I'll Be Back

Remember me? Me neither. It's been awhile, I've missed you. I wish I had a good explanation as to where I've been, but I would be lying. I'm just here now.

I'm not much for resolutions, which is the thing people say right before they announce their soon-to-be-failed resolutions, but I'm really going to try to get back into this blogging thing. Not sure why, as the digital world has already heralded the death of the blog. Guess blogs are too wordy, if we can't express ourselves in 140 characters or less, we don't have the patience. But I want to buck that trend, to keep my little wordy corner of the world alive regardless of what social media gurus have to say.

So while I don't have time to post a real entry right now, I am posting something - anything - to show that I mean it. I'm back. And to prove it, here's a photo I took in a market in Cuernavaca that I manipulated in ColorSplash on my new iPad. Too much fun.

Please stop by again soon, I'll be back.

In Dreams

Subzero temperatures for days, maybe even weeks, force my mind to wander to places warmer and sunnier where yellow limes and coarse salt pair together to make a sweaty beer an even more powerful experience. Watching the gentle ocean waves, I can almost taste the cold, sweet liquid as it cools my throat, and I move quickly to finish it before the napkin it's wrapped in is soaked. It's okay to drink your beer fast, there's always more where that came from...

Stalking Tarzan

Unwittingly, I've been following in the wet footsteps of Olympic swimmer and, more famously, Tarzan actor Johnny Weissmuller. I don't have many memories of the handsome European as I didn't grow up watching a lot of Tarzan, but I've grown to appreciate his contributions to pop culture. I mean, he was Tarzan!

I first started accidentally following Mr. Weissmuller several years ago when I read about a hotel in Acapulco that was sort of forgotten up on the highest cliffs in this coastal Pacific city. My aim was to spend one night in Acapulco on the way from Mexico City to my fishing village paradise south of Acapulco. I wanted to be close to the famous cliff divers of La Quebrada, so when I stumbled across the Hotel Los Flamingos, just blocks away, I was excited. I'm pretty sure many of my readers have been there with me, right? Holla for Tarzan! Turns out Los Flamingos was once owned by Weissmuller and his band of funsters which included John Wayne, Fred McMurray, and Errol Flynn. That would have been enough excitement for me, but then another Weissmuller coincidence found its way into my life when a chance trip to Chicago led me to the twelfth floor pool at the InterContinental Hotel.

The junior Olympic swimming pool area at the InterContinental, considered an engineering marvel in its day many decades ago, is a gorgeous melange of intricate Mediterranean tiles, stained glass windows, and wicker tables and chairs in the gallery that make you feel like you're going back in time. No wonder Johnny Weissmuller was known to have taken a dip in the pool there, and no wonder I'm stalking him. Now if I could only find out that he spent some amount of time in a certain pool in Tahiti, I'd be ready for my next trip.

Scaredy Gato

A Sunday morning walk to Nicollet Island yielded a nerve challenge not planned as I exited my home yesterday. I just thought I'd take my camera out for a little traipse around the neighborhood to see what caught my eye. I love Nicollet Island, an historic little bubble of quaint homes and gorgeous bridges just a few blocks away from my place. One of the bridges there is an old train bridge, pictured above, that is absolutely open for anyone to walk on. I'm always surprised by this because in America it seems every single place that could pose even the remotest of hazard is cordoned off like a crime scene, unreachable by all but the most lawless of types. It makes me think of the pyramids of Teotihuacan in Mexico City, huge and imposing, with steps that were not originally designed to be steps so are all different sizes and lengths. They are dangerous and challenging, and in America the pyramids would be available for viewing only. However, in Mexico, children and oldsters alike climb their frightening facades without giving it a thought. Mexican women in impossibly high heeled shoes slowly walk up the silly steps and teens scramble around outside of the designated areas. But here at home even a set of stairs with a split piece of wood is closed until completely repaired.

All bets are off on Nicollet Island, though, where this old train bridge spans a small offshoot of the Mississippi River and is completely open for all to traverse. It has no handrails, no "cross at your own risk" signs, nobody to stop you from drunkenly rolling off its wooden rails right into the drink below. With my camera in hand I was thinking there might be a photo op if I walked out onto it, a view of the river I couldn't otherwise get. Turns out I'm a bit of a wuss, because as I stepped up onto the old train slats, I noticed when I looked down between them that I could see all the way to the ground, a considerable distance. I could see discarded beer cans and food containers and the mighty river. I'm a pretty brave person, but I couldn't bring myself to walk very far onto that bridge. There was just nothing to catch me if I were to stumble on one of the uneven old wood posts or if I inadvertently tripped over a large metal spike. I kept telling myself I wasn't scared to be on the bridge, I was just scared to drop my beloved camera into the dank waters below. That may be true, but I'm not sure I wasn't just scared in general. Of course, if a Mexican woman had been there, she would've sprinted across it in a pair of cheap heels and carrying a child on her back, leaving me squarely in her dust.

A Long Time Coming

I am a spoiled American girl. I am accustomed to being able to get what I want when I want it, except for liquor from a store on Sundays. This is Minnesota, after all. But if I want, say, a grilled cheese sandwich at three o'clock in the morning, that can be done. If I am dying to read the latest David Lebovitz cookbook and Barnes & Noble has run out of it, I can have it tomorrow via Amazon.com. And if the Supersuckers release a rockin' new CD, I press a few buttons in iTunes and it's mine immediately.

So imagine my excitement when tonight, after almost six months of waiting, the wide angle lens adapter for my beautiful Lumix camera arrived! My friends and family, in a magnanimous gesture that far outweighed the deed I had done, pooled their money to buy me the wide angle lens and adapter that I had been dreaming of. It was their way to thank me for helping put together our trip to Mexico last February. My dad eagerly ordered the two pieces online and it didn't take long before he knew trouble was brewing. The gorgeous wide angle lens itself arrived promptly, but not so the adapter. And without it the lens was useless, like a glistening, sweet caramel apple displayed in front of a child with no teeth.

The last six months have been harrowing for my dad who ordered the adapter and then canceled the unfulfilled order several times, continually trying to track down the part but to no avail. This particular camera has been very popular and some pieces have been impossible to find, like this one. But after months of trying different unsuccessful leads, including with the camera maker itself, my dad finally got a positive result on eBay from a seller in Japan. Still, up until last week he was on the phone with agents from eBay who gave him no help as he attempted to follow the package online via Japan Post. Then, tonight, as I was running out my door, my dad called and told me to guess what he had in his hot little hands. I didn't have to guess, I knew. The wait was over.

So this generous gift, decidedly undeserved, has come into my life and I intend to make the most of it. I have a lot of practicing to do, but I already love it. As proof of its brilliance, look what it did for my friend Elwood the hound! He's handsome already, but the lens even made him cuter. Don't you think?

Los Flamingos

It's cold outside and I've slept poorly for days and my body is racked with pain from a particularly harsh personal training session yesterday (it was free but that doesn't make it any easier to accept my intense agony). My furnace has just been fixed after several days of not functioning properly. I took this photo at our hotel in Acapulco recently and even though it is not representative of the Mexico I think about most often, it is gorgeous and warms me inside and out.

The Not-So-Simple Life

The U.S. State Department is warning American citizens to exercise extreme caution when traveling to Mexico now in light of the crime problems with the drug cartels there. As a result large U.S. colleges are strongly suggesting their students not travel to Mexico for spring break. Personally, I wouldn't go near a spring break site in Mexico or elsewhere, but it breaks my heart this possibly crushing blow to an already addled Mexican economy.

Mexico has its problems that need to be dealt with if its government wishes to take advantage of the world's tourism dollars. It's not difficult to find horror stories on the internet about unsafe hotels and untrained medical personnel and muggings and corruption in Mexico, but the majority of the drug cartel issues occur along the border towns of northern Mexico--hardly the spring break destination of American students. The recession here at home has hit Mexico hard. Jobs are drying up and family members can no longer send money home to their villages in order to give their families just a glimmer of a normal, safe and healthy existence. 

I wish the world could see the Mexico I see. This country has a magical landscape of mountains and seas, brilliant flowers and cacti, evergreens and palm trees. Its interior is as beautiful as its coasts. The views everywhere are sweeping and gorgeous and lush and green. The food of Mexico is transformational, spicy and warm and filling like a big, boisterous family. You could visit Mexico one hundred times and experience something completely different each time. But Mexico's true point of pride is its people. Hardworking, open-hearted and friendly, Mexicans welcome you with pride to their beautiful country and live their lives with a quiet passion that is often lost in contemporary society.

Man, I hope we can work this out.

My Bad Latitude

Tonight I fell unceremoniously flat on my ass on the ice hidden beneath the heavy snowfall we received today. I was warned only seconds before and was being careful, but I succumbed nonetheless. While I wasn't hurt at all (well, except for my fragile ego), I was then covered in snow from head to toe, which ultimately melted from the heat blowing hard in my Saturn. By the time I reached home, I was drenched. It was imperative that I find my happy place in order not to completely drop out of this snowy life of mine. Here's a video I took of my happy place at Casa de Piedras in Guerrero, Mexico just a couple of weeks ago. Oh what a difference a latitude makes.

If This Doesn't Do It, Nothing Will

I absolutely adore visiting real Mexican markets. I'm not talking about the uberclean supermarkets like we have here, rather I'm enchanted by the sprawling outdoor markets of Mexico where you can find almost anything on earth, from fingernail clippers to voodoo herbs to fruits you've never heard of and live insects to eat. Every corner turned is an entire new world in a Mexican market. And even though I've been through the Cuernavaca market a million times, I'm still surprised every time by something new. 

The carniceria, or butcher area, of the Mexican market is especially jarring. The smell of death hangs in the air like sausages adorning a shop, combining with the odor of bleach and fresh meat for an assault on the senses that is not for everyone. I've had friends request a quick retreat from the carniceria and although I like being there, I can't blame anyone for a hasty exit. I've spent years wondering if I should consider being a vegetarian, if I should join in solidarity with my animal brothers in opposing the consumption of our four-legged friends. I've read books like Slaughterhouse and Mad Cowboy wondering if they'd trip the trigger to my future veganism. And I've walked through Mexican markets where pig heads lollygag on piles of decorative herbs, some heads cut open straight down the middle to show the fine dining delights residing behind their faces. Still I don't turn away from meat, it's too wickedly delicious. Oh sure, I took that ten year hiatus from pork after living in West Africa, but the bacon pulled me back in eventually. Bacon is my vegetarian kryptonite.

Anywhere But Here

I step into the gym after work and the place is outrageously crowded. I mount the industrial strength treadmill jammed between a small gal running with a ponytail bobbing behind her on my right and a young guy with sleeves torn off his jersey on my left. Somebody reeks of body odor, or maybe everyone does. It is a gym, after all. There are nine televisions spanning the area, each broadcasting a story scarier than the next one. The economic crisis, the war on terror, murder in the midwest, killer blizzards. I'm walking uphill (but not really) on my treadmill sandwiched between strangers and we're all together but we don't acknowledge one other and we're bathed in painful fluorescent lighting and we're all going nowhere even though we're running to get there as fast as we can. 

Just a week ago I was walking along a dirt road under a blinking lighthouse while the sun set only for my visual pleasure. Will I ever stop wanting to be anywhere but here?

The Accidental Stomach

Our favorite meal in Mexico, at El Huequito ("The Little Hole") in the historic central district of Mexico City, was tacos al pastor, those incredible little spicy pork tacos straight from the spit. However, the meal started with a little surprise. We chose El Huequito having seen my boyfriend, Tony Bourdain, eat there on his Travel Channel program "No Reservations." We ordered cocktails and perused the menu, completely in Spanish. I do fine in this foreign tongue, but I'm not fluent and there are many words that still mean nothing to me. So when we ordered a couple of appetizers, I just hoped for the best. 

Imagine our surprise when the plate, pictured above, arrived at our table. It looked like beefy squid tentacles and onions with green beans. Once in our mouths, we found that the curly meat pieces had a certain chewiness that could really only mean we were chomping on organs. The flavor was great, but each curlicue had a small circle of fat attached that was pretty unappealing. As much as I know that fat brings the flavor to food, and I appreciate that, I still don't want to bite into a hunk of rubbery white blubber. When our waiter came by, I asked him in Spanish what cut of meat we were chewing on and he replied, tripa. Ah, yes, tripa. Tripe. Offal. The stomach of the cow. Yowza. I can't deny that I enjoyed the flavor, but I'm American through and through so I struggle with the idea of consuming the innards of the animal. But, except for the green beans which turned out to be hot chilies, we finished the stomach appetizer and, along with it, a plate of the most awesome cochinita pibil (Yucatecan shredded pork marinated in sour oranges and spices) I could imagine. But I'm off the offal for awhile.

The Brady Bunch

I'm not much of a museum person, unless it's a weird museum like the National Museum of Funeral History in Houston or the freaky little museum on the creepy Island of the Dolls in Xochimilco, Mexico. But every time I go to Cuernavaca, I like to visit the Robert Brady Museum because it is a melange of all the art I would collect if I weren't so lazy. Or poor.

Robert Brady, who looked remarkably like Robert Goulet in his later years, was born in Iowa many, many years ago and eventually moved to Cuernavaca where he lived in a beautiful colonial home that he decorated in vibrant colors and with art he collected from all over the world. He lived there with his dachshunds, Rice and Beans, whose ashes are buried alongside Mr. Brady's in the courtyard of the museum. Every foot of the home is tastefully decorated and homey in a way that not even my own home is. I could move into this museum tomorrow and be very happy, even if visitors were walking through looking at my stuff for a $2 cover charge. It's that stunning. As long as they don't touch the original Frida Kahlo painting in my salon, above, we'll all get along just fine.

Hi. Not You. Hi.

In a Pacific coast fishing village where you're just as likely to see a herd of cattle rambling down the main road as you are an oyster diver carrying an inner tube, where you don't look twice at a burro or a pig rooting along the side of your cottage, where an old French dude will happily sport a Speedo banana hammock, anything is possible. And in that limitless possibility resides exhaustion, which is what I'm feeling. But there are stories to be told, and they will be told. For now, though, sleep.

Hasta Luego!

They Say It Has No Memory

I'm just days away from that moment I think of often when my toes first dig into the hot Mexican sand and the salty ocean water creeps slowly up my exposed feet, the liquid feeling somewhere between cool and warm, so unfamiliar that I can't really tell which it is. Sometimes thinking about that moment is all that I have to get me through these cold Minnesota winters.

In the movie Shawshank Redemption Andy tells Red (whose real first name in the film is Ellis, a fine name if ever I heard one) during their stay in prison that someday he would be found living his life south of the border on the shores of the Pacific Ocean. "You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific?" Andy asks Red. "They say it has no memory. That's where I'd like to finish out my life, Red. A warm place with no memory."

Clint in the Barrio

Went to Barrio tonight for a great evening of upcoming Mexico vacation talk with friends and family, but I can't prove it because the place is incredibly dark and inhospitable for photo taking. However, a pre-dinner classic margarita at Masa was digitally captured before consumption was completed. Enjoy.

Walking into Barrio, you're bombarded with noise and darkness and a sort of goth Mexican ambience you can't find anywhere else in town. Clint Eastwood's classic Western movie, The Good, The Bad & The Ugly, was playing in a continuous loop on a high wall which lent a Western vibe that took some of the pressure off of the Mexican decor to be totally authentic. Clint was looking pretty beat while we ordered our food and drinks. I don't know what magic they mash into the guacamole at Barrio, but I'd happily eat it every day for the rest of my life, especially with the lightly salted and fried chips they serve alongside it. And my Barrio blood orange margarita with Cava nearly made me swoon. I adored the small bites option on the Barrio menu, single serving sizes of enchiladas and tacos that were just the right amount in the mouth and in the wallet. My chicken enchilada was marvelous, it's such a wonderful departure to eat enchiladas without going home way past the full point as so often happens with a cheesy casserole of chicken and love. Just one enchilada is absolutely perfect. I finished off my meal with a single mahi-mahi taco, puffy deep fried fish in a bath of fresh salsa nestled in two mini corn tortillas. Barrio is perfect for cutting edge cocktails and small bites, not so perfect for conversation due to the cacophonous noise level and low light (yes, I'm a hundred years old). But I want to go back to sample more delicious Mexican menu items (the shrimp taco comes to mind) and cocktails (Pisco Sour, anyone?), and to see if Clint makes it out alive in The Good, The Bad, & The Ugly.