Mazunte

During an idle moment on the beach, a thought entered my mind, caught my attention, and would not let go.

‘Why’, I wandered, ‘do I like this place so much?’

In fact, this was my fifth visit to Mazunte.  Normally such thoughts do not survive the commotion of everyday life, but on the beach, the mind is quiet, and the question would not fade away.

I rejected the premise that natural beauty is the main attraction.  There are beaches with bluer sea, whiter sand, or more colorful fish.  I did admit, that even though this area may not win first place in a beach pageant, it is wonderful.  The coastal range pokes hilly fingers into the ocean and separates the shore into small intimate beaches.  The Steep green cliffs of these fingers provide a vertical frame for the horizontal volumes of yellow and blue.  Black rugged islets, sprinkled close to shore, add drama to the scene.

Consequently, I deduced that the attraction lies in a more subtle interaction between Mazunte and the visitor, or what is usually call atmosphere.  At first, I defined it as a negative: 

‘I like Mazunte because it is not a Resort’

However over the next several lazy days, the specific manifestations of this atmosphere became clearer.  I’ll list them below.

1. No crowds.  The Mexican government funded a neighboring area as a tourism development target, and left Mazunte to develop on its own.  There are no high rise hotels or condominiums here, and absent are the associated crowds.  Nonetheless, there is enough variety here to satisfy every taste.  Accommodations range from boutique hotels to camping, but all are no taller than two stories, and do not block the beach
2. Mexican flavor.  The tourist infrastructure developed organically from the fishing village origins, and Mazunte still feels like small-town Mexico.  If you look hard, you may find the souvenir shop, but the majority of the shops lining the single paved road, serve the needs of locals and tourists alike
3. Nice tourists.  Difficult access, and the lack of nightclubs and fancy restaurants, eliminates the party seekers.  Mazunte is left with gentler tourists, who appreciate the simple pleasures of a beach.  Although I called it Mazunte, this area is comprised of three hamlets, only minutes from each other, which developed distinct characters.  Zipolite, is the yuppie place.  Nude bathing is tolerated, and occasionally, Alquimia, a rustic beachside bar, will host a live band.  Mazunte is the hippie hangout.   Facilities include beach camping, a vegetarian restaurant, and a Yoga center.  Between these two lies San Agustinillo, a family-oriented beach.  The waves here are safer, and that is where I stayed this time.
4. Close to the waves.  Whether camping or in a boutique hotel, I always stay on the beach, where I can catch the waves at sunrise, watch them from a shady spot during the hot hours, and listen to their powerful roar while falling asleep.

Of the people I know who love Mazunte, Enrique has the seniority.  He has been coming here for fourteen years.  He is in his late sixties, tall and broad, has a long white beard and a kind, hearty laugh.  Yvonne, his much younger friend, told me that when Enrique still had a belly, children would approach him, promise to behave well, and ask for a gift.  He was a sailor, a banker, a farmer, and now lives off the grid, in a thatched roof home, somewhere near a river.    On the subject of beaches he claims:

“I have been to only a few beaches around the world, but in Mexico, I know them all.  Mazunte is the best.”

Sushi and Jazz

Mellow jazz notes drifted onto the pedestrian street connecting Santo Domingo and the Zocalo.  We followed our ears into a large colonial building which has been converted into stylish shops and restaurants.  We recognized Miguel Samperio, our favorite saxophone player, who accompanied by a vocalist and a keyboard was rendering old favorites.  They were playing in a restauarant, which, to my knowledge, was the first sushi place in Oaxaca.  The restaurant was overfilled with a festive and noisy crowd, munching sushi, and sipping wine.  Before I could ascertain whether we wondered into a private party, a large smiling man came over.
"This is our inauguration night." he said in English, "Please enjoy the food and drinks.  They are free."

We sat by the sushi bar and ordered a tuna nigiri.  A young man, wearing a suit and a well groomed pony tail, filled our glasses with Argentinean malbec.  The malbec had a pleasing aroma, medium body, and fruity after-taste.
'So far, so good.'
With wine in hand, we relaxed and focused on the chef. He worked frantically to fulfill the hunger of the large crowd, yet kept his good spirits intact.  His smile exposed a silver front tooth that sparkled like a star in the bright lights.  No, he told us, he did not learn his trade in Japan, but in Tucson, Arizona, and has been a sushi chef in Mexico City for some years.  While waiting for the maguro, we grabbed a couple of slices of california rolls from a tray, which a heavy-set girl was circulating around the room.  In front of us, as on all the other tables, was a bowl of heavy soy sauce. Floating in the sauce were sesame seeds and sliced shallots.  I doused the roll in the sauce, put it in my mouth, and then, my breathing came to a sudden stop. When I could finally inhale and swallow, my eyes were tearing, and my mouth was seared.  Apparently, the green slices were not shallots but jalapeno, of the hottest variety.  I could not help but laugh.  The maguro arrived, and I painted it with only a microscopic amount of sauce.  I found the rice to be acceptable, the fish fresh, and the assembly containing an appropriate amount of wasabi.  Overall the nigiri was different from standard, but good.  Perhaps you can't expect sushi in Oaxaca to taste the same as in San Francisco.  Our next request, the tokyo roll, was one of the most colorful creations I have ever seen, and had a flavor to match.  We continued with more rolls off the travelling tray. Without any sauce, all the rolls tasted conventionally agreeable.  Adi, more accustomed to spicy food, dipped her rolls liberally, until a slice of jalapeno lodged between her teeth.  The acute pain that ensued, ended her eating binge.

The Jazz trio left for their next gig, we took another sip of the Malbec and approached the owner.
I congratulated him, and wished him good luck.
"Oaxaca needed a sushi restaurant."  I told him.
"How did you like the food?"  he asked.
I told him that the sushi was good, and that this was my first experience tasting soy sauce with jalapeno.
"And how did you like it?"  he inquired, suddenly alert.
I lied.

Oaxaca did need a sushi restaurant, and to make up for my lie, we will return soon.  This time, I will insist on pure soy sauce.

Oaxaca

HOME:  Noun
             בית
             집
             hogar
Definitions:

1. A place to rest after a long trip
2. A place to learn swimming and drawing
3. A place to make salad and bake bread
4. A place to meet friends
5. A place to plan the next long trip

Antonym:  Hotel room

Use:  We are back home, in Oaxaca.

Sab'res

There are two ways to contend with summer heat in Israel.  First, do as little as possible; second, ingest cold and sweet foodstuff.  I was sitting outside my brother’s home; doing the first, contemplating the second, when across the lawn I saw Pnina, the attractive next-door neighbor.

“Hi Tsahi, would you like some sab’res?” she asked.

I love rhetorical questions from beautiful women, but what made this offer especially noteworthy, is that Pnina may be the only Jewish person in the Land of Israel that harvests her own prickly pears.

Like most Israelis, I love sab’res.  The chilled fruit is the perfect summer treat.  Although the contradiction of soft flesh and hundreds of hard seed, presents a chewing challenge, the reward is sweet and juicy.  During the middle of summer, the fruit turns an inviting orange color, and is ready to eat.  As children growing up in the semi-rural town of Tivon, we would brave the heat, venture out to the nearby cactus patch, and collect as much as we could of the delicacy.

The procedure sounds easy.  Attach a tin can to a broomstick, use this tool to pluck the ripe sab’res off the plant, peel, chill (Optional step), and eat.  However, by the time you arrive at the site, all the easily-accessible fruit are, most likely, gone, and you will need to penetrate the heart of the patch.  Protective clothing and a careful approach may get you past the long dangerous thorns without suffering too much damage.  Inside, the air is oppressively stagnant and hot. Despite your careful maneuvers, you will disturb the stalks, and launch millions of tiny needles into the air.  These miniature missiles will stick to your sweaty skin, and make your life miserable for hours.  With pride and anticipation, you emerge from the hot inferno, carrying a basketful of the golden bounty.  Prior to peeling, you need to shed the fruit of its remaining thorns by rubbing it in soil, yet despite the vigorous effort, as you peel, some thorns will succeed in lounging themselves in your fingertips.  Finally, it’s time to enjoy.  Most often, we consumed the fruit before it had a chance to reach the refrigerator.

This task, even for us kids, had a dubious pleasure-to-pain ratio.  Thanks to the neighboring Arab village, we were able to have the pleasure, while avoiding the pain.  Each day, an Arab vendor, leading a donkey laden with sab’res, passed on the streets of Tivon.  We would wait for his ringing voice, and run down to meet him.  With grace and precision he would chop off both ends of the fruit, cut a slit down its length, part the slit with his calloused fingers, and let the juicy delicacy roll into our anticipating little hands.  I would look at him with admiration, believing that Arabs are somehow tougher than us, and immune from the thorns.  Immune or not, all across Israel, the sab’res trade remained exclusively in Arab hands.  Many years later, the street vendors disappeared.  Sab’res emerged on supermarket shelves, but their scrumptious flavor was gone.

Pnina, bucking the cultural trend, learned the art of picking sab’res with impunity. She routinely harvested the cacti that grew on her lot.  Her offer of peeled and chilled fruit was an act of great generosity.  Unfortunately, in my rush to devour, I forgot my duty as a blogger, and neglected to ask how she acquired this rare skill.

Can an oak tree smile?

My parents built their home on a wooded hillside, in the newly-founded town of Tivon (House of Nature).  They placed the house under the shade of an old oak tree which they loved and respected.  For my brother Gini and me, the tree was a dear childhood friend, yet as we matured, it slowly receded from our lives.  After my parents’ death, Gini moved into the house, and family life shifted away from the tree, and to the air-conditioned living room.  The old oak became an unobserved presence.  On my infrequent visits to Tivon, I would walk beside it without taking notice.  Until a story told by a neighbor prompted me to visit my giant friend.

I approached the tree, and to my surprise, despite the many years that passed, it still boasted the same healthy canopy that I held in my memories. Irrationally, I expected the tree to decline in parallel to my own aging body.  I walked around it, and casually rested my hand on its thick trunk.  An oak tree is not pleasant to the touch.  The deeply corrugated bark is hard, and the ridges are as sharp as a knife.  Yet as I touched the rough surface, childhood memories flooded my consciousness.  Usually, I need Gini to help me recreate past events.  Now, I could clearly see myself as a young boy, leaning my arms against the tree trunk.  I could sense the tough bark biting into my skin while, with my eyes tightly shut, I was loudly counting to ten.  The other kids were scrambling to find a hiding spot.  I felt the anticipation of the hunt as I set out to search for my concealed friends.

If trees like company, summer was the oak’s best season.   Friends would come over, and the lawn under its wide protective shade became the stage for our imagination.  The tree itself was an active participant in our games.  We played Hide and Seek, Cowboys and Indians, and many other adventures of our own invention.  During the summer our relatives would come to Tivon to seek refuge from the heat and humidity of Tel Aviv.  Suddenly, my stomach cramped with guilt as I remembered my cousin Neta, a girl my age.  It was here on this lawn that, in a moment of childish anger, I punched her in the stomach.  I was shocked as she doubled-over with pain.  Eventually, she stopped crying, and we resumed our play, but the sensation in my gut persisted for several days.  Summer must have been the setting for my first SMB experience.  As told by Pnina, our next door neighbor, in a voice that was an intriguing mixture of reproach and delight, Gini and I tied her to the tree and turned the sprinkler on.  The tree had company all day long.  On summer evenings, when the house was still too hot for comfort, my mother would set up a table under a bare bulb which hung from a horizontal branch.  Insects of all shapes gathered around that bulb, while my father carefully diced vegetables, ripened to perfection in his garden.  He would then add salt and oil to prepare the salad we all craved.

I looked up and recalled the dozens, maybe hundreds of times I climbed this tree.  I climbed it for thrill, for solitude, but mainly, to live my dream of becoming a pilot.  I climbed high, to where the branches were barely thick enough to support my weight.  There, a forking branch provided a comfortable seat, two extrusions acted as foot pedals, and as if by design, a vertical branch extended between my thighs to serve as a control stick.  With blue sky directly above, the ground, obscured by the foliage below, and a deep valley in front, I was flying.  The breeze swayed the thin branches in exact response to my aileron commands as I engaged a German Messerschmitt in a fierce dogfight.  In later years, I upgraded from the Spitfire into the Mystere jet, and the arena moved from the skies over Britain to the Sinai.  I did not become an air force pilot, and the tree would remain unclimbed, until it was discovered by my physically-gifted son Ofer.  From an early age, to the horror of my father, he would scramble effortlessly up the tree, and disappear from sight.  Worse still, he would come down swinging Tarzan-style from limb to limb.  Inevitably, he grew up, and the tree remained alone again.

Now, fifty years later, neuro-muscular synapses re-formed, and I could feel my body tensing in sync with the movements required to climb the tree.  Hop, pull up, bare foot there, twist, swing, and reaching the first fork, take a rest.  After the difficult first stage, it was only a matter of a careful ladder-like climb to the top.  My body craved to climb the tree, yet the thin skin on my hands and feet, cringed at the thought of scraping against the rough bark.  I also noticed that the lowest horizontal branch, which served as the launching point for the climb, was missing.  I suspect that my father sawed it off, in a futile attempt to deter his agile grandson from endangering his life.  I did not climb.  Instead, I told my story to Yair, Gini’s son.  He was energized, and being taller and younger, he promptly made his way up.

From above, Yair smiled triumphantly, and I could swear that the oak tree was smiling too.

Karma

The residents of the remote village of Flatgrass, lived in peace and harmony.  When they met, they would greet each other with a smile.

“Good morning Mr. Baker.”  The greeter would say.

“Good morning, Mrs. Blacksmith.  What a nice day.”  would be the equally friendly reply.

The village carpenter was a kind and peaceful man.  After lunch, he would sit on his front porch, greet those passing by, and exchange with them a few words about current events.  One day, he felt slightly dejected.  Maybe the carved cabinet he was working on, was not coming out as well as he expected, and maybe he had a glass of wine too many.  In any case, he was too absorbed in himself when the grocer passed by.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carpenter.” the grocer repeated the greeting, in a louder voice and a bigger smile.

“Humph” answered the carpenter, without looking up.

The grocer walked on, but his peace of mind was disturbed.

‘What did I do to deserve that kind of treatment?’ he thought, growing even more indignant as he dwelt on the incident.

‘What makes him think he is superior to me?’ 

He then remembered his childhood.  How even then, the carpenter and his friends would make fun of him for being so clumsy.

It is with this negative frame of mind that the grocer returned home.  Dinner was ready, and his children were waiting for him, but he could only find fault with whatever he saw.  He sat down without a greeting, tasted the food, and scrunched his face.

“Where did you learn to cook?” he asked his wife harshly.

She didn’t answer, yet he continued,

“Look at this house, it’s filthy.  What do you do all day when I am gone?”

That night, his wife would not share his bed, and the grocer’s mood did not improve.  With time, his negativity worsened, and he would often let his anger out on the children.  After weeks and months of this dark, and sometimes violent, behavior, Mrs. Grocer took the children, and left the village.

Life is hard for a single mother in the city.  She tried to get work, but jobs were hard to find.  There were nights when they went to sleep hungry.  It was hard for her to see the children suffering, and to feed them, she would steal food from the market stalls.  Eventually, she was caught, and sent to prison.  The children were put in custody of the state.

The oldest boy was placed in a foster home under the care of a school teacher and his wife.  The couple believed that only strict discipline would allow the boy to overcome his lowly upbringing.  To escape this harsh environment, the boy would spend all his free time reading the books in the teacher library.  The books, despite the school teacher’s intentions, developed in the boy a hate for the regime, and a love of the “people”.  On his own at last, he gathered around him like-minded friends, and planned the revolution.  The revolutionaries grew in strength and numbers, and after bitter fighting, the old regime collapsed.  The grocer’s son became “Our beloved brother”.  He sent secret agents far and wide to search for counter-revolutionaries.  In Flatgrass, the agent insisted on finding lovers of the old regime.  Eventually he was told that the carpenter’s son was a good friend of the former mayor.  The carpenter’s son was taken away, and was never heard-from again.

The old carpenter still sits on his porch in the afternoon, but these days, the villagers no longer greet each other with a smile.

The art of packing light

I am a fanatic.  To me, packing light is a challenge and a joy.  It requires study, self awareness, and discipline.  It also provides a path for continuous improvement.  The reward of this zen-like activity is freedom.  Freedom to reach any destination without a hotel reservation.  Freedom to hop on any form of transportation, from a crowded subway in Barcelona to the back-seat of a motorbike in Vietnam.

To Naomi, and others who would like to experience the joy, here are some rules.

Rule number one:Take only what you KNOW you need.
Buddhists and logic purist will be quick to point out that you can never know the future.  Trust yourself.  You'll know when you know.  If in doubt, leave it out.  Do not be tempted by "Just in Case" items.  Allow for some discomfort.  If expecting large climate variations, consider buying locally.  For example, instead of carrying a parka on a six-month Asia trip, I bought one (for a couple of bucks) after arriving in the Vietnam Highlands.  In the process, I visited the village market, haggled like the locals, and practiced my Vietnamese vocabulary (The numbers, one to twenty).  Two weeks later, in the Mekong Delta, I discarded  the jacket.
Do consider the consequences of not having an item.  I will always carry a poncho on an overnight hike in the Sierra Nevada, while getting wet in Paris, can be romantic.

Rule number two:  Plan on layers
Any item of clothing should be part of a plan.  Three light layers, topped by a light rainproof shell are sufficient for most Summer travel.  At the low end of the temperature range, all your items should be on your body, not in the pack.

Rule number three:  Use only synthetic materials.
No cotton.  Nylon wicks moisture away from the body and dries quickly.  It is easy to wash, and is ready to wear in the morning.  Down, the most compact insulation material available, is the only exception to this rule.


Rule number four:  Choose the right luggage.
Any container will get overfilled.  Therefore, the right size is slightly smaller than what you think you need.
My preferred style is an internal-frame backpack, with straps that can be tucked inside.  Wheels are evil.

Results
Using these rules on a trip that included both Southern Spain and Norway, my pack (without the computer) weighed six kilos.  Adi needs skin care products, and her pack weighed less than eight kilos.  The list of everything I took is shown below.  We think that next trip, the list can be slightly reduced.

Upper Layer
  T shirt -3
  Long T
  Long sleeve shirt
  Windproof fleece jacket
  Light rainproof shell with hood
Lower Layer
  Underwear -3
  Long john (light)
  Swim trunks (can act as short pants)
  Long pants (Next trip, maybe revert to two pants)
Head-wear
  Sun hat
  Warm cap (Important to hair-challenged men)
Footwear
  Black running socks -3
  Covered-toe sandals.  (Usable both in the city and mountain hikes)
  Thongs
Toiletry
  Silk sleeping sheet
  Towel (Synthetic)
  Soap and case
  Tooth brush and paste
  Shaving razor (Not Mach 3) and gel
  Deodorant stick
  Nail clip
Other
  Mosquito repellent
  Sun block
  Sun glasses
  Small assortment of first aid items
  Folding knife
  Headlamp
  Pen and memo pad
  Adi's neck pillow
Communications
  Reading glasses
  10" Netbook computer
  Earphones -2, with a splitter jack
  Kindle (For the guide books)
Luggage
  Passport/money pouch
  Small day-pack
  Internal-Frame backpack  54x33x25 cm.  (Eagle Creek does not make them that small any more)

Adi packed almost the same, with the following exceptions
  Only two T-shirts
  Black travel dress
  Hiking shoes
  Slippers

Pack light and be happy.

Pilgrim

I saw him sipping his morning coffee.  A fit, suntanned man, wearing a trimmed white beard, and neatly pressed travel-wear.  Behind him, the dramatic view of Muxia Bay marked the western edge of  the continent.  I picked up a cafe-con-leche at the bar and was about to carry it to my room when I heard him call.
"Would you care to join me?"
His eyes were as blue as the Ocean, and I could not refuse the friendliness in his voice.  I  spent the rest of the day with Jonathan.  This is his story.

You called me Peregrino?
I am not sure I would call myself a pilgrim.  I didn't do it for religious reasons.  I started in [St Jean-]Pied-de-Port, and walked five weeks to reach [Santiago De] Compostela.  I am waiting for my girlfriend to get here.  On the last day, descending to Compostela, my knees went out.  She was going to join me for the last leg, from Compostela to the Ocean.  She decided to do it alone.  I am bored here in Muxia.  Nothing to do.

I can't say that the Camino [The road to Compostela] was hard.  It's all in your mind.  When I started to walk, my mind was in a very bad shape.  I think I am ok now.  I did go to a few Vipassana [meditation] seminars.  It helped, but not enough.   Doing the Camino was the last resort.  Going over the Pyrenees to Pamplona may have been difficult.  It's a steep trail, sharp winds...  I can hardly remember any of it.  I was going crazy thinking about my girlfriend.  Mainly blaming myself for what happened.  We have been together for more than a year.  I love her very much, maybe too much.
You know how it is, when you really need someone?

I couldn't live without her.  I am sure she loves me too.  We had a wonderful relationship.  I didn't understand how she could break it up.  We had a catering business in Milwaukee, until she kicked me out.  It was actually her business, but I thought I was pulling my weight.  She said I hit her.  I don't know, maybe I did.  That night... the police came... it was ugly.  The next day, I collected my stuff, and moved in with my mother in San Diego.
Can you imagine a forty-six year old guy, living with his mother?

I stayed with my mom, because I couldn't function.  I was totally helpless.  I called Josie every night. She was annoyed.  Finally, she called me crazy, and told me not to call again.  I was crazy, I was sick.  Alcoholism is a disease, you know.  I drank a lot, I was dealing too.  I didn't notice as it got worse.

I do remember the Roman bridge at Puente del Reina.  It was early morning, the river was mirror-calm and the sun was just rising.  The round arches formed a perfect reflection in the water.  The two images joined to make the symbol for Infinity.  I realized that it's all a journey, nothing begins and nothing really ends.  I saw the holes the Romans built into the columns.  They allow the water to flow thorough without toppling the bridge.  I decided to make my mind the same way.
You are smiling?

That's ok.  It worked for me.

Over the following days, I gradually stopped obsessing about the past.  Instead, as I crossed the rolling hills and endless vineyards, I was obsessing on how to get Josie back.  Plans can drive you crazy too, but not as bad.

Talking about vineyards.  Did you visit the Irache Monastery?

I think that placing a fountain dispensing free wine, in front of an alcoholic, is a cruel joke.  Just kidding.

The alcohol thing was not easy.  They talk about the camaraderie of fellow travelers?  It develops at the hostels, over a glass of beer, or two.  A few times I almost broke down.  Eventually I learned to stay by myself.  In Burgoss, after visiting the gorgeous Cathedral, I called Josie.  She was calm, and was pleased to hear that I am doing the Camino.  She told me that if I get myself together, get a job, be able to support her, she will come and live with me by the beach.  She hates the cold in Milwaukee.  We decided that she would take a vacation, meet me in Compostela, and we will walk the last leg together.  After that, we'll see.

The road from Burgoss to Leon is flat, yellow, and hot.  Nothing to do or see.  No distractions.  To me it became like walking meditation.  I just focused on my steps.  I stopped obsessing about the past, I stopped worrying about the future.  I just walked.  When I reached the Leon Cathedral I was ready to absorb it.  The whole Cathedral enveloped in stained glass...  I was stunned.  First you feel the colors, than I walked around looking the images.  I sat under the incredibly tall arches, letting it sink in.  I don't know for how long.  At some point, I just knew that high above, there is someone looking after me.  A few days later, I reached the "Iron Cross".  At the start, like everyone else, I picked up a stone  and put it in my backpack.  Following tradition, I guess; nothing more.  Yet, as I tossed that stone on the large pile surrounding the cross, I felt that I got rid of my sickness.  I felt light, I was well.


The climb into Galicia felt easy.  I enjoyed the green hills and little hamlets.  Until that last hill.  My knees were so bad, I could hardly make it to the Cathedral.  I met Josie.  She was a bit formal, cool. I kind of expected it.  She decided to walk alone.  I am sure she is doing a lot of thinking, but I am not worried.  Whatever she decides, I know I will be fine.

I agreed with him.  He will be OK.

David

He stands tall and naked at the end of the long corridor.  Illuminated by the dome high above his head, he radiates confidence and determination.  The tourists, after standing hours in line, audibly gasp at the first sight of his magnificent, though slightly out of proportion body.  As the men among them approach closer, they are relieved to discover that they do not need to feel inferior.  The women, receptive to multiple details, continue to circle, and from behind, they come to the opposite conclusion.  Looking at his eyes, I could swear that his expression has changed in the years since I have last seen him.  What once was a steady gaze, mind focused on the angle and force required for a lethal throw, became a dipleased frown.

Is he annoyed by the swarm of tourists around him, or is he worried about his twin brother, who stands directly in his line of sight, a hundred meters to the South?  There, tourists are not a problem.  Despite the easy accessibility, only a few of them stop to stare and take photos.  However, standing on the square, he is constantly bombarded by marauding pigeons.  I carefully studied his streaked face.  There was no suffering or annoyance, just sympathy.  He too was looking straight South, across the river, towards the hill, where their bronze-cast brother stands.

His green body bears an uncomfortably-placed dark stain.  He looks pleadingly towards his brothers to the North as if saying "Could someone please help me wipe?'

The tourists at the summit sit and embrace on the steps, listening to a street artist doing Cat Stevens.  They watch the setting sun, totally ignoring the suffering David.

Product review 3: Lonely Planet Vs Rick Steves

After my trip to Guatemala, I compared  Lonely Planet (LP) to Rough Guide.
(http://isaacohel.blogspot.com/2010/01/new-testament.html).
On this trip to Spain, I loaded my kindle with both the LP guide and, Doron's favorite, Rick Steves (RS).  Now I realize that while LP and Rough Guide are similar guidebooks, Rick Steves' book is different from the two.  Below, I'll compare RS to LP, my bible.

Scope
LP is like an encyclopedia.  It has almost everything a traveler needs.  However just as in using an encyclopedia, you should seek data, not advice, from LP.  RS claims to be a "Personal guide in your pocket".  As such, he filters the data, and describes only what he thinks is important for you to see and do.

Audience
Due to its wide scope, LP does not need to focus on a particular demographic.  However, a tour guide needs to know his audience.  In my opinion, RS focuses on the middle aged, middle class American traveler.  Surprisingly, although I wouldn't describe myself that way, I found that RS guidance fit most of my needs.

Itinerary
LP provides enough data to travel anywhere. It provides only brief itinerary suggestions.  RS' book is structured around a tight, fast paced itinerary (Spain in three weeks).  Points of interest outside that itinerary are described only briefly, or not at all.  I was happy to accept RS' prioritization but not his schedule.  I like it slow, and I spent more than twice the time to see the sites in his itinerary.

Budget
LP:  Low to mid-budget travelers.
RS:  One notch higher.

Sleeping and eating
LP provides more hotel options, but due to the book's popularity they are often booked.  I found the online service of http://www.booking.com/ (or hostelworld.com for lower budget options) to be more helpful than either book.  RS likes to eat.  I enjoyed his personal style of reviewing restaurants.

Other
LP maps are impossible to read on the kindle, while RS hand-drawn maps are usable.
RS' website provides free, downloadable audio guides for important locations.  I played them on my kindle, and found them to be useful and fun.

Conclusions
First visit in a country:  RS
Subsequent visits, or extended time in one region:  LP
Adventure opportunities: LP
My choice:  I started in Spain using both books, and soon reverted to using only RS.  However, when I decided to linger in Galicia, RS had no information, and I used LP.  For my trip to Italy, I downloaded only RS.

Leaving Spain

Our last (real) day in Spain was spent right here. (Picos de Europa)

Tomorrow, we fly to Rome.

For the complete Spain photo album, please click below.

https://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/Spain02

Circles

I met Yossi in Barcelona, and he was a Sardana dancer. Yossi, one of the best Israeli folk dancers in the Bay Area, was in the Cathedral square, taking part in the Sunday gathering.  (Click here  for the Wikipedia description of Sardana).  While the other dancers in his circle were serious and concentrated, Yossi smiled as he gracefully performed the intricate steps.  He was the 'Capitan'.  At appropriate times, he shouted out a command, and the circle switched to a new step sequence.  Taller than most, with sunglasses swung over his high forehead, he was aware of everything in his surrounding, especially the admiring women.  He saw me, I waved, and he nodded.

The band took a break.  He was chatting with friends as I approached.
"Hi Yossi,"  I said, "I have a question"
"Ola" he replied "What's up?"
Not wishing to exclude his friends, I continued with the Spanish, "Your group dances very well.  Is it choreographed?"
"No, no!" he answered with a mischievous, slightly arrogant smile, "We are just having fun."
His Spanish sounded strange.  I wondered whether I was hearing the Hebrew accent, or maybe he was speaking in Catalan.  I didn't have time to probe this further.  The band resumed playing, and Yossi entered the circle and joined hands.  They raised their arms in unison, and started dancing.

I wandered between the several circles in the large square.  I was impressed by a spandex-wearing young group, who danced high on their toes, their muscular calves, evidence of their training.  A beret-wearing catalunian standing next to me, explained that these are the current Sardana champions, and this is their practice session for tomorrow's competition.  At the command of their tall and pretty Capitan, their bouncy steps transformed into very high hops.  The jumping evoked a memory of Kobi, whose dance skill used to be on par with Yossi's.  At that time, he was my mentor as I attempted to learn Israeli folk dance.
"Just jump high", he used to say "and you'll be a good dancer."

I walked back to Yossi's group.  I noticed that the circle grew larger and the new members were mostly older.  Now they seemed content to repeat the same sequence throughout the dance.  Several of them were not even on tip-toes.
"You are an Israeli Folk dancer."  I heard Kobi say, "You can handle the Sardana"
I stood behind the circle and watched.  The steps were  similar to the Israeli dance 'She'avtem ma'im', except that the sequence was longer, and more complicated.  I started counting the steps, but when I reached ten, I gave up.
"Stop counting and start moving!", Kobi's voice commanded.
I obeyed.  I meekly parted the circle between two ladies, who though surprised at the sight of a foreigner joining this nationalistic event, extended their arms with a smile.  At the start, I kept my eyes on my neighbors' feet, but soon, my body grasped what my brain could not, and I just let the rhythm move me.
"You've got it", beamed Kobi.
Before I got too tired, the dance ended with a strong stamp of the foot, and a shout of "Viva".  Within a blink of the eye, Yossi was standing at my side.
"Nicely done."  He said raising his thumb in approval, then moved on, to demonstrate a fancy step to someone else.

On the next tune, the two sweet ladies, my dance partners, called me.  I did not hesitate.  With Yossi and Kobi present, it was just like the old days.  This time, probably as a challenge, Yossi called out several sequence changes.  I was able to follow without disrupting the circle too much.  When the sequence involved jumping, I remembered "Jump high!", and it worked.  A few more songs, and the event terminated.  I was proud and elated.  The dancers picked their 'El Corte Ingles' shopping bags from the center of the circle and departed.  I waved Goodbye to Yossi, who left in a hurry, accompanied by a pretty woman.  I didn't get the chance to ask him what was he was doing in Barcelona.

Product review 2: Book Vs kindle

I took a kindle on this trip to Europe.  I needed several guidebooks to cover the six months of travel, and my obsession for light travel demanded a better solution.  This obsession, which may not be common to everyone, tints this review.  Note, that I only used the kindle as a travel guidebook, not as a regular reader.

Observations

Plus

• The kindle is much lighter, even after I tear out (gasp), then discard, used pages.
• I can fit a kindle into my pants' cargo pocket.  (Though I can't close the flap.)
• Kindle's hyperlinks are an efficient way to provide diverse information.
• Enlarging the font size is a welcome feature.  It enables reading, in a dark cathedral.
• Pages are easy to 'bookmark'.
• New books are easily downloaded during travel.
• The kindle opens to the same page it closed.

Minus

• Carrying a kindle is less comfortable than carrying the few pages I tear out of the book, then fold in my shirt pocket.
• Reading maps on the kindle is hard, and sometimes impossible.
• Opening the kindle to a random location is impossibly tedious.
• Opening a 'bookmarked' page is slower than the equivalent action in a book.
• kindle's 'Search' function is primitive and produces duplicate results.  A book's index is better.

Conclusion

• If I need only one guidebook on a trip, paper is a clear winner.
• Since I usually require more than one book, I'll keep using the kindle.

Pilgrim

On the date of my Birthday, I completed the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.  I must admit, that I did not experience a spiritual release.  Maybe it has to do with the fact that I accomplished the 800km journey from Pamplona, in three days, rather than the thirty days it takes most pilgrims.  My sins will not be erased.

Nonetheless, the Cathedral here is impressive, and it is interesting and inspiring to watch pilgrims of all ages, as they enter the Cathedral-square.  Most of them don't look too bad for wear.
How to tell the tourists from the pilgrims?  In this chilly town, the pilgrims are the ones wearing flip-flops.

Hero Vs Bandits 2:1

Round 1:  Hero
Hero wins the first round by landing a jab to the head.  Detailed description of the round can be found in my blog 'Instant Hero'.  http://isaacohel.blogspot.com/2011/05/instant-hero.html

Round 2:  Bandits
Hero enters the ring (Plaza Catalunia in Barcelona) slightly dazed from an early morning flight and a bus ride to town.  The Hero team stops moving for only a few short moments to consult their coach (Rick Steves).  Not finding good advice (for a lunch spot), they descend to the metro station.  In the train, I noticed that Adi's backpack is open.   Unfortunately, Adi packed all her important skin-care items into a pouch, and put it in the front pocket of her backpack.  That pocket was open, and the pouch was gone.  Adi was devastated.   She cried, she cursed, she called herself all sort of names (some of which I agreed with).  With all the pain, and all the shame, we had to admit that the Bandits won this round by a knockout.

The next day, we replaced most of the "irreplaceable" Korean products in 'El Corte Ingles', Spain's incredible department store.  However, for days afterward, Adi would remember yet another beloved possession that has gone with the pouch.

Round 3:  Hero
The arena (metro station) is packed with spectators.  The Bandits are waiting. Hero, wearing a day-pack, tries to board the crowded subway car.  His way is blocked by a fat young woman reading the route map which is posted over the door.  He senses other passengers crowding behind him.  He move right to sidestep the girl; she moves right.  He moves left; she moves left.  By that time, I realized that this is a set up for one of pickpocket's oldest tricks.  I roughly shoved the fat girl out of my way, and climbed inside.  The girl, followed by her teammates, calmly walked out of the closing door.  The other passengers just shook their head in resignation.  Win by points.

• Rick Steves saves his most emphatic warning about pickpockets, to Barcelona.
• A backpack to a thief is like red cape to a bull.
• Barcelona residents hold their bag, or purse, next to their body, with both arms.

Notes from Sevilla

1.  The Macarena, the hit song of the '90s, and the sexiest dance-step ever, was created by two singers from Sevilla.  The Macarena, the statute of Mary grieving for her dead son, is the most beloved image of Spain's most beloved Saint.  During Easter-week in Sevilla, thousands struggle to get close to her as she is paraded on top of a huge gold float..  Sitting near me in her church, worshipers cried, as they gazed at the crystal tears on her face.  A face with a delicate expression of both sorrow and love.  The song says; "Macarena, give your body joy.  Your body was made for joy, Macarena."
I like to travel because:  6.  Sometimes you learn the weirdest things.


2.  A grandfather to two Flamenco dancers, I came to Sevilla to taste this art in the city of its birth.  I had to choose among the variety of venues where Flamenco is performed.  The big theatrical venues were not presenting at this time, and I decided against "Los Gallos", the highly recommended, but touristy tablao (30 Euro).  Instead, I attended a more intimate performance in the patio of "La casa de la memoria", an old house decorated in Jewish and Gypsy motifs (15 Euro).  I was spellbound by the passion expressed by the guitar, the singing, and the dance.  I wanted more.  Away from the city center, I encountered "Pena Torres Macarena" an association devoted to Flamenco (5 Euro).  A young man, the first-prize winner of a youth competition, poured his soul in an energetic presentation.  The female singer and the guitarist, were also outstanding.  The local crowd and me, could not stop their applause.  I felt that I was getting closer to the roots of Flamenco, which are described as similar to the street roots of New Orleans Blues.   One step further in that direction, brought me to "T de Triana", a bar in our neighborhood (Zero Euros), where I attended several performances.  This is a hit and miss affair.   Sometime the singer (Israeli) is not so good, or the dancer (Thin and tall African-American) is not so passionate, but with luck, you get a Canadian Flamenco teacher who is just as good and exciting as the local professionals.  The crowd, a mix of Sevilla residents and Japanese Flamenco students, is always appreciative.

3.  Tucked besides a colorful indoor market, is the Museum of the Inquisition.  The complex is situated over the remains of a fort that served as the first operational branch of the Inquisition.  The visitor enters a darkened room, walks to a spot on the floor marked with an X, and stands under a bright spotlight.  The video screens around the room, project images of solitary men and women.  They are dressed in a white hospital-like tunic, and they too stand vulnerable under a bright spotlight.  Slowly, their defenseless expression, changes into bewilderment, than apprehension.  Their tunic is torn off their body, and the focus turns on one man, who is now stooped and naked.  We can sense his fear, which becomes our fear too.  Eventually, we see him in a fetal position, slowly tumbling in space.  In this shaken, paranoid, state of mind, I entered the museum-proper.  The museum is encased in a contemporary structure, whose floor consists of the remains of the original fort.  A twisting pathways follows the old walls, through the dimly lit hall, from one display to the next.   There are no exhibits of torture in the museum, but the cries of thousands of victims can be heard in the old stones.  In this environment, the dry account of the inquisition process becomes highly emotional.  The path ends near an opening in the wall overlooking the calm, green, river.  The last display, is a numbered list of human rights, and a reminder that honoring these rights is a personal choice.

Institutions

The Inquisition.  The mere mention of  this infamous institution, brings cold terror into my heart.  Even now, so many years after my liberation from another mind-bending institution, the Israel Ministry of Education and Culture, I can still feel the fear of a converted Jew in fifteenth-century Spain, hiding his faith from his neighbors.  It was only natural that during my travels in Spain, I would seek traces of its Jews, and of their archenemy, the Inquisition.

On my first day in Madrid, I strolled through Plaza Mayor.  The heavy bronze benches, interspersed within the Plaza, caught my attention, and I stopped for a closer look.  Plaza Mayor was the center of Madrid civic life during the seventeenth century.  Important ceremonies, bullfights, and executions by the Inquisition, took place here.  Today, the large, traffic- free square is home to outdoor restaurants and street performers.  Its benches are occupied by gentlemen quietly reading the paper, and matrons in animated discussions.  I waited till one man vacated his space and examined the carved bronze panel on the back-rest.  The scene on the panel was shocking, yet familiar.  It depicted a stack of logs on fire, a man tied to a stake inside the fire, and a crowd of onlookers around it.  I waited impatiently for a few more minutes before another man folded his paper and the next panel became viewable.  In this one, a man sat tied to a tall chair, the rope around his neck extended behind the chair where someone was pulling it tight.  Standing beside the man, a priest was reading from a thick book.    The third panel showed the victim in a large pot, a fire burning beneath it, and here again a priest and many onlookers present.  No inscriptions explained these scenes, but the situations were unmistakable.  I was looking at the various methods used by the Inquisition to execute converts to Christianity, accused of practicing their old religion.

Now, I can only regret, that I did not take the time to examine and photograph every bench in the square.  How could I realize this would be my first, and perhaps only, encounter with the Inquisition?  After several weeks in Spain I can conclude that while the omnipresent Spanish Tourism Office deserves many compliments on its excellent presentation of Spain's heritage, it is also just as efficient in suppressing controversial topics.  Another example, is the glaring absence of any monument or museum devoted to the civil war.

Plaza Mayor, the statute of the Rambam in Toledo, and other photos from Spain can be found online at:  https://picasaweb.google.com/isaac.ohel/Spain#

Wandering Mind

Two weeks of kitchen duty in the California Vipassana Center, gave me new perspectives on meditation.  We were about ten "old students" who cooked and served more than 120 participants in the course.  My principal duty was tending to the high pressure dish washer.  A job which, right after meals, became an intense, carefully choreographed, operation for me and the small ensemble that helped feed and clear the machine.  At other times, I helped peel, cut, and dice the enormous amounts of vegetables required by the center's vegetarian diet.  Three times a day, we participated in the group meditation sessions. 

"Noble Silence", while a requirement for the students, was not imposed on the servers.  We were instructed not to discuss our practice, yet the conversations inevitably turned to that subject.  As a result,  I learned that I was overly concerned about the amount of time my mind wanders away from the focus on bodily sensations.  I am not that different from others sitters.  On the other hand, I reconfirmed that during these periods of wandering, many meditators experience deep emotional episodes.  Some re-live old wounds, other explore difficult personal relationships.  I, on the other hand, usually find myself reviewing my "Todo" list.  An experienced sitter described to me one instance when he felt that his daughter was dead.  Even though he knew that she was perfectly healthy, the sadness he felt was so real, that he cried.  I could not resist but tell him that when my mind wanders, it is usually planning how to make the dish-washing operation run faster.  I could see his upper lip stiffen and his nostrils flare as he struggled not to laugh.  After a moment, and a few deep breaths, the teacher-in-training, came up with the proper response.
"There is nothing wrong with that," he said, "maybe you will eventually come up with a better method of washing dishes and you would have helped the Dharma.  You see?"
I nodded, and let the poor guy of the hook.

This period also prompted me to the question 'Why do I sit?'.  In a book I found at the center, Paul Fleischman provided a thoughtful, poetic, answer to this question.
http://www.fudomouth.net/thinktank/now_pfwhysit.htm
I liked his response, even though it is as distant from my own experience as the distance between loosing a child, and operating a dishwasher.

Instant hero

'What will I do if my pockets were picked?'

I pondered this question reading Rick Steves' guide to Madrid, where almost every page contains a warning about pickpockets.  The locals too, made sure to warn us about thieves and muggers.  I take precautions by placing my thin wallet in a semi-hidden zippered pocket, and then feel safe by dismissing the warnings with 'I am not an easy target!'

Boarding a bus in front of the Prado, one foot already on the step, I felt a rustle around the map pocket of my cargo pants.  I turned around to surprise the young man beside me.  Neither one of us expected what came next.  I landed a punch on his nose.  My sub-second hesitation while verifying that he is not too big, may have saved his nose from being broken, yet it was a solid hit.

"I did not steal!" he pleaded.

However, this factually true statement was rejected by the others in line.  I boarded the bus, which moved on, leaving a stunned man alone in the station.  The passengers who witnessed the event, congratulated me on my aim, "You hit his face.  Good!".  Adi was pleased and I, despite years of meditation practice, was rather proud of myself.

I can't even remember the last time I hit anyone.  It took the rest of the bus ride for my adrenalin level to come down.  I became very hungry.  An all-you-can-eat salad bar hit the spot.  I was ready for the next thief.

Madrid encounter

Converted Jews, caught by the Spanish Inquisition secretly practicing their Jewish religion, were burned alive in the Plaza Mayor.  Scenes of the executions are shown in bass relief on the bronze benches around the Plaza.  Only a few steps from the Plaza, a colorful notice, pasted on a door, caught my eyes.  "Meduzas (Jelly Fish)" will be screening tonight.  Starting time was to be in five minutes, and the location was this very place.  The door belongs to the Sepharadic-Israel house, and Etgar Keret, one of my favorite Israeli authors, and a co-director of the movie, was going to attend the screening.  Of course we went in.  At the end of the movie, I had a chance to ask Etgar a question or two in Spanish, which was translated for him into English.

After the movie, we concluded our first day in Spain by dancing Paso-Doble in a crowded meson, a cave like pub built under the foundations of the Plaza Mayor.  Laughs, who laughs last.

Snowbirds

The end of the road,  at least from Hermosillo, is Bahia De Kino.  It is a fishing town on the sea of Cortes.  Few of its streets are paved, the rest are packed sand.  The beach is lined, wall to wall, with fish-packing and distribution hangars.  I would have loved to stay here, but the the fishing industry claimed the sea front, pushing the few hotels, to the inside streets.  In fact, the road does not end right there.  It continues along the white-sand bay, and after a significant empty stretch, reaches Bahia de Kino Nuevo.  Only a few kilometers separate the towns, but the cultural distance is enormous.  No Mexicans live in Nuevo (new).  The single road is lined on both sides by spiffy vacation homes owned by Gringos (mostly from the northern USA, and Canada).  The beginning of April is the end of their season, and most snowbirds have started the migration North.  The houses, white washed and well maintained, stand shuttered, with "For Rent" signs on the front gate.  Late afternoon, no people, no cars.  I turn the radio off, and cruise the deserted street very slowly.  In the silence, I feel as if I have entered an episode of the "Twilight Zone".  Down the street, I encountered a few stragglers, who are still camped along the beach, in huge motor homes.  They are friendly, and eager to talk.  It must be hard loosing all your friends.

This invading species is gentle, yet persistent.  In Mazatlan, the snowbirds are sprinkled throughout the town. In San Miguel De Allende, they took over the town.  Here, in Bahia De Kino, they built a new town.  Fortunately, Oaxaca is too far for snowbirds, and the few ex-pats just add their own hue to the cultural tapestry of my sensuous Mexican city.

The long deserted beach overcame my cultural misgivings, and I chose a furnished room, with a balcony that sits right on the sand.  With sunrise, I take a long swim (Thanks, TI), and at sunset, another. In between, I watch the pelicans fish.

Sunday under the Laurel tree.

I never arrive in time to catch a seat for the outdoor Sunday concert.  Instead, I negotiate with the early-comers for one of the seats they reserved for their friends.
"I'll get up as soon as they come!", I say.
They usually don't show, and I have my seat.  This time, the friends arrived.  I was walking behind the rows, looking for an available spot, when the conductor, Professor Eliseo Martinez Garcia, noticed my predicament, and motioned for me to come and take his seat.  I waved 'No!'.   I did not want to sit in front of everyone for the duration of the concert.  He didn't give up, but picked up a chair, and handed it to me near the front row.  He is a good friend.  Now, I had a padded chair, instead of the hard metal ones available for everyone else.  'I will enjoy this concert in comfort.'

The TV jingle sounded, the audience hushed, and the band began to play.  The Sunday concert performed by the Oaxaca State Band is always an experience.  The giant Laurel tree provides cool shade for the sixty members of the band as well as the many hundreds of  listeners sitting around them.   In the center, the dense cluster formed by the musicians' dark suites, provided a tranquil focal point for my eyes as they returned from the visual feast around me.  Above, I could see the radiant blue sky.  In front, a colorful array of Sunday dresses, while as a backdrop, large bouquets of balloons floated above the green shrubbery.  The  balloons seemed to cruise independently back and forth, while their vendors/pilots, remained unseen behind the shrubs.  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifted in from the edge of the plaza.  I missed Adi.  She always lets me share her cup.

Usually, I select a seat in the center.  This time, thanks to the Maestro, I was seated on the extreme left, next to the percussion section.  Sitting in my usual location, when one of the small percussion instruments is played, I can see the hand move, but I can't distinguish the ring.  To my delight, sitting this close, I heard the triangle as clear as a bell.  I may have to adapt my seating strategy to fit my age, although I may miss watching the first clarinet cheeks puff up, then turn purple, as he completes a long solo piece.

The joy of hearing the triangle was offset by the absence of pretty Maria.  A little girl, she wears a shiny violet skirt, a traditional embroidered blouse, and arranges her black hair in a neat braid around her head.  She, as her older sisters who are similarly dressed, sells candy from a tray, whose strap she sling over her neck.  I like the way she gracefully glides between the rows, not making any intrusive 'Please buy!' gestures, yet capturing the business nonetheless.  For three years, we have been watching her grow taller and prettier.  She knew she could count on me to purchase a box of chiclets, and on Adi for a warm smile.  Today she was not there.  I hoped that maybe finally, she was allowed to devote herself to school.

The Sunday repertoire starts with light classical pieces, followed by Mexican and regional music.  This afternoon, as  the band concluded with a quilt of popular melodies, a teenager wearing the full indigenous costume, stepped in front of the audience.  On her head, she held a basket of flowers, while with the other hand she waved her wide, pleated skirt.  She danced throughout the piece, then returned shyly to her seat as the audience thanked her with a roaring applause.

Just another Sunday in Oaxaca.

Bearded Brutes

Carved in stone, on the gates of the first house in Merida, are the bearded figures of  Francisco Montejo, and Francisco Montejo (The son), the city founders.  They stand proud, holding a sword, their feet firmly planted on the heads of suffering prisoners.  In the Palacio de Gobierno, large dramatic murals depict bearded Spanish Conquistadors, spearing, burning, quartering, and in many other ways, torturing, the vanquished Mayan people.  When a local Mayan told me that the locals hate the original Spanish (from Spain) accent (Sh instead of S),  I realized that the resentment is still strong, just lying beneath the surface.  I did not want to associate myself with the oppressors, and since I cannot change my race, I decided that the least I could do to be on the side of Good, is remove my beard

Good Man

Bad Man

The truth is that I had to shave the beard in order to Scuba-dive next week, and there was nothing better to do on a rainy day in Merida.

Campeche Cuisine

Cochinita Pibil

Walking in historic Campeche, is like walking in a fairy-tale.  Tall walls surround narrow cobblestone streets, which lead to the town square and a photogenic two-towered cathedral.  The colonial houses are freshly restored, and there are no electrical wires in sight.  The walls were built to repel the pirates of the Caribbean who repeatedly pillaged the town.  Now, the fortifications house museums and art exhibits. Campeche may also be the cleanest city I have visited.  Even the trash bins are clean.  The atmosphere was relaxing, the sea breeze was soothing, and our hotel was comfortable (and clean).  We lingered here for three days.

I soon learned that Campechanos take pride in their cuisine.  I try not to frequent tourist-oriented restaurants, and instead, Adi and I walked to Plaza Central, where street vendors offer the local delicacies. We sampled Tamale Colado (Vegetables, corn flour, and chicken, steamed inside a banana leaf), Aztec Cake (Layered tortillas, tomato sauce, and meat), and the Queen's Arm (sliced meat loaf).  We enjoyed two out of the three dishes.  To our disappointment, we could not find the "must-eat" Pan De Cazon among any of the plaza vendors.

At the atmospheric Bar Colonial, which until recently was a man-only (not gay) cantina, we struck a conversation with Manuel, a very stout fellow, who looked like, and turned out to be, a chef.  We told him about our quest for Pan de Cazon, and without hesitation he directed us to Marganzo, a high-end tourist restaurant.  He apologized for the suggestion,  yet insisted that their food is good.  The next night, sitting at a candle-lit table, we ordered the celebrated dish (Tortilla stuffed with baby shark meat and served on a spicy tomato sauce.)  The presentation was aesthetic, but it tasted like tough, overcooked, and over salted tuna.  However, not all babies are bad.  For brunch we had Cochinita Pibil (Baby pork roasted overnight in an underground oven.)  The meat is so tender that it is de-boned with a spoon, and it almost melts in your mouth.  Very satisfying.

Reviewing our Campeche culinary experiences, we concluded that we had the best meal at a roadside hut, on the way back from an ancient Mayan city.  A young Mayan woman, sliced us a watermelon which she grew in a patch right next to her hut.  It was fresh, sweet, and juicy.  We devoured it, and for desert we had corn on the cob which grew just on the other side of the hut.

I like to travel because:  7.  I get to taste interesting local foods.  Some of them are delicious.

Airplane ride

Zuzul Spring

For a week or more before our departure, as the excitement of the trip swelled within me, I wanted to write a short blog titled '10 Reasons why I like to travel'. I didn't write it because my life was just too busy. Now that we embarked on our voyage to the Yucatan Peninsula, I may list those reasons, as they occur.

I like to travel because: 10. At home, my time is filled with 'stuff'. I am too busy, even though I have no real obligations.



As the road winds up the steep Sierra Norte, the scenery changes from the arid Oaxaca hills, to a dense pine forest. As it comes down on the other side, towards the Atlantic Ocean, the road becomes steeper and even more winding.  As the elevation drops, the pine forest turns into a deep-green, moist, tropical jungle. It took me more than four hours to drive the one hundred miles to Balenario Zuzul. It took me less than four minutes to change, and dive into the cool clear water. The Zuzul spring wells up into a a deep blue pool, which the adjacent village developed into a bathing facility. I practiced my newly-acquired freestyle, swimming first in the pool, then into the stream that flows swiftly from the spring to join a larger river. I swam no further than the point where local women stood, knee-deep in the water, washing the family laundry, then returned upstream to the pool. Out of breath, yet happily refreshed, I no longer felt the car sickness that had accumulated over the last four hours.
More swimming, and a beer, and we were ready to continue our trip, yet the smiling Chinanteca woman, who is in charge of the facility, had another suggestion.

"Why don't you stay here?" she asked, "Today is the village Fiesta day, and there will be a dance later tonight."

It took us only seconds to make that decision, and within minutes we were in a wooden cabin (No fan, no hot water), with a wonderful view of the river.

After dark, the grassy clearing in front of the church was transformed into a small amusement park where locals, as well as visitors from the surrounding villages, busied themselves lifting their children onto the miniature rides. Meanwhile, crews were preparing the adjacent basketball court with hi-tech audio and light equipment that they unloaded from three huge semi-trailers. Walking along the rides, Adi saw kindergarten-age children, sitting inside small airplanes, that were flying in a circle, .
"This looks like fun." she shouted, overcoming the ear-piercing sound-checks of the dance band, "I want to do it"

The woman who is afraid of any kind of amusement park thrill, finally found her level. Unfortunately, the ride operator thought she was too heavy. Instead, he pointed to the small roller coaster. Adi went on a spree. She rode the roller coaster, then the bumper cars, then the carousel. At that point the airplane operator changed his mind and invited her over. She could not fit inside the cockpit, and sat astride the toy airplane. She was the only rider, and the operator, sensing her joy, went with the flow, making the ride go faster and faster till the airplanes were flying in an almost horizontal arc. Adi screamed in delight, her grey-streaked hair streaming in the wind. She then bravely let go of the chain and flew round and round, in the Titanic pose.

Next morning

I like to travel because: 9. Each day of travel presents me with at least one surprise. Most of these surprises are delightful.