Rick Steve's Radio Show

It's turning out to be an annual event that I get on Rick Steve's radio show. If you don't know Rick Steves, get to know him. His books Travel as A Political Act and Postcards from Europe are good intros, and if you're on your way to Europe anytime soon, his guidebooks are the best. He has his own PBS show and an NPR show.

So how it works is that they record a whole bunch of shows over a three day period a few times a year. They send out to their listserv the guests and topics and ask you to submit a question. If they like yours they'll let you know what time to expect a call. Then you get to be on the show!

Last year I got a call while I was down working in Connecticut. I got on the Mexico City show and got to ask a quick question, heard a long answer and then said goodbye. This year we ended having a discussion about my travels in Mexico in general - cheap cooking classes, a collection of short stories by women I read that inspired me to connect with people and male machismo. Turned out to be a good several minute talk.

So I'm unsure which show I'll be on, but all the more reason to make sure you're listening to every episode!

There's still time to be on yourself. Check here for the recording schedule for today and tomorrow and comment to get on. (You'll get a free book for participating.)

UMass - Mexico City Time Warp?

I've been in Amherst recruiting at UMass this week and at times I feel I'm in a Mexico City timewarp. The warmest way to get to the Campus Center where I had a table was to go through the Student Union, up and down stairs and round a twisted way of hallways. At one point the hallway goes by an open area with a mural and statue. . .

much like the winding walk I would do to transferring between the pink and blue lines I would do everyday in Mexico City. Half way through the crazy hectic tunnels you'd pass an Aztec altar they unearthed when they dug the subways out.

And the mural is reminiscent of those that cover public spaces all over Mexico City. This famous one of Diego Rivera's is in a museum, but the Mexico University campus has several that look just like UMass.

So neither are exact reflections, but pleasant suprising reminders of an ancient city and a pleasant vacation.

The Proverbial Cherry on Top

On Tuesday I flew out of quaint and quiet San Cristobal straight back into the devil's mouth--Mexico City. The flight was uneventful. Though I saw an interesting news story on the tv at the airport about a woman falling in the path of what looked like the orange line in Boston!)

I had reserved the cheapest room nearest to the subway line that would get me back to the airport the following morning--which turned out to be right next to the main square, the Zocalo. A complete 180 from my wide-eyed marveling on the train when I arrived 17 days before, I rode the subway head down, ipod on, not even blinking at the pda and shady sales going on around me. I emerged in the Zocalo. It looked like at any minute a massive rock concert would be starting and children everywhere had glowing toys resembling quidditch balls that they'd fling into the air and let fall back down gently.

I dropped off my luggage, and ate the free dinner of butter and cheese coated spaghetti. I met some Israelis who informed me that the square chaos was a celebration of Mexico's Revolution Bicentennial and recommended it. I headed back down to the square.

What followed was the most spectacular spectacle that ever was created by man. Better than the Boston Pops Fourth of July, better than the Mummer's Parade, even better than Disney World.

This video does the most justice to the show, but really you had to be there. It's hard to describe what happened but I am now convinced Mexico is the greatest country on Earth.

Well, convinced during the duration of the 15 minute show. At the very least, Mexico City has lost my deep loathing and instead redeemed itself as a visit-worthy city.

I went to bed early and steeled myself for 16 hours of travel the next day.

Done with Tanning and back to Culture

Even after four days of lathering on the sunscreen, I had a mighty awful burn in some awkward spots. I gave up the idea of horse back riding my last day and instead renting a chair and umbrella, ordered a big plate of seafood and took in the surfing competition on the main beach. My stomach was still recovering from whatever it is that makes us gringos sick, so I still didn't consume more than one beer the whole week. Which is hard when you're surrounded by fun-loving (and very good looking) Aussies and Kiwis back at your hostel cooking up fresh caught fish on the barbie every night trying to get you to party.

After four days I could have stayed the rest of the trip and diligently worked on my tan, but two things spurned me on: the thought of having to take a bus back up to Oaxaca and the joyful fact that I had a direct flight from Tuxtla to Mexico City already bought. I hopped on a first class bus and made the 11 hour, very comfortable trip to San Cristobal.

I can't even remember the first thing that made me first look at San Cristobal. Even before I left I wasn't sure if I was going to make it that far. I am so glad I did. The hostel was perfect. My $5 US a night room was empty almost the whole week. Breakfast was on the house. The living room was stocked with about a hundred bootleg DVDs and best of all two new puppies were allowed free range of the courtyard. It was like a second home.

I continued my practice of busy sight-seeing and soaking in sun during the day and laying low at night. My trip-long sickness preventing me from partying up could be considered a blessing and a curse. I'm sure it saved me a lot of money and drama, but I missed out on a lot of fun, I'm sure.

Days in San Cristobal were dreamy. I did a horse-back riding trip to a tiny village inhabited by natives whom had kicked out the Christians years ago and instead used the pew-less church for healing ceremonies and ground-level worship on beds of pine needles. I hiked up to churches perched above the town. Mostly I wandered the charming streets eating churros and shopping the wears of the highly talented artisans.

While there were a handful of tourists, most looked Mexican, but you could tell that before the swine flu/drug war media craze this place was a haven for both the American hippies looking to get in on the Zapatista revolution and yuppie travelers. Excellent restaurants catering to vegetarians abounded and I caught an artsy, political flick at a restaurant/language school/cinema.

It was a wonderful last stop on an 18 day tour and if there's one place I'd return to, it's San Cristobal.

Bus Ride from Hell . . . to Paradise

Now the distance between Oaxaca and Puerto Esconido looks about the same as Philly to New York City, which would take any sensible driver 2 hours. There are two buses you can take from Oaxaca to Puerto Escondido: the first class bus for about $35 takes the flat, newer highwaysaround the mountains and takes 8 hours or the second class bus for $17 that cuts right through and takes 5 hours. Given this info, which would you take? Second class, right there with you.

Ehhhh! Wrong choice. I am no elitist. Hell, I had slept on the floor already one night on this trip, but this was a scary bus. It took off as the sun had just set. Extra passengers stood in the aisle, holding on to the back of my seat for one hour as the contraption (nearly a bus) zig-zagged up the mountain range. Each and every settlement along the roads had put in a tope, or speedbump, bringing our demon-speeding bus to a screeching crawl.

My alarm went off at 1am, what should have been 20 minutes before arrival, but the minutes, then the hours ticked by.

The view out the window was jungle flying by to the right. Then jungle flying by to the left as the bus wound very narrow pot-holed roads. Our soundtrack was that creepy Bach organ fugue, followed by Carmina Burana and then . . . the Nutcracker Suite. Was this a nightmare or dream? For the next four hours I was wide awake thinking I'd miss my stop.

I didn't, at 4:30am we arrived. My hostel's guard let me in, pointed to a bed and I collapsed.

I awoke to paradise. A walled in set of houses that all seemed to run together surrounded a quiet pool. A bridge ran over the pool and let to hammocks and lounging chairs. Palm trees were everywhere. Nothing looked too well kept, but in my haze of little sleep it was a dream. I put on my suit, got directions and headed out to the nearest beach. My hostel was a ways away from the center of nightlife and a good walk to the beach, but oh what a beach. One of the more secluded, less traveled beaches, I found myself virtually alone, with a cove of blue and multiple sleepy little bars ready to hack a coconut for me and stick in a straw.

Now this was a vacation.

Oaxaca in Color

The Ruins of Monte Alban, set high in the hills above Oaxaca City

A weaving cooperative outside the city

Oaxaca Institute for Culture displays alters from regions across the state

Celebrators pose

A woman offers shots of tequilla as she sits by her alter

The finale of a dance production put on barefoot in the dirt against the backdrop of the city´s cathedral

Go South!

It was advice given to me on my last night in New York before flying out. I should have listened right away. Mexico just gets better and better (and cheaper) the further south you go. I was charmed by Oaxaca. As soon as I arrived I signed myself up for the first tour. I was tired of do-it-yourself and wanted to be escorted around a bit.

Despite being one of the most popular times to visit Oaxaca (Day of the Dead) our tour was not the embarressing tour bus group of 40 people or so led by a shouting woman holding her umbrella high to make sure her ducklings were following. A van picked me up at the hostel with a mere 6 others and our visits to the ruins of Mitla, the Tulle tree (possibly oldest in the world) and a textile weaving cooperative were uncrowded and all worth it. I found fast traveling companions in the two germans in the backseat with me and two older ladies from the West Coast in front.

Delighted by the cheapness and relaxed tours I decided to do more. I signed up for a cooking class and a visit to Monte Alban, some of the best ruins left in Mesoamerica. I was delighted to find myself the only one signed up for both.

The private cooking class turned into a hangout session with the young chef´s friends that worked at the hostel. While learning the 20 ingredients that go into mole, I also learned about the life and times of being young in Mexico. The eldest girl had recently married. She and her husband were in school studying sustainable tourism. In order for her to share his scholarship they needed to be married. So, he had proposed over the phone and they were married the next day. It was fine, but not what she wanted. She also longed to be out of Mexico City, away from the pollution, but that is where all the good schools and jobs were. It´s not the first time I had heard the story, my host in Mexico City also had had no desire to get married and have kids and wanted out of the city. Mexicans all don´t fit our preconceptions.

The rest of the time, I wandered the old colonial streets and spent my evenings gawking at Dias de los Muertos festivities -- now a strange blend of indigenous belief that the dead come back for a night to commune with their families, the Christian celebration of All Saint´s Day, and the American tradition of dressing up scary and partying. Here the celebrations last 4 nights, with people getting dressed up, multiple bands in the streets, and alters honoring the dead everywhere. And by everywhere, I mean the entire Zocalo, every hotel, every store, every restaurant and school.

My fourth day I tried to get an early bus to Puerto Escondido, but found tickets sold out until 8:30pm. No matter; I spent one more afternoon wandering, catching a cultural tour show on the plaza and then steeled myself for what was supposed to be a 5 hour bus ride to the coast. . .

Restarting in Oaxaca

Mexicó city had been rough. Going from serene, fall foliaged, bikable, Boston--barely a city, really--to the 2nd largest megatropolis in world is shocking. Even my brief overnight stay in NYC before the flight didn´t prepare me for the people shock. It doesn´t help that Mexico City is actually a city upon cities, with falling apart infastructure and not designed for a newcomer.

I have two kinds of the Mexicó City in my head--the beautiful museums, the ruins exposed next to the Zocalo, in the subway stops and in the hinter land, the delicious quesadillas, the murals, political discussions with my host. Then there´s the waking up at the crack of dawn with my host, always being lost, the drenching rain, the confusing and crowded subway, getting very very sick. The two images now seem to balance eachother out, so that I don´t much like or dislike the place. But sitting in the bus station, I was ready to get out and start an acutal vacation.

Finally out of the ring of Mexicó City´s smog, the skies were bright blue, and the fields of marigolds were in full bloom, being sold on the side of the road for Day of the Dead festivities.

As the bus pulled through the narrow Oaxacan streets I hit the reset button in my head. And arriving at a suprisingly spotless hostel I found my reservation (made at an internet cafe in the station right before my bus pulled out) was in good standing. My simple baguette dinner felt fine in my stomach and the city museum was free and open late for the Day of the Dead. My head hit the pillow soundly that night after my first hot shower with shampoo in ages, very, very soundly. I was finally on vacation.

Unedited, untitled, raw mess of photos here. Try guessing what the pictures are for fun.

Holá Again Warm Weather!

My trip to Mexico could be described as my attempt to hold on to the warm weather for a bit longer . . . or a desire to understand a place that the media chooses to keep putting down . . . or a cheaper consolation prize for not being able to afford to go back to Europe.

It's all these things. But it's certainly not a vacation. So far my trip has had many moments where you just have to say 'okay' and go with it -- Your host has one key and needs to leave for work at 6am? okay. The waiter again brings you meat? okay. You get on an express train to the stadium by accident? okay. You loose your atm card? okay.

That is not to say that I'm not glad that I'm here or that it's a completely mindbending experience to take the Mexico City metro at rush hour or see thoroughly intricate Day of the Dead alters or be forced to accelerate your 5 weeks of Spanish classes to the equivelant of 2 years in order to get through the day.

It's awesome, but I woner if the pain in my stomach is the food or the stress.

En Senada

Sunday we mostly spent on the road. For being so close to California, it takes a darn long time to get around and to Mexico.

First we hopped a locals' bus to La Bufadora, which is a marine geyser. In the heat, the occasional spray of the ocean and staring at the moss-covered dripping rocks was great to cool off. Afterward we climbed down some rocks to a pebbly beach. The water was rough and cold, so I tried to stay only knee deep, but a wave took my flip-flop. I made a daring save, but got pretty soaked in the process. 

While I frolicked Alejandro was followed by a local kid who sat down with him and grilled him about Argentina, America and who knows what else. They made a cute pair on the big rock, talking and staring out into the ocean. Enrique had walked 4 hours that day to get to La Bufadora, which is surrounded by stalls and stalls of shops and food, and hence, tourists, so he could beg. We ended up taking him out to lunch at a taco stand. Afterwards I bought mango for dessert. He shaked his head and I told him to ask for whatever he wanted, which turned out to be doritos loco. Here's the recipe--take a small spicy doritos bag and slit in sideways. Pour in hot sauce, calamari (I think that's what it was), chilly powder and use a spoon to eat it. No Rico I say!

We ended up paying for him to take the bus home and we bade farewell as we both transferred to our respective buses from the Bufadora route. It makes you wonder what kind of life this kid will have. He was bright, spunky, smart, with a lot a personality, but if he's reduced to begging, what will he get to grow up to be?

We continued onto a third bus and then two trolleys before getting back to our car for the walk home . .