am going to have a baby of my own living with us in four short months, I have given little practical thought to how we will accommodate the little guy. This foray into the world of actual baby items brought me to a new level of “wow, this is really going to happen.” I also went out that week and bought Ale a desk to put in the unused quarter of the open area of our apartment. Staying up late putting it all together for her to wake up to made me also feel like I was preparing for fatherhood, as I will likely be doing similar late night preparations of Christmas gifts for Miguelito Jr., or “Beto” (short for Alberto) which we think we may call him. We have a second bedroom in the apartment, but it was mostly being used as an unceremonious storage closet for the many boxes we’ve accumulated over the past three moves. The night before they arrived I scrambled to sort and consolidate, locating many a lost article—“oh, so THAT’S where that’s been!” Having found as much as I did, I am now committed (no, really!) to spending all day some upcoming weekend to a more thorough and complete job. I also managed to do some last minute replacement of kitchen tiles, mount a shelf for the toaster oven and hang a large picture that had long been on my to-do list. Finally, after several days of preparation, we were ready to welcome our friends to our (relatively) new (to us) apartment.

Things got off to a scary start when the traffic down the main highway to the airport, Viaducto, was uncommonly jammed at 10 pm. Ale figured the construction of another east-west artery in the northern part of the city may have been the culprit. My anxiety grew as it took close to 45 minutes to reach the airport and we had not discussed a contingency plan of contact if we were not there to greet them. My worry was for naught, as Bob, Yoohnee and Little Miss Sunshine appeared out of customs about 30 seconds after our arrival! The ride home took less than 10 minutes, so they missed the opportunity to experience a staple of Mexico City life, stiffling traffic. As we drove home, Bob commented on the experience so many have when flying over the city at night—“It’s SO huge!”

My buddy Jim Weathers was leaving the next day for the Dominican Republic, so he stopped by to meet my friends. He arrived in a state common to those who know him: inebriated and elevated. Despite the presence of the baby, he carried on in his jovial manner, complete with “fuckin’ ‘ell” this and “mother-fuckin’” that. We all got a big laugh when Bob, miming for Sunshine seated on his lap, began moving her arms, pointing at Jim and saying, “Hey, who is that crazy mother-fucker over there?!” Jim’s girlfriend Laura soon dragged him away (I suspect) for some last chance lovin’ (she would not be joining him in the DR) and Bob and Co. headed for bed after a long day of traveling.

While I had managed to get the day off, Ale had to work, so I decided to take our guests on a general tour of the city. We began with a walk up Nuevo Leon where we soon encountered a Friday street market on Campeche. Yoonhee took advantage of the cheap fresh juice available and I shared with them the common Mexican treat of jicama, a sweet root covered in lime juice and chile pepper. As we meandered our way through the side streets of La Condesa, we discussed the perfect weather conditions, and how “surprisingly nice” the neighborhood was. La Condesa, named after a countess who once owned the original hacienda, was developed as a neighborhood beginning in the 1920’s and features an array of art deco architecture. It was home to the rich and famous of Mexico City until the big earthquake of 1985, when those who could, fled for newer (earthquake ready) upscale neighborhoods. This left Condesa in decline for a brief time, only to become the trendy revitalized area it is now that so impressed Bob and Yoonhee. Finally, we arrived at the nexus of this trendy little neighborhood, the intersection of Atlixco, Michoacan, Tamalipus and Vincente Suarez where we had a delightful brunch at café Buena Tierra. Bob ordered some Chilaquiles, a very traditional Mexican breakfast dish consisting of tortillas covered in a red or green sauce, cream, onions and your choice of chicken or fried eggs on top. Yoonhee ordered another Mexican staple, though I can’t remember what it was. Both loved their meals. (I specifically remember what Bob had because he asked me to repeat the name of it to him 50 times over the next few days: “CHEE-LAH-KEE-LEHS”)

After eating, we headed over a couple blocks to Parque Espana, the smaller of two fairly large parks in our part of town, where we made our way to a shady bench. Sunshine was too young to make use of the enormous jungle gym contraption that sits at the heart of the park, but she was very much entranced with the sights and sounds of the fountain near our bench in a small pond. Her excitement practicing her walking also garnered her smiles from the old man seated next to us, enjoying the shade and eating fresh oranges. Next, I walked them through Roma—my old neighborhood—where I showed them my old apartment building and introduced them to my old favorite street taco place. (Yes, it had only been about an hour and a half since brunch, but Bob doesn’t need much of an excuse to eat!) I ordered an Alambre, a mix of steak, pork, peppers and onion, which he and Yoonhee devoured. We then headed further north to the beautiful Diana fountain, where we turned right for a stroll down Paseo de la Reforma, the “Champs Elisee of Mexico City.” A flower market lined the wide pedestrian promenade, offering visual and olfactory stimulus to the already beautiful, tree-lined thoroughfare. When we stopped at the golden Angel of Independencia, the most famous landmark and de-facto symbol of the city glimmering under the blue sky, it was time for a few comments on Mexican History. I explained why, unlike in America, there is a difference between the war of “Independence” and the war of “Revolution” in Mexican history. Independence refers to the war against the Spanish Crown, between1810-1821, and Revolution refers to the civil wars and political upheaval against the ruling elite, and between competing political factions between1910-1921.

The boulevard on which we walked also draws its name from another major period of political transformation in Mexico’s tumultuous past. La Reforma occurred (for the most part) under the beloved indigenous president, Benito Juarez, between1854-1876. These liberal reforms stripped the Catholic Church and the military of their many privileges and undemocratic political influence. The reforms also provided further protections and considerations for the average Mexican citizen established during the revolution, including a “Mexican Bill of Rights.” Paseo de la Reforma, the boulevard now honoring these improvements, was ironically constructed by the “Emperor of Mexico” Maximilian I, as a gift for his wife, Empress Carlota. Maximilian I assumed the throne of the Mexican Empire in 1864 with the help of French Emperor Napoleon III, who was looking to expand his influence in the Americas. (His blue coated troops were the bad guys in the Zorro movies.) Rather than retaining the name of the Empress, the boulevard Reforma now honors the democratic changes of the man who deposed her interloper husband and had him executed. Ha! Take that PUNK! (Sadly, his last words were, “Viva Mexico!”)

Next we hopped in a cab and headed downtown to El Centro, another area teeming with history. We jumped out at the beautiful Bellas Artes, a palace built as a cultural arts center at the early 20th Century. It houses a theatre, concert hall, and galleries for exhibitions, such as the Frida Khalo exhibition I saw last year. As it was awfully bright out, we headed over to the adjoining Parque Alameda for some more shade, where Sunshine got some fresh mommy-milk and Yoonhee and I had some icy treats. We then strolled down Avenida Cinco de Mayo (which is not the date of Mexican Independence or Revolution) toward the imposing Zocalo, the enormous central plaza of the city. All Spanish founded cities have such an arrangement, and even small towns have a modest version, but there is none that I know of larger than this one. It is the site of many traveling exhibitions, such as the Nomad Museum’s photographic exhibit, Ashes and Snow last year, as well as the site of many types of demonstrations, celebrations and events. At one end of the square lies the Metropolitan Cathedral, the largest and oldest cathedral in Latin America. It took over two hundred years to complete and is an amalgam of styles, though mostly Baroque. On the other three sides of the Zocalo stand the massive colonial structures that once served as the Palace of the Spanish American Viceroy and the seat of the colonial government which ruled from this location on behalf of the Spanish Crown from 1535-1821. (The other New World viceroy was the Viceroyalty of Peru, seated in Lima, which governed from Panama to Tierra del Fuego before being broken up into smaller viceroyalties due to problems with communication and transportation.) Today the National Palace is a museum, housing the original legislative rooms of the young Mexican Republic, as well as the famous murals of Diego Rivera depicting the history of Mexico. The only actual governing body remaining on the Zocalo is the city government. Perhaps the most famous annual event that occurs here is “El Grito”, a ritual re-enactment of the original call (or “grito”) for independence by the mestizo-sympathetic priest, Miguel Hidalgo. Tens of thousands gather under the palace balcony on September 16 to hear the president proclaim, “Viva Mexico!!!” thus signaling a burst of fireworks, singing, dancing and general Mexican revelry. I haven’t attended it there. I felt nearly crushed among the crowds at The Grito in the relatively small town of San Miguel de Allende two years ago, so don’t think I would appreciate the hording masses attending the event in the Zocalo.

There was an event planned that day in the Zocalo, though nothing of any national historical significance; a mass Quincenanera of 300 young debutantes, celebrating their “Sweet 15,” as it were. As we enjoyed some more Mexican delights—“sopes y sopa” from a hotel restaurant overlooking the Zocalo (did I mention Bob loves to eat?) we looked down upon the dress rehearsal of these young girls on the stage and listened to the music bouncing off the colonial walls. To top off the day, and to offer my guests another authentic Mexican perspective, we took the metro home. The Mexico City subway line is one of the most dependable things in the city, though it can get sardine crowded at times on certain lines. Since this was my first time heading home from the Centro to my new apartment, I couldn’t guarantee the passenger volume would be baby friendly; however, the cars were only half full and there was no need to go look for a taxi. In fact, Sunshine’s unique beauty got her noticed quite a lot, earning her more smiles during the ride home. (People smiling at this kid would be a theme for the weekend.) That night we were visited by my buddy Will, who stopped by for some wine and a feast of Mexican sushi, filled with (a strangely DF tradition) Philly Cream Cheese. I was happy to have two very good friends, one old and one new, finally meet.

The next day it was up and at ‘em with a long list of other things to do and see. Or so I thought. I was learning that the morning routine we had experienced the day before was the norm: Sunshine waking up at the ass crack of dawn, hanging out for a few hours, then laying down for a midmorning nap before we could effectively get out of the house for the day. So, the Turibus ride I envisioned would not happen. Nor would we get to do more than take a drive around the outskirts of Bosque Chapultepec, the “central park” of the city. Here there are lakes, museums of modern art and the Museum of Anthropology, an amusement park, and Chapultepec Castle. This castle, now the national museum of Mexican history, has served as residence to both presidents and emperors, but mostly as a military academy. It was from the bluffs surrounding the castle that the famed “Los Ninos” wrapped themselves in the Mexican flag and hurled themselves to their deaths as the Americans took the city during the American invasion of Mexico, 1846-1848. As we drove along the iron fence surrounding the park, we saw an exhibit of Nordic photography, “Norway: Powered by Nature” that accompanied the recent visit of the Norwegian Prince and Princess last month. (Ale was a principal organizer of the PR campaign related to their visit!) I’m sorry Bob didn’t get to spend more time enjoying them, as he’s quite a good photographer himself. But, these wouldn’t be the only photos we would not have time for; we’d also have to shelve a tentative trip to an exhibit in the Centro by David La Chapelle, “The Delirium of Reason,” the following day in order to make time for a day trip out of town.

Before getting on the road to San Angel on Saturday, we stopped into Califa for some “tacos al pastor,” by far one of the tastiest types of tacos found only in Mexico City. They unique nature of these tacos is that they are filled with meat shaved from a rotisserie spit, in the same way as the Greek gyro or Turkish kabob. This technique of cooking was brought to Mexico City from Lebanese immigrants. (Carlos Slim, one of the top 3 richest men in the world, is a Lebanese Mexican.) Tacos al Pastor include juicy pork shaved from the spit, parsley, onion and a slice of pineapple, topped with lime juice and salsa. RIDICULOUS is how good they are. Just writing about them now is making my mouth water. Again, Bob and Yoonhee were having a fiesta of the taste buds. Afterwards, we finally made our way to San Angel for our Saturday afternoon. We meandered through the weekly arts and crafts market set up in the two little parks located in that old cobblestoned neighborhood. This neighborhood, like nearby Coyoacan, was originally a suburb far beyond the city center. Now, these quaint neighborhoods are more like a colonial oasis in the midst of the urban jungle. While there, Ale bought a blouse and Bob bought a couple of wall hangings from the locals. We headed back and had to select a restaurant again for dinner—not always an easy task in a city full of great offerings. We settled on Il Postino, a lovely little Italian place with and outdoor café seating on the Cibeles fountain at the Plaza Madrid. There Bob ordered some giant mutton on a bone. The pictures of him digging into this thing will crack you up. (Did I mention Bob is a confirmed eater?)

Our last full day consisted of a trip well outside the city limits to a little village called Tepoztlan, about an hour away. Since Mexico City lies in a basin in the middle of a mountain range, it’s necessary to do some windy mountain driving to get out of the city. Once up there, Bob and Yoonhee were a bit surprised, as I first was, at the beauty of the countryside outside the city. Giant pine trees lined the highway, reminiscent of the outer limits of Yosemite. Tepoztlan is also cradled in a small basin surrounded by a wall of sheer rock face. It is such a nifty and magical place that it was the site of native life as far back as 1,500 BCE. More recent inhabitants, from ca. 1,100 CE, constructed a temple pyramid on the top ledge of one of these nearby craggy mountains. The high perch kept it from being destroyed after Cortez and friends razed the town below to the ground when the inhabitants refused to submit adequately. Taking the hour hike up the mountain side to the pyramid is one of the premier attractions of the town, along with the many shops, restaurants, and local “spiritual” offerings—“want your aura read?” White-robed, beaded hippies can be seen wandering the streets, waiting for a message from the Great Spirit of the Mountain (or some such shit). The small temple park at the top features a glorious view of the surrounding rock formations and the town below. It’s a great place to have a picnic and read a book for the afternoon.

After parking, we visited the grounds of the old convent in town, built in the late 16th Century, then stopped for a coffee and snack, before strolling down the main road toward the pyramid. When they looked up and saw how high and steep the climb was, doubt began to set in. Though this is not excessively physically challenging hike for the healthy, the unfortunate fact was that by the time Sunday had rolled around, Bob had taken on the brunt of the cold virus that had been plaguing Sunshine and Yoonhee days earlier and he was feeling pretty darn lousy. After we got to the foot of the mountain under the trees, we decided the pyramid would have to wait another day. Instead we sat in the shade and ate our packed lunches, chatting and people watching, before heading back into town and back into the big city.

The best meal of all, if I must say, was our dinner that last night: Miguelito’s secret special NJ-Mexican pasta sauce with salad and garlic bread. Unfortunately, Bob was so stuffed-up he couldn’t taste a thing—though this did not prevent him from eating! He was coherent enough to help me organize my music collection onto a back up drive, which was much appreciated by a technical idiot like me. Sunshine didn’t have the easiest time getting to sleep that night and wailed for quite some time. At times during the visit, Little Miss Sunshine behaved more like Little Miss Crankypants, but I think she still enjoyed her tour of Mexico City. I’m sure her having a cold didn’t help. Still, her antics certainly gave Ale and I a wake-up call as to what we need to expect in the coming year. The joys of parenthood await!

The next day we parted, Ale and I for a week in Nicaragua, and Sunshine and her ‘rents back to Philly. Details of Nicaragua to follow…

Miguelito Got Married!!

2009-03-08T23:25:00.000-07:00

It all started the previous year when Ale and I spent our first Thanksgiving on the beaches of the Yucatan. (See the previous Yucatan blog for details.) We said to each other, “If we end up getting married, let’s do it here on these gorgeous beaches. (Yes, we were contemplating the possibilities only a few months after meeting!) By spring the following year we had decided that a wedding was, indeed, in order. My thinking was that since I have a week off for Thanksgiving and people in the States have at least a four day weekend, it would work. It would give my NJ friends and family an excuse to come sun themselves in the Caribbean as winter began to take hold of them. Unfortunately, this plan backfired. At the time people were looking to book their flights last summer, gas prices were still spiking and flights were as high as $1,500 a pop, which was quite steep for a four day weekend. People began begging off, saying they would prefer to come at a later time when tickets were cheaper and they had more time to spend with us. Though disappointing, I certainly understood. I was also admittedly worried about everyone coming at once and me being too busy to spend time with them sufficiently. Nonetheless, I also admit I grew tired of having to explain to people, when they learned no one from NJ was coming, that I was not an orphan with no friends from NJ. Happily, my friend Tim and his lovely wife Jennifer stepped up to represent NJ and prove I had a life there. They ended up solving the problem of the unfavorable plane fare to vacation time ratio by extending their stay in Mexico for almost two weeks, creating for themselves a sort of second honeymoon. It was really great having them there. As for the rest of the NJ contingency, let me tell you what a great time you missed…

Having both already spent a ton of dough on previous (practice) weddings, and having recently blown all our savings on our apartment purchase and furniture, our focus this time was keeping it simple and inexpensive. We figured we’d get married on the beach in a barebones ceremony, go to dinner at this high end restaurant down the road, The Mezzanine, then party at their Friday night dance event. We’d simply tell people of our plans and those who wanted to/could join us would do so. Pretty cut and dry. Well, so we thought.

Getting married on the beach proved to be more difficult, and potentially expensive, than we expected. The cabana we were booked referred us to their wedding coordinator who talked about packages including tropical flowers for $500 and a “site fee” of $750. I was shocked that there would be a charge for use of the beach because it is a well known fact that all beaches in Mexico are all legally open to the public. I couldn’t understand why while staying in their hotel it was free for us to read, swim, walk, play Frisbee, sunbath or run naked on the beach, but the minute we stood with some friends on the beach to recite some words and sign some papers it was going to cost us $750. No thanks! We were pleased when the Mezzanine said they would allow us to do it on their beach for free. Unfortunately, trouble began brewing with those folks too. At first, we told them we were expecting 10-12 people. Ale didn’t think her parents were going to make it either, and so we thought it would be just us with a few friends. But, Thanksgiving in Tulum has a very nice ring to it, and many of my friends from work began letting us know they would indeed be joining us for the nuptials. Ale’s family confirmed. Then more of Ale’s friends joined the list late. Two weeks before the wedding we added all the recent confirmations up and discovered the total was pushing 35, including us. When we called the Mezzanine to let them know of the change, they began back peddling fast. They had seemed concerned when our total had crossed 20 weeks earlier and began emphasizing they would have trouble serving us all at once and seating us together. Fifteen days before the wedding, when they heard we had surpassed thirty, they simply let us know that they would not be able to accommodate us and wished us “good luck.” Yikes!

Ale and I were so freaked out at this latest turn of events that we went into denial and didn’t even talk about it for two days. Finally, Ale got into gear and began calling cabanas/restaurants on the Tulum beach strip. After many disappointments we finally found a place that we thought would work: Om. Om is a new cabana/restaurant in Tulum. We saw it being built there last year and knew that it looked pretty cool. We also had visited Club Om in Playa del Carmen and knew it was a well run establishment. All we needed to do was meet with the managers and sort out the details upon our arrival.

We flew into Cancun on Monday morning the week before the scheduled event. I rented a car—and after remembering the $2,500 deductible I had to pay after a rental car accident last Christmas—purchased the full insurance. We collected our friends, Walter, Martha and Vail, who had also arrived that afternoon as well and headed south to paradise. Martha and Vail were treating themselves to an all inclusive resort up the road from us and would be joining us for the wedding. Walter was staying with our main crew on the beach in Tulum and continued on with us to our first stop, the civil registry. Now this was a meeting I entered with great fear and trepidation. The reason was that despite many attempts, Ale and I had been unable to locate my apostilled (internationally certified) birth certificate. Most sites on the internet, including wedding planners in the Mayan Riviera said that this document was a requirement for marriage in Mexico. Ale had spoken with someone in the Tulum office who had assured her that it was not needed in the state of Quintana Roo, where Tulum is located. And even though (at my badgering) she had called and confirmed this 26 times, I was still afraid that we were not going to walk in there and have them say the person on the phone either didn’t say that, or unfortunately had given us the wrong information and of course you need it you idiots didn’t you read all the available information on the internet about getting married in Mexico?? To my utter joy (and Walter’s who was eager to get to the beach) we suffered no such bad news and were out of there with papers in order inside of 15 minutes! All that was needed was our blood tests and physicals, scheduled for the next day.

After checking into our sweet bungalow suite on the beach at La Nueva Vida, we grabbed Tim and Jennifer from cabana Lamar and headed to Om for dinner. After eating a delicious meal, which Tim was particularly satisfied with, Ale and I met with Manuel and Massimo, the managers to iron out the wedding/reception details. They offered to set us up on the beach as we requested, suggested we go with a buffet, including soup, salad, shrimp crevice, steak medallions, lemon chicken, and pasta for our vegetarian friends. They decided to close the restaurant for the evening, and even offered to let us use our IPod in their sound system, which we figured would not only be cheaper but allow us total control over the music. By the end of the evening, all the details were falling quickly into place and we could settle down and enjoy ourselves for our pre-wedding honeymoon. Our first order of business was to catch up with my posse back at the sand covered restaurant/bar at La Zebra, the cabana next to ours where Will, Tina, Jackie, Walter and (eventually) Jim Weathers were staying in an apartment cabana. We had left Walter there hours earlier as he was happily accepting his free welcome Margarita. By the time we arrived to introduce our NJ friends to my DF friends, all my DF pals at La Zebra were thoroughly “happily welcomed” and enjoying themselves immensely. Tina, in particular was in rare and hilarious (intoxicated) form. Not one to be dissuaded from a late night cocktail, we joined the fray, ending sometime later laying on the deck cushions in the ocean breeze under an amazingly clear jungle sky, many of us chatting arm in arm. It was a very pleasant end to the beginning of our wedding week.

Breakfast on the beach, followed by swimming, sunning, reading, chatting, walking, Frisbee, and afternoon cocktails and snacks were the orders of the day throughout the week. Dinners, drinks and after-hour parties at our suite balcony were the orders of the night. It was truly a relaxing and fun week in the paradise that is Tulum. Since I’ve already explained in detail the jungle, ruins and cenotes of the Tulum area in a previous blog, I won’t go into that sort of detail again. Suffice to say that we did many of the same activities again. One activity that we did not do was the “Hidden Worlds” cenote park which is apparently an all day affair that includes jungle canopy zip line tours and all sorts of other cool stuff. I’m glad in a way we didn’t get to it because it leaves me something to do next time we go—(hear that Steve!?). Some new twists included the discovery of a secluded bar at the end of the strip that featured darts, ping-pong and pool tables which we enjoyed twice. Another new experience was an expensive but delicious dinner at Posada Marguerita, where we had stayed, but not eaten at the year before. The food there comes from a set menu with limited choices described in person by the owner at each table. While many of us found this personal attention charming, Jackie, who is a finicky eater was annoyed and didn’t get why she just couldn’t see a menu. We all got a laugh when the Italian owner, not hurting for any business, responded curtly to her demand to select her meal from a menu by saying, “You want to eat here tonight?—YOU WILL LISTEN TO ME!” She did, and I imagine she was quite satisfied with her meal as were the rest of us, which was one of essentially four combination choices of fresh homemade pastas and freshly caught seafood. Since the restaurant could not accommodate a table of 10, Tim, Jennifer, Ale and I sat at a table away from the main group, which I thoroughly appreciated, having another chance to enjoy our friends who had traveled so far for our special occasion. Another notable event took place in town at an Argentinean restaurant in town where we congregated in our biggest group (besides the wedding, of course) for a “Thanksgiving” dinner. At this point, Ryan and Lydie, Jimmy Weathers, Tim Marlowe, Ashley, and Will’s visiting friends JT and Allison and had all arrived. I was filled with joy as I sat with my beautiful wife to be and so many good friends, old and new, stuffing myself with grilled Argentinean meat and vegetables AND watching the Eagles destroy the Cardinals. (Unfortunately, this sporting result would not be repeated in the NFC Championship game...) It was one of my favorite Thanksgivings ever!

Days before the wedding we headed back to Cancun airport to pick up Ale’s parents. We brought them each a special gift, a bottle of vodka for him and a bottle of whisky for her. We serendipitously ran into Tim Marlowe when we were there and threw him in our shuttle back to Tulum. While Tim and I talked, Ale’s mom grew concerned about my driving speed and lack of focus on the road. As she commented on this, Ale poked me in the shoulder from the back. “Knock it off!” I told her. When she explained the reason why, I responded that perhaps we should pull over and grab her bottle of whisky out of the back so she could take a shot and relax. When her mom heard the translation of this, she held up her plastic water bottle for me to see and said, “What do you think is in here?!” The sweet old couple had been drinking during the entire plane ride! Her father made a similar comment when we stopped by their bungalow on the beach later that night to check on them. It’s nice here, I told them in my lame Spanish, you can get up and read on the beach tomorrow. “Read?!” he responded indignantly, I’ve read enough over the last 40 years, I just drink now!” Gotta love this guy.

After a week of fun in the sun (the weather was great all week, unlike the year before) the big day arrived. The wedding was to begin at 5:15 on Friday evening so we could stand on the beach with the sun splashing some color in the sky. As luck would have it, this was the only day that was slightly cloudy and as the afternoon wore on it became increasingly cloudy and began to drizzle a little. As we debated whether or not to move the event indoors the decision was taken out of our hands when the judge and the two Mexican witnesses, our friends Sonia and Enrique, were late arriving. Ale had spoken to the judge earlier in the week, confirming the start time of the ceremony. He told us he would be there a half an hour early to go over the details and logistics. When Ale called to find out what the problem was, he defended himself by saying, “You told me the wedding would be at 5:15.” Ale said, “yes, but it’s now 5:30!” Typical Mexican time management. He and Sonia and Enrique were all there minutes later, but by this time darkness had descended and it was obvious the ceremony would take place in the restaurant. Still, we still consider ourselves to have gotten married on the beach as the restaurant was literally 20 yards from the edge of the water and the only thing separating us from the beach was the plastic window they roll down the edge of the deck to keep the ocean wind off the tables.

The ceremony was brief and simple, exactly as we had wanted. A brief reading of the responsibilities, love and respect of man and wife toward each other in the state of marriage, followed by some “I do’s” (or “Si, quieros” which Ale still makes fun of me for slightly mispronouncing) and the signatures and fingerprints of us and the witnesses. As it was all in Spanish, I couldn’t follow most of it very well. But, it didn’t matter much anyway. I was captivated by how absolutely gorgeous Ale looked in her beautiful 30 dollar dress, (she is so proud of herself for finding that steal!)with her hair done up with the extra hair extension added. Even though we had been planning this event for over six months, I was suddenly overcome with love and happiness as I gazed at her in the candle light. Then we sat down at our respective tables for the dinner, which was, honestly, impressively tasty. Afterwards, it was time for a speech or two. I went up and gave a thank you to all, and offered my sentiment that the wedding day was important and special, but what really mattered was the live we would build together. When I got to the part about having children, her father leapt up from his chair and gave a rousing “yeah!” The fact that I said all this in Spanish nearly brought Ale to tears.

Her father wasn’t the only one interjecting with comments and cheers. My good buddy Jim Weathers (aka Tim Walters) was about as fired up as I’ve ever seen him. I actually first noticed his elevated state hours earlier when I stopped in the apartment next door to pick up the flowers our friends Vic and Carolina had picked up for us. When I inquired about his altered state, I was told by those around him that he had purposely decided to get “beered-up.” (I can only guess this is some sort of British expression.) I told him to knock it off as the wedding was several hours away. He clearly didn’t listen to me. As we chatted in the restaurant having cocktails and waiting for the guests, judge and witnesses, Jimmy was already on a roll and raising eyebrows from those already there. “What’s the over-under on how long it takes him to start singing the old Scottish folksong “No Way Never?” I asked Tim and Vic as we eyed him from across the bar. (Usually this never ending round of a song starts very late in the evenings—or early in the mornings.) When he approached me singing this tune less than two minutes later, I knew we were in trouble. As I stood gazing at my beautiful bride a short time later I became momentarily distracted by the rumble of under breathed cursing from behind the table. There was Jim, struggling to balance himself on a chair and record the momentous event on video. Luckily, he managed not to fall. Later, during the meal he shouted out a toast, “Mike, I toast to your stupidity!” What!? People around him asked. “I mean, you’re the best one to make a choice I would regret as I see Ale is not a mistake…” Enough! People told him, you’re just making it worse! I’m still not sure exactly idea what he was trying to say, though I’m certain his intentions were well founded. Perhaps an expression of something he felt about marriage in general. Several people later told us that as he got himself “beered-up” all afternoon he kept saying that weddings made him extremely nervous. Everyone’s reminders that he was not the one getting married and thus needed not relieve any cold feet were offered without effect. He also tried to offer some commentary as I began my speech, but Will quickly interceded in no uncertain terms, “Tim, SHUT UP.” And he got the message long enough for Will and I to make our speeches. Amazingly, he remained on his feet for the remainder of the evening, even managing to dance and hold Sonia’s baby Mila without incident. And despite his extreme state of inebriation, he still managed to maintain enough of his roguish English charm well enough as to have one of Ale’s cute friends express interest. He, on the other hand, was too far gone to notice. He ended his night hours later, back on the deck of our bungalow, falling out of the hammock and then passing out in our wedding bed. He was in rare form, for sure, playing the role of the “drunken uncle at the wedding” to perfection. To thank him, I took my clippers and gave him nice 1x2 inch bald patch on the back of his head. We all got laughs out of that for a couple of weeks.

After I finished my remarks I turned the floor over to Will. I was glad to have him be the one to make the speech. He and I have become quite close over the past year and a half, and after many, many hours hanging out in our apartment, partying out on the town, chillin’ at the beach and elsewhere, he better than anyone had a window into Ale and my relationship. On the other hand, Will and I also enjoy busting each other’s chops, and I was bracing myself for what was sure to be a roasting of me in the midst of his wedding speech. My apprehension only increased the day of the wedding when I saw him in the La Zebra restaurant with JT working on the speech for the better part of the afternoon. He did not disappoint:

Love Lessons I’ve Learned From Mike and Ale

Lesson #1: How do I know she loves me? She shaves my back.

“Bebe, Bebe, it’s me. Are you listening? I need you to listen. This is important. Did the maid throw away my toenails? She did? BEBE, you know I was saving those! They were huge, I could have chewed on those for a week.!” This is and actual phone call from Mike to Ale. I know this because I was sitting in the car next to Mike dry heaving as it was happening. It was shocking. But, most shocking of all was that Ale was actually apologizing. She knew the importance of these toenails and she shared Mike’s loss. This, is love. There is no affection deeper than that of a woman who loves a man who chews on his own toenails. It wouldn’t be proper to discuss all of Mike’s jarring habits at dinner but what is important to note is that Ale puts up with all of them. She even encourages them. She knows that the man she loves is at times…very gross. She knows that he is not ever politically correct. She knows that she will spend the rest of her life avoiding the eye contact of strangers in fancy restaurants. And she knows that this is what also makes him honest and sincere and true to himself. She also knows that these qualities will make him an incredible husband and she knows that she is very lucky.

Lesson #2: She thinks I’m funny, even when no one else is laughing.

If anyone is in doubt of Ale’s love for Mike, all you need to do is watch her when Mike tells a joke. She starts to laugh even before he has finished his first sentence. She glows with pride at his wit even when no one else is sure if what he has just said is even a joke. And she doesn’t just offer a little laugh, but a hearty, throw back your head and roar laugh. Mike, as someone who enjoys the spotlight, be thankful that as of this day you have forever found a willing and captive audience.

Lesson #3: She loves my friends because they love me.

I love Mike. I myself have shaved his back (although I never planned on telling anyone about it). Ale knows that we all love Mike, that we think he IS funny, and that we have all been enchanted by the cult of Mike Hennessy. Our devotion to her husband means that we are all part of this new family being created today. We may all be a little rough around the edges, but don’t doubt for a minute our love for Mike. In return, we know we will always be welcomed into this new Hennessy home. And we should all feel lucky. There are very few places where you will feel as comfortable and as loved.

Lesson #4: She makes me a better person.

Mike and Ale have given me hope. Through them I have seen that maybe there is such a thing as being “soul mates.” There just might be someone out there who makes you a better person simply because you are with them. This is true for Mike and Ale. As individuals they are deep and thoughtful and full of love. But, as a couple these qualities are magnified. They bring out the best in each other, and they also tolerate the less desirable qualities. Chewing on toenails doesn’t really matter when your husband is the funniest man on the planet. I have been lucky enough to watch their relationship grow from the beginning at match.com to the caring and devoted relationship it has become. Thank you both for providing us all with a real life example of what love really is.

Tomorrow at the beach, take a close look. Not at the beauty of Tulum, but at Mike’s back. Examine the attention to detail. Examine how close Ale is willing to go to that southern point where back hair turns into something else entirely. This is the work of someone who loves her partner so deeply that she is willing to put herself at risk. For all of us looking for love, this is what it looks like.

Needless to say, this speech got its fair share of “ha-ha’s” “ews” and “ahhs.” Ale had a hard time translating it to her mother and others later, who couldn’t actually believe he had covered some of the topics he had. Afterwards, Marlowe and some others spoke a few kind words. Ale’s father stood to serenade us a cappella, which was a quite moving experience. Afterwards, we moved to the party portion of the night, with some bouquet tossing and cake cutting interspersed as you can imagine. Jackie had done a fine job of creating the wedding play list and along with Tina, Martha and Vail did kept the dance floor going for almost two hours after the restaurant had originally told us they would stay open. Ryan rapped the entire song, word for work, of “Ice-Ice Baby” while Walter took 87 pictures of a super hot friend of Ale’s who had shown up in some sort of Jazzercise outfit. A pair of unexpected guests generated quite a stir when they stumbled into the bar and proceeded to tell anyone who would listen that they were having an illicit Mexican vacation affair, he being married and the best friend of her father. The next day the manager told us she topped of the night by puking on the floor just after we all left.

The wedding all came to its final conclusion many hours later, with a rump of our crew drinking the wee hours away on our deck in the ocean air, laughing and joking and taking pictures of Ale’s hair extension placed in various places on their bodies, before stumbling off alone or in pairs, leaving us two newlyweds to pass out next to each other (no consummation that evening) and wait for the morning to begin the rest of our lives together.

PS. The next day, Vic and Carolina had breakfast in our hotel’s restaurant. All the other guests were abuzz about the crazy party that had been going on at the beach front suite until 4:30 am. “Yeah, we heard it, did you?” “Yes we did…and THE PROFANITY!!!” I could only laugh knowing that I was surely a prime offender. After two days of gentle recovery on the beach we headed back to the DF to our new life as a happily married couple, ready to begin our work on starting a family. To be contined…

You can also view LOTS of pictures of our really fun and exciting wedding (and some of our wedding week) at:http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157614928775445/ Use the slideshow feature for best viewing.

Remember, you can't reply to this email, but you can post a comment (please do!) or email me directly at strawdogs66@hotmail.com

Long Time No Blog

2009-02-21T18:27:00.000-08:00

Que Tal?? Yes, despite not hearing from me for quite some time, I did manage to get married since my last post. Yup, no last minute jitters, panic attacks, or running for the hills—on her part I mean, thank God—so we wrapped up the civil ceremony on the beach (more or less) as we had planned.

There’s a lot to tell about our awesome week and wedding, but believe it or not I’m still trying to gather and organize photos to post. (You bastards who are holding out on me--send me the proof!) So, while you wait another week or two for that story and pics, let me catch you up on a few highlights over the past six months.

Work—I started the year as the new Social Studies Department Head. Luckily, I have the best department in the school. It is great working with them, especially with helping a new teacher in the department. Also, the second time through my Western Civ curriculum has been even more fun than last year. This year’s crop of sophomores is super nice, cooperative and eager to learn. I’m also teaching a new elective course—Genocide—during the spring semester. The students and I are very excited about it and I fear the early positive response will mean more students than I can handle next year. The construction on the high school additions and renovations continues, but the suffering is more bearable as we can see the light at the end of the tunnel. The high school classrooms are completed, if with a few remaining kinks. It may be two years later than first projected—but the definitive end IS coming.

Travel—I spent a couple of weeks in Oaxaca in August doing more Spanish studies and checking out things there. It was a great time. I actually started a more detailed blog of those experiences but never finished it once I got into the grind of the day to day with work. I met some great people, took more Salsa lessons, did a weekend hike through the mountains, and enjoyed the many events connected to the annual Guelaguetza indigenous festival going on while I was there. It was truly a great two weeks. Perhaps, I’ll finish that story and send it on later. The first trip of the semester was a weekender to the old colonial town of Taxco with Ale, Marlowe and Will. This was at its core a wedding ring shopping trip, since Taxco is a renowned silver mining town and outlet. We ended up with two beautiful rings (plus quite a bit of other silver stuff for Ale—how did that happen!?) and had a lot of fun eating and drinking the weekend away. One memorable moment came during a detour we took on the way home to a “zoofari” when Will almost had his head bitten off by a white Siberian tiger who took Will’s leaning out of the car window twenty feet from the large carnivorous beast as an invitation to lunch. The other significant trip we took—other than getting married in Tulum—was a four day weekend to Morelia for a our second annual visit to the International Film Festival there. We met friends Tina and Jackie there for a smorgasbord of movies from around the globe. I think we saw over 20 movies in four days—quite a feat, even for movie buffs like us. Being short on cash after buying/furnishing the apartment and having the wedding meant low key Christmas vacation, which we spent at my friend Steve’s hacienda in nearby Tepoztlan. I watched the property and his three awesome dogs (two Rottweilers and a German Shepherd) while he was away and took some more Spanish classes for part of the week. Ale joined me off an on while I was there, the last time for Steve’s New Year’s Eve party. His place is amazing. It is mostly the brainchild of his wife Sally, a talented architect who has been working on creating this special place, bit by bit, over the past fifteen years. It is located in the countryside outside of Tepotzlan, surrounded by these rocky mountains through which I would walk the dogs each morning. Super relaxing. A more recent trip took us to Malinalco, another cute little colonial town built on a pre-Columbian site nestled in similarly craggy mountains. We found a hotel with a pool on a hill overlooking the main square for 350 pesos a night. Friends Tim, Corbin, Ryan and Lydie joined us for part of the time. We enjoyed several great meals, especially the town’s specialty, fresh trout, as well as a nice hike up to an Aztec temple on the top of one of the mountains. I sat up there, and later by the pool, reading an interesting book about Maliche, the woman so maligned for helping Cortez conquer the Aztecs. Friends and family continue to threaten to visit us, but no one has confirmed anything definite. So, I’m about to start putting together some Spring Break plans.

Housing—Last June, we decided to buy this apartment in the southern part of Colonia Hipodroma Condesa on the Escondon border. Not the best location in La Condesa, which is one of the nicer-hipper colonias, but all in all it is a very nice apartment and came at a very good price. The journey through Mexican financial bureaucracy was a true test of our patience. Several times we were given conflicting information about requirements, deadlines and outcomes. We were told at several junctions the deal was not going to go through at all and consequently began looking to rent again. This sort of customer service is more the norm than the exception in Mexico, as many of you who have lived here know, but it’s a little more stressful when the stakes include a 120K dollar apartment and where you are going to live. We had to move downstairs to the “cave” apartment underneath our previously awesome place for a couple of months, but are now finally located in our new digs as of November. We are in the process of filling it with furniture and making a few structural changes (building this little closet has managed to become quite a challenge), but it should be ready to showcase it in a month or so. (Hopefully we’ll be filling it with a baby soon!)

Mexico City—Still crazy, exciting, smoggy, crowded and interesting. I’m learning a new area of the city surrounding my new apartment. Very happy to have found a new sports betting bar nearby where I could go and watch every NFL game on at once on Sundays. I also located a cool looking billiards place a few blocks away that I want to check out. Oh, and the prostitutes lining the streets around the corner of my new pad. (Won’t be checking that out anytime soon, especially since most have very large Adam’s apple’s.) I’m still playing Ultimate Frisbee and playing with an ad-hock acoustic band. Still getting out of town for long weekends to discover the endless supply of neat little Mexican colonial towns. Spanish classes conflicted with the book club meetings last semester, but it looks like that conflict has been resolved and I’ll be able to get back to doing some more of that. And yes, you may have heard that the drug war continues, with over 5,000 murdered nationally for the year—over 700 alone this past November. Luckily, 90% of the killings are between the police/soldiers and drug traffickers as they respond to the ongoing crackdown on narco-trafficking. Every day there are stories in the paper about shootouts, kidnappings, bombings, beheadings, etc. Pretty gruesome stuff for sure; but because so little of the violence actually takes place in DF, it’s comparable to you reading about the daily violence and mayhem in Iraq. It’s somewhat connected to you, but has no real impact on your day to day life.

Anyhow, that’s Miguelito in Mexico in a nutshell (I’d say taco shell, but a hard taco shell doesn’t exist here). The wedding blog is basically written and ready to send. I just want to get the pics together for you before I send it.

Peace and Love,

Miguelito

Photo: The adorable zocolo in Malinalco.

Remember, you can always read this blog and previous blogs in a nifty format, along with additional info and links to photos at: www.miguelitoinmexico.blogspot.com

Last Call~!!!

2008-10-28T20:07:00.000-07:00

I realize that most of you have made your decision some time ago, but Ale and a friend made up this formal invite with updated information, so I'm passing it on. (Click to enlarge) We have already welcomed a few late additions to the festivities, so don't hesitate to join us if your schedule and budget allow.

Guess who is getting married!

2008-08-04T13:45:00.000-07:00

That’s right. Miguelito and his Mexican flower, Alejandra, after a year of bliss, living in sin, are going to tie the matrimonial knot. This will take place on November 28th 2008, on the beautiful Caribbean beaches of Tulum Mexico. (See my “Thanksgiving in the Yucatan” blog for details on this vacation spot.) Consider yourself both informed and invited.

Anyone who knows Miguelito knows how much I love Ale and how happy I am sharing my life with her. And anyone who knows Ale knows what a smart, funny and interesting person she is. Recently a friend told me he was thinking of dumping his girlfriend because he knew something was wrong when he realized he could speak all night without effort to my girlfriend, but had to struggle to maintain a decent conversation with his own. Ale has a bright and bubbly personality that is naturally attractive to people. And I certainly cannot resist the fact that she finds most of my irreverent humor, silly antics and odd ways humorous (or at least tolerable). I am lucky to have found her.

Since both of us are veterans of relatively expensive weddings, and have recently spent every dime we have in our savings on our new apartment, we are opting for a very, very simple wedding ceremony and dinner in which we are paying only for ourselves. We are going to stand with a judge on the beach at the Nueva Vida cabana hotel (or in their restaurant, if it is raining) and say our “forever-mores" (well, at least our “until-deaths,” eternity seems a little extreme). Afterwards, we are heading to The Mezzanine, a fine dining establishment a mile down the beach for dinner. After dinner, we’ll have some drinks and dance at their Friday night dance party. That is our plan. It is simple and true. Anyone who would like to be there is welcome to join us.

Of course, we are not just flying out there to stand on the beach for one day. On the days before and after the wedding ceremony, we’ll do some fun things like lie on the beach and swim in the crystal clear waters, visit the nearby Mayan Ruins, swim in the underground cenotes, explore the nearby nature reserve, or head up the coast an hour to Playa del Carmen and/or Cozumel for shopping or scuba. So, even if you think attending a wedding in Mexico at which you’ll have to pay your own way for dinner is a bit expensive, you could also think of it as an excuse to take a Caribbean vacation for yourselves during Thanksgiving as well. And if you cannot get away that weekend to Tulum, that is fine with us too. We’ll accept your well wishes and hope to see you some other time in Mexico City.

For anyone who is considering the journey, I should alert you that Tulum is a very nice and popular beach spot that is likely to have the good and reasonable cabanas booked early for Thanksgiving weekend. We were lucky to get ours for the week, Monday-Sunday, and we took care of it in July. It was the last available beach front cabana at this hotel in our price range. I’m including below a variety of links for anyone who wants to explore their options. Feel free to ask me any questions you have. (I have spent hours conducting research and have also visited this place.) Please let us know asap if you are thinking/planning on joining us. We want to get the restaurant approximate reservation numbers and also try to plan out our week based on who is going to be there.

Alright, well...this is going to be sweet!

PS.--I've recently added some new features to my actual blog site that you may want to check out: www.miguelitoinmexico@blogspot.com

Cabana/Hotel Information for Tulum Mexico

We are staying at the hotel La Nueva Vida de Ramiro. It is one of the highest rated places on the strip. We reserved a junior suite on the beach for $157 a night. They have several more bungalows and suites too. Prices from $80-150. You can see pictures on the web. I’ll attach a list of descriptions of each as well.

http://www.tulumnv.com/ Nueva Vida website, lots of photos.

http://www.tripadvisor.com/LocationPhotos-g150813-d1013669-La_Nueva_Vida_de_Ramiro-Tulum_Yucatan_Peninsula.html Tons of photos from travelers at NV on tripadvisor.com

http://www.tulumnv.com/locationmap.html Aerial photo of NV with cabana identification. We are in cabana #1, "Horizonte Perdido"

Place where we plan to have the wedding dinner, really nice with good Thai food!
http://www.mezzanine.com.mx/

It would be cool if we could stay in the same place, but if it’s full (the good ones like this are booked up well in advance) or you want other options, here’s some help:

Map of the cabana strip with cabanas identified (some are new and not on here)
http://www.sac-be.com/maps_travel.shtml (click on “Tulum” next to the map). This will help you see how far or near you are to us at Nueva Vida.

Trip Advisor site for reviews of cabanas, also can see pictures travelers took—this site is invaluable! Just search the name of the beach hotel you want.
http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotels-g150813-Tulum_Yucatan_Peninsula-Hotels.html

Good site for descriptions and info of many Tulum beach cabanas and Tulum in general:
http://www.tulumnv.com/locationmap.html

Other cabana places in the same price range: $80-150 (We seriously considered these.)
http://www.tulum-playa.com/
http://www.posadalamar.com/
http://www.titatulum.com/

Other very nice places, a step up in price: $150-225
http://www.ochotulum.com/rooms/partial-ocean-view.html
http://www.tierrasdelsol.com/cabanasx.html
http://www.loslirioshotel.com/
http://www.lazebratulum.com/home.html
http://www.locogringo.com/tulum/hemingway.html?name=Hemingway%20Cabanas
http://www.posadamargherita.com/index.php?lang=en

Off the charts in luxury and price, but worth a peek just for fun:
http://www.casamagnatulum.com/
http://www.anayjose.com/

Cheaper (but very nice) hotels, not on the Beach strip but in the nearby (5-10 minutes) town of Tulum: $50-85 (You could get a 50 dollar cabana on the beach, but it will basically be camping.)
http://posadalunadelsur.googlepages.com/
http://www.teetotumhotel.com/
http://www.tripadvisor.com/Hotel_Review-g150813-d578621-Reviews-Don_Diego_de_la_Selva-Tulum_Yucatan_Peninsula.html

New Year's in Acapulco

2008-07-27T19:24:00.000-07:00

Ale and I spent Christmas ‘07 in New Jersey, Philly and Maryland. Though it was nice to see people and introduce her to some extended family, I must admit that I did not enjoy being there during this gray, cold season. You like winter? Fine, you keep it. As soon as we returned home to Mexico City, I put on my shorts and walked around outside just because I could. Then, I began preparing for Phase II of our vacation: New Year’s Eve in Acapulco!

Acapulco is one of the most famous and popular Mexican resorts, along with Puerta Vallarta, and Cancun. It is also one of the oldest, beginning its development in the 1930’s and growing ever since. Plainly put, Acapulco is as far from the pure, deserted beaches of Tulum as you can get. If Tulum is Island Beach State Park in New Jersey, Acapulco is Ocean City Maryland. The city is built around a shallow bay that begins with an opening through a small straight and then continues around until it almost forms a complete circle. Apart from this circular shape, much of the surrounding land rises quickly from the beaches into mountainous hills that look down on the bay. (This explains the famous cliff diving competitions here I used to see on ABC's Wild World of Sports.) Geographically speaking, it is an amazing natural location. It’s also a cool place to view at night from the surrounding hills, which are illuminated by the lights of the city. Unfortunately, it is the surrounding city that makes Acapulco's beaches unattractive. The entire stretch of beach around the main bay has been totally and completely developed. Besides being extremely crowded, the city and hotels have been dumping raw sewage into this bay for years, at the rate of something like eight hundred gallons PER SECOND. This may sound hard to believe, but I know this because I read an article in the paper saying the president of Mexico was taking a personal interest in seeing through the construction of several waste filtration plants that would address the immense sewage problems. The presence of so many people also causes the beaches to be quite littered with garbage. I remember as a kid in Ocean City when the giant sand cleaning machines would interrupt our beach play when they came by to clean the garbage off the beach at the end of each day. That’s what you call a smart use of tax revenues to help keep the tourists coming back. Yeah…they don’t have that here in Mexico. It’s one of those things that would make too much sense.

Consequently, less developed areas north and south of the Acapulco proper have become popular with vacationers, especially those from Mexico City which is only a few hours away. Luckily for me, Ale’s friend Sonia married a this guy Enrique who owns a nice condo in Punta Diamante, one of these newer beach towns about fifteen minutes south of Acapulco City. Ale and I visited it with friends from ASF not long after we met. The condo is located in a gated community; it is small and simple, but very nice, with a pool right off the back door. From the condo, a three minute car ride or ten minute walk through a hotel golf course will get you onto the beach, which is considerably less crowded and cleaner than those in down town Acapulco. Upon arriving, you are immediately assaulted by those working the various cabana areas on the beach competing for your business, where you can get a shaded area with chairs and a small table, and service for food and drink. After settling into your chosen spot, you can relax and enjoy the surf and sand. Granted, while there you will be asked to buy every kind of trinket imaginable by vendors traversing the beach, but a brief head shake will send them on their way. While trinkets are of little interest to me, during my first visit there I did take up the offer for a half an hour massage for less than ten dollars.

For our New Year’s trip, Ale and I arrived at three in the morning on the night bus. It is possible to drive to Acapulco in four hours or so, but if there is traffic in or out of the city, it can take 5-8 hours. The first time we went, I drove, and it took us and extra two hours just to get to the city limits and onto the highway. So this time, we opted for a relaxing ride on the bus. (It was on this bus ride that I began my first blog about our trip to the Yucatan.) The house is only a few blocks from the house, so Ale suggested we walk. So, walk we did, suitcases in tow, down the side of the highway in the middle of the night. About half way there, I began to feel a little like an easy target for potential bad actors, but we managed to survive. The next day we enjoyed the sun by the pool. As we were heading inside for dinner we struck up a conversation with a guy in the condo next door, an American who had married a smokin’ Mexican chick and was spending the vacation with her family. Later that night we met them at the “B Bar” right outside the condo complex, and proceeded to get well lit up. The next day, New Year’s Eve, Ale and I hit the beach, where met up with friends my ASF friend Matt and his Mexican boyfriend Fernando. We chilled out under the little thatched huts while we made New Year’s eve dinner plans via cell phone with Sonia and Enrique who were en route to meet us. Waiting to make reservations until the last minute left us with few options, especially since we were hoping for a classy restaurant on the mountain tops overlooking the Acapulco Bay. Luckily, a cancelation came through and we were able to snag a table at a really sweet place. It was a set menu with unlimited drinks for 200 bucks a person (or thereabouts), but we decided to go for it since it was a special night. Also I was assured the fireworks from this vantage point were not to be missed. I was not disappointed.

Did I say, “unlimited drinks?” Well, other than Sonia who was pregnant, the rest of us hit the bar running and ran all night, determined to get our money’s worth. We started with cocktails and beers before and during meal, which was a multi-coursed delight that lasted about an hour. About the time the meal ended, it was time for the declarations of “HAPPY NEW YEAR!!” and the fireworks that immediately followed. We began viewing them through the glass wall in the restaurant and then moved to the deck outside. I cannot emphasize enough how impressive they were. We were looking down from mountains on the south side, watching fireworks from what must have been fifteen or more full blown launch sites from around the bay. Any one of these, individually, would have been an impressive Fourth of July display. The entire sky over the city was bursting with colors in every direction. And it must have lasted fifteen minutes straight. It was truly worth the price of the admission and something I think everyone should see at least once. When the pyrotechnics ended, we headed back inside to boogie the night away. There was no dance floor per se, but we had a blast dancing in a variety of couple-combinations. It was at this point that we moved from lighter drinks to many shots of various flavors. At one point, Enrique and I got into a one-upsmanship battle with shots of Jack, which of course I won. I think he finally begged off at round five. (I knew my Jack drinking skills would come in handy one day!) Afterwards, Sonia, Enrique, Ale and I headed back to the condo where we found the neighbors from the night before still up and at it. So we joined them for some more partying and hit the sack just as the sun was coming up.

The next day we were blown out, as you can imagine, so we spent most of the day watching the first season of The Sopranos. (I had bought all six seasons on the street near my house for 500 pesos, or less than fifty dollars.) After recovering all day we had one more night out left in us. We up with Matt and Fernando again, as well as another friend Shawna from ASF and a friend of hers visiting from Canada. We met at Senor Frog’s, a Joe's Crab Shack type fun-and-food chain popular in Mexico. Shawna had laid relatively low since arriving in Acapulco and was hell bent for wildness. She got us all going by ordering four or five rounds of shots before she began dancing with the waiters and up on her chair. Afterwards, Enrique and Sonia went home early while the rest of us headed to a gay bar for some dancing. As is often the case with gay bars, it was a on the dark and seedy side. So dark in fact, that I did not initially notice when a naked man “dancing” on the bar, sporting only cowboy boots, a cock ring and giant boner, bent down to put his junk in my face and ask me if I wanted to touch it. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not afraid of the penis. Trust me. I’ve got one myself and I’m very found of touching it. But, no, I was not interested in touching the swollen dick of this stranger while I enjoyed my beverage. Still, Ale and I got a kick out of the novelty of this “dancing” on the bar before heading out to the dance floor. As usual, the music and energy of the gay club delivered, and we danced ourselves into a healthy sweat over the next hour or so. Shawna was interested in a bar with more “available” men, so she spilt early. Her friend, also gay, stuck around and was last seen in the corner of the bar, kissing the mustached motorcycle man from the Village People.

We chilled out on the partying for the rest of the week; eating, watching the Sopranos and hitting both the beach and pool again before heading home to the real world a couple of days later. Once again, it was another unforgettable vacation in Mexico!

Photo Note: Enrique (right) and Fernando busting some old school moves on New Year’s Eve.

Related photos of this blog can be viewed at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/

Spring Break in Puerto Escondido

2008-07-22T20:01:00.000-07:00

Spring break was fast approaching. Where would we go? After all, we had almost two weeks off at ASF and we live in Mexico, the land of gringo vacations. We had taken that awesome trip to the Yucatan over Thanksgiving. And there was that crazy New Year's Eve in Acapulco. There had to be some cool trip to take for this upcoming vacation. But what? I had kicked some ideas around with Ale and Will, but nothing definitive had come together. Tick, tick, tick…

With about two weeks to go, Will and I sat on the couch discussing the situation. Someplace new (to us), someplace mellow, someplace warm, someplace ocean side, these were the requirements. Finally, we settled on the idea of Puerto Escondido, a little surf town on the southern Pacific coast of Mexico, in the state of Oaxaca. Ale had been there once before and confirmed that it was worth a visit. So we hopped on the computer and started searching Vacation Rentals By Owner Dot Com (vrbo.com). The first house that came up on our search was awesome: pool, three levels, barbecue, hammocks, rooftop patio, sleeps fourteen. Jeez, it was nice but we didn’t need anything that size or expense. So we moved on. Unfortunately, everything else we were looking at was already booked for Easter Week. As we went through the (un)availability of each rental in succession, our hearts were quickly dropping. Finally, there was only one rental left to check, the giant place we had looked at first. It was available, and after further investigation, would cost only $2000 for 10 days. Since there was going to be a group of us this worked out to be a fraction of the cost per person of a hotel room most anywhere, and certainly much less than renting a beach house of similar proportions at the Jersey Shore. Sweet!

Puerto Escondido was first known to outsiders for having a long stretch of beach, Playa Zicatella in which large waves break perfectly much of the time. The waves there break in huge empty circles, causing a tunnel or pipe-like effect in which surfers can literally surf through. Because of this it is called, “the Mexican Pipeline,” after the world famous “Pipeline” beach in Hawaii. Consequently, Playa Zicatella has become increasingly developed and the strip parallel to the beach resembles a boardwalk, replete with shops, restuarants, young people and crowded beaches. The main part of town surrounds the principal cove, or “Playa Principal.” It is cobblestoned, with a pedestrian only area, and is also full of shops, restaurants and bars. The bay is dotted with a variety of types of sailboats. Up the coast a bit, is a small, gorgeous, secluded cove, “Playa Carrizalilla,” surrounded on three sides by steep, rocky cliffs. In order to enjoy this natural spectacle, you need to walk down hundreds (thousands?) of steps. It’s a bit of work (especially going back up) but well worth it. Another primary beach is a stretch north of the town, Playa Bocacho, which is long, natural and practically deserted. It reminded me of Long Island State Park in New Jersey, consisting simply of surf, sand and dunes. One good thing about all of the beaches is that you can order food and drink from the little stands nearby. Many of our days were filled with ice cold beers and sautéed octopus, served right on the beach. (Ah, the life!) Overall, Puerto Escondido generally remains a sleepy Mexican jewel. However, there are signs everywhere that the increasing development will soon change the essence of Puerto Escondido forever. As Don Henley sings in the Last Reprise, “Call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye.” I advise you to get there before it becomes another Acapulco.

After we contacted the owners from VRBO, we shared the information about our Puerto house with our friends at work. Most folks more on the ball than us had already made their plans. Still, we ended up with a core crew of quality people: Walter, Tania, Tim, Sandy, Will, Ale and me. We got off to a rough start when there were some issues wiring the money to the owners in Puerto Escondido. Luckily, my buddy Nik was already there, after having visited me for a week in the DF, and he assisted with getting the house secured. After that was all straightened out, we had more unexpected trouble. Sandy had the misfortune of attempting to exit a bus while it was being robbed, resulting in her being sprawled out on the concrete with a broken arm. To her dismay and ours, she would not be able to make the trip. Still, we decided to carry on with the vacation in her name. Someone had to...

Will, Ale and I flew down together. Nothing beats the feeling of getting off of a plane and getting smacked in the face a wave of tropical sun and breeze. Even though the weather in Mexico City is a delight, it’s a 75 degree delight. Now it was time for some serious tropical heat. We rented a car and drove a few hours north up the scenic coast from Huatulco. The house was just as advertised: huge and colorful, with a pool and all the amenities, including boogie boards, snorkel gear and bicycles. It was located just blocks from the ocean in a suburban neighborhood north of Puerto Escondido proper. Many of the houses were fantastic retirement/vacation homes built by gringos. Each of these houses had its own original style and personality. Even thought the neighborhood is said to be 20 years old, there are still many vacant lots among the beautiful houses there. (For anyone looking to invest here, the time to buy is NOW!) After Tim, Walter and Tania joined us the next day, the first order of business was going shopping and filling the fridge and cabinets with food and drink. After that, well honestly, we didn’t do a whole lot of anything significant.

For the next ten days we had a totally awesome time. It was not the whirlwind of activity of our Thanksgiving vacation in the Yucatan. Mostly, we swam in the pool, played cards, hit the beaches, laid in the hammocks, read, ate, drank, and walked around the sleepy little town. In the pool, we played some Marco Polo type game Will taught us, conducted handstand-walking contests and chilled on the raft. Mike jogged in the mornings and Walter biked in the evenings. Tim took everyone’s money in Texas hold ‘em. Ale worked on her tan. Tania cooked some fantastic meals. At the local bars/discos, Will made out with questionable looking girls and Walter tried to dance with lesbians. (He almost got his assed kicked!) Mike turned 42 whether he liked it or not. Everyone read books and watched two full seasons of Arrested Development. (A must see series if you haven’t seen it.) It was a lazy, sunny, refreshing respite from the hustle and bustle of Mexico City.

One thing I kept thinking while I was there was, “I wish some of my family and friends back home could have been here too.” I’m sure everyone in the house was thinking the same thing. Hopefully, next time, we can make that happen.

Photo note: Will chillin' in the hammock on the roof of our Puerto Pad.

Reminder: You can read this amazing blog, as well as past blogs, in a snazzier format, and post and read comments at: miguelitoinmexico.blogspot.com. You can also view related pictures of this blog at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/show/

Helping Out

2008-07-18T23:50:00.001-07:00

I have written in previous blogs about the great disparity of wealth between the rich and poor in Mexico. Many of the families that send their kids to the American School Foundation where I work are immensely wealthy. Mexico City is filled with luxury cars, beautiful buildings, and expensive restaurants. It is also filled with many poor people, readily seen begging on the streets. The first time you see an old woman lying on the pavement with her knotted hands held out in solicitation, it’s quite a shock. You want to stop and shout, “Hey, shouldn’t someone come help this poor woman?” But after a while, it becomes normal to you, part of the landscape. And later, when you see a woman begging on the pavement with two babies in her lap, you start to say, “Hey, shouldn’t you stop having babies if you can’t feed them?” (No help from the Catholic Church on this one.) That reaction to a poor mother probably sounds harsh, but the reality is that if you gave money to every person who asked for it on the street you would never arrive home with any money in your pocket. It’s not my fault these people are poor. Poverty is part of the system here. It’s part of the culture. It is rooted in a long history of oppression and exploitation that began with the Spanish conquest of the Americas over 500 years ago. It is bigger than what any one person can fix.

At ASF, like many schools in the U.S., there are graduation service requirements. Consequently, there are many programs at the school in which students can participate. Many of them deal with helping the poor of Mexico. Though the “volunteerism” is mandatory, the students seem to genuinely embrace it. One such ASF service program offers students the chance to participate in local Habitat for Humanity projects. Despite the slight religious component of this charity, I have always appreciated the practical and effective work of the organization. I mean, they build houses for poor people who would otherwise not be able to own one. That’s just flat out awesome. The coordinating teachers for the Habitat service club last year were awesome too, my good friends Pete and Cyndi. They are two really special people and I was very sad to see them leave the school at the end of the year.

Last fall, I decided to join them one Saturday on a Habitat trip. The construction site near Texcoco, located in the state of Mexico. Though it lies just outside of the Federal District, is still part of the ever expanding “Greater Mexico City Metropolitan Area,” which has spilled across the borders of the DF and into surrounding states. This area is also the site of a HUGE garbage dump. Many of the poor there actually make there living sifting through the garbage. It is the site where the government wanted to build a new international airport for Mexico City. The current airport, Benito Juarez International, is the biggest and busiest airport in Latin America. Still, it is not big enough. A couple of years ago, the fedearal government proposed they build a new super large airport out near Texcoco. This would have brought related development and many jobs, but remarkably the local poor protested. I’m not sure what their complaints were, but I heard they rode into the center of the Mexico City on horseback, waving their machetes in protest. That’s a little more threatening than a protest I saw here on my first visit to the DF a few years ago—a bunch of farmers protested by lining up by the hundreds in the nude, or with their pants pulled down, so that they were all mooning the passing traffic. At any rate, the new airport plan was scrapped and instead a new, not so big terminal was built at the existing airport. And the area around Texcoco? It still has an enormous garbage dump surrounded by terribly poor people. Go figure.

The day I went on the Habitat trip, we put a roof on a house for an old man. The night before I told Pete and Cyndi I had built houses in my youth and possessed various construction skills. I asked if I should bring a hammer or a tape measurer. Ha! It was a silly question, as I forgot to remember that most everything built in Mexico is built with cement. That’s right, a big flat cement roof hanging right over your head. They simply put a corrugated piece of metal on the roof and fill it with about eight inches of cement. Consequently, there was no need for measuring, cutting or hammering. There was, however, a real need for carrying lots and lots and lots of buckets of cement across a yard and up a ramp onto a roof. So that is what we spent a good part of the day doing.

The kids threw themselves into the work with wild abandon, giving many of the locals a much needed break. (Part of Habitat for Humanity’s deal with the owners is that they must participate in the construction of their houses.) At first some of the men were reluctant to allow the girls to get involved so directly in such difficult and dirty work, but our girls would not be denied! The houses being built are very small and very simple, but when you look at the shanty shacks in the surrounding area that previously passed as housing, you know that what you are doing is a real life changer for these people. And it’s aslo a life changer for the kids too, some of which I think are seeing their fellow Mexicans with new eyes. Seeing random poor people begging in a city full of wealth is one thing, but seeing masses of people living in a landscape of economic devastation is something else for sure. And they don’t just look at these people from afar like they do in the DF. They get to really meet them and talk with them face to face, working, laughing, having lunch, side by side. I can only hope that these students—some of them surely to become major movers and shakers in Mexico’s future—will keep their ASF Habitat experiences in their hearts.

I really enjoyed the day on the Habitat project, so when Pete and Cyndi asked me to cover for them on another trip, I readily agreed. It was not a day without its problems. There was some miscommunication about connecting with our Habitat representative. She changed the details of our meeting, and then was late connecting at the new rendezvous. We eventually made our way to the same construction site near Texcoco, but this time there was not much work to be done. Essentially, we helped some women move some gravel and rocks around to prepare for the pouring of some porches. We also dug a couple of holes, though I cannot say I remember for what purpose. I suppose it was all work that needed to be done, but it did not feel much like building a house. When I shared my experiences with Pete and Cyndi they were not surprised. It appears the local Mexican coordinators of Habitat for Humanity do not have their acts entirely together. It’s a real shame because the kids are truly eager to work. If they could plan things a little better, I am sure these ASF kids could build a lot of houses. But, alas, this is Mexico.

I was asked if I wanted to be the coordinator for ASF Habitat for Humanity next year. I have not committed to do so as of this moment, but as I reflect upon my experiences writing this blog, I think I will take them up on the offer. I cannot personally solve all the problems of poverty in Mexico, but I can do my part.

Photo note: ASF rich brats busting their asses to help their less fortunate compatriots.

You can also view related pictures of extreme poverty and the Habitat Housing related to this blog at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157606253368031/show/

How safe is it down there?

2008-07-18T13:42:00.000-07:00

Well, Mom, perhaps this is one blog you shouldn’t read...

There are, in fact, some serious issues with safety and security in Mexico. When doing my research before coming down here, I read some frightening reports from the U.S. State Department and various travel guides warning of robberies, kidnappings and murders in Mexico. I don’t normally scare easily, but it freaked me out a bit. Luckily, most of the violent crime here is related to the drug traffic in the states outside the Distrito Federal, and most of the worst case scenarios are related to that specific situation. When President Felipe Calderon launched a frontal assault on the country’s drug cartels a year and a half ago, he made drug interdiction a priority. He sent 30 thousand army troops to the worst areas. As a result, the number of drug war related assaults, kidnappings and murders has skyrocketed. But even after acknowledging the impact of the drug wars, it is also true there are other sources of crime in Mexico. I must confess that I know regular people here who have been mugged, robbed, car jacked, assaulted and kidnapped. (I have yet to meet anyone who was murdered.) On the face of it, I realize that probably sounds pretty bad.

On the other hand, everything is relative. A very quick internet search conducted on “the most dangerous countries in the world” did not yield for me a list which included Mexico (though one did feature the United States). Jamaica, Zimbabwe, Venezuela, Iraq, Russia, South Africa, Somalia, Haiti, Indonesia, Israel, etc. came up again and again, but not my beloved Mexico. And none of these lists were exactly the same. I imagine the list you get depends on how you phrase the question and how the list makers decided to crunch the numbers, not to mention the questions of who is crunching the numbers and for what purpose. For instance, are we talking about drug interdiction and/or civil war related crime? Do the statistics refer only to the sort of average crime that happens to regular citizens? Are we mixing combat fatalities with run of the mill homicides? The answers to these questions will likely give you the variations in lists I found. Obviously, countries with civil wars and violent insurgencies are very dangerous, but how valuable are these figures for inclusion in a serious discussion about crimes against tourists in non-combat zones? And though most of you probably do not consider the United States a particularly “dangerous” country, I think we would all readily agree there are places in Trenton, Camden, Newark, Brooklyn, Detroit, L.A., New Orleans, Dallas, Oakland, Washington DC, Atlanta, New Orleans, etc. that anyone in their right mind should steer clear. And major cities are not the only places homicides happen in America. I know a lot of small-town Americans are being murdered because I see the cases being solved on reality crime shows like, Cold Case Files, Forensic Files, FBI Files, The First 48, etc.

So, is Mexico a safe place to visit and/or live? Is it more or less dangerous than living in the United States? Allow me to discuss several related topics and let you decide.

The drug war in Mexico...it’s bad. Really bad. The kind of bad that would make Americans flip-out if it was happening in their country. In the first six months of the year, 3,500 people have been killed in the drug war. That’s a record pace compared to last year. The killings generally take place in the Mexican states where drugs are imported, produced, refined and/or exported to the United States. (There are 32 states in the “Estados Unidos Mexicanos.” Yes, the official name of this country is the United States of Mexico!) The northern border is the worst. There are places up there where law and order exist only as a pleasant concept. I read recently that some cartel thugs came into a town and started a huge shootout throughout the downtown area, killing several police officers, including the chief, as well as innocent bystanders. The next day the entire police force resigned. You can’t really blame them. Cops in Mexico are found dead on a daily basis.

And not just any cops, high ranking officers like the heads of the state police. This spring, the national head of the anti-drug division was assassinated. The next day, the head of the national anti-kidnapping unit was executed. And cops aren’t just any kind of “found dead.” I have read several stories about cops being found beheaded in the back of a car and seen footage of the charred bodies of dead police being found on the side of the road. Often times, the bodies display signs of torture. I can’t believe anyone is actually still signing up to join the police anymore; except, of course, for the fact that there is tremendous money to be made aiding and abetting drug traffickers. (Police in Mexico are notoriously underpaid, particularly the local police who make close to the minimum wage.) In the old days, perhaps, it was a pretty good gig because you took your bribes while there was no real expectation to do much law enforcement. But now, Calderon is actually attempting to seriously reduce this illicit trade. The shake up seems to have disrupted much of the established “order.” As some cartels are weakened by the government’s efforts, others are emboldened to take over new territory, resulting in inter-cartel violence that resembles an all out war. This is Bloods vs. Crips fighting over an inner city corner, magnified to the nth degree. Sometimes the cops are not killed for enforcing anti-drug laws, they are assassinated in order to punish them (and warn others) not to do business with the competing cartels.

To give you an idea of what it is like let me give a few more examples. A few months ago, I read in the paper that the Zetas, a paramilitary mercenary hit squad associated with drug cartels, were placing banners on freeway overpasses. The banners were recruitment posters, asking military and former military members to come and work for them. The banners brazenly boasted of “better pay and a more competitive package” than what the government offered. In nearby Guatemala, cartels managed to run recruitment spots on the radio. Can you imagine hearing such an ad on WMMR in Philadelphia?!

Now before you go shaking your head and saying, “Boy, is Mexico screwed up!” keep in mind that all this violence and suffering is a result of the desire on the part of Americans to do drugs. Yup, all those regular (mostly white) Americans who enjoy a little recreational puff or snort or pill are actually the primary cause of all this mayhem in Mexico. I am absolutely certain that if a Mexican demand for drugs was creating the same level of violence, death and instability in the United States, the U.S. would intervene militarily. But, because Mexico does not have that sort of military power, they are forced to suffer. Sure, there are drugs in Mexico, but the U.S. demand dwarfs what the average Mexicans can afford to buy.

It’s similar to the organized crime violence and police corruption that occurred during Prohibition in the U.S. People wanted to get a buzz drinking alcohol and making it illegal was not going to stop them. Plenty of unscrupulous and violent characters were willing to do whatever it took to get the drug (alcohol) to the masses who wanted it. Plenty of police and politicians were corrupted by the money paid to look the other way. When they repealed the 18th amendment prohibiting alcohol, all the related crime stopped. I can’t help thinking that legalizing illicit drugs would be the lesser of two evils in the same regard.

It’s a pretty simple equation: No high demand, no high profits. No high profits, no willingness to kidnap, torture and kill to preserve your business. Sure the drug-related violence in Mexico is grotesque, but it is directly caused by the exorbitant demand for drugs north of the border. Mexicans must think, “We gave you tacos and you give us death and mayhem? Thanks America!”

OK, the violence related to the drug war is pretty significant, but what about the rest of Mexico? If I stay away from drug war areas, stay away from drug trafficking and drug interdiction, is it safe then? Well, it depends. If you live out in the countryside and are poor you don’t really have anything of value, so I think you are generally left alone. (Though I think poor women in these areas regularly suffer abuses that we would consider criminal.) Or, if you are middle class in the towns and cities of provincia, things are relatively safe as well. If you are wealthy—and there are some very wealthy people here—then you have likely surrounded yourself with a variety of protections that help to keep you safe. You may be “safe,” but the reality is you also live your life under guard as a constant target. I encounter these rich “targets” at my school on a daily basis. In the mornings and afternoons, the front of ASF looks like an SUV car show. The biggest and baddest SUVs on the market are lined up with tinted windows, driven by dark sunglasses laden chauffeurs/body guards.

One day, as I ate my delicious burrito for lunch at the stand in front of the school, I saw a woman pull up in the sportiest Mercedes I had ever seen. As she came to a stop, the doors of the car behind her opened and two men in suits and sunglasses jumped out and began running toward her car. At first, I imagined I was watching some sort of assault taking place. I soon realized it was just the opposite. This was her personal security entourage. One man stayed in the car behind, another helped her from her car then took possession of the Mercedes, and the third—hand on openly displayed holstered gun—walked her into the school gates. I have no idea who it was, but it was someone who obviously does not go anywhere without having a car full of armed men follow her every move. I am sure she lives in a large beautiful place surrounded by high walls, elaborate security systems, armed guards and barbed wire. I suppose that’s one way to live.

You do not have to be super rich to need security around your house. All houses in Mexico City (and much of Mexico) have bars on the first floor windows, and often the second and third. All the roofs have razor or barbed wire separating the buildings, except the poor who put broken bottles and glass up on top of their walls instead. If you leave yourself unprotected, you are likely to get robbed. I saw an interesting documentary at the Film Festival in Morelia last year called Los Ladrones Viejos, “The Old Thieves.” In it, famous old thieves (all growing old in Mexican jails) reminisced about the glory days of the 70’s and 80’s when robbery was an art form and done only to take from the rich and give to the poor. Throughout the movie they emphasized their credo of non-violence. They said they would never enter a house they believed was occupied, and never used violence to earn their living. They disparaged the new thieves of today who use guns and violence as part of their trade. Oh, the good old days…

It is no doubt the poverty of the Mexican masses contributes greatly to the crimes of street muggings, pick-pocketing, burglaries and car/taxi jackings that are still an unfortunate part of life in Mexico City, and other large state capitals. I know several teachers who were approached by muggers on their way to the subway station from our school. Thankfully, only one ended up having to hand over money. One, a big Spaniard named Alex, shoved the idiot down a set of steep steps. Another two girls simply screamed and ran away. Another woman I know was less lucky, two guys jumped into her moving cab, forcing the driver to drive to a remote location. When they realized she did not have anything of value, they took their frustration out on her face. (It may be important to note that all three women in the previous examples were blonde and alone.)

And gun violence? Ale had the adrenaline rush of having the language school she was working at robbed by thugs at gunpoint. The crooks rounded everyone into one room and demanded all the valuables. When one person only had a few pesos for the bus, the kindly thief said, “keep it.” My friend Enrique recently drove us to the movies in the borrowed (luxury) car of a friend, complete with bullet marks from when his friend’s watch was stolen at gunpoint. My friends, Pete and Cyndi, watched a person driving a fancy convertible in stop and go traffic robbed at gunpoint. The assailant simply walked up to the side of the car, put a gun to his head and asked for the victim’s wallet, which he promptly turned over. I have heard that many crooks commit crimes with guns that are not even real—but would you want to find out?

And what of the famous kidnappings down here? Did you see the Denzel Washington movie, Man on Fire? Well, sorry to say, that sort of stuff really happens too. Kidnapping is a major phenomenon in Mexico, Latin America and much of the third world. In one of my first nights out in Mexico City I went to a trendy nightclub called “Cibeles.” It was filled with young, rich and attractive Mexicans. It reminded me very much of the pretentious vibe I have found in some Manhattan bars, filled with yuppie up-and-comers. While there, I started chatting with one guy who told me his kidnapping story.

He was in his dorm in his private high school when three masked guys burst in, tied, gagged and blindfolded him before throwing him in the trunk of the car and taking him to a secret location. He was there for several days while the negotiations for the ransom were made. In the meantime, the kidnappers cruelly joked with him that his parents had refused to pay and that they would be left with no choice but to kill him. After three days he was dumped by the side of the highway, still bound, blindfolded and gagged, where he lay for two hours before the police arrived. While he lay there, people drove by an obvious boy in distress and no one stopped. Getting involved in such matters can bring unwanted trouble to you or your family. (When a friend of mine was being chased by a mugger in broad daylight, she ran for help to the juice stand where she bought a juice every morning, only to have the owner shrug his shoulders and step away from the fray.) Many years later, this young man was still angry when he told me that the first question the police asked him upon untying him was “Do your parents have kidnapping insurance?” (something apparently available down here) instead of “Are you ok after being traumatized for three days and laying here on the side of the road for two hours?” Because his father was extremely rich and influential, they were able to find and arrest the kidnappers—all federal police officers.

But catching kidnappers is by far the exception to the rule. Most kidnappings go unreported, much less unsolved. Think about it—if some group of guys can manage to snatch you off of the street at their pleasure, when they tell you, “if you go to the police, or don’t pay the ransom we’ll kill you and your family,” you tend to take them at their word. They have already proven they are capable of abducting you against your will. And if the police are not directly involved (which they sometimes are) they are generally regarded as inept and inefficient. In contrast to the image of the shiny, hero cop in the U.S., the average Mexican policeman is a poor, uneducated, brown guy wearing a dingy, ill fitting uniform, driving a police car likely to have dents and missing lights. On top of that—in the event that the police manage to arrest someone—the courts are so overcrowded, inefficient and corrupt as to make convictions unlikely. Plainly stated, it’s really hard to get caught and sent to jail for doing crime here. Because of all of this, the bad guys often win the day.

For average middle class Mexicans, tourists and gringos, the kidnapping concern is generally what is called “express kidnapping,” which often occurs in a taxi. Your taxi driver takes you to an unexpected rendezvous with armed hoodlums who jump into the cab and demand you go to an ATM and take out the maximum amount available. If you are lucky, they let you go after you cough up five hundred dollars or so; or they may keep you hostage for days until your account runs dry. This happened to my neighbor’s ex-husband some fifteen years ago. As I understand it, this practice is becoming less frequent due to some long overdue government attention to the problem. But, as I mentioned above, this happened recently to a woman I know. She survived the beating, but had to cake makeup over her black eyes for weeks. The easiest way to avoid this is to call a taxi service or take a taxi from a sitio station. Both record the cab number and the location of the trip. These are safer but more expensive, of course. Too expensive for someone like me who is not rich and who uses cabs regularly. Instead, it is important that you know where you are going and have a good sense of how to get there. That way if the cabbie goes off the appropriate route you will know something is up. Another precaution you can take is avoiding the famous green VW bug cabs because there are no back doors through which to exit. Finally, you should trust your gut. If the cabbie seems creepy and you don’t feel safe, just hop out and get another one. There are plenty of them around.

Muggings, kidnappings, carjackings—rough stuff, I know. But what drives some of these people to a life of crime? The minimum wage in Mexico is 50 pesos a day—that’s less than five dollars, A DAY. So, even if you are working steadily at a legitimate job there is a chance you are making 25-30 dollars a week. This is hardly enough to raise a family properly, and a clear explanation as to why people risk their lives to come to work in the U.S. And if you are truly poor and uneducated—and God forbid, a woman—your chances of getting a job are slim. Every day in Mexico City, women and their toddler children lie in the filthy street in front of cars stopped at red lights, doing some lame gymnastic or clownish feat in order to get a few pesos from the drivers, who usually ignore them. Meanwhile, the poor are constantly observing the upper classes walking around in fine clothes and driving luxury cars, eating in fancy restaurants and shopping in swanky malls. (I should mention that most of these rich folks are mostly white, or light brown, while all of the very poor are dark brown and Indian. But, I’ll explore that angle further in another blog.)

I don’t know about you, but I would be quite pissed off if I were poor and brown in this country. Unlike the United States, where you can say with some sort of a straight face that even the poor get an education and have a shot at meaningful economic advancement through hard work and perseverance, the Mexican poor are basically condemned to a life of harsh poverty. Mexico’s public schools make Trenton’s public schools look like Princeton’s private schools. Mexican society is much more closed than the U.S., with a rich caste of “haves” rigging the game for their own purposes against the “have-nots.” I am honestly surprised that more poor people don’t just say “fuck it” and start grabbing whatever they can from the rich. It is actually a testament to decency of most Mexicans or the inherent goodness of human beings—or both—that criminals are not just running rampant down here robbing, killing and stealing in the name of “fairness”.

Not that there are not people advocating a reshuffling of the economic cards here. In the last presidential election the leftist candidate, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, an enthusiastic supporter of Hugo Chavez, barely lost the last presidential election in a hotly contested recount. He continues to stir the masses at rallies proclaiming himself as the “legitimate president of Mexico.” If he or his party ever comes to power, it is scary to think what might transpire. Their rhetoric is extreme, making frequent use of the notion of “revolución!” Several of my rich students told me their family’s bags were packed and ready for a quick exit to the United States or Europe, in case Obrador won the recount. Revolution is perhaps the one constant in Mexican history, and it continues to hover in the wings. In order for this country to move forward it is imperative that the burgeoning middle class continue to grow. Maintaining the current gap between the very rich and the very poor (the percentage of poor is currently around 60%) is a recipe for disaster—and, of course, crime.

So having said all that, is Mexico more or less dangerous than the United States? It may seem like an obvious “yes”. But let’s take one last look at a few statistics that may help illuminate the answer to this question. The crime rate has fluctuated quite a lot in the USA over the past 50 years. After reaching a peak in 1991, the violent crime rate (homicide, rape, assault, robbery) has been on a downward trajectory. Some say the decrease is a direct result of the legalization of abortions some 20 years earlier, which makes some sense to me, despite the icky implications. Whatever the reasons, it has been relatively low since then. Between 1991 and 2005, violent crime in the United States has dropped from 758 to 469 per 100,000 people. Homicides came down from 9.8 to 5.6.
Property crimes dropped from 5140 to 4130. Are those rates good or bad compared with Mexico? Well, let’s first look at some other places in the world to provide us with context. Comparing the American homicide rate per 100,000 to Canada and Europe, the United States is as much as five times more dangerous than these places, including: Germany 1.0, France 1.6, United Kingdom 1.4 and Canada 1.9. On the other hand, the U.S.A. is much safer than some other countries which have higher homicide rates including, Russia 20.15, Guatemala, 24.3, Jamaica 32.41, Venezuela 31.61, South Africa 49.60 and Colombia 61.78. Those numbers certainly make the U.S.A. look pretty good—but don’t forget that the highest figures come from countries with enormous problems, including crushing poverty, total government corruption, drug wars and rebel insurgencies. Even in America, without those sorts of extreme problems, there are cities with comparable homicide rates to the most violent countries in the world, including: Baltimore 43.5, Detroit 42.1, Washington D.C. 35.8, and Philadelphia (Philly, Baby!) 22.2.

And Mexico? Well, the Mexican homicide rate is reported at 13.04 per 100,000 people, more than double the United States. But it is obvious that the majority of these murders are related to the drug war. If you take the overwhelming U.S. demand for cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy, methamphetamine, and heroin out of the equation, I am quite certain the figure would be much lower, possibly even lower than the homicide rate in United States. Other crime statistics per 100,000 people from 2004 appear to bear this out: Mexico’s rape rate was 14.26 to America’s 43.5, auto theft in Mexico was 140 to America’s 432, robbery was 147 in Mexico to America’s 146, and aggravated assault was 187 in Mexico to America’s 310. Total crimes per 100,000 people in 2004 were 4118 in Mexico, compared to 1503 in America. These numbers seem to suggest that America has as much crime, if not more crime than Mexico. In fairness, I should point out that there are probably some questions about the reporting and maintaining of these statistics, which I suspect are much more accurate on the U.S. side, and probably reflect under reporting on the Mexican side. (Again, why report crime to a corrupt and inept police force?) What I do know for sure is that when I travel to various places in the United States of America, I usually see very nice houses without fences, bars or razor wire surrounding them. That must say something.

I will confess, when I first was out and about on the streets of the DF, I was straight-up freaking out—especially at night. My heart rate accelerated, palms grew sweaty, I was looking over my shoulder, contemplating exit strategies, eyeing up passersby with suspicion. I find that funny when I look back on it now. These days, I walk around Mexico City without any of that that kind of stress. Sure, I pay attention to what’s going on around me if I’m walking alone late at night, and I put my wallet in my front pocket with my hand on it when the subway is crowded, and I avoid poor neighborhoods with degenerate/dangerous looking people hanging around; but, I do that everywhere: Philly, NYC, London, Madrid, Rome. Honestly, I do not feel afraid to live in Mexico City. Even though I do know some people who have been victims of crime here, I also know many others who have not. The same is true to some degree of the breadth of people I know in the U.S.A. I don’t visit drug war zones and I'm not involved in the drug trade, so that immediately reduces my exposure to the worst of the violence here. I’m not a blonde woman and I don’t drive a luxury car, so I am not seen as a rich and easy target. I think if you take basic precautions wherever you are, and stay out of the high risk areas, then having crime happen to you becomes a matter of luck, or lack thereof. Crime is a part of life; it always has been. But, you can’t stay locked in your house all day and night trying to avoid it. If you do you will end up missing out on life—and even if you do stay locked at home, someone might break in and kill you anyway.

So overall, for me, living in Mexico has not been an especially unsafe experience. In some ways it may be more dangerous than the United States, but in other ways, based on crime statistics, perhaps not so much—especially if you’re not involved in the drug trade. Based on what I’ve read, what I’ve heard and what I’ve seen, I would compare living in Mexico City to living in NYC during the late 70s, when crime was peaking. Everyone who read the papers knew that crime was out there, some of it violent. Everyone knew people who had been victimized in one way or another. But it wasn’t quite exactly like the movie Escape from New York either. People still lived and worked and enjoyed their day to day lives in the Big Apple. The same is true here. On the whole, there are so many good things about living in Mexico, and in Mexico City in particular, that it makes whatever the (possible) increased risk of crime worthwhile. Crime happens, and it happens everywhere to some degree. I really think a person would be foolish to let the fear of crime serve as an excuse for not visiting this fascinating and exciting place (or any other—except maybe Bagdad). So come on down and enjoy what Mexico has to offer, you (probably) won’t get mugged or kidnapped!

Photo note: “Security" in front of ASF

FIESTA!

2008-05-17T12:40:00.000-07:00

Have you read books or watched movies in which Americans are looking to get away for a while to forget about their troubles, or are looking to simply go have a fantastic vacation? And where do they often go? Mexico! Where do thousands of college kids go for spring break? Mexico! Where do Flavor Flav and Brett Michaels take their final two reality show date contestants? Mexico! Why? Because Mexico is a great place to party. Mexicans love to party, and party they do, often all night long. There is a night club across the street from my apartment. (Luckily, my bedroom is in the back of the building.) It’s not uncommon for me to see young drunken twenty-somethings leaving there at 6:45 am on Friday as I am headed to work. In fact, Friday mornings are by far the best weekday for traffic since so many people are getting up late after partying on Thursday nights.

When you are in a cantina, bar or club, you’ll notice how quickly (at the drop of a sombrero?) Mexicans are ready to jump up and sing along at the top of their lungs with the music. It’s pretty cool. I never experienced, nor could imagine, playing at a bar with my band and having the entire bar singing enthusiastically along to a Radiohead, Rolling Stones, or Pink Floyd. One could argue that, Latin music, traditional and contemporary, lends itself to more sing-a-long situations, but I’ve seen them do it to all kinds of songs, slow, fast, old, new, Latin, gringo. I really believe it’s more about the culture of “fiesta” than the music itself.

Cantinas, practically on every corner of the DF are filled with happy revelers of all ages, though not usually the younger crowd. Still, it doesn’t matter; on any given Friday evening, they are packed, with old and young, rich and lower middle class. (I was going to say rich and “poor,” but they have a level of poor here that you would find difficult to comprehend. And these people are not in Cantinas on Friday nights, but rather, outside selling gum and cigarettes, washing windshields at the stoplight, helping park cars or begging.) Still, the point is, the atmosphere is rich with the sound of music and laughter, the smell of food and beer and the kinetic energy of a crowded dance floor. And it’s especially fun to watch the old people tearing up the rug. In Mexico, it is “party ‘till you drop… dead!”

I was flabbergasted last September when I attended a “Grito” in San Miguel Allende celebrating Mexican Independence from Spain. Unbridled joy. Patriotism. Elation. Revelry. Mayhem. You name it. I’ll admit there were a few moments I was concerned for our safety among the shifting and shouting crowds packed into the relatively small town plaza. It was particularly disconcerting when the gigantic fireworks carousels setup in several towers directly over the massive crowds below ignited. As they began their fiery spinning and whistling at the stroke of midnight, after the mayor’s reenactment of the original “grito” or “cry/shout” for independence, sparks reigned down and toxic (no doubt) smoke choked those nearby. The hordes, complete with both old ladies and infants, pushed and shoved to escape the dangers. Still, remarkably, the singing, shouting and flag waving continued without much interruption. I remember saying to Ale that if Mexicans put half as much energy and enthusiasm into their national problems as they do into their partying they’d be a first world nation within a week.

Christmas is another party season, which officially begins nine days before Christmas Eve. “Posada” literally means “inn” and refers to the shelter Joseph and Mary sought upon arriving in Jerusalem before the birth of Jesus. Traditionally, they include the reenactment of this search for shelter, along with songs, chants and prayers. The kids celebrate this holy occasion by beating the hell out of a piñata. Normally, different neighbors put on one of these parties on each of the nine days leading up to “Noche Buena” or Christmas Eve. However, the contemporary versions I attended here in the DF consisted mostly of eating and drinking lots of alcohol. I’m not proud to say that as much as I love to party, I just could not get to all the Posadas to which I was invited. I was simply worn out. The same sort of no-holds-barred attitude was present at New Year’s Eve last year when I watched the most amazing fireworks display I’d ever seen over Acapulco Bay from a five star restaurant up on the hill. Afterwards we went back to the condo to party until the sun came up. And get this—we then spent New Year’s day recuperating by the pool, in the sun. Nice.

As you can imagine, the Mexican partying spirit is much appreciated by me and my ASF coworkers. Our network of gringo compatriots, along with our Mexican amigos is often holding a party of some sort or another. I’ve been to many such celebrations over the past year, and thrown a few of my own. I’ve hosted several dinner parties and after hours parties here in my apartment. I’m also lucky enough to have a large rooftop patio on top of my apartment building. It would be a shame for me not to put it to use occasionally. So, last fall, my apartment/building mates and I put on a fiesta on the roof. We decorated, bought food and drinks, cranked up the grill, hired a Mariachi band and karaoke DJ, and let the good times roll. We had about 80 people up there in the crisp fall air and a good time was had by all. At least until the end of the night when a scuffle broke out between the DJ and his crew and some revelers who felt the DJ was being a little too friendly with their girlfriends. In the end we were able to resolve the situation without too much difficulty. I’d direct you to Flickr to view the photos of this fine night, but someone stole my camera! Again, probably form the DJ crew. Oh well…

This spring we decided to throw another fiesta grande up on the roof. This time the primary entertainment was a Beatles cover band called Beat Bang. I’d seen them at another rooftop party at a Posada and they were fantastic, so I knew I had to get them up on my roof at some point. They weren’t cheap—6000 pesos, or almost 600 dollars, but they are worth it. Once again, Ale and I, our roommate Scott and our neighbor James pitched in to cover the band, food and drinks. Since the rainy season had started and there was a chance of evening showers, we got some tarps and strung them up over half of the roof. My friend Will helped out during the day with the shopping and decorating and by 6 pm we were ready to go. At the time of the fall party, I had only been at the school a couple of months and still didn’t know a lot of people, so the turnout was moderate. This time, I’d gotten to know many more people, plus word of the fall party had circulated, so we expected even a greater turnout. We were right.

By the time the first set of Beatles tunes ended, the roof was well packed. The bar (our large ironing board, covered with marble slabs from an antique sideboard in the apartment, was jammed with tequila, rum, vodka, mezcal, you name it. Oh, and several bottles of Jack Daniels! (I’d had a rare moment of clarity when I included in the email invitation my proclivity for this spirit.) The garbage can filled with ice and beer was constantly being emptied and refilled. In between the first and second set of the Beat Bang band, my own ad hoc faculty group, randomly named “China’s Loyal Youth,” from a headline in the New York Times, played a couple of tunes we’d thrown together.

After the second Beat Bang set, we passed the hat for them to play a third set, and then the party shifted into another gear. At this point we were pushing 200 people up there partying, Mexican style. Many in attendance were from the local Hash Hound Harriers, the local chapter of a world-wide drinking and running club. (Yes—drinking and running, in that order—they proudly call themselves a “drinking club with a running problem.”) My roommate Scott and neighbor James are both members. The band finished the night with me, my friend Tim and others leading the crowd, by this time fully gathered around the band, concert style, in a 10 minute version of Hey Jude. It was site to behold and one of those moments that I really wished my friends and family from back home could have been here to see.

You may be wondering about how I we got away with live music on a roof with other apartments all around us. Where were the police telling us to turn down the music? That just doesn't happen here. The club I mentioned across the street plays loud music all night, Thursday-Saturday. A private school behind my building hosts occassional private parties that rock my bedroom with their dance music. In Mexico, it seems the idea of a right to peace and quiet is superceded by your god-given right to party!

It was in that spirit that I had hoped to use the band’s equipment to play dance music for an hour or two, but by the time they were done with the extra third set it was already after 2 am and they were looking to pack it up. So, when they pulled the plug and the Ipod music ended around 3, the throngs of partiers, WELL intoxicated at this point, began to make the semi-treacherous journey down the two story spiral staircase out of the building. Afterwards, I spent the evening chatting with the small pockets of stragglers, the last band left at around 5 am, and also worked on getting Scott off the roof and into bed. He was leaving on Monday to move back to England, so he’d taken this last fiesta in Mexico as an opportunity to get other-planetary hammered and annoy the guests in a variety of ways. At one point he was on all fours without a shirt on and rolling around on the dance floor. He also ingratiated himself to the crowd at by grabbing the microphone and screaming, punk-style, the lyrics to the Beatles songs (the lyrics he could remember in his drunken state of mind). I could only shake my head and laugh.

All next week at work people kept thanking me for putting together such a great night. I was glad to have been of service. The clean-up was a bitch the next day, for sure. And the entire affair had cost about 1,200 bucks, but it was well worth it. After all, this is Mexico, and it was time for a fiesta!

Related pictures of this blog can be located at:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157605010614714/show/ I suggest you click the info icon in the middle of the first picture, which will bring up the witty photo captions.

Bob Dylan's Sombrero

2008-05-01T14:45:00.000-07:00

I saw Bob Dylan from the third row the other night. It actually didn’t suck. In fact, it was a pretty good experience, overall.

As you may know, The American School Foundation is the one of the most expensive private schools in Mexico City. More than double many others. As such, our classrooms and hallways are filled with the who’s who of the rich and famous of Mexico City. The Katie Couric of Mexico, Adele Micha, her son was in my class last semester. I’ve been told that the two young children of the Mexican Michael Bolton, Luis Miguel, attend our elementary school. The Corona family sends their kids there; the Mexican negotiator of NAFTA, his son went there. These are just the few examples I can think of off the top of my head. The front of our school is crowded all day long with chauffeurs, nannies and body guards. For vacations, my students ski in Vail and hunt big game in Africa.

As such, many ASF students have access to advance issue concert tickets. Primo stuff. One such student is a recent graduate named Rennie who remains a friend of Tom, an English teacher whom with I work. Through that channel I was given the opportunity to see Bob Dylan, in the third row of the National Auditorium.

The back story: I am not a Dylan fan. In fact, it is probably more accurate to say I am hostile to him. As with Eric “God” Clapton, I find it extremely annoying that these two guys who are generally pretty good as musical artists go, in my opinion, receive such cult like adulation. And with Dylan, despite a few good tunes and some admittedly hip lyrics, he has made a lot of poorly produced albums rife with annoying unintelligible singing. I’ve tried to figure out what all the hype is about, but I just don’t get it. I’ve seen Dylan twice already. It wasn’t on purpose. I saw him once with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and another time with the Grateful Dead. Both shows were similar, interspersing Dylan’s sets between the other bands’, using the other band as a surrogate back-up group. Both times I found the Dylan sets droll interruptions to otherwise enjoyable concerts. Regardless, this ticket represented generous offer from my good friend Will, and a chance to see a internationally famous musician in a Mexico City venue I had yet to visit. So, I went. Did I mention the seats were in the third row?

After starting the evening with few drinks and a bite to eat at a local Cantina (literally a brightly lit bar/restaurant where food is usually free with a minimum of drinks) at which we watched a gaggle of middle aged women line dance away their Tuesday evening at an apparent birthday party, we took the bus (2 pesos or, less than 20 friggin’ cents) to the auditorium a few miles down the road. It’s a pretty impressive place, holding about 10,000 people. There are bigger venues in town, but not as nice and with lesser sound quality. After a quick stop at the Auditorium bar for a hit of Jack Daniels, we headed into the show and took our seats. (Third row!) Dylan and the band appeared, dressed in suits that looked like the outfits worn by the members of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy in the in the movie Swingers, complete with hats. Dylan wore a particularly large rimmed cream colored number. The stage was lit in a sterile white light that changed only in intensity throughout. Dylan started off with a raucous version of Everybody Must Get Stoned that got the crowd, me included, into the show immediately. After a few more songs he shifted to the organ, where he stayed the remainder of the evening, save the encore.

One major difference between my previous experiences with Mr. Zimmerman and this night was the band. These guys were clean and tight, adding a level of sophistication to Dylan missing from much of his music with which I am familiar. The drummer, bassist and lead guitarist were first class. I spent much of my time focusing on them. If I had seen them in a bar I would be raving about them as this really cool jazzy, rockabilly band I’d stumbled upon. Strangely, they played not a bit to the crowd, simply standing (practically) still the entire time, transfixed on Dylan himself. In turn he acknowledged them not at all, singing in his own world with a closed eye look of grimaced constipation. That Dylan is not aging gracefully and of Jewish origin is no secret, but let me say that from 25 feet away, he truly looks like a crotchety Hassidic elder disguised as Bob Dylan. One weird thing I noticed, he looked like he was pulling his hair up the back of his head under his hat, sort of a reverse back to front comb over. Why one can only guess; it is not a good look.

The show was like a concert in Spanish for me. Not because it was in Mexico, but because I spent the evening listening to songs that were lyrically only 25% comprehensible to me. He wasn’t doing the straining moose call he does when trying to rock out too hard. A style he was never very good at, even before he turned sixty three. Instead he sang well within himself and the steady mid-tempo music, keeping the nasally moaning within a reasonable level and allowed the songs to breath and flow. Musically, it sounded very good. Admittedly, I didn’t know most of the songs, and I imagined them to be from recent albums I haven’t heard. But I found myself thinking more than once, “I suppose I wouldn’t mind listening to this at home.” The songs I have heard before, I recognized only faintly, because they had been so radically rearranged to fit this new smooth and fresh style. In fact, they were half-way through the closer, Blowin’ in the Wind, before I even realized what it was!

Other highlights from the show include seeing the famous Lucha Libra fighter, el Hijo del Santo. He sat in the front row, silver glitter mask and all, next to his hot wife. (Or was it his mistress?—after all, he was wearing a mask!) I could see Mr. Santo very clearly, as I was sitting only two seats over and two rows back; me being in the third row and all. All around me sat lots of rich old men and women, several of them nodding off at times. There were also fewer numbers of rich young kids, making use of their primo tickets and wondering, perhaps, what all the fuss was about. Directly behind me sat a young, rich and intoxicated man (who likely did not need to be at a job the next morning—if ever) who shouted out slurred cries for the song, The Hurricane, as well as other random calls such as, “Mr. Dylan, I love your sombrero!” (I too wanted to hear The Hurricane, my favorite Dylan song, and was teased several times at the sight of a violin on stage, only to leave unsatisfied at nights end.) My friend Tom, sitting a few seats away from me, found this spoiled brat more annoying than funny since he was seated directly in front of his verbal ejaculations. One final tid-bit, sitting on the end of his organ amp sat an Oscar statue, presumably the real deal from his Oscar winning song, Things Have Changed, from the movie Wonder Boys.

About an hour into the show, I went to the bathroom for a second time. While I was out there I saw my friend Steve, another co-worker who had traveled to the show with us, and his wife Sally. They were both big Dylan fans who were regrettably watching the show from the nosebleeds. Knowing the show would soon be over, I offered Sally my ticket. She was ecstatic of course, since it was a ticket for the third row. After a few minutes it dawned on me that I had not been asked to show my ticket the first time I returned to my seat. (It is Mexico, after all.) I told Steve to follow me and we managed to walk clear down to the fourteenth row or so before finding two empty seats. It was during this time that Dylan spoke the only words of the evening, simply identifying the band members. A few minutes later, Will came back and let Steve take his seat next to Sally for the last number, something they both appreciated. After they finished the song, the band lined up like they were taking a press photo and then walked off the stage. Finito. No encore. Nada mas.

Afterwards, we headed to a local Cuban bar near my house, Bodeguita del Medio, for a nightcap and reminisced with Tom, Will and Rennie, about the concert. I got home around midnight to Ale who asked, as I crawled into bed, “How was the show?” To which I replied, “It was actually pretty cool, the music was surprisingly good, and after all, I got to see Bob Dylan from the third row!”

How's The Food Down There?

2008-04-27T10:23:00.001-07:00

One of the great things about living in Mexico City is definitely the food. The city is loaded with fantastic restaurants. I could get dizzy contemplating all the awesome restaurants that must be just around the corner from my apartment. Like all the great cities of the world, the DF features a variety of international cuisine: Italian, Spanish, Korean, Indian, Cuban; you name it. There are a couple of excellent French bistros I would love to share with anyone who comes down here to visit. Two places that are especially prominent in the DF are Sushi and Argentinean restaurants. There are many popular Sushi chains peppering the city. Ale and I get it delivered about once a week, usually on Sunday nights. One thing Americans will find strange is that here in Mexico, Sushi is synonymous with cream cheese. Almost all the rolls have some cream cheese in them, and many kinds are either loaded or wrapped with the stuff. You could conceivably order your rolls sin cream cheese, but changing your order from the menus here can be tricky, yielding unintended results (more on ordering in restaurants and waiters later). It’s been easier for me to simply avoid the heavy cream cheese rolls and get used to having cream cheese in much of my sushi, which I should make clear, is otherwise fantastic. The Argentinean places, of which there are many as well, feature gigantic steaks cooked on gigantic, open grills. No cream cheese here, just mouth watering, fried, meaty deliciousity.

Of course, the most prominent “international” food here is Mexican. And I suspect for many of you, what you think of as Mexican food is not, or is only slightly. Taco Bell came to Mexico just before NAFTA was passed. In a few short years they were out of business, despite the eventual, tremendous success of places like Burger King, Subway, Starbucks, Pizza Hut and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Mexicans clearly appreciate American fast food but are also fiercely proud of their cultural heritage and took no small offense to the Yankee interlopers trying to sell them sanitized versions of their own national cuisine. Don’t get me wrong, I personally like Taco Bell well enough, but it is not exactly real “Mexican” food. For starters, tacos are not made of ground beef, lettuce and tomatoes in hard fried corn tortillas in a curved shape. I have never even seen such a thing here. Tacos are small soft tortillas, corn or flour, with any number of meat, pork, chicken dishes, etc. inside. Classic tacos are found on the streets in small taco stands or places called taquerias, as are other types of “authentic” Mexican food. Perhaps the most common tacos in DF are tacos al pastor, which is pork in a special sauce that is stacked and cooked on a vertical spit of sorts, then sliced off and put into the tacos. To imagine what it looks like, think of the same set up you find at a gyro or kebab place. You might add some onions, pineapple and sauces to these tacos, but lettuce and tomato, no. And if you order it with cheese, it’s called a “gringa.”

And these taquerias and other stands can be found every half a block in this city. And it’s not just tacos they sell. You’ll find a variety of different foods that are not on the menu at Taco Bell. Perhaps the closest thing to an American taco is the sope, a thickish deep fried corn tortilla topped with refried beans, lettuce, cheese (some white stuff, not cheddar) and occasionally, tomatoes. Tacos de guisado are also a common option. These are small round corn tortillas filled with a variety of pre-cooked fillings, meats and stews and such. Very tasty. A typical morning dish are chilaquiles, a mish-mosh of tortilla chips (called totopos here) softened under a cover of eggs, chicken salsa, cream and cheese, a real messy affair. A sandwich of sorts at the street stands is called a torta, beans, mayo, chicken and other Mexican toppings (not ham and American cheese) on a thick bread roll cut in half. Or you can have tamales, pork and corn meal fillings wrapped in dried corn leaves. Not one of my favorites. Neither are nopales, chopped up cactus that kind of looks like green beans, but certainly don’t taste like them. They’re a tad bitter, if you ask me. One the other hand, barbacoa is a downright delicacy, when done correctly. This is goat meat that is slowly cooked in a pit in the ground in banana leaves overnight. The bones are used to make a broth that is served with rice and chic peas. The tender succulent meat is served in a soft corn tortilla (taco) with onions and parsley. Barbacoa is great on Sunday mornings after a Saturday night out. There’s a stand a couple blocks away from my apartment that has good barbacoa, but we usually walk a little bit further to a place that really rocks next to the pleasant Parque España. And yet another excellent option is pozole, a stewy blend of pork (or chicken) and hominy, cabbage, lettuce, lime juice, avocado and oregano, of pre-Columbian origins. Besides food, there’s also many fresh juice stands on the streets here. I can get a gigantic 20-ounce fresh squeezed orange, strawberry and banana juice for less than 2 dollars, less than 50 yards from my front door. I throw some ice and yogurt with this mixture into the blender to make killer smoothies. Really, these concoctions are unbelievably yummy.

But, without any doubt at all, my favorite Mexican food is the burrito I get every day for lunch at the little stand immediately outside the gates of my school. I barely eat any breakfast in the morning (usually a half a glass of milk or V8) so I am really ready to eat when lunch comes at 12:30. And I am especially looking forward to this burrito. It’s a 10 inch flour tortilla with shredded chicken, refried beans, rice, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and onion topped with red, green and white sauces. I have this masterpiece with a small bag of zingy “Toro” flavored Doritos (there are many Doritos flavors here I don’t think you have up north) and a diet coke for 28 pesos, which is about two and a half bucks. It’s a pretty amazing deal, considering the sandwich, coke and chips I got at the deli in Lawrence cost more than 8 dollars, and with this I get one of the best burritos I’ve ever tasted made fresh to order. I actually don’t “order” this meal; Rocío starts making it for me the minute I appear at the stand. Despite the many appetizing options I literally choose to eat the same exact burrito every day. My compulsion to eat the same meal each day is a mildly amusing oddity known to many of my co-workers. I’ve even heard others order the “Mike Burrito” (or “Miguelito Burrito” if you will!). Still, any raised eyebrows or comments about my singular devotion to my lunchtime comida are well worth it. I like my job, a lot, and still that burrito is often the highlight of my day.

And trust me; I’ve just scratched the surface here. There are many other delicious Mexican dishes readily available in the DF, and untold variations of the dishes I described above. For instance, I have encountered many versions of things that are all called “quesadillas,” even ones that are without cheese! (The word for cheese in Spanish is “queso,” of course.) As for whether real Mexican food is overly spicy or not, I have found that the majority of foods are not; it is only that it comes with accoutrements like chili peppers and salsas that can add hot and spicy element to your food if you so desire. And you may ask, what about “Montezuma’s revenge?” I personally have been lucky enough to have avoided any stomach problems since moving here. Most people who do have issues simply suffer a reaction to different bacteria here found in the water. This results in mild diarrhea and-or cramping upon there arrival. (I did have some stomach issues in Guatemala weeks before I moved to the DF and this may have prepared me for the change.) Mexicans often have to deal with the same bacteria issues when they travel to the U.S.A. (Whether legally or illegally!) Of course, sometimes when eating food on the streets here, it is certainly possible to eat some bad meat and get really sick. It’s an admitted risk, though a minimal by my estimation, and one I would argue is well worth the benefits of the all the tasty food available on the streets of Mexico.

Viva la diferencia! Viva Mexico! Viva el burrito!

Photo Note: Rocio preparing to hand over my burrito.

How's The Weather Down There?

2008-04-20T21:11:00.000-07:00

By far, one of my favorite things about living in the DF, Mexico (Distrito Federal) is the weather. The city is nestled in a basin at 7,200 feet surrounded by mountains and volcanoes on the spot of what originally was the Aztec city on a lake, Tenochtitlan. Because of the latitude (fairly close to the equator) and the altitude (fairly high up) the climate here is delightful. The daily temperature ranges from 66 to 78 degrees over the course of the year, with most days being somewhere in the middle. There is also very little humidity, which someone like me from New Jersey appreciates immensely. The vast majority of the days here are sunny and in the 70’s and the majority of the nights are in the 50’s. Most buildings here, including my apartment, do not have any heating or air conditioning. (Shoosh, most buildings don’t even have insulation in them.) And as much as I enjoy the spring and fall changes in the Northeast, I can't say I have gotten sick of such pleasant weather here, day after day after day. Stepping outside to sunny and pleasant environment every day can do a lot to keep your spirits high.

There is a seasonal change here that takes place about every six months. May through October is the rainy season. (November through April is the…well, I guess it’s the non-rainy season.) “Rainy season” actually sounds worse than it is. For much of this time, the days are in fact warm and sunny, culminating in an evening shower that usually lasts about an hour, if not less. Many people can be seen waiting the rain out on the streets under awnings or in a cantina before heading on their way. And there are times during these months where it rains more than an hour, but this is mostly at night. It is true that in the fall hurricane months, you will get a couple of full days of rain in a row, but this is more the exception than the rule. These patches of rain seem a small price to pay for near perfect weather the other 10 months of the year.

One of the funny things to me is the fact that many residents here do not seem to appreciate their climatic good fortune. On days that get close to 80 degrees (without humidity, mind you) they complain, “hace mucho calor!” And on days that drop only a few degrees below 70, they say, “hace mucho frio!” Of course, even eventually warm sunny days start in the mornings with temperatures in the mid to high 60's. As I ride the subway to work in (only) my cotton button down shirt, I am surrounded by many Mexicans bundled up in coats, hats and scarves. It seems a pain in the ass to have to carry around such garb on a day that you know will hit 75 later on, but that’s how they do.

Sometimes, when I mention to a local how much I love the weather here, they tell me that the weather is really good in the nearby city of Cuernavaca, “the city of eternal spring,” and also the original home of Cortes' palace. I’ve not spent any significant time there, only driving through a couple of times on my way to Acaplulco. It lies only about an hour south, and Ale, who lived there for a while, tells me its pretty much the same as the DF, only a tad warmer. I suppose that everywhere people suffer from the “grass is always greener” affliction and don’t know a good thing when they have it. As for me, I’m lovin’ the weather here!

Photo note: The Diana Fountain on Reforma in the late afternoon. Taken by my pal Nik Ball.

Thanksgiving Break in the Yucatan

2008-02-07T21:29:00.000-08:00

Mexico City, or DF—Distrito Federal—(like Washington D.C.) is an amazing city in many ways. There is a lot to see and do. Much more than you can manage in a year. The same is true of Mexico as a whole. That’s why I’ve tried to get out of the city and visit different places whenever I can. So far, I have visited Queretaro, San Miguel de Allende (for El Grito—more on this in another blog), Morelia (for an excellent film festival—an awesome vacation for film buffs), Acapulco, Tepoztlan, Puebla (site of the “Cinco de Mayo” battle), Parras and Torreon (to meet Ale’s parents). All these trips were great, and at some later point I may find the time and energy (and the photos) to share my experiences on this blog site. But for now, I would like to discuss the most memorable trip so far, the week I spent on the Yucatan Peninsula during the Thanksgiving break.

My Thanksgiving break sort of started on the Thursday before the holiday when I went to Pittsburgh to attend a conference for work. Though I had to spend my days in the standard uninspiring educational conference, I really enjoyed Pittsburgh, which was quite a pleasant surprise. We caught “light-up night” there, when the entire city officially turns on their Christmas lights, along with a multitude of simultaneous events and celebrations. The mood of the town is festive to the point that the entire staff of our Thai restaurant was hammered by the end of our dinner, bringing us a hot water without any tea in the pot, and other silly mistakes. The next night we took the trolley up the hill to have dinner overlooking the city—a must if you ever find yourself in Pittsburgh. Despite the good times, I was looking forward to getting home on Sunday night and preparing our trip to the Yucatan the next morning. Instead, a half an hour connecting window and a huge Atlanta airport conspired against me, and my entire group was forced to stay overnight in Atlanta and catch a flight home the next day.

Ale went ahead without me on our scheduled flight and I caught up with her late Monday night in Merida. Merida, capital of the state of Yucatan, is a large and largely colonial town located on the northern tip of the Peninsula, about 45 minutes or so from the beach. It’s often called the “white city” due to the orderly and clean conditions there. After tossing Ale about in the hotel room, (this was the longest we’d been apart since we met) we went for a walk and then took a cab to a nice Italian restaurant. Merida seemed a nice enough place, but lacked any significant personality as far as I could tell on first glance. (The fat/old American tourists we saw milling about the next day seemed quite at home.) As you can imagine, I was slightly disappointed that the town was dead by 1 pm and so we headed back to the Hotel Caribe for the night. It was sunny and warm in the morning, so after an early run we headed up to rooftop pool for a swim and some sun. Afterwards, we had lunch in the plaza in front of the hotel and went on a short shopping stroll. With the beach calling to us, we rented a car (the completely less than enthralling Nissan Tsuru—the standard cab in Mexico) and headed due east for Playa del Carmen.

The map we were using in my guide book appeared to indicate a road off the main highway to Cancun heading toward Playa del Carmen. If you think you see such a road on any map you are using while in the Yucatan—disregard this false impression or you will be stuck driving to Cancun before you’re able to travel south along the coast to Playa. While doing this, I kept thinking I saw police lights in my distant rear view mirror and kept speeding up to get out of range of this hound, only to have this dogged pursuer reappear—even after making my turn onto the southbound coastal highway. It was sometime later that I realized that the shaky mirror and tinted back window were creating an optical illusion that had me feeling tense for an hour an a half. (Duh!) We got to Playa and found our hotel, Hacienda Paradise, with little trouble. We showered up and headed out to meet our friends Tim and Monica for dinner, drinks and dancing. Tim is a buddy of mine from ASF who teaches fifth grade. Monica is his adorable Mexican girlfriend. They had been in Cancun for a couple of days already and had arrived in Playa earlier in the day. We strolled the very boardwalk-like Fifth Avenue before having drinks on the beach; then we eventually settled on (another) Italian restaurant.

Afterwards, we hit a couple of outdoor bars. I got crazy with the new camera I bought in Pittsburgh and took about 80 pictures of Ale and Monica having an animated conversation. I had this brilliant idea that I would create some sort of comic art by creating faux captions matched to the expressions. (Yeah…with all my spare time.) When the waiter brought a madras we didn’t order (or maybe Ale did but wouldn’t admit?) he threw a fit and wouldn’t take it off the bill. Since the cost of the drink and the tip were exactly the same, I told him it was one or the other. He kept it on, claiming he couldn’t take it off because they would charge him for it. When the tip was absent (I’m nothing if not a man of my word) he stormed off, “no es justo!” like a little Nancy boy. Later, he somehow managed to be able to afford another madras we didn’t order and slammed it on the table. I told him, “I didn’t want the first one and don’t want this one either.” Still, Tim and Ale, at this point well inebriated, began drinking the “free” beverage. Only later did it dawn on me to contemplate the foul unholies that were likely present in that drink. We capped the night off with some dancing on a platform on the beach. Tim, Monica and I enjoyed watching some sex-pot grab Ale and dirty dance with her, to the dismay of her goofy boyfriend.

The weather was cloudy and drizzly the next day (not the norm for that time of year) so Ale and I ended up accepting a pitch to a time share promotion in exchange for a free snorkel trip in Cozumel (the island right off the coast of Playa del Carmen.) For anyone whose done it with zero intention of buying, you know what fun it is to dash the hopes of the sales person who goes from Stepford-wife nice to insultingly disappointed—“this lifestyle isn’t for everyone, and not everyone can afford it” she said with disdain. Tim and Moni went to check out lodging in Tulum, 45 minutes south, and ended up staying for the night. Ale and I enjoyed a ridiculously copious dinner of Steak and Lobster before hitting the sack early.

After a quick swim we headed for the ferry to Cozumel. While waiting I struck up a conversation with a Gringo pitching hats and tee-shirts as fundraisers for the local fire company. I assumed he was a fireman being a relatively young and fit guy, but he said, “god no—I’m just retired here and looking for something positive to do with my time.” Fiftyish, tan, smiling and retired on the Mayan Riviera; some people are clearly operating with a thought out life-plan calibrated for optimal success and happiness. Fucker…

The snorkeling was fun, though due to intermittent clouds and rain, not as good as it could have been (and certainly not as vibrant and dynamic as the reefs I had experienced in Belize). Afterwards, we rented a scooter and spent an hour an a half zipping around the island—much of it still a nature reserve—before hitting a restaurant and then catching the ferry back to the mainland. The rains picked up on the way back and became torrential on our barefoot walk back to the hotel. Ale lucked out when we took refuge in a dress shop on Fifth Ave and she ended up with new beach attire.

Due to the rain, we ended up arriving in Tulum later than planned (10:00) and learned with some degree of panic that the hotels, or rather the cabanas,” stopped accepting new guests at 11 pm. We hurriedly settled on a very nice, but on-the-pricey-side place called Margherita Posada. If you are wondering why we didn’t make a reservation in advance, it was because we had heard stories about how hard it was to select a cabana online. Tulum is a relatively pristine stretch of beach on the southern portion of the eastern Yucatan. (Yucatan is also the name of one of the 32 Mexican states. It encompasses the northeast part of the peninsula, while Playa del Carmen and Tulum are located in the nearby state of Quintana Roo—pronounced “roh” for some unfathomable reason.) Twenty years or so ago, it consisted of a smattering of literal cabanas—Gilligan’s Island style huts—along the beach. Today, many “cabanas” are simply detached hotel rooms with air conditioning and hot running water, with a central dining area. There remain only a few on the truly rustic side, with limited electricity and shared bathrooms, but even the nicer places are small and unobtrusive compared with your standard beach town strip of blinking hotels and trinket shops. In fact, the actual town of Tulum is some 5 to 15 minutes inland, depending on how far north or south you are on the coast. So, even an average “full” cabana-hotel has only about 16 guests and an essentially empty beach front, surrounded by jungle. If you prefer Island Beach State Park to Long Beach Island, this is definitely the Mexican Riviera beach for you.

We had heard from some friends of ours who were down their earlier in the week that some cabanas were demonstrably better than others, so rather than book site unseen, we opted to go sin reservaciones. This would likely have been less of an issue if we had managed to arrive some time other than 10 pm the day before Thanksgiving. (Always using the thinking cap, this one.) After getting the no-room-at-the-inn treatment for an hour, we decided to take the pricey, but available, Margherita as the clock ticked toward the witching hour. This cabana was, in fact, a very nice place and we thoroughly enjoyed our stay there, having breakfast on the beach before laying about and swimming. It’s run by two Italian guys—I’m guessing gay due to their apparent living circumstances, but honestly, my gaydar remained unexcited during my stay—and it is also staffed by several Mexicans and three large and loveable dogs.

Not having money to blow though, we checked out the next day and went down the strip, checking out a variety of cabanas. Most were full, and the ones that were not were either too pricey or too rustic. At once place, we spoke to a guy at the front office who seemed a bit of a retard. We’d ask him a question and it would take literally seconds for him to respond in slurred speech while his eyes wandered. We wondered what his deal was and who left a whacked out dude in charge of a beach front motel.

Eventually we found a place nice place at half the cost of the Margherita in a single unit place in which the retired husband and wife lived in one room and rented out the remaining three. We took a walk down the empty beach, stumbling upon a movie being shot on the beach—not much actual action—then returned to join Tim and Monica on a trip to the Grand Cenote not too far up the road. Cenotes are underwater ground springs that sometimes have visible and accessible openings above ground. Since much of the Yucatan consists of limestone as its bedrock, the frequent jungle rains filter down into the natural underground cisterns. The Maya (being good at Math, Astronomy and calendars, but apparently not so hot at geology) thought these caverns were entrances into the spiritual underworld. For us, they were nothing sacred, just bitchin’ places to swim, and snorkel.

Which is what we did (after some hilarious and highly animated “discussion” between Tim and Monica about which way, in fact, the Grand Cenote lay). While the cenotes are cool enough on the surface, sometimes providing a place to jump off of cliffs and swim in crisp clear waters, the real thrills come from swimming in the caves beneath the water With a mask you can clearly see the amazing rock formations that make up the caves. Of course, if you have scuba gear and a light you can get really crazy swimming through the labyrinth of caves that connect the cenotes, but I understand that is some dangerous shit that you need extra cave diving certification to do. We really enjoyed it and I highly recommend this experience to anyone who ever gets a chance to visit the Yucatan. Eco-warning: don’t show up with sunscreen or hair gel to the cenote. They’re trying to keep the fragile waters clean and clear. Sadly, if you were to show up with this stuff it is unlikely that anyone would stop you from entering—enforcing rules and laws is done leisurely in Mexico (more on this in future blogs)—but I figured decent folks like you would want to avoid ruining things completely if you had a choice.

That night we met our friends Pete and Cyndi, and Matt and Amanda, along with Tim and Monica, for dinner at the Mezzanine restaurant, in part to celebrate Ale’s birthday. The Mezzanine is a high end place featuring Thai food and the only place featuring dancing on a deck on weekends. It was a good time but everyone was not up for a late night so we headed out around ten.

On the way back down the dark strip through the jungle Ale and I stopped into the Zebra cabana, which had a central bar among the cabanas. While chilling at the bar, who walks out of the darkness but the retard we had met earlier in the day! As we suspected, this was no ordinary mental case, but a guy who had suffered a traumatic brain injury in a motorcycle accident at 19 years old. He spent nine months in a coma before suffering through years in recuperative therapy, after which time his parents bought him the cabana for him to run. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, his speech actually improved with each drink, though he still mostly appeared a retard. Poor bastard. Then again, he is living in Tulum on the beach, in the sun… so maybe things have worked out for him afterall. Who knows, maybe without the accident he would be working his nuts off in the human rat race, miserable.

The next day, Ale and I lay on the beach for a bit, and then checked out of our place. When we got to the car we found a cooler of beer sitting there, left by the other couple who had been staying at the cabana. Nice people. And what a set of jugs on this broad! Ale and I went back and forth about whether they were real or fake. I suppose in the end it doesn’t matter, nice is nice. Anyway, we headed up the road to visit the Tulum ruins. These Mayan ruins are unique in that they were built right on some cliffs along the coast. It’s a pretty impressive site, no doubt, though it lacks the enormous pyramids present at Tikal or Chitzen Itza. While there we saw some nut-jobs standing at the edge of the complex facing the sea, doing Tai Chi or Yoga, or some cockamamie thing or another they learned at their local New Age community center. What made ridiculous sight even funnier was the family of (typically) fat Mexicans picnicking only two meters away, stuffing their faces with potato chips, watching and laughing at them. The modern day Mayans apparently don’t seem to share the same spiritual reverence for these sites as some gringos do.

We hit the road toward Valladolid (the road we actually should have taken from the highway on the way our there) in the hopes of checking out the ruins at Coba. When we arrived, time was running short (all these parks close at 5 pm) so we opted to skip a second ruin site and hit the nearby cenotes instead. This was a good call because these cenotes were completely underground and worth seeing. You actually went down a long stairway into a hole in the earth to get down there. I was disappointed that there was no snorkel gear but happy to see two jumping platforms along the stairs, one at about 30 feet and one at about 50. Having jumped from 30 feet at the Grand Cenote, I could not skip the higher one. And this mo-fo was high! I mean, up there. And to compound matters, it was so dark in the cave, and the waters so perfectly still, I couldn’t tell where the surface of the water lay. I spit down a couple of times hoping to get some sort of ripple to help gage my landing, but failed to get much going. Even though Ale and the one other family there couldn’t have given a shit one way or the other if I jumped or not, I knew I’d be a pussy if I backed out… so off I went. After two seconds in the air, and no sense of where the water actually was, I was having a minor heart attack, but plunged in safely into the water without crushing my legs on any rocks below.

Ale was not so lucky. She’s not much of a daredevil, but she does love me, and thus allowed me to convince her to jump off of the lower platform. She stood up there for a while, wondering what in God’s name she was doing this for, while I kept reminding her that, “it’s only water honey, it’s not going to hurt!” When she finally jumped I snapped a picture of her in midair, confirming for posterity, the worst. Having never jumped into water from such a height, she maintained a seated position upon entry, smacking her thighs and ass on the surface of the water like a lower body belly flop. When she came to the surface I yelled, “see that wasn’t so bad,” to which she whined, “that was a mistake!” As an easy bruiser, the purple body art created on her by this folly was magnificent. The cenote park soon closed. We passed the natives who worked there riding their bicycles out of the jungle on their way home. As we exchanged waves I pondered how little they were probably paid to spend their days minding these natural treasures, probably less than five dollars a day. Writing this now, I wish I had tipped them.

On the way to Valladolid, I did two things I rarely ever do: drink beer during the day and drink beer while driving a car. I got the idea from Tim who had a beer on the way up to the Grand Cenote the day before. Other than the phantom five-o that was chasing me on the way to Cancun, I had not seen much police at all on the roads, save for a couple of military run drug checkpoints, at which we were always hailed through without a second glance. I had a cooler of cold beer in the car, it was hotter ‘n hell outside and I had a long stretch of straight road through the empty jungle before we arrived in Valladolid. So I cracked open a beer and started driving. It was such a pleasant experience, sipping my beer, smokin’ my cigarette, (feeling Irish) smelling the hot jungle air. Any other traffic was practically non-existent. Ale napped and I stared at the empty road and blue sky as the miles passed by under the tires. The only other thing left to do was to read the ubiquitous signage along the roadway, advising us, ad nauseam, to “obey the signs,” “wear our seatbelts,” “don’t vandalize the signs,” “maintain our distance” and this important ditty, my personal favorite: “no deje piedras sobre el pavimento”—“don’t leave rocks on the road.” God love these Mexicans.

We rolled into Valladolid a couple of hours later and checked into the Meson del Marques, which was a recommendation from Pete and Cyndi, who had stayed in Valladolid on the way to the coast and eaten in their restaurant. Some of the rooms were 75 to 100 dollars a night, but we managed to get one of the tiny ones for 40 dollars. We had dinner in the beautiful open air courtyard at the hotel, then took a stroll around the main plaza.

It was about ten o’clock when we got out there, just in time for the town cultural arts show attended by about 30 or so of the over 60 crowd. This included a traditional ribbon dance followed by some “Mexican karaoke.” Various individuals handed over a cd of music to the dj and hopped up on stage to sing. A young girl was very good, a young man sucked ass. But the highlight for me was the old Indian farmer guy, the kind who worked like a dog every day of his life and who had probably never heard of Ricky Martin, Hilary Clinton, Babe Ruth or Neil Armstrong. He was decked out in a cowboy outfit right out of a western movie. I saw him earlier in the night and thought how silly he looked in his getup. But, when he jumped up on stage and began singing his heart out, I realized this was his performance attire. I could not believe how dramatically this old coot was belting out these “Norteno” songs. Norteno music is one of the things about Mexico which I decidedly do not like. Marichi can be cool at times, but this stuff—similar to Mariachi, but featuring the accordion and an oompa-loompa beat—is the pits. It’s more polka than anything. Apparently, it’s a style that originated in northern Mexico–from the Revolutionary corridos, or popular story songs--and the southern U.S. Where ever it came from, they should ship it back. Nonetheless, this guy sang three or four of these gems like his life depended on it, occasionally busting into an enthusiastic jig during the instrumental parts that had me splitting a side. I ran up to take some pictures. I could tell he felt like a rock star with someone taking his photo up close, but I still felt a bit guilty for taking pictures with the express purpose of laughing at them later. By 11:30 the plaza had emptied out and the town was dead as a doornail. After a long week, we hit the sack in order to get up early and visit Chitzen Itza before we headed for the airport and the DF.

Having seen Mayan ruins in Belize, Guatemala, and now Tulum, I was wondering if Chitzen Itza would be able to deliver. It did. Like Tikal, the size and scope of the site and of the individual pyramids are hard to pooh-pooh. My natural instinct, of course, is to climb these monsters, but some dim American woman who fell to her death some years ago (and whose family “naturally” attempted to sue, no doubt) made sure that climbing the pyramids was no longer allowed. More New-Agers meditated at the site, much to the chagrin of our tour guide, who was worth every peso. The ball court here is ridiculously large. In fact, it’s the largest one in existence. It extends some 545 feet long and 225 feet wide. On each side stands a huge wall. Extending out about 16 feet up on each wall is a single ring, about two feet in diameter. The Mayans would play for days in order to score one winning goal by popping a ball through one of the rings using body parts hips or lower. The best part about the game was that the captain of the winning team had the “honor” of being immediately sacrificed via heart removal. Talk about motivation to throw the game! Another point of particular interest at Chitzen Itza is actually located in the visitor’s center. It’s a large, but simple old dredge. It operates like one of those mechanical claws you maneuver to try and win a stuffed toy out of a machine on the boardwalk. Some industrious American adventurer, Edward Thompson, brought the dredge through the jungle here in 1901 in order to search the large cenote at Chitzen Itza. He wanted to locate the gold and treasure he’d heard locals say the Mayans used to throw in the centoes with young sacrificial virgins. His efforts were rewarded and he promptly took the treasure home and left the dredge behind.

Soon we were off to drop off the car and get on the plane. We gave the remaining beer in the cooler to the car rental guy who drove us to the airport. In no time at all we were circling over our crowded, smoggy city. Despite a fantastic week of fun and sun, it was great to be home.

This first blog entry is, admittedly, excessively long. I wrote it while on my Christmas break when I had the luxury of reminiscing at length and included an array of tangents and details. Hoperully, future blogs will be shorter. I recognize that few of you will read this one from start to finish. That’s fine. Read some, read none, what do I care? It’s your life.

Related pictures of this trip can be located at:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/miguelito2066/sets/72157603569756196/

I suggest you click “View as Slideshow” and then click the info icon in the middle of the first picture, which will bring up some explanations/descriptions.

NUMERO UNO

2007-12-28T12:16:00.000-08:00

Hola Amigos,

Despues de mucho tiempo yo empiezo mi blog para Ustedes, finalmente. Yes, after living in Mexico for six months I've finally sat down to set up a web log to catalogue and share my experiences here. I'm not sure exactly what this will entail, but we'll find out together. Many people have expressed an interest in hearing about my life here. For some reason they find my stories interesting and amusing, no doubt due to the adventurous and interesting nature of some of my exploits (and to my own constant dismay) the ridiculous nature of the predicaments in which I often find myself. Nevertheless, I'll lay it all out for you here as best I can, given my limited technical skills. I'm certain the format will evolve over time as necessity and new knowledge demand and permit. Entries will vary in length and topic. Responses and comments will be welcome. I'll be sending the installments to a group email list of "the chosen few," and hopefully we can begin a cyber communication that will keep us connected as I continue my journey in the other America, south of the border. The first proper blog about my trip to the Yucatan for Thanksgiving vacation will follow shortly. (It will certainly be longer than most, as I had the Christmas vacation to write it!) I hope you enjoy, and keep in touch!

Con mucho amor,

Miguelito