A MILE IN MY OWN SHOES – The Ways of Wanderlust

It’s silly I know, but one of the ways my Latin American travel/adventure trips move from crazy notion to harebrained scheme to actual occurrence is that I envision one of my favorite pairs of shoes stepping down the streets or trails of that distant place. Oh…and I’m in the shoes.

For Puebla, Mexico, it was my then-brand-new Keen ultra-lite sandals. In Buenos Aires, it was the Merrell Encore clogs. Havana saw me mostly in my Ecco Yucatan sandals. Oaxaca, in my Birchbury leather sneakers.And now, for my upcoming fall trip to Mérida, I'm thinking my new, walking-on-a-cloud Skechers Slip-ins. (Though for this trip it might make more sense to revisit those Yucatan sandals.)

       I make room for adventure in
       a future that thinks it’s already
       scripted for something else.

Why does it take footwear to lead me to such places? I suppose it’s like any other serious intention in life; to make room for adventure in a future that may not be ready for it, or thinks it’s already scripted for something else, it helps to imagine oneself there. The rest of the plan then starts falling into place around that image.

The shoes get me to that place of my imagining in a way that simply Googling the place cannot. More than just reading someone’s description or looking at photos, they seem to put me there physically. I can actually feel it, my connection with the ground.

FEEL THE YEARN
I remember reading Thomas Mann’s novella, Tonio Kröger, when I was in high school. Mann used the distant sound of the Posthorn to represent the siren song of Tonio’s wanderlust.

There’s nothing as powerful as a dream. For some, like Tonio, it’s just a hazy, unsettling yearning; for others it’s more like a prayer. I see it as simply committing my wishes to the wise ways of the Universe. And, since my Higher Power wants me to be happy, it makes space in the future for the fulfillment of those wishes and then enlists my own intentions, planning and a bit of elbow grease to make them happen.

You see, I have this hunger to keep expanding the realm of my being. To learn new things, meet new people, behold ever-more-stirring expressions of Nature’s beauty, get out of my egocentric, way-too-busy self and closer to the ideal of oneness with everything.

Nothing better satisfies that yearning than travel. (And travel, specifically to Hispanophone places, also lets me pursue my late-in-life quest to get reasonably fluent in Spanish.)

     My wanderlust exerts the same
     pull that being a homebody does,
     but in a different direction.

DIFFERENT STROKES
I realize that, for many, life’s less about opening new realms than deepening the ones they already occupy. That’s fine. I actually envy you homebodies, for your ability to happily grow where you’re planted. And for the strength of your commitments to a beloved place and the people you make sure frequent it.

I suppose I could say my wanderlust exerts the same kind of pull that being a homebody does, but in a different direction. To be honest, though, I feel a bit guilty about how selfish it is. I try to salve the guilt by recalling how many other worthy endeavors demand a choice between familiarity and exploration.

Wanderluster. Full-nester. Aren’t they really like introvert and extrovert, where one is better than the other only for certain purposes. Shouldn’t it be possible to be some of both, to balance the two?

How does one do that? As my mother used to say, when you’re torn between two valid paths, sometimes you just have to follow your nose…

…and, I would add, your shoes.

"To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time, to be in a position in which almost nothing is so familiar it is taken for granted."
BILL BRYSON

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.

GUATEMALA – Land of Eternal Spring…and Volcanoes – Part III

(PART THREE OF THREE PARTS / For part one click HERE; for part two click HERE)

ATITLAN
On my second Friday of school I skip classes, and Amanda and I board a group shuttle bound for Lake Atitlán. An hour later, after our humorless driver finally fills 15 of the 14 seats in the van, we actually get out of Antigua for the two-plus-hour drive west-northwest to the lake.

Lago Atitlán, widely recognized as one of the most beautiful lakes in the world, does not disappoint. Formed in the caldera of a mega-volcano that erupted 84,000 years ago, the 56-square-mile, 1,100-foot-deep lake is flanked by several 10,000-foot classic, cone-shaped volcanoes.

People are drawn to Atitlán not just by its stunning beauty, but also by the area’s reputation as an energy vortex, said to be one of just three such spiritual hotbeds in the world—along with Peru’s Machu Picchu and Egypt’s Pyramids of Giza.

  More than any "point of interest," any tour,
  any photo op, this is the kind of magic that
  defines travel for me.

The lake is surrounded by eleven towns and villages, each with its own distinct flavor. Panajachel is the largest, busiest and grittiest, serving as the main road terminus for all the rest. From there, a busy network of water taxis connects them all.

San Pedro is known as the backpacker’s mecca, with lots of hostels, clubs and bars and a lively party atmosphere.

San Marcos has a new-age, hippie vibe, with shamans of every stripe, and lots of touchy-feely offerings like yoga, naturopathic foods and drink, healing centers and Reiki and massage parlors.



San Juan is one of the most colorful villages on the lake, with vibrant murals and other public art. Here the Mayan descendants and their Tz’utujil and Kaqchikel cultures are more obvious than in the other villages.

Santa Cruz is a relatively quiet alternative with few conveniences, but superb views of the volcanoes. (This is where Amanda and I stay--at La Arca de Noé, Noah’s Arc, a collection of rooms and separate casitas stair-stepping up the steep hill, some with nice decks overlooking the lake.)

                               

Our last night in Santa Cruz, we tuk-tuk a ways up the steep main street to a small restaurant that someone's recommended. Besides the family that owns it, we have the place to ourselves. Just as we're finishing our meal, we hear the happy birthday song from the other room.

Peeking through the doorway, we see a little girl sitting at the counter with a birthday cake in front of her and the whole family gathered around singing to her. She's eight.

We join in and offer our best wishes to the cumpleañera, and then return to our table. Just as we're asking for the check, one of the kids comes out and shares slices of the birthday cake with us.

More than any "point of interest," any tour, any photo op, this is the kind of magic that defines travel for me.

(I wish I’d spent more time researching the other villages. If I had, we’d have known that the gauntlet of commercialism we encounter right off the boat dock is not the town. To see slices of life like that sweet little birthday party, or public markets, or church services, one has to walk or tuk-tuk a ways, in some cases nearly a mile, up the steep flank of the caldera where most Guatemaltecos—and real life—reside. Maybe next time.)

    Many people, while chatting within their
    families or with fellow workers, speak their
    indigenous languages.

MEXICO IT IS NOT
It’s hard for me, a frequent traveler to Mexico, not to compare Guatemalan life and culture. The first difference that strikes me is that Guatemalan culture is far more indigenous. Around 43 percent of the Guatemalan people are indigenous, while just over 15 percent of Mexicans are.

While most of Mexico’s pre-colonial roots are Aztec, a warrior civilization with strong religious and mythological aspects, Guatemala’s are Mayan, an older, more peaceful, more intellectual culture.

The currency of these ancient traditions is obvious in people’s dress. At first I think it’s just the street vendors who wear the intensely-colored trajes / clothing. But I see many others, including whole families, wearing the striking woven and embroidered cortes / skirts and huipiles / blouses as they walk around town.

PHOTO: Trama Textiles

The colors are amazing. Intense. Each hue and each design element symbolic. The artisans’ markets are full of the fabrics, fashioned into every imaginable item, from clothing to table runners to tea cozies to men’s ties.

Another difference is the language, which I find quite easy to understand, even when talking with folks on the street. They speak more slowly and enunciate more clearly than the average José in Mexico. That said, I observe that many people, while chatting within their families or with fellow workers, choose to speak their indigenous languages.

Of course, there are quite a few Spanish words that differ from those used in Mexico for the same things. Enough for a language learner like me to get into trouble if he's not careful. But I get through my visit to this enchanting country without exclaiming to anyone that I’m pregnant (embarazado), as I once did in Mexico.

    Pretending to understand any culture
    based on seeing just small parts of it is
    pure hubris.

JUST A TASTE
I'll never forget a friend's slide show I once viewed. He'd just returned from a ten-day trip to Kenya. His narration was full of conclusions like, "Africa is..." and "Africans are this or that." And it struck me as so presumptuous.

Pretending to understand any country, any culture, based on a vacation, or on seeing just small parts of it, is pure hubris. 

So, as I continue chipping away at my goal of visiting every Spanish-speaking corner of Latin America, I’m glad to check off Guatemala. The places I saw are lovely; the people I met are kind and generous.  But all I can really say is that I've tasted it; I've sampled a few of its many flavors; and I leave hungry for more.

(FOR SLIDE SHOW CLICK HERE)

GUATEMALA – Land of Eternal Spring…and Volcanoes – Part I

(PART ONE OF THREE PARTS)

It’s November and once again the cold and gray here in Minnesota, USA have rekindled the wanderlust. So I’m off to Guatemala—for no better reason than that I’ve heard it’s beautiful and I know several people who’ve been there—and loved it.

This region, much of it forested and lying at elevations above 5,000 feet, has an ideal, spring-like climate all year round. That’s why Guatemala’s known as “The Land of Eternal Spring.” And why it’s ideal for travel.

Oh, and I hear the way Guatemalans speak Spanish is relatively easy for a Spanish learner to understand.

You see I’m sticking to the tried-and-true format I’ve used for most of my Latin American adventures. I find what looks like a good language school; I sign up for a couple weeks of intense one-on-one classes; and then I see if I can find decent lodging and flights.

This affords me a ready-made home base, a circle of potential friends, and a focus for days that otherwise might overwhelm me with options.

An unexpected highlight of this trip is that my daughter, Amanda, has decided to fly down from Boston and join me for a week.

 I’m easily disoriented. Until I realize that
 El Agua, the most prominent of the volcanoes
 surrounding the city, lies due south.

POLITICAL INTRIGUE
As late as two weeks before I leave home, I’m unsure if it’s really wise to go. Not for concern with my and Amanda’s safety as much as with our ability to get around—even from the airport in Guatemala City to Antigua, the town where we’ll spend most of our time.

The problem is that, since last June’s general election in which the progressive, anti-corruption candidate for president easily prevailed and the sitting president seeks to invalidate the results, working Guatemalans, led by several well-organized indigenous groups, have been protesting by, among other tactics, setting up roadblocks around the country—as many as 70 at one time. 

Fortunately, one of my neighbors works for a local college’s international program, which sends student groups to Guatemala. She’s been able to get up-to-date, first-hand information, and informs me that the protest organizers, seeing that the current government plans to come down hard on them, has switched its focus from rural highways to Guatemala City’s government-buildings zone.

As it turns out, we encounter no protesting of any kind, anywhere we go.

GETTING MY BEARINGS
I arrive in Guatemala City just after dark in about as good shape as one could expect after a 12-hour day of travel. My destination—where my Spanish school is located—will be the former colonial capital, La Antigua Guatemala, a mile-high city of 50,000 surrounded by volcanoes just west of Guatemala City.

My ride, a private shuttle arranged by my Antigua hotel, is right where he said he’d be, and after nearly an hour in surprisingly slow traffic for that time of day, we pull up to my home for the next two weeks, the Posada de la Luna, a lovely, unpretentious little hotel with just seven rooms less than a mile from the town’s Plaza Mayor or central park.

(It’s nice arriving on a Friday, leaving me the whole weekend to explore and get oriented before my classes begin Monday morning.)

La Antigua, at least size-wise, is a wonderfully walkable town. Stroll about a mile in any direction and you’re in the suburbs. So, making Plaza Mayor the hub of my wanderings, I trace “spokes” out from there in the four cardinal directions.

At first, what with all there is to see and photograph, I’m easily disoriented. Until I realize that El Agua, the most prominent of the several volcanoes surrounding the city, lies due south. 

Speaking of the volcanoes, I’m disappointed not to actually see any of them in its entirety for the first four days of my visit. The rainy season here should be over by now, so I’d expected more sun. Locals explain that the cool (mid- to upper-60’s) temperatures, low cloud cover and frequent drizzles and mists are due to an unusual cold front affecting all of Central America.

    We walk to El Jardin, a botanical garden
    where all the school’s classes take place.

BREAK A LEG
As easy as it is to reach any corner of Antigua walking, that’s how treacherous the footing is. Every single street and many of the sidewalks are paved in cobblestones, and, with the frequent light precipitation, they’re wet. 

A tourist gawking and taking pictures on that terrain is a recipe for a turned-ankle disaster. So I’m constantly reminding myself: Want to look? Stop! Want to snap a photo? Stop! (Turns out that’s impossible, so it’s just pure dumb luck that I avoid a sprain.)

ANTIGUEÑA SPANISH ACADEMY
My first Monday of language school I head to the address where I think my classes will be held. Instead, I find a cramped little second-floor office with a line of about 50 Guatemalan women—and a few men—winding down the stairs and out to the street.

Turns out this is just the administrative office, and these are the teachers, waiting to be assigned their students for that week. I pay my tuition for the first week and then meet my teacher, Sheny. She takes me back down the stairs and we walk nearly a mile through the back streets of Antigua’s northwest corner to what they call El Jardin, The Garden, where all the school’s classes take place.

It’s kind of a small, enclosed park, a bit like a botanical garden. Not one with identified plant species, but it’s lush with tropical foliage and flowers: palms, bromeliads, orchids and other gorgeous flowers. And there are a couple of two-story buildings with broad, open-air, tile-floored galleries.

During breaks students and teachers gather in groups, stroll around the gardens or climb a spiral staircase to a rooftop terrace. There's also a snack bar.

Every Spanish school I’ve ever attended offered both group and individual classes. But every school in Guatemala, it seems, provides only one-on-one instruction. Also, those other schools have usually had somewhere between ten and 20 students. So I was surprised to find El Jardin’s buildings and paths lined with at least 60 card tables, a student and a teacher at each one.

Sheny is a fabulous teacher. By the time we get to El Jardin that first day, she’s already identified my weaknesses, and devises lessons and drills to nudge me closer to my goal of fluency…whatever that is.

We also hit it off personally, sharing loves for sports, Nature, pets and of course language. (She has several dogs, a couple of cats and a charismatic, blue-eyed tortoise named Tuguis.)

Sheny’s skill and easy manner make conversation quite easy, but four consecutive hours of one-on-one language learning is still exhausting. So, toward the end of each morning’s work, we unwind with a game of Scrabble—in Spanish, of course. I don’t mean to brag—okay, I actually do—but I beat her like six out of eight times! She says I have a good vocabulary.

(FOR PART II CLICK HERE)

(FOR SLIDE SHOW CLICK HERE)

Volcanes del Corazón – Guatemala, November, 2023

It’s November and once again my wanderlust has lit its fire under me. 

I’m off to Guatemala. For no more of a reason than that I’ve heard it’s beautiful and I know several people who’ve been there—including one family member on whom the place has had a life-changing effect.

The focus of my trip is twofold: First, my daughter, Amanda, will be joining me for a week; second, I'm enrolled in Spanish school, continuing my dogged quest for fluency.

We're based in the beautiful former colonial capital, La Antigua Guatemala—or simply La Antigua—where, after my morning classes, we explore the town on foot. Then, during the weekend between my two weeks of school, we head for the drop-dead gorgeous Lake Atitlán.

I'll be posting a more detailed reflection of the experience, but for now here's the story in pictures—my ten-minute slideshow.

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 4

PART 4 OF 5 PARTS

FOOD AND DRINK

I must say I was expecting the food in Oaxaca, despite its exalted reputation, to be as unsurprising as I’ve found it in many parts of Mexico where people rave about the cuisine. It’s taken me a few years to figure out what the problem is: I simply don’t much care for tortillas. I know, sacrilege.

But a couple of factors make Oaxaca different. First, because it’s a fairly cosmopolitan place, there are chefs who experiment with fusions of tried-and-true Mexican staples like tacos, tamales and chilaquiles with more European styles and ingredients. Yes, the tortillas are still there, but these creations make me love them.

Another thing that helps is that Oaxaca is considered the mole capital of Mexico. Here, in the birthplace of this rich, complex sauce, there are no fewer than seven distinct types, each with its own characteristic color: rojo, coloradito, amarillo, verde, negro, chichilo, and manchamantel.

A mole is a blend of chiles, nuts, seeds, spices and, depending on the type, might include chocolate, plantains or tomatoes. (I know making it is labor-intensive because I’ve helped do it in a Mexican home.)

So, given Oaxaca’s reputation, it shouldn’t be a surprise that even my three-star hotel restaurant’s mole—the negro—is among the best I’ve ever tasted. Then, a couple days later, I try a dish called enchiladas en tres moles at a different restaurant, and a new standard is set.

I’m usually pretty cautious about eating food from street vendors, especially when there are fresh, uncooked ingredients. But one offering I just couldn’t resist was a dish called molote.

Molote and taquito

Molotes are golden-brown, kind of turd-shaped bundles with potatoes and other delicious ingredients stuffed into a wrapper of corn dough and then deep fried. The lady puts one on my plate alongside a crispy taquito, then ladles some bean sauce over the top. Next, a mild, green chili sauce, some lettuce, and finally a generous scattering of queso fresco, that ubiquitous crumbly white cheese that adorns so many Mexican dishes.

      The grasshoppers are...whole
      and entirely recognizable for
      what they are.

Another dish stands out—as much for the shock factor as its culinary appeal. One evening I try a chicken breast stuffed with chapulines, roasted grass- hoppers. And, no, the grasshoppers are not ground up into some innocuous powder; they’re whole and entirely recognizable for what they are. Nonetheless, as long as I avoid looking at it, the meal is superb.

Also on my list of must-tastes is the tlayuda, sometimes unjustly referred to as Mexican pizza. It’s a dinner-plate-sized crispy corn tortilla smeared with bean paste and asiento (unrefined pork lard), and topped with cheese, salad veggies and some kind of meat. It’s lovely, but I wish I had a fridge in my hotel room, as it’s a lot of food for a shrinking old man whose appetite’s further stunted by the sudden change to a warm climate.

One of the meat options for your tlayuda is tasajo, described as a thin slab of salt-cured beef, resembling jerky. But it’s nothing like jerky, not nearly as dense, chewy or intense. In fact, I find it very hard to distinguish the one I'm served from another cut of beef I like, a flank steak called arrachera. Thanks to the curing process, both are usually fairly tender, but quite salty.

       I find that hot chocolate is on
       just about every restaurant’s and
       coffee shop’s menu.

Oaxaca’s also famous for its cheese. The most common one, known as quesillo, is a white, semihard cheese, similar to un-aged Monterey Jack, but with a texture similar to string cheese. (We even buy it fresh when we’re in Zihuatanejo, one state to the north, from a guy who dispenses it from a big plastic bucket along the main beaches.)

Yet another food—if you can call it that—that distinguishes Oaxaca from the rest of Mexico is its chocolate. I’ve tasted it in many forms, but the way I most enjoy it is either in the raw, chunky form used for cooking, or in liquid form, as hot chocolate.

In Oaxaca, I find that hot chocolate is on just about every restaurant’s and coffee shop’s menu. You order it made with either water or milk. And it’s absolutely to die for.

Another typical drink—fascinating, but one for which I would not die—is  tejate, a traditional beverage sold by street vendors which dates from pre-hispanic times. It’s a thin, milky brew of pulverized corn, seeds of the mamey fruit, cocoa flower and honey—served cold. Unappetizing globs of the corn solids float on top. But it has an interesting, mildly sweet, refreshing flavor. Let’s call it an acquired taste.

And, as long as we’re including drinks, I mustn’t forget mezcal. Oaxaca is said to be the birthplace of the spirit, made from juices of the agave plant—just not the blue Weber agave that defines genuine tequila. In fact, over 90 percent of Mexico’s production occurs in Oaxaca. I’m no expert on either libation, but it appears mezcal has even more varieties than tequila’s blanco, reposado and añejo.

It falls first into three broad categories: mezcal, mezcal artesanal, and mezcal ancestral. Within those genres there are about half a dozen classes, the most common of which parallel those of tequila. There are also a few variations involving extra distillation, aging vessels of different materials, and infusions of other flavors.

In 1994, mezcal obtained its Appellation of Origin, certifying its provenance from Oaxaca or one of several surrounding states. Once considered a cheap high, infamous for its burn—and the real worm pickled in each bottle—many mezcals now take themselves quite seriously, some occupying higher shelves than tequilas in liquor stores.

As foo-foo as the stuff has become, I still find the mezcal sold by a guy on the street corner in Zihuatanejo in repurposed plastic soda bottles to be the best I've tasted.

In two weeks of not-very-aggressive exploration, I know I've barely scratched the surface of Oaxaca's wellspring of dining and drinking delights. Still unchecked on my list: memelas, enmoladas, caldo de piedra, just to name a few. Just that many more reasons to come back!

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

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.