EL CHAVO RUCO – Reflections On Turning a Young 80 In Zihuatanejo

I’m pretty sure I cry more than most men. It doesn’t take much: sad movies, acts of heroism, glimpses of redemption and simple human kindness.

I also cry when Sally and I say goodbye in late March each year to our beloved second home, Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico, where we’ve once again spent the month.
 
It’s happened every one of the 17 years we’ve been coming here, that “last-campfire” sense that something very special and rare, in a breathtakingly beautiful place, with some very dear people, is coming to an end.

The feeling is especially poignant this year for two main reasons: first, because we’d had to abandon last year’s trip—and nearly this year’s too—due to some medical concerns. Secondly, because this time we celebrated my 80th trip around the sun with a “destination” party involving all my closest family members.

EL CHAVO RUCO
This year’s visit was special for other reasons too. Among them the good fortune that, at 80 and 78, respectively, Sally and I are still able to travel—a blessing we now know we can no longer take for granted. And to walk…a lot.

As always, we’ve plied the winding road a mile-and-a-half into town every morning—a grinding, seemingly all-uphill hike in Zihua’s tropical heat and humidity—with the sole incentive being an iced Assam tea and a nice mango smoothie at El Cafecito, a shady, breezy oasis just across from the beachside fish market.

PHOTO: Jane Simon Anneson

Some days we also brave the return hike in the afternoon. We slap a sweaty high-five at the accomplishment, only to then face the five-story stair climb from the street up to our villa.

All that exercise, together with the dent the climate puts in our appetites, has pared me down nearly to my high school playing weight. And Sally, she never played football, but let’s just say she’d still have no trouble landing a job as a runway model.

(The age-defying effects of life in Zihuatanejo were reflected in the theme and the little skateboarding crocodile character I created for my birthday bash. I call myself El Chavo Ruco, which translates roughly to the Punk Geezer.)

I must have been a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

THE LONG VIEW

Why such an affinity for this place, for its people and culture? It’s the colors, the smells and flavors, the unfailing grace of the people, and the musical, poetic texture of the language. They all touch me in ways my Germanic heritage—or for that matter most of a life in German / Scandinavian Minnesota—never could.

For lack of a better reason I sometimes tell people I must have been a Mexican fisherman in a previous life.

And Nature here is just stunningly beautiful and exotic. The arresting washboard rasping of the chachalaca birds that rouses us each morning. The translucent little geckos plying our walls and ceiling for bugs at night. The hummingbirds that flit in to sip on the fuchsia bougainvillea that underlines our no-fourth-wall view.

It might be the occasional sighting of scorpion or tarantula. A humpback whale breaching just outside the bay. And, again, that view. Zihuatanejo wraps around the best-defined, most sheltered bay on Mexico’s Pacific coast, home to roiling schools of bait fish, hefty jack cravalle, squadrons of spotted eagle rays, and the occasional whale shark.

And the infinite reach of that hazy horizon; once you clear Zihuatanejo Bay there’s no landfall for 3,067 nautical miles (the Pitcairn Islands).

¡TUTÉAME!
I want to think that the way people here touch my heart is based on more than the obligatory host-to-guest deference one usually receives in a tourist town. Here it feels like true kindness and generosity. Part of that may be a response to my own willingness to honor another’s culture—including the language—but I suspect it’s more than that. The more time I spend here the more I believe it's an innate quality of being a Zihuatanejense.

By now, many locals have become easy, comfortable friends—folks we’d love to welcome as guests in our home someday. I’ve begged a few of them for years to tutearme (use the informal personal pronoun tu instead of the more polite usted mandated when addressing a guest, superior or elder). It’s one of the great triumphs of my Spanish-learning journey that some have finally relented.

Most, I hope, appreciate that not all of us have turned into monsters.

MAGA WE ARE NOT
There’s another reason this year’s trip has proven unique: Sadly, we now must apologize for being Estadounidenses (from the U.S.). For having allowed the ham-fisted regime of an ignorant, monumentally insecure, utterly indecent little man and his billionaire partners in crime to suck the air out of Democracy’s room.

We explain that this tsunami of ugliness has happened despite our votes and those of about half of our countrymen and women. Some Zankas try to be diplomatic in their responses; a few just laugh; most, I hope, appreciate that not all of us have turned into monsters.

What a contrast the imminent collapse of our own homeland’s storied big-hearted, welcoming spirit with that of a people who, despite having themselves suffered under the boots of such beasts, despite the scourge of corruption and narco-warfare, have somehow managed to preserve that amiable spirit. Mexicans here still know what’s important. Still welcome folks who don’t look like them.

HASTA PRONTO
In late afternoon the panga traffic lacing together the two ends of Zihuatanejo Bay’s string-of-pearls beaches slows and stops. Then, once the sun sets over Cerro El Almacén, night falls quickly here in the tropics.

Soon, starlight perforates the night sky’s black membrane. As we sip a nice mescal on the terrace, we can already see a hundred times more stars than we can through the veil of light pollution back home in Minneapolis.  

Knowing we’ll have to wait nearly a year to return, we soak up as much of this feeling as we can. This amazing night sky, the delicious Pacific breeze, the eternal whisper of the surf…

Zihua, our precious, fleeting tryst with paradise, Hasta pronto. See you soon.

ALMA-RIACHI – Music That Runs Deep

LUCKY SO-AND-SO
Last night I celebrated my eightieth birthday here in enchanting Zihuatanejo, Guerrero, Mexico. While several of my loved ones have visited Sally and me here, I’ve dreamt of someday bringing the whole clan down together. This was the occasion.

It took a bit of planning to get everyone transported, lodged and fed, but the real fun was creating and carrying out a theme and lining up a few key events we hoped everyone would enjoy.

The focal point of my vision was that, halfway through my birthday dinner, folks might hear faint strains of mariachi music wafting into the open-air restaurant from about a block away. I’d interrupt the conversation and say, “Do you guys hear that? Some lucky so-and-so is getting a mariachi serenade.”

The sound would get closer and closer until everyone realized they were actually coming to our restaurant. And then, Oh, my God, they’re now (all nine of them: guitars, fiddles, vihuela, vocalists and horns) lining up in front of our long table!

That vision played out perfectly.

GRITOS AND LLANTOS
I’ve heard enough mariachi—from the scores of bands duking it out musically around Garibaldi Square in Mexico City, to pick-up groups and stage performances, to a 20-piece super band arriving at 5:00 AM to wrap up an all-night graduation party—to have witnessed the passion Mexicans feel about this music.

I’ve seen men’s chests swell with the national pride and personal passion it evokes, the full-throated way they belt out lyrics they know by heart, the heartfelt gritos of defiance and llantos of ardor and pain.

IMAGE: Austin American Statesman

I now feel some of that emotion myself whenever I hear this stirring music. It’s like I’ve absorbed it through osmosis. I know the lyrics of some songs and can sing along, at least to the refrains. Mexicans love that I know who Vicente (El Rey) and Alejandro are. It all touches something deep in my spirit.

So tonight, I’m standing here, my dearest loved ones surrounding me, facing these splendid musicians—Los Torcazos. And my eyes well up with tears. I can’t hide the emotion each song kindles. Guadalajara. Por Tu Maldito Amor. Como Quien Pierde Una Estrella.

And I can’t deny wishing I could maintain the valiant, stoical façade of a proud Mexican charro. But my face gives me away.

TOO MUCH FOR ONE LIFE
So afterward I follow the band down the stairs to pay the balance of their fee (and a well-deserved tip). I shake the hand of their dashing lead singer and manager, Francisco, thank him and hand over the pesos. And I feel I must try, somehow, to explain my emotions.

Here’s a rough translation of what I say: Francisco, I decided, twenty-plus years ago, to junk the German I’d grown up with and learned in school and, as a 55-year-old, take up Spanish. Why? Because I loved the music I hear in its sounds and rhythms. The poetry I feel in its words. The way it opens doors to the people and culture of this great country—including this colorful mariachi tradition.

And because I know, deep in my bones, that I’ve been a Mexican in a previous life.

I couldn’t swear to it, but I think Francisco teared up just a little too. He turned and waved…and then they were gone. But the moment, the memory, that’s mine for the rest of this life...and just maybe into the next.

TAKING THE HEAT – The Price of Decorum

As much as I’d love to be Mexican (I’m convinced I was a Mexican fisherman in a previous life), I’m occasionally slapped upside the head with the reality that I am not.

                                    ~   •   ~   •   ~    

I’d arrived in the central Mexican city of Puebla with my friend and Spanish tutor, Carlos, looking forward to a week of exploring this grand old colonial city and its surroundings with him.

Carlos, born in Puebla, had also brought his wife and kids, planning to stay with relatives and spend time, between our outings, with them and other family members who live in Puebla state.

But that very first night, on my way to dinner in my hotel, I received a call from Carlos. His ten-year-old son had just suffered an attack of acute apendicitis and was going to be in the hospital for a few days. Just like that, our Spanish-learning-on-the-fly itinerary evaporated, and I was on my own for the rest of the week.

That’s okay, I thought. I’ve spent countless days exploring various Latin American locales by myself. I can do this.

      Turns out I’ll be dining solo…
      with an audience.

FAMILY
But in a twist I found incredibly sweet—and typically Mexican—Carlos had other plans for me. The next morning my phone rings, and it’s one of his cousins wanting to know if I’d join him for an excursion to nearby Cholula, with its monumental cathedral, world’s most voluminous pyramid and stunning view of the nearby volcano, Popocatepetl.

Next day, it’s another of Carlos’s cousins, offering to show me around Puebla city. And so on…

Later in the week I’m invited to a nephew’s small, suburban townhouse for dinner. I arrive by taxi at about 6:00 and there’s Manuel and his wife, Isabel, welcoming me as if I were an old friend of the family.

After polite greetings from the couple’s two small children and a bit of conversation over a beer, Isabel gestures toward a small table near the kitchen. Weird, I’m thinking, it’s set for just one person. Well, it turns out the whole family’s already eaten and I’ll be dining solo…with an audience.

Isabel has devoted the afternoon to preparing the beautiful signature dish of Puebla. Chiles en nogada is a seasonal recipe consisting of fist-sized poblano chiles stuffed with picadillo, a thick, savory meat stew, then slathered in snow-white walnut cream sauce and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds and parsley.

As blown-away as I am by the presentation, I’m apprehensive about sitting down with the whole family just watching to see how much I enjoy the amazing meal they’ve worked so hard to prepare for me.

It’s a very warm afternoon, and I don’t think the lower level has air conditioning, so I’m already sweating. Uncomfortable as I am, I’m even struggling with my normally decent Spanish.

PRAISE THROUGH GRITTED TEETH
I lift that gorgeous first bite to my mouth and…Wow!, this really is delicious! Or so I think for about ten seconds. That’s when the heat kicks in.

    I figure a big swig of my beer will
    douse the fire, but it’s like pouring
    gasoline on it.

Poblano chiles are supposed to be relatively mild—about half as hot on the Scoville scale as jalapeños. But this must have been an unusually hot one; to this gringo’s innocent taste buds, it might as well have been one of those infamous ghost peppers.

If I was a bit uncomfortable before, I’m now feeling like a lobster dropped into boiling water. And that’s about the color my face is turning.

Of course, I’m gushing praise for the food, smiling and nodding my approval, but inside I dread the ordeal suddenly facing me. You absolutely have to eat at least 80 percent of this ample serving of food—and look like you’re enjoying it—or risk offending this very nice, very generous young family.

I’ve worn my nice, semi-dressy, white guayabera shirt, and by the time I’m half-way into the ordeal, the sweat’s rolling down my body, wicking into my shirt wherever it touches.

Wait, maybe a big swig of my beer will douse the fire…oh, my God, it’s like pouring gasoline on it. What I’d give for a dollop of yogurt!

IT’S ALL GOOD
Needless to say, I survived the evening. And I’m proud to say I finished nearly all of that beautiful chili en nogada. I was happy (to be done with the ordeal); my hosts were happy (that I “liked” it); and I’m sure all of Mexico was happy that they still needn’t call me one of their own.

What do you think? Did this recall any of your own cross-cultural mishaps? We’d love to hear from you!
 

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind - Part 3

PART 3 OF 5 PARTS

LANGUAGE SCHOOL
I don’t recall when I first realized the sheer genius of building my travel adventures around language school. The first of many advantages is the cost of the Spanish classes. Instruction in Latin America, obviously by native speakers, is typically a fraction of the cost of comparable classes here at home. Even for private, one-on-one sessions.

Another factor is that if one takes advantage of lodging provided by a language school—usually a choice between a dorm-style room in the school and a home stay with a nearby family—that cost, too, is a fraction of what one would pay for a room in even a modest hotel.

My home-stay family in Boquete, Panama

Thirdly, a benefit that’s especially valuable when you're traveling solo, attending language school affords you a ready-made circle of friends and a very flexible array of extra-curricular activities to choose from. Cooking classes, salsa dancing, volunteer service and any number of excursions ranging from in-town walks to entire weekends in the boonies.

  You either put together an intelligible
  request or you go without that cerveza.

One of my Spanish school cohorts

So far, I’ve built trips around language schools in Panama, Cuba and several times in Mexico.

When you want to get really good at a language, it takes a lot of work, a lot of discipline. Of course there’s learning all the grammar, memorizing the conjugations, growing your vocabulary. But once you’ve laid that foundation, nothing cements it and builds your confidence like being totally immersed in the language. Sink or swim; you either put together an intelligible request or you go without that cerveza. 

The quality of teaching I’ve seen in my language schools has varied greatly. Stands to reason most of the instructors have been young people—usually in their 20s to early 30s. And few of them have had the presence, not to mention the knowledge and experience, to be super effective teachers.

If you go this route, I encourage you to be as clear as you can up front with the school director about what you want to accomplish. I’ve found myself in a few unproductive classes where either I was placed in a group of students not at my level, or the instructor wasted time on material I’d already mastered.

Learning a language is exhausting. Be sure not to, as I have, schedule so many hours of instruction every day that you burn out. Balance is key. For example, I now know to ask for one or two hours a day of formal classroom instruction and a couple more hours of more relaxing, real-world practice—what I call “learning on the fly.”

Frida and I visit the textiles museum

       The goal...is to abandon myself
       to the rhythm of the conversation.

That is, doing some sort of activity—like exploring the area, meeting locals or simply sitting and chatting over coffee or a beer—with a teacher who knows how to engage you and then lets you talk. Not every teacher can pull that off, steering and correcting you without interrupting the flow of conversation.

The goal, at least at my advanced level, is to abandon myself to the rhythm of the conversation, to attain that magical flow where the process no longer involves any conscious translation or awareness of rules. Where my brain goes right from the idea to its expression—preferably in 95 percent correct Spanish. (Dare I aspire to my ultimate goal, to speak decent Mexican Spanish with no foreign accent? I can dream…)

My school in Oaxaca is Becari Manual Bravo, which I found on-line. It stood out from the dozens of other language schools in the city because the director was quick to show me that I was communicating with a real, smart, caring human being. (This is how I make many of my travel decisions—lodging, tours, services, etc.) 

Sandra Rivera Bennetts is a truly remarkable woman. I hear she and her sister founded Becari Language School years ago. Apparently, there was some kind of dust-up between them and they ended up splitting the school into two cooperating, yet separate campuses.

The first day I walk into the school’s airy inner courtyard, Sandra greets me like an old friend and administers the assessment exam to determine the level of my Spanish. No surprise, it shows I’m fairly advanced, but with weaknesses in the use of both the imperative and subjunctive voices.

Becari M. Bravo's airy courtyard, surrounded by classrooms

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sure enough, on my first morning in the classroom, teacher Andrea starts mapping out the rules and usage guidelines for exactly those two skills. She's a thoughtful, well-prepared, engaging teacher. Over the next two weeks, with the help of both classroom drills and homework exercises, I learn to better understand both areas and, by the end of week one, I’m acing my homework. Now it’s just a matter of putting what I know into practice.

My other main expectation of my Spanish learning is to have unstructured time just chatting with a teacher and perhaps other locals. That hope is met in expert fashion by my two other teachers. Each morning at 11:00 my second teacher, Frida, leads me on a one- to two-hour walk, exploring some of the central city’s interesting, artsy barrios. We also take a couple of half-day excursions to natural wonders and craft artisans’ workshops in nearby villages.

A pottery artisan demonstrates her technique

And my 2:00 PM “class” is a conversation session with Gary, who's really good at sustaining a dialogue about a wide range of topics. Another reason he’s such a good teacher is that he’s a student of language himself. We talk about the nuances and curiosities of language in general and Spanish in particular. He’s also a great storyteller, knowledgeable beyond his years not just in the language, but also in Mexican and Oaxaca history, arts and culture.

Gary and I converse in the courtyard

It’s a wonderful and, I think, effective two weeks of polishing my Spanish. Becari M. Bravo is far and away the best language school I've attended. With their capable help, I think I've jacked up both my level of proficiency and my confidence at least a notch. Perhaps the best measure of success is that for the whole time I speak very, very little English. A true immersion experience.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Food and Drink, should be landing here in the next day or two.

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind - Part 2

PART 2 OF 5 PARTS

DIA DE MUERTOS
When I walk into the airport terminal, signs of Oaxaca’s early preparations for Día de Muertos are already evident. Even the narrow corridor from the arrival gate to Mexican customs and immigration is lined with art depicting one aspect or another of the occasion.

 
As I get settled in la Casa Conzatti and check out the hotel’s immediate surroundings, vendors are already selling bunches of golden cempasuchitl (marigolds) and fuchsia cresta de gallo (cock’s comb), the two flowers considered staples in decorating for the holiday.

Many families and some shops, including my hotel, are starting to build their altars, the often-multi-tiered displays of flowers, food and drink, and religious symbols thought to encourage and welcome home departed loved ones.

As the week unfolds and the radius of my exploring widens, I see more and more altars going up, from a simple four-foot circle of marigold petals and a couple of photos on the floor to seven-level extravaganzas designed, as one person explained, to represent the seven stages of a soul’s journey to a state of eternal rest.

In front of some shops what looks like truckloads of flowers get dropped on the sidewalk. Soon, the shops will be festooned in them, peopled with life-size or even gigantic catrina skeleton figures, and their façades even painted with special Día de Muertos murals.

The catrinas are sometimes arranged in real-life settings, like sitting on a bench reading a newspaper or making out with a partner. One huge one—about three stories tall—goes up overnight to loom over the Alcalá, the central historic district’s all-pedestrian street.

As the pivotal days of the celebration, November first and second, approach, the big Santo Domingo Church is putting the finishing touches on its massive outdoor altar. With seven levels and two large marigold arches, the thing extends at least 50 feet wide.

Even our school, Becari Manuel Bravo, builds an altar. I help trim the bushels of cempasuchitl, while teachers and other students pitch in to build the framework and arrange the other, non-floral elements: skeletons, candles, a Virgin of Guadalupe figure, Pan de Muertos—a special Day-of-the-Dead bread—fruit, and even bottles of Coke and mezcal.

I and a couple of other students have brought photos of deceased loved ones—in my case, my parents—to put on the finished altar. I think Mom and Dad would be pleased. Especially Dad, who would have loved to take his yen for learning Spanish this far.

      By mid-week, it looks like about
      a quarter of the people I see are
      skeletons or zombies. 

The atmosphere in the central city seems to be building to some kind of crescendo. I wander across what look to be spontaneous parades, with people walking and dancing, some of them animating 15-foot paper mache figures, in all kinds of costumes, and moving to the boom and blare of brass bands. I discover that some of these dazzling processions are just folks celebrating weddings.

The main parade, the Magna Comparsa, takes place every year on October 27. Starting at El Llano, the large park about two blocks from my hotel, it winds through town for a couple of miles, pulsing with music and dance.

There are costumes and paraphernalia representing every corner of the state and every cultural heritage. The energy is incredible. The strains of one band conjoin with, then give way to those of the next. We spectators, many of us with cameras held high, press out onto the street where volunteers struggle to clear the parade route.

The next morning, right in the middle of my daily walk to school, a block-long artisans’ market has popped up along Calle Alcalá, under a tent that spans the entire street, from the imposing wall of the Botanical Garden to structures on the other side. You either have to walk through a teeming gauntlet of vendors and shoppers or go a couple blocks out of your way.

Down at Plaza de Santo Domingo, it seems like something festive is going on at just about any hour of the day. There are food, art and handicrafts vendors; street performers; people laughing, dancing or just strolling; and make-up artists, dozens and dozens of make-up artists. And they’re all busy. By mid-week, it looks like about a quarter of the people I see are skeletons or zombies.

And at night, Santo Domingo is humming even louder, with music, dancing, pop-up celebrations of one kind or another…even some super-flamboyant trans folks dressed and made-up to the nines.

One of the central intentions of my vision for the trip was to visit a cemetery, both during the day to observe families’ preparation of loved ones’ tombs and during the night of November first, when they gather around the graves to share remembrances, play music and sing, and maybe enjoy a picnic.

As I did a decade ago in the small mountain village of Naolinco, in Veracruz, I also wanted to buy an armload of flowers and leave one or two stems on graves that look abandoned. (I don’t know why this idea so appealed to me; maybe it was a way of giving some purpose to my intrusion besides just gawking and stealing a photo.)

But the cemetery experience in Oaxaca proves very different from the one I enjoyed in Naolinco. The first small one I checked out, in the Xochimilco barrio, was pretty depressing. Very little color besides lifeless shades of gray; many of the graves in severe disrepair, if not derelict; only a handful of people there tending to them.

     I poke my head in and see three
     generations of the family, all smiling
     and saying ¡Bienvenidos! 

Another big difference, I figure, is simply that Naolinco is a village of 20,000 inhabitants; Oaxaca is a city roughly 40 times bigger. I shouldn’t expect to walk down the street and be invited into people’s homes for tamales and horchata, or a shot of mezcal.

Still, I do get one such invitation in Oaxaca. I’m walking along a side street and pass a home with its door open and a beautiful altar inside. I poke my head in and there are three generations of the family, all smiling and saying ¡Bienvenidos! No tamale, but I chat for a few minutes with grandma, mom and daughter about the parents/grandparents pictured on their altar, and leave feeling blessed, both for the friendly welcome and my command of the language.

The next day I walk about a mile to the main cemetery, El Panteon San Miguel. I’d read and heard that it's been closed since the severe earthquake five years ago which damaged many of the mausolea. The guard tells me, oh no, we’re open every day until 8:00 PM.

So, on the night of Todos Santos, All Saints Day, I return. The cemetery, about the size of four city blocks, is crowded, but not with the people I’d expected. Instead of families communing with their departed, it’s mostly folks like me, there, apparently, just to witness this most intimate of Día de Muertos traditions.

Nonetheless, I do manage to buy a big bunch of flowers and do my thing, lending a spot of color and paying at least token respects to about twenty forgotten souls.

 

 

I observe—from a distance—the few families who are there to connect with spirits of their difuntos. As they gather around flower-swathed, candle-lit graves, some are quietly talking, perhaps sharing memories. Others are playing music. A few people look like they're praying.

As I reflect on the whole Day of the Dead experience in Oaxaca, I realize that these unforgettable sights and sounds—and the emotions they stir—capture for me the depth and breadth of Mexican culture as no other experience has. 

It's the rich tapestry of all the different regional cultures coming together;
a spiritual energy that embraces, rather than fears, death; the enviable cohesiveness of families; a tangible sense of pride in place and patrimony; and the irrepressible joy that Mexicans, like few other nationalities, bring to it all. 

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Language School, should be landing here in the next day or two. 

Oaxaca En Mente / Oaxaca On My Mind

The Oaxaca Series
Instead of the tedious, chronologic journaling format that’s so common in people’s trip reports, I’ve decided to organize my Oaxaca posts by category, by the four main themes of my experience: 1) language school; 2) Day of the Dead; 3) food and drink; and 4) arts and handcrafts—and the following brief introduction to lay the groundwork. So here goes…

                    ~    •    ~    •   ~   

INTRODUCTION

I’d been wanting to visit Oaxaca for years.

Due to my ever-growing interest in Mexico—fueled in great part by my late-in-life quest for fluency in Spanish—I’ve managed to at least set foot in about half of the country’s 31 states.

From the arid lowlands of Sonora to the temperate, mile-high central plateau called the Valley of Mexico, to the upmarket tip of the Baja Peninsula, gateway to the Sea of Cortez; from the tropical Pacific coast string of beaches known as La Costa Grande to the cool, mountainous forests and unique Gulf Coast flavors of Veracruz. I’ve loved it all.

But Oaxaca, the furthest south of any of these climes, has always had its own special appeal. First of all, for the virtues everyone talks about: the food, the art and handcrafts, the mezcal.

But there’s also the state’s unique fusion of several indigenous cultures, whose colors, flavors and customs are ever-present in day-to-day life. Oaxaca City’s Día de Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration—a blend of those pre-Columbian traditions with the European, Catholic traditions imposed by the invading Spaniards—is generally regarded as one of the most spectacular anywhere in Mexico.

I can see why the city’s such a popular destination for both Mexicans and world travelers. Part of the appeal is its apparent small scale. I’m seeing no buildings with more than two stories.

I learn that the reason for the buildings’ limited stature is a variation of the old saw, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Earthquakes are so common here that taller structures just aren’t considered safe. This is also the reason, I’m told, that building walls tend to be quite thick here.

The weather is ideal at this time of year. By late October the rainy season is all but over. Temperatures reach the mid-70s to 80 degrees Fahrenheit during the day and fall into the lower 60’s to mid-50s at night. Humidity’s low. With the city’s elevation just over 5,000 feet, the sun is powerful, but otherwise it’s a benign climate.

And a personal connection: Oaxaca, along the Pacific coast, is where my friend and compadre, Silverio, was born. He and his family, though he’s now a U.S. citizen, still hold the region’s traditions close to their hearts. I’ve always wanted to visit the state, if not the actual village, that’s so much a part of them.

So, last year, I was finally going to make it happen—a two-week trip to Oaxaca including the week-long celebration of Day of the Dead. I decided, as I often do when traveling in Latin America, to focus my activities on a language-learning objective. I enrolled in language school.

So it was all set. Then, as if that vision wasn’t perfect enough, my daughter, Amanda, asked if she could join me, enrolling in beginner’s Spanish. I was over the moon.

But COVID-19 put the kibosh on that dream.

RECLAIMING THE DREAM
This past spring, as it became evident that we were gradually, painfully moving past the pandemic, I decided to reclaim the dream. Only this time, sadly, Amanda wouldn’t be able to join me.

First, I made sure the language school I’d been in touch with, Becari Manuel Bravo, would still be a good fit for my ambitious pursuit of Spanish. Sandra, the school director, couldn’t have been any nicer or more helpful, offering to tailor an advanced program to my interests, and even recommending several possible hotel accommodations.

Well, I soon discovered that you don’t waltz into a Día-de-Muertos-week hotel reservation in Oaxaca city just four months ahead of time. I contacted all of Sandra’s suggestions and no fewer than 35 other hotels before I finally found an available room in a decent hotel.

Hotel Casa Conzatti

As for air connections, I was happy to find flights on the days I wanted—and at reasonable hours—for around $800 round-trip. Not a steal, but doable. And with just one stop each way—not in some city an acute angle and 1,500 miles away from a straight route—but right on the way, in Dallas / Fort Worth.

So, on Sunday, October 23, I’m up at 4:00 AM for my 6:30 flight, and the adventure begins.

Stay tuned! My next post in the series, Día de Muertos, should be landing here in the next day or two.

QUERETARO, MEXICO – July-August 2018 – Trip Report

It’s my fourth trip to central Mexico with my compadre, Silverio, the first being in 2003, shortly after I’d met him as my teacher in a beginner’s community ed Spanish class. Turns out he’d been planning a Spanish immersion experience for any of his students who were interested. I offered to help him promote the program, which we dubbed Voces del EspañoI, created his first brochure, and have joined the group for that first trip and a couple of others since.

This time, in what I take as a great vote of confidence in my having absorbed the Spanish he’s infused in me these 15 years, Silverio’s asked me to help him with the teaching. (Fortunately for my two  compañeras, Olivia and Jane, they’re both at the advanced-beginner or early-intermediate level, so I feel I might actually have something to offer.) I also consider myself a student, as I still have a great deal to learn before I can pretend anything close to fluency.

Also joining us are Silverio’s three kids, Callahan, age 17; Madigan, 14 and Patrick, 11, who divide their time between attending morning classes with us and re-connecting with their Mexican grandma, aunts, uncles and cousins.

I always enjoy my time in this distinctly non-foreign-touristy part of the country—most of it spent in Querétaro state, where total immersion in the language is quite easy to come by. I especially love being with Silverio’s family, whose members have embraced me so generously over the years. 

SAT., 7/28/18
It’s a smooth flight out of MSP, but the tight connection in DFW leaves no time for a even bathroom break, not to mention grabbing a bite of lunch. (Turns out all I get to eat all day is the trusty Snickers bar I always keep tucked away in a corner of my backpack.)

We’re met at the Mexico City airport by Silverio’s jovial brother-in-law, Manuel, and his son Daniel. They manage to pack ten of us and our luggage into two cars and we hit the road for the town of Tequisquiápan, Querétaro, where we’ll stay and have our classes all week. I enjoy chatting with Jane the whole way as we drive through the dreamy half-light and occasional rumble of sunset thunder storms.

Gradually, the density of the great megalopolis thins out, and we’re driving through the relatively flat countryside. Though Silverio promised we’d eat soon along the way, it’s not till we reach Tequis two-and-a-half hours later that we finally stop, at about 10:00 PM, at a small roadside taco shop.

 There’s just a flimsy screen between
 me and the comings and goings of a
 Saturday night in a sketchy part of town.

My “welcome to Mexico” moment wastes no time elbowing its way into my life. Anxious to get some sleep, I find out Hotel Rio has no room for me, explaining that the previous guest trashed the room so badly that they couldn’t get it ready in time. After a long argument, they promise they’ll make it up to me with a nice hotel room elsewhere for the night and then their own plushest, king-bed room for the rest of the week.

So, led by some dude on a motorcycle, I’m taken across town to hotel La Querencia, where I find out exactly how serious they were about that offer. It’s a one-star hote…no, hole. First of all, I look around and see—I’m thinking with good reason—no other guests. Bad sign. My room, on the 4th and hottest floor, has no A/C, no fan, no towels nor soap.

The mattress is as cheap and hard as a sheet of styrofoam, and the threadbare sheets bear signs of having been slept in a lot…and washed somewhat less. My only window opens right onto the public hallway, leaving just a flimsy screen between me and the comings and goings of a Saturday night in a sketchy part of town. Francisco, the proprietor, finally lugs up a big, noisy, industrial fan with two speeds: roaring 747 jet engine…and off. Hey, no worries; with the help of an Ambien, I’m soon oblivious to it all.

SUN., 7/29

It dawns a gorgeous day—not a cloud in the sky and lower 70’s. Shrouds of mist fall from the shoulders of the Sierra Madre Oriental along the horizon. Back at Hotel Rio, I have a small breakfast in anticipation of the big mid-day barbacoa feed we’re invited to with Silverio’s large family. A little watered-down orange juice, a bit of granola and yogurt, a few chunks of fresh papaya and a to-go cup of surprisingly good coffee should tide me over. Jane and Olivia decide to stay in Tequis to explore and possibly go to church.

About 10:30 we hit the road for Ezekiel Montes, Cadereyta & our destination, Bóye, home of Don Chon’s famous barbacoa* hall. Señor Chon died some years ago, but the whole extended family still runs the place. Though I’m far from knowledgeable about barbacoa, I’ve never tasted any better!

Among the choices are borrega (sheep); chivo (goat); montalayo (lamb stomach); and pulque - fermented maguey juice, sugar and some seeds I don’t recognize. As an indication of how big this dish is for this little town, I’m told that during the town’s big barbacoa festival in September they go through 900 to 1000 sheep!!

After lunch, Manuel pulls a bottle of tequila out of his cooler and we (men-only), joined by the two proprietors, Don Chon’s sons, set to polishing it off, mixed with grapefruit soda to make palomas (doves).

Fully stuffed, we head back to Neli’s house in Ezekiel where we men pick up the tequila drinking where we’d left off, aiming to put away another two bottles—in the middle of the day yet. This time we take it straight, with limes as fresh as they get, picked from the tree right outside the door.

With my Spanish well primed by the tequila, I enjoy a great, long talk with Silverio’s brother Alberto, who seems not to favor me with his pace or vocabulary. Ranging from politics to faith to sports to language, the conversation really helps tune my ear, speed up my rhythm and bolster my confidence.

Eventually, we all move outdoors to the patio where we play brisca—a fascinating and tricky card game—for 20 pesos (about one U.S. dollar) a game. Teamed with Manuel—and helped considerably by Silverio’s sister Lety—we end up winning most of five or six hands. To the delight of all, one of our opponents, the hyper-competitive Silverio, is beside himself.

While the Rioses prepare another huge barbacoa of their own at Neli’s, I get a ride back to Tequis from designated driver Daniel and join Olivia and Jane for dinner at the hotel. It feels really good to finally have a comfortable room—though neither the Internet nor cellular service works. Oh well, it is Mexico…and besides, I’m too tired for technology anyway.

MON., 7/30
After a modest buffet breakfast at the hotel, our first class starts at 9:00 in the large, well-appointed conference room. It’s great having Silverio’s kids be part of the group—Callahan and Madigan actually learning Spanish, and Patrick documenting the class as official Voces del Español photographer.
 

PHOTO: Patrick Rios

Among our well-planned class activities, we each introduce ourselves and share some basics about our lives; discuss some background on Latin American countries, Mexico, Querétaro state and Tequisquiápan; play games; and listen to a song, filling in spaces for missing and erroneous words sprinkled among the printed lyrics.

During lunch break, I walk the few blocks to the zócalo (town square) for lunch and to buy some sun block and water.

Today’s afternoon excursion is to Bernal, some 35 miles west of Ezekiel Montes, home of La Peña, a Jurassic-period rock formation billed as the world’s third-largest stone monolith. (It's actually number ten.) We each climb the flank of the monolito as far as our respective abilities and desires allow. Silverio and I get as far as about half-way up the part climbable without technical equipment. Then I head back down while he continues up to meet his kids, who’ve climbed to the very top.

On the pleasant ride home I introduce the group—minus Callahan and Madigan, who’ve opted to nap in the back of the SUV—to my favorite car game, Think Pink, for which Patrick shows a quick aptitude. Macho muchacho.

We arrive back at the hotel at about 7:30. I ask Olivia and Jane to join me for dinner at K-puchino’s, a favorite restaurant just off the zócalo I’ve been to several times on previous trips. I get to be a minor hero for the restaurant’s having menu selections meeting my compañeras’ special dietary needs.

After dinner, Jane treats us to a nice gelato, which we enjoy at an outdoor table on a quiet side street.

      The thought crosses my mind of
      renouncing what may soon have
      become a visionless, cowardly,
      neocon United States for a new,
      kinder, saner life here.

TUES., 7/31
Morning classes go well, accompanied by coffee and cookies. For lunch, I walk to the zócalo—locals also call it El Jardin (garden). Since I’ve been dearly missing my accustomed 5- or 6-o’clock cocktail due to our “Mexican-time” meal schedule, I buy myself a four-dollar bottle of tequila and a couple of Squirts to make palomas for myself before dinner.

Our afternoon outing today takes us to nearby (7-8 km) La Trinidad, where we hook up with Saul Hernandez—“El Peñon” (the crag)—our guide for the afternoon’s tour of the area’s opal mines. He’s a fourth-generation miner, who spends four days a week digging and breaking rocks, and the other three leading tours.

Like ice cubes in a blender, we’re jolted up the steep cerro (large hill or small mountain) in the back of his pickup. Once at the small mine pit, we we’re each handed a miner’s hammer and a stone chisel, and turned loose on piles of slag and on the face of the cliff.

Hopes run high, as Saul promises us we can keep any opals we uncover. Surprisingly, they’re quite easy to find, though of very low commercial quality. Silverio’s kids are engrossed for nearly an hour (and then even happier later when their dad buys each of them an opal ring from the Hernandez family’s small shop).

On the way back down the cerro, we pick up a friendly, 30-something woman and her small son, who, at age 3-4, already sports his own martillo de minero (miner’s hammer).

Somehow, between body blows from the sides of the truck bed and spotting dogs, cattle and wild quail, we get back on the Think Pink train for a few minutes, just long enough to come up with my compañeros’ favorite rhyme of the trip so far, this one in Spanish: caca de vaca (cow poop).

No wonder, on the drive back to the hotel—in fact, for most of the afternoon—I’m craving beef. So, on our arrival I make a beeline for the zócalo, where I find exactly what I’m looking for: arrachera, a delicious—sometimes tender—rendition of flank steak. It’s a wonderful meal, accompanied by steamed veggies, rice and beans, and garnished with the sights and sounds of families and couples enjoying their lovely, utterly charming little town.

As I sit here, with no one to talk to except my waiter, the thought crosses my mind of renouncing what may soon have become a visionless, cowardly, neocon United States for a new, kinder, saner life here in Tequisquiápan.

On my way back to my room, I run into Jane and Olivia in the hotel bar, where I join them for another drink and a nice conversation before turning in. After having not slept well for four nights in a row, I’m hoping the glow of this wonderful day will be the only sleep aid I’ll need.

WED., 8/1
At last a good night’s sleep! With our hotel managing to renege on several aspects of their contract with Silverio, we’re left without access to the conference room today. So we amble into town, where we end up having our class at a very nice table in the inner patio of the Plaza Hotel.

(By the way, I’ve not been quite sure how much of a challenge this trip would be for my wanna-be Spanish fluency. But it’s turning out to be everything I might have hoped for, with ample opportunities every day not just to learn some grammatical things I’d never known or had gotten rusty at, but also to practice with non-English speakers. (Nice to know an old dog can still learn a few new trucos.))

Around 3:30 we hop into Silverio’s nephew’s SUV and head for the Cava de Boca Negra cheese factory tour. Little do we realize this will be just the start of an afternoon of nearly continuous—and probably, in hindsight, comical—mishaps. The worst is the fact that instead of steering us on the simple, 15-to-20-minute route to our destination, Siri, or whatever her goddamn name is, decides to take us on an hour-and-a-half side trip all the way to Ciudad Querétaro.

Even when we realize HER error, we find ourselves in a revolving-door of u-turns on a very visitor-unfriendly stretch of highway. Finally, Callahan, bless her heart, succeeds in navigating us—nearly all the way back to where we’d started—to the cheese tour, where, unfortunately, Silverio’s mom, sister Neli, a niece and a nephew have been waiting for us since 2:00.

The cheese tour proves interesting and informative, including a nice wine-and-cheese tasting outside on the patio. But we’re disappointed to find that the place’s restaurant, where we’d been hoping to have dinner, has just closed at 5:30. So we head to a local-favorite seafood place recommended by Neli, where at least a couple of us enjoy the authentic, distinctly non-touristy vibe more than the food.

(I’m feeling so sorry for my dear compadre, Silverio, who’s invested so much in this trip and who’d so hoped to provide another smooth-running day for us. He’s an incredibly patient man, but the stress is showing. We all assure him the day’s been far from a total loss, and that tomorrow will surely smile on us.)

Arriving home relatively early leaves me much of the evening to stroll to El Jardin for an ice cream and to listen to—and then visit with—a very accomplished strolling musician.

  When Fernando opens the door and
  sweeps us into the spacious gallery
  area, there are audible gasps from 
  my compañeras.

THUR., 8/2
It’s already dawning on me how soon this wonderful week will be ending. Today, since we’re again making the long drive to Querétaro, we decide to take off right away and find a nice outdoor space there for our morning class.

After yet another ridiculous series of arguments with Siri about the navigation, we finally arrive in the historic center of Ciudad Querétaro thanks only to Silverio’s good—and distinctly non-digital—sense of direction. We amble a few blocks from La Plaza de Armas and find a pleasant restaurant in which to hold the day’s brief class.

After a very good lunch, we head to the home of Fernando Garrido in the northern suburb of Juriquilla, this time arriving with no bum steers from GPS. Fernando’s the incredible magical-realist painter we connected with on our first Voces trip back in 2003, and who’s become my good friend.

What a joy it is to be welcomed, with such open arms and heart, by this remarkable man! Soon Fernando’s wife Jacqueline—an amazing painter herself—joins us, and after introductions all around we settle in in their wonderful back-yard patio for a glass of wine and to catch up on our respective lives.

We’d hoped to see their son, Alexis, who was eight when we first met. But, now 23, he’s spending his last semester of civil engineering studies in Bremen, Germany. His parents are very proud.

Eventually, we head to the couple’s new gallery/studio, a modern, crisply-designed building just a few blocks from their home. When Fernando opens the door and sweeps us into the spacious gallery area, there are audible gasps from my compañeras. There, spread out before us on the pristine white walls, are at least a dozen of Fernando’s mind-blowing works, along with several of Jacqueline’s. (He apologizes for the fact that what we're ooh-ing and ahh-ing about are really just reproductions, since having the real thing there would make their insurance unaffordable.)

On the second level are a comfortable, black-and-white lounge area and bright his-and-her studio spaces—with Fernando’s current work-in-progress already pulsing with life on its easel.

In addition to working and sitting areas, the space spills out onto a wonderful outdoor deck overlooking the surrounding jungle-like back yard, and another lovely seating area—all interconnected by elegant catwalks.

With promises of a next visit—in either Minneapolis, Zihuatanejo, Mexico City (to see Fernando’s upcoming exhibition) or back here in Querétaro—we say our goodbyes and head back to Tequis, but not without another spate of insults to our intelligence by Siri.

Despite our long-unmet needs for food, water and rest, we manage to stay more or less on track and arrive, exhausted, back at our hotel at about 6:30.

I stop at the local fresh fruit market for some of those amazing little fingerling bananas. I’ve been craving bananas all week since, surprisingly, our hotel’s restaurant doesn’t offer them. I also pick out a fine-looking mango, with which I’m eagerly looking forward to supplementing tomorrow’s breakfast.

Olivia and Jane join me for dinner just off the zócalo at a charming little back-street pizza place I discovered. We enjoy a nice meal, a couple of artisanal beers and some good conversation. Afterwards, Olivia takes her turn treating us to ice cream and, happily savoring it, we head back to the Hotel Rios.

I realize, sadly, that tomorrow’s our last day. We’ll head for Mexico City in the afternoon, where I’m thinking we’ll spend the night with one of Silverio’s sisters before our early AM Saturday flight back home.

   Expecting anyone or anything to
   salve a gringo’s sense of righteous
   indignation simply does not work here.

FRI., 8/3
I savor what’s to be the last of my favorite waiter, Arturo’s, powerful, puts-hair-on-your-chest cafe lattes. (I swear the guy must put five shots in each one; I can nurse one to last all morning.) Again we must work out some financial issues—this time not just between the hotel and Silverio, but between him and my two compañeras—which threatens to put a damper on the week’s many joys for me.

I’m torn between wanting to understand Jane and Olivia’s feeling they’ve been treated unfairly, and my friendship and deep respect for Silverio. I know he's been jerked around by the hotel and is already incurring extra costs beyond his control—which the ladies insist he simply absorb.

I try to explain that my compadre doesn't organize these trips because he expects to make money as a travel agent; he's a teacher simply trying to provide a rich, rewarding learning experience for his students.

Another factor, one I decide not to bring up, is my understanding, from much experience traveling throughout Latin America, that when things fall short of one’s expectations—even matters on which you’re sure you have the high moral and/or legal ground—expecting anyone or anything to salve a gringo’s sense of righteous indignation simply does not work here.

Putting those issues at least temporarily behind us—and Silverio admirably maintaining his professional demeanor—we check out of the hotel, pack up the car and head downtown once again to see if we can fulfill Olivia’s hopes of buying a pair of handcrafted huaraches—those sandals with the fine, woven leather vamps.

Finding nothing but machine-made sandals in Tequisquiápan’s several crafts markets, we drive down to San Juan del Rio to see if we’ll have any better luck there. Voila! She finds exactly what she wants at the main artisans’ market—even buys a second pair as a gift. (I'm hoping this has earned back a few points in Olivia's estimation of Silverio.)

We stay and have a nice lunch at a second-floor lonchería in San Juan, and then head back up to Ezekiel Montes to pick up Silverio’s suitcase and his young nephew for the long drive down to Mexico City. (At Olivia’s refusal, the offer from one of Silverio's sisters to lodge us tonight in her home goes by the wayside. So now, because of our early morning flight tomorrow, the goal is to get us a hotel near the airport so we can get up at 5:30 AM instead of the 3:00 wake-up we’d face if we stayed the night in Tequis.)

The two-and-a-half-hour drive we expected to the edge of the sprawling city expands by another hour once we hit the city’s Friday-afternoon rush-hour traffic. Between the frantic driving and the horrible condition of the freeways and streets, I’m sure glad I’m not the one the driving.

Silverio, doing his usual amazing job of driving, drops us off at the Fiesta Inn at about 6:30. I grab a quick margarita in the bar and then enjoy a pretty decent buffet dinner in the hotel restaurant before getting my gear in order and hitting the hay.

(Silverio invited me to join the Mexico City part of his family for the evening, but I decide it’s best to start dialing in my focus on getting home. I absolutely love Tequisquiápan, Querétaro and, of course, my Mexican “family,” but I so miss Sally and our sweet little girl, Sylvia.)

Warmed through and through as I am by yet another round of memories from this special place and these dear people who live here, it will be good to get home.

* Mexican barbacoa is perhaps the most well-known, and its most popular manifestation is that which is used in the central states of the country. A brick-lined oven, usually about 60 centimeters (23 inches) in diameter and about a meter (3 feet) deep, is dug into the earth. Wood is placed at the bottom and burned until the whole oven is red hot.

A large pot is prepared with a little liquid (usually water and/or pulque with vegetables and aromatic herbs) and a grille in the bottom so that the meat does not touch the bottom of the pot. Meat, usually lamb or mutton, is wrapped in maguey leaves and placed inside the pot, then topped with the animal’s stomach, into which has been stuffed the other edible organs and a mixture of herbs, spices, and chiles.

The oven is covered with a metal sheet and a layer of fresh earth, then left overnight for the meat to cook undisturbed. When uncovered, the organs (often called pancita de barbacoa) and the leaf-wrapped meat are perfectly cooked to tender, moist goodness, and the liquid has turned into a delicious soup. Frequent partakers of this rustic culinary masterpiece often do justice to all three parts, starting their meal off with a small bowl of the brothy soup (called consomé), followed by tacos made from the internal organs and finally tacos made from the meat itself wrapped into soft corn tortillas.

THE SPRUCE EATS