El Jefe

Yesterday's cold wind was replaced by a gentle ocean breeze, allowing the guests in our Mazatlan beach hotel to enjoy an afternoon by the pool.  Children noisily splashed in the water, while their parents relaxed on lounge chairs. Suddenly, silence, as all eyed turned towards a young man wearing dark glasses, a thick gold necklace and many tattoos.  Fully aware of the attention he attracts, he strode arrogantly across the pool deck in what can best be described as a gangster gait.   Following in close proximity were several heavy-set men, whose loose hawaiian shirts served perhaps to obscure suspicious bulges around their belt line.  The regal procession descended the stairs towards the beach.  Below, at the water line, a large band was waiting.  Many bands-for-hire cruise the Mazatlan beach, but this one included more than the usual number of  instruments. The young man exchanged fist bumps with the band, and after one of his entourage ceremoniously dusted off a beach chair, sat himself down.  In front of him was a table laden with food and drinks.  The tubas took the musical initiative, followed by the bass-drums, the trumpets, and the trombones. The prince got up to sway with the music while the heavy set men remained watchful.  Someone handed him a microphone and with a beer in hand, he began to sing.

I concluded that this must be a narco boss celebrating something special.  Perhaps the elimination of a rival gang?  Loud music carries along the beach, and soon a small crowd taking selfies, gathered around the celebration.  Eventually, I noticed a professional cameraman filming the event. That's when I started to  doubt my previous conclusion.  I gathered my courage, approached, and asked one of the onlookers for the prince's identity.  "That's Eduin Caz, a famous band singer" he answered, surprised by my ignorance.  

When Adi and I returned from our sunset stroll, The crowd was larger, few more tubas joined the band, and the music rose to a level way above ear-damage threshold.  Eduin was still singing, beer in hand.  He was having fun.  We continued to enjoy his party from our 9th floor balcony.

Prologue:  https://vimeo.com/manage/videos/935587753  (Sorry about the abrupt ending.)

For better audio:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlq6Ni3kEZE

Dreams of Baja

My good friend Jim Casciani, sent me an email titled 'Dreaming and Remembering.'   Below, in his characteristic understated style, Jim describes the dream, or is it a nightmare?

Do you remember the trip to Baja with Hans, you and me?  We were flying at an altitude of several hundred feet looking for Melling Ranch.  The ranch, our destination, has a landing strip in the desert mountains, 50 miles from any paved road.  We were running out of sunlight, and became a bit concerned. Oh, I forgot to mention, we were also running low on fuel.

We could not find any ranch or airstrip. All eyes were looking. Hans was saying, "I think it is over there", you were checking instruments. You instructed me to check the RDF position which I had done only once before in my life. Hans was trying to be heavily involved from the back seat. We were getting increasingly tense. After what seemed to be a L O N G time, we spotted the dirt airstrip. 

It was in a canyon.  You make the landing-checks and go down for a landing, knowing there was little room for error.  If I recall correctly, Saguaro cactus passing 30 feet away at 60 MPH did pucker me up.  On touchdown, the recoil bounce was impressive!  Nonetheless, control was maintained.  It was great to be down.  When we were unloading, we noticed that the white running light, on the bottom of the plane, could not take the rough landing and was dangling by its wires.  

Great times.

Disclaimer (just in case I ever want to renew my pilot's license):  We were not low on fuel.

Around America in 80 Days

Every few Saturdays, Oaxaca's Teatro Macedonia Alcalá, projects a live (via satelite) performance of the New York Metropolitan Opera.  Heard in the splendor of the historic theater, the music is an exciting experience.   We became devout opera fans.  Even while travelling, we try to find the local Met transmissions.
Three years ago, we planned a coast-to-coast drive, aiming to sit in the Met for a real performance.  Life had a different idea, and we had to cancel.  The following year, Adi was weak from the effects of chemotherapy, and could not endure such a task.  A year later, still too weak to drive, we flew from Oaxaca to New York, and enjoyed a wonderful Aida.
This year, Adi challenged herself, 'Will I have the stamina for a transcontinental trip?'
We decided to go, with one condition in mind, 'If in doubt, we head back to Oaxaca.'
Back in California after visiting Korea and Israel, we liberated Dino out of storage, and set out on our adventure.

Driving route summary:
California, Utah, Colorado, Illinois, Massachusetts, Maine, New-York (Too early for the Met season), Tennessee, Louisiana, Texas, Oaxaca.
Trip duration:  80 days.

The Plazas of Potosi

On this trip, we took a different route than our usual migration.  San Luis Potosi was the second location we discovered.  If Monterrey is a sophisticated young woman, San Luis is a conservative lady.  While Monterrey flaunts her skyscrapers, San Luis takes pride in her colonial core.  San Luis' charm, stems largely from its many well tended plazas, where people gather to play or relax.  Connecting the plazas are pleasant pedestrian alleys which we loved to stroll.  As we entered one plaza, we heard loud angry voices emanating from a group of young men.
'Did we walk-in on a gang rumble?'
Perhaps contrary to common sense, we moved closer and saw, surrounded by the group, two fiercely emotional boys, yelling and gesturing at each other.  It took a minute longer to realize that they are engaged in a rap duel.  Each boy, improvised a rhymed response to his opponents taunts.  After a few such exchanges, a whistle blew, the two combatants embraced, and the coach announced the winner.  Cheers by all, then, the next pair came on.
In another square, familiar music.  Five teenage girls, were rehearsing the dance moves of  BTS, Korea's world-famous singing group.  Needless to say that both the girls and Adi were delighted with the encounter.
Like any grand dame, San Luis has a weird side, such as a collection of bronze heads strewn on the sidewalk.  Yet, on our last night, she graciously treated us to a fireworks display.

Munching in Monterrey

Having completed our tour of the US, we were anxious to get home.  Although the Laredo border crossing was on the direct path to Oaxaca, it was rumored that this section of the border is controlled by the Zeta cartel.  With some trepidation, we decided to risk it.  To my pleasant surprise, we were in Mexico without any problems.  Our first night was Monterrey, Nuevo Leon.  We climbed to our thirteenth-floor hotel room, and looked out of the full-wall window.  As we stood, admiring the jagged  mountains surrounding the city, an angelic voice softly intoned "Welcome to Mexico.  Let go of your stress."   We looked at each other, and hardly exchanging a word, we extended our stay in the city.

Monterrey's prosperity is due in large part to the many foreign factories based here.  It proudly displays tall modern architecture, and it also boasts a fine culinary landscape.  With a large Korean expat population, I anticipated dinner in a good Korean restaurant.  However, 'good' was not on Adi's mind.  On the third floor of a busy shopping mall, in the far corner of the food court, a small Korean booth served the dish Adi craved.  Tokpoki, Korea's most popular street food, are elongated rice cakes, served in a warm and spicy chili paste..  As she took the first bite, Adi's apprehension broke into a happy smile.  She fed me a sample, and even I could tell that it rivaled the best of Seoul's street stalls.  Su-Ni, the Korean owner, joined our table, and was so overjoyed with Adi's ravenous appetite, that she plied us with additional spicy dishes, some, were off the menu.  Adi, with my help, demolished it all.  The two quickly bonded.  Su-Ni was glad to have a friend that was busy chewing while she did the talking, and Adi was happy to enjoy her excellent cooking.

Thus, our routine for the following days was established.  Light tourist activity in the morning, and Su-Ni's food in the afternoon.  When we finally said goodbye, she insisted that we take with us more dishes, for the drive.

Postscript
Comfort food consumed for three consecutive days, will cause gastric discomfort for the following three.

It's not what you wear

Danzon is a traditional dance, with dramatic music, elegant steps, and lavishly dressed fans.  Wednesday evenings, in the Zocalo, Oaxaca has a  danzon event, yet Mexico City is on a different level.  There, danzon can be enjoyed, on good dance floors, every day of the week.   We like the dance, and naturally, one priority for our trip to the capital was to participate in the danzon scene.  (The other was to visit selected museums and art galleries)

However, before leaving, we faced the dilemma of what to pack.  We agonized over it, and finally decided to forego the almost-mandatory evening dress, rely on us being considered ignorant foreigners, and hope to be forgiven.   It was a good decision.  We attended an outdoor dance in the Ciudadela Plaza,  an evening in Salon Angeles, and another in Salon Romo.  In all cases, as the music started, our discomfort faded, and we were absorbed by the rhythm.  Despite our travel-wear and Teva sandals, the fashionable dancers around us, greeted us warmly.  We even got a few compliments on our dance style, even though those were much fewer than what we get when we are properly dressed.


 

Music Street

Looking for a harmonica in Mexico City?  Where do you go?
The answer is: Calle Bolivar.  Apparently, Jerusalem's old town is not unique in having streets dedicated to commodities.   My quest led me along  Hardware Street (Vizcainas), to Music Street (Bolivar), where my eyes opened wide.  Four blocks of uninterrupted music stores.  Most had similar formats, displaying mainly guitars and piano keyboards, yet some stood out for their large size and wide selection.  Holocaust Music caught my attention, but none of the store's personnel could explain the origin of the unusual name.  Helpful workers in each store were happy to direct me to the next one, but alas, the model I wanted was not to be found.

In consolation, we rested on the sidewalk, and listened to a band composed of four saxophones (soprano, alto, tenor, baritone), a clarinet, a keyboard, a full size electric base, and drums.  The group played an energetic selection of pop and jazz standards.  The wind-instrument (including the wheel-chaired clarinet player), entertained the large crowd by dancing back and forth along the pavement, and occasionally even across the street.  They did so without loosing their precision or tone quality.  This constant motion may explain why I could not capture all of the band in one frame.  A more likely explanation would be the large mug of pulque I consumed shortly before.

Pulque Para Dos (A danzon tune)

Pulque is an alcoholic drink,which was considered sacred in pre-hispanic Mexico, and allowed only to the upper class.  It is produced by excavating the center of an agave plant, then twice daily, over a period of weeks, collecting the sap that forms in the cavity. Fermentation takes a week or two, and results in alcohol contents of  6-8%.

The arrival of the spaniards and the introduction of distillation, caused a slow decline in the prestige and popularity of the drink.  Tequila and beer took its place.  That was then.  Nowadays, pulque is gaining popularity, especially among the young crowd.  Las Duelistas, the pulqueria we visited in Mexico City, is covered, ceiling to floor, with indigenous-styled murals, and packed with happy drinkers of all ages.  Pulque is served either as 'Natural', which is milky-white, and like other fermented drinks, a bit fizzy and sour,  or as 'Curado'  a sweeter mix of fruit juices.  Although I usually aim for authenticity, I have to admit that Adi's pink guava-curado tasted great.

An order of pulque can vary in volume between a glass and a bucket.  The couple sharing our table ordered a bucket containing a blend of curados.  They generously let us taste their creation, and share their snacks.  We made do with a large mug, which provided a nice buzz, and eliminated the need for lunch.

Comic Relief

"Rega, rega, bachur" (Wait a minute, young man)
I heard this warning, in heavily accented Hebrew, as I was walking hurriedly towards the Israeli consulate in Mexico City.  Hailing me, was a stocky police officer, who looked even stockier due to the heavy body armor he was wearing.
"Le'an?" (where to?) he asked
As he examined my passport, I noticed that he was part of an armed police detail that guarded the tree-lined block.  He asked me, this time in Spanish, to leave my day-pack with him.
"Bitachon meshuga." (Crazy security.)  he  apologized with a smile.
Despite the stress, I could not help but like this jovial, Hebrew-speaking cop.  Eventually, I was let into the embassy complex.

That day, I had to return to the consulate twice more, and on each entry and exit, the cop, who was by now my friend, regaled me with his perfect colloquial Hebrew.  Despite my growing irritation with the bureaucrats inside, he never failed to elicit from me a hearty lough.
For a breakfast spot, he suggested a place that offers "Shakshuka"  (Eggs scrambled with vegetables).
"Bete'avon, achi!'  (Bon apetit, bro!)

As he handed back my day-pack for the last time, we exchanged hearty shoulder pats, and he added,
"Ani Golani' (I am from the Golani Brigade).
The smile did not leave my face, all the way to the subway station.

Bulletins from the road

In a previous post, I described Quick Zalads, a unique eatery in Navajoa, Sonora.  On our last northward migration, we visited it again.  This time, I did not forget the camera.  If you didn't believe "kitchen sink", here is the proof.

This is not a pedicure.  It took almost an hour for the nurse to dig out a dozen sea-urchin spines.  The incident happened at the turn-around point of a 5.2 kilometer swim in Acapulco Bay. It's a long story, involving a pee stop and a submerged rock.  Only after completing the second half of the swim, did I realize the extent of the damage.  Patti (Pretty, isn't she?)  did a good job:  No inflammation. Three weeks later, my feet are almost back to normal.

NIght and Day

Hoof steps disturb the silence. The rider, an early riser heading for the market, tips his hat, and we respond with "Buenos Dias".  The horse leaves the only blemish on the shiny cobble stones.  We are soon out of town.  In the orchards besides our path, men and women are harvesting red coffee berries.  We taste some.  The mountain air is cool and fresh, and we enjoy the exertion.  We are headed for a waterfall that played a prominent role in the movie Romancing the Stone.  We cross a rickety suspended bridge that hangs hundreds of feet above the canyon.  The movie bridge is still there, too dangerous for use.  We descend a steep narrow trail carved into the face of the cliff and reach a view of the waterfall.  The fall are impressive, even without Michael and Kathleen.  Back in town, we stroll along the main street and admire the colorful ceramic tiles that decorate the colonial-style buildings.

The music that drifts into our room signals the start (an hour late) of the evening parade. We squeeze our way to the front, and watch the illuminated floats and the marching samba clubs.  From here, it's a short walk to Plazuela Campana, our favorite spot.  We learned to avoid the huge crowds at the seafront concert, and the equally-crowded Zocalo. A narrow alley leads into the plaza which is enclosed on all sides by three-story buildings.  At night, you can't see their dilapidated exterior.  Plastic tables are arranged on the periphery of the plaza. In the front, the band is preparing to play.  We join another couple at one of the tables.  By the end of the evening, they become our friends.  We order a beer, and as the music starts, we step to the center.  For the rest of the night the bands change, and we keep on dancing to the Cuban rhythms.

Sounds ideal?  In reality, these are two separate places.  In pretty Xico (HEE-CO), there is absolutely nothing to do after dark.  Veracruz during the day, is humid and grimy, busily cleaning the debris of last night's debauchery.  We came to Veracruz to dance in the Carnaval, and we continued to Xico, to decompress.  The port city and the "Magical town" are very different, yet both served our purpose well.

To be fair, Xico has its day of excitement during the town fiesta, when dozens of bulls, are released into the streets, and chase the crowd a-la Pamplona.  Veracruz has its daytime attractions.  If you order Cafe Lechero in the Gran Cafe de la Parroquia, a waiter pours boiling milk into your coffee, from a height well above your head, without spilling a drop.

Why did the nomad smile?

Nomads, contrary to conventional  belief, are creatures of habit.  When they find a good grazing ground, they stick to it.  In the Bay Area. we were happy to repeatedly indulge our craving for greens at "Sweet Tomatoes".  However, sometimes an adventurous spirit is necessary.

Searching for food and shelter along the main street of Navojoa (a small town in Sinaloa), we knew that we had to be alert and flexible.  A green sign that read "Quick Zalads" caught our attention. A long counter, decorated with colorful and fresh-looking vegetables, dominated the small restaurant.  We paid for a "Large", and were amazed as the cashier brandished a stainless-steel bowl, the size of a kitchen sink. A server obtained a whole lettuce, and shredded it into the bowl.  The server and us then walked on opposite sides of the counter.  We, across the glass panels,  pointing at the different vegetables.  She, adding our choices to the mix.  At the end of the journey, she swiftly dressed, and tossed the full bowl.
"I can pack whatever you don't finish"  she offered.  Probably, after comparing our body size to the that of the meal.

We sat across the industrial-grade container and took the first bite.  I recognized the smile that spread across Adi's face.  It spells 'SATISFACTION.'  We consumed the entire portion without difficulty.  I think someone should open a franchise in the Bay Area.

Dancing In the Rain

Just dancing in the rain.  What a wonderful feeling, in Mexico again.


Light rain directed the evening strollers to the protection of the porticoes surrounding Tlaxcala's Zocalo. Sounds of live music drew us out of the congestion, towards the center of the plaza, where, a few brave souls, some holding umbrellas, were dancing to the rhythms of the state band.  Without hesitation, we joined in.  When the band paused between numbers, I shouted my suggestion, "Danzon".   We were delighted to hear the opening notes of a favorite Danzon melody.  Ignoring the damp T-shirts and slippery flip-plops, we immersed ourselves in the music and movement..

After three days of travel, and another three days of beach in Mazatlan, it was the sheer joy of the dance, that happily established that we are back in Mexico.

Eat, Dance, Swim, Acapulco

"Acapulco is very touristy.  You will not like it"
That was Kobi's verdict after his journey along the Pacific coast of Mexico.  I trust Kobi's judgement.  However, when our dance academy organized a trip to a Danzon convention there, Adi and I joined the group.

After spending most of the night  and some of the morning, in a small bus, we reached the congested streets of  Acapulco.  I crossed the busy avenue that separated our hotel from the beach, and stepped on the sand.  In front of me , the inviting blue bay was at the center of three concentric rings.  The white sands that curved around me, a tight semi-circle of high-rise hotels, and the steep green hills that accommodate the city's neighborhoods.  I immediately erased the hotels from my vision, and focused on the beach, which despite guide-book warnings, was less crowded than the one in Tel-Aviv.  A white-uniformed waiter approached with a menu in hand.  However, my mind was set on the water.  When I emerged, wet and grinning, the waiter was there.  He assured me that the red snapper was freshly caught.
"My name is Agustin." he said pointing to the badge on his chest,  "Ask for me."

1
In the late afternoon, Agustin arranged a table near the water, and served us a Coco Loco.  I went for a swim, then joined him in the kitchen to choose our fish.  The sun set as we leisurely sipped our cocktail, admired the beach, and discussed the advantages of low expectations.  Suddenly, I remembered the Mexican taste for over-cooked food.  I rushed to the kitchen and found the fish sizzling in the frying pan.  The cook, a skeptical expression on her face, consented to extract it from the hot oil.  I held my breath while cutting under the deeply tanned skin.  We were lucky.  A few more minutes, and the fish would have been on the other side of well-done.  After twenty-four hours without a meal, we devoured it down to the white bones.

The next evening, Agustin greeted us like old friends.  We ordered the red snapper again.
"Please explain to the cook," I told him, "that I like the meat wet, and ask her to fry it less than yesterday."
The result was deliciously crisp outside, and moist inside.  We were happy, full, and ready to shine in the Danzon Gala.

On the third and final day, we came for lunch.  We resisted the first impulse, and ordered shrimp.
"Remember yesterday's fish?" I asked Agustin, "It was good, but please, cook the shrimp even less."
The plump shrimp arrived soft, juicy, and sweet.  I am sure the cook thought she was serving cannibals.

2
The main event of the convention was held in a fancy hotel, on a balcony, perched on a cliff, overlooking the bay.  Warm air, stars above, and a twelve-piece orchestra, made this an elegant Cinderella ball.  I could have danced all night, and I did.  Never before did I feel so light and smooth.  I was relaxed, I was smiling, and not even once did I look at my feet.  Fireworks illuminated the sky as Adi and I celebrated our graduation from novice status.  We were the only foreigners in the ball, and we attracted much attention.  A handsome dance instructor, which we addressed as "Maestro", involved us in a little game.  He would glide next to us with one of the seven women he hosted at his table, and without a breaking his rhythm, he would swap his partner with mine.  I did not object, since this was a good opportunity to improve my skill in leading, but I think he got the better deal.

3
At the same time that I encountered Danzon, I began teaching myself to swim freestyle.  I was eager to swim in Acapulco Bay, and I was sure that whatever pollution it may contain, cannot be worse than our over-chlorinated pool.  The narrow entrance to the bay blocks the pacific waves that pound Mazunte, and keeps the sea shiny smooth, with only small ripples generated by the light breeze.  I plunged in, and to my delight, the temperature was perfect.  I knew then, that no matter what happens in the Danzon events, I will enjoy swimming here.  Each day, I increased the swim distance.  As my final objective, I chose an island which was far enough to be challenging.

On the morning after the ball, I woke up late and tired.  I forced myself to the beach, with freedom to abort.
'If I don't feel good,' I told myself 'I will just take a short dip.'
I started with a drill from my instruction CD.  I extended my hands, relaxed, and eased myself, face down, into the water.  It was a matter of physics, but it felt like a miracle.  Unlike the pool, I did not have to flutter my feet to stop my legs from sinking.  I took a breath, tried again, and achieved the same results.  I began swimming with the same sense of calm and relaxation, and within a few strokes I decided to swim to the island.  As I swam, a school of tiny fish surrounded me and nibbled on my calm legs.  I enjoyed the tickle massage and dismissed any thoughts of bigger fish that may be interested too.  I concentrated on my stroke  with a  a meditation-like focus, until a group of kayakers interrupted my meditation.  We exchanged a few pleasantries, and I continued on.  I arrived at the island feeling better than at the start, needing only a pause(at my age, it's hard to pee while swimming), before returning to shore.  Google maps confirmed the distance to the island as 1200 meters.

Kobi was right.  Acapulco is very touristy, but I liked it.
     

P.S.  Acapulco's trademark, the cliff divers, should not to be missed.

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.

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.

Tomorrow

At any gathering of expats, the conversation will eventually turn to annoying generalizations of Mexico and Mexicans.  Recently, I realized that these conversations are not just a way to feel superior, but may provide a way to accept and cope with reality.  This blog is my attempt at acceptance, and it may be just as annoying.

It is one thing to speak a language, it takes deeper knowledge to understand it.  For example, what does the sentence "I will do it tomorrow.",  mean, when spoken in Spanish?  Many times I experienced that a promise does not turn into action, and if it does, it is usually late.  In either case, no apologies are offered or even implied.  This sentence should therefore be taken as, "I understand that you would like me to do it soon."

Two general characteristics (sorry) may explain the gap in translation.  First, Mexicans do not like to disappoint.  I rarely have been refused here.  The second cause may be a difference in attitude towards time.  D.H. Lawrence, who lived a few months in Oaxaca, and wrote stories about it in his book "Mornings in Mexico", claims that until the arrival of the white man, the local Indians had no concept of time.

One insight led to another.  Whenever I committed myself to do something here, I was repeatedly questioned about it.
'Quit bugging me!'  I would think, while affirming my commitment.
Now  I understand that the repetition is the accepted way of telling me, "Your action is very important.  I hope you do it."

Another example.  After asking for directions, you hear, "It's close.  Go down this street, then turn left.".   What does this sentence mean?  First, ignore the word "close".  Everything is close.  Second, it could mean exactly what it says, or it could mean, "I don't really know."  The ambivalence is due, again, to the inability to disappoint.  "You expect directions, and I am doing my best to please you...."

To resolve the ambiguity, watch the responder carefully before he begins to reply.  If you notice any hesitation, thank him politely, but ignore the answer.  It is crucial not to miss that initial instant of uncertainty, because after verbalization begins, all answers will flow with the same confidence, whether correct or not.


Que le vaya bien.

Without Guayabera

Nomads again. All our belongings stacked on Nemo's back, we left Oaxaca heading north. We reached Puebla in the late afternoon, and headed for the Zocalo. As per our usual luck, that Sunday was the opening day of the Barroquisimo, a month-long festival of music and art. Before we joined the crowd waiting for a popular rock star to appear on stage, we needed to fulfill our craving for a banana split. In the ice cream shop, we stared at a wall-size poster.

"An afternoon of Danzon!" it proclaimed.

According to the poster, the event was already in progress, and the last band on the schedule would have started to play about an hour before. Within seconds, I overcame Adi's reluctance by reminding her of two facts. First, the band "Danzonera La Playa" is one of the most famous Danzon groups, and second, they probably started later than schedule. We did without the ice cream and the rock star, and rushed to the event, a few blocks away. In our haste, we went just as we were, wearing T-shirts and sandals. Almost out of breath, we pushed through the thick ring of onlookers, and joined the couples on the dance floor.

Within seconds of moving to the familiar rhythm of the Danzon, my adrenalin dissipated, and I was calm, and happily enjoying the music. I noticed the big smile on Adi's face, and I knew that we made a good decision. Then, I paid attention to the other dancers. They were all dressed in fancy ballroom attire, much more elaborate and sexy than the Oaxaca crowd. It also seemed that they were all staring at us. According to Lonely Planet, the residents of Puebla are considered to be aloof and snobbish, and I felt uncomfortable in my casual outfit, until I realized that instead of frowning, the couples around us were beaming smiles while signaling Thumbs-up. Foreigners that can dance Danzon are welcome even in Puebla.

Adi, in her uncanny ability to remember faces, discovered that we saw this band performing last year, in the masked ball of the Vera Cruz Carnaval. The lead singer recognized her too, and asked her to the stage to introduce herself.

"I am Adi; I am from Korea; and I love Danzon!" she shouted into the microphone.

The audience erupted in thunderous cheers. After that, we became the afternoon's attraction. In the short breaks between dances, many couples approached, and congratulated us on our dancing ability. We repeatedly had to answer where we are from, where we learned Danzon, and what is our opinion of Puebla. Despite the adoring atmosphere around us, we did not fail to mention that we didn't know about the event, otherwise we would have been wearing our evening dress and Guayabera. This last statement seemed to seal our acceptance into the "Snobish" Pueblan society. We promised to come back in September, this time wearing the proper clothes.

"We shall await you" was the courteous and friendly reply.