Originally, I had created a slide show and DVD of our trip to Morelia, Patzcuaro and Cuernavaca in November 2007. Recently I discovered that after posting a very condensed version of these musical slideshows to YouTube, a simple link would allow me to display them on my blog.
I've started with Patzcuaro and Morelia. Don't expect perfection quite yet...I still haven't figured out how to get the music to sync perfectly with the images using Apple's iPhoto application. Stranger still, the video and music are even more out of sync after copying the .mov files over to YouTube. Not sure why this is, but am investigating. Be patient with the videos below. They're still in an embryonic phase.
Patzcuaro
Dia de los Muertos in Patazcuaro
Morelia
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Mexico 2006:Dia de los Muertos & The Heartland
By: W. Scott Koenig
November 15, 2006
Although our plans were originally to visit Oaxaca for Mexico's Dia de los Muertos observance, political unrest there (and a State Department warning) made us change our destination at the last minute. The change was more than fortunate. We enjoyed the week-long celebration in Morelia and Patzcuaro Michoacan with a second week bussing to Cuernavaca and Taxco in the states of Morelos and Guerrera, respectively.
Please enjoy our travel photos and brief descriptions posted by destination, below or clicking on the links at the top of each page. We fell in love with Michoacan (Patzcuaro in particular) and I highly recommend travel to this historic region of Mexico to anyone wanting to broaden their knowledge of the country beyond Tijuana and the border cities. For more information on Michoacan, we found www.michoacan-travel.com to be a very helpful web site in booking our trip.
GO TO MEXICO 2006 HOMEPAGE...
November 15, 2006
Although our plans were originally to visit Oaxaca for Mexico's Dia de los Muertos observance, political unrest there (and a State Department warning) made us change our destination at the last minute. The change was more than fortunate. We enjoyed the week-long celebration in Morelia and Patzcuaro Michoacan with a second week bussing to Cuernavaca and Taxco in the states of Morelos and Guerrera, respectively.
Please enjoy our travel photos and brief descriptions posted by destination, below or clicking on the links at the top of each page. We fell in love with Michoacan (Patzcuaro in particular) and I highly recommend travel to this historic region of Mexico to anyone wanting to broaden their knowledge of the country beyond Tijuana and the border cities. For more information on Michoacan, we found www.michoacan-travel.com to be a very helpful web site in booking our trip.
GO TO MEXICO 2006 HOMEPAGE...
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Loreto 2006: Adventures in “Dude Town”
By: W. Scott Koenig
February 28, 2006
Destination “Dude Town”
When my buddy Steve from Washington DC called last year to discuss a possible trip to visit Ursula and I, we discussed planning a much-needed vacation together (outside of San Diego) that would provide a break from the daily stress of our routines. After some deliberation, consideration and web surfing, we arrived at Loreto in Baja California Sur as our desired destination.
Loreto lies on the Sea of Cortez side of Baja, approximately 750 miles south of the border in San Ysidro. One of the Mexican State Tourism Departments’ five designated historical cities, Loreto was the original capital of Baja California and boasts an historic center with a 17th century mission…the first constructed on the peninsula. We had heard that Loreto is today what Cabo San Lucas was 20 years ago…before the spoils of development paved the shores with resorts, commerce and mass tourism.
We initially found and contacted Pam Bolles at Baja Big Fish (www.bajabigfish.com) in Loreto to help us put together some yellowtail fishing in the Sea of Cortez and set us up at the Hotel La Pinta (www.lapintahotels.com) at the north end of Loreto’s beach.
Originally from Connecticut (where her love of fishing was borne), Pam relocated to Southern California in the 90’s and then to Loreto seven years ago to found Baja Big Fish. We found out later in the week that Pam arrived as young, single Norte Americano in Mexico, which made her first two years as a Loreto-based entrepreneur very difficult. Typically, men in Latin America do not take a lady business owner seriously and help starting her new business was scarce. Once the locals saw her determination, however, she got all the help she needed, her business grew and she met her husband — ace fisherman and Baja Big Fish panga captain, Francisco (not a Loreto native, Francisco sends his fishing tip money to his 100-year-old mother outside of Acapulco, where she otherwise makes a living grinding corn for tortillas in small village without electricity or running water).
Pam was extremely helpful and let us know up front that February is NOT the best time of the year in the region for fishing. The winds blow harder than any other time of year causing the sea to be too choppy for the marina’s small pangas to navigate. We agreed to see how the weather would be upon our arrival before booking our day or two of fishing.
Ursula noticed all the fishermen and surfers on our flight heading south with us. She immediately dubbed Loreto as “Dude Town,” where a man can be a man and fish is always for dinner. As our plane descended, we were skeptical that the small town below was our destination. The scant city blocks were remotely tucked between the Sea of Cortez to the east and the rugged Sierra de la Gigante mountain range to the west. As we turned around and headed toward the airstrip below, however, we knew that we were indeed arriving into Loreto…destination “Dude Town.”
From the airport, we were shuttled to the Hotel La Pinta, our first hotel through Thursday. We’ve left the last part of the week open to experience a new property or possibly take a bus trip to La Paz for their Carnival (which we don’t do…but more on that later). The best thing about Hotel La Pinta is the location. The hotel is right on the beach and all rooms boast an awesome view of the Sea of Cortez. We were greeted every morning with postcard-perfect sunrises. Our triple deluxe room featured a nice fireplace, which the hotel’s staff stocked with fragrant pinion and happily lit for us. With the exception of Steve’s snoring, we really enjoyed the room as well as the hotel’s restaurant and bar. And, although at the far north end of town, the property is within reasonable walking distance to the town’s Centro Historico, about 10 minutes each way.
Isla Coronado, Fish Tacos and a Sordid Encounter with Jack Kerouac
Day one, we woke up too late to get our fish freak on though the winds were relatively calm. Pam arranged instead to have Francisco pick us up at the marina for a charter out to Coronado Island for exploration and snorkeling. The twenty-minute ride on Francisco’s panga was choppy and had Ursula screaming with a mixture of glee and sheer terror (later, as we rubbed our sore derrières, we referred to this phenomena as having received a “Panga Spanking.”). We circled the island, checking out a sea lion habitat and digging the rock formation of its high cliffs.
We hit the shore in a clear turquoise bay. Ursula grabbed her snorkeling gear and jumped in while Steve and I took a climb up an unsteady succession of steep, loose volcanic rocks through briar bushes and Saguaro cacti. We had an excellent view of the entire island and Loreto’s shore from the top while Ursula swam with the fish that would later (hopefully) become our dinner. From a mile away, we could hear Ursula exuberantly yelling “THIS IS GREAT…YOU GUYS HAVE GOTTA COME IN!”, thinking that a couple of dudes from Düsseldorf are me and Steve. From the beach, Francisco waved frantically and yelled to Ursula, “IT’S NOT THEM! IT’S NOT THEM!”
That evening, we walk to town to hang out at “McCaw’s”, which we’re told by Roger (an American from Riverside, CA down fishing for a week or two) is the place where the locals go to tell their fish tales. McCaw’s happy hour is from 4-7 and most good Mexican beers are only a buck. Their fish and shrimp tacos are EXCELLENT, reasonably priced and highly recommended.
Sure enough, Roger is there with his fishing buddy (who looks vaguely like Howard Dean), keeping court at the end of the bar. We were promptly introduced to a number of other middle-aged gentlemen. Among these fascinating characters are dropout ex-scientists, gold prospectors, businessmen, a former General Instruments engineer who had “wired” Loreto to the Internet just a few years back, and Danielle LeCour, who we jokingly compared to “The Dude” from “The Big Lebowski.” At first, I was impressed that he claimed to have hung with the Beats in North Beach, San Francisco in the fifties and sixties, no matter how sordid the circumstances (“Jack Kerouac tried to suck my D**K!” he screamed across the bar). I asked Danielle if he ever met Ken Kesey, to which he replied, “Kesey was an A--HOLE. He always had to be in control of everything.”
Danielle immediately took a liking to Ursula (bummed when he found out she was married) as well as Steve and I, and we were invited back to his trailer where he broke out his best bottle of Tequila (Internacional, a very good and dangerous brand!). Danielle’s “unique” blend of psychedelic storytelling, poetry and XM Radio kept us entertained for hours. Upon comparing him to Brian Wilson, he proceeded to recite the entire “I’M FAMOUS” monologue from the Beach Boys made-for-TV movie word for word and with serious dramatic aplomb.
“I WISH I KNEW HOW TO FISH YOU!”
Day two, we DO get our fish freak on. After a wake-up call from Pam, Francisco picks us up at the beach in front of our hotel promptly at 5:30AM (ouch!). The ride north in the panga was overcast, chilly and bumpy, but in a Hemingway-esque way, I was enjoying the hell out of myself. From the panga, we were treated to an AMAZING sunrise over Coronado Island as we made our way north up the coast to the area where a school of yellowtail had recently been discovered. The rocky coast was amazingly complex and colorful from the Sea of Cortez.
After several hours, I managed one aborted bite (my line tangled in my reel) and one brief fight for about five minutes until the big one “got away” (we deduced that it may have been a shark by the way the line was snapped – and a big one by the way it fought). Poor Steve didn’t get a single nibble, pleading to the sea in his best Brokeback Mountain accent, “I WISH I KNEW HOW TO FISH YOU!” Our bad luck was no fault of Captain Francisco’s, however. Whenever he spotted a flock of gulls, he immediately turned and excitedly gunned the boat in that direction, the assumption being that larger fish had caused smaller fish to surface causing the gulls to go into feeding frenzy mode. Francisco went out of his way to put us where the fish were.
At the end of the day, Francisco caught a 20-inch yellowtail and a nice, fat 18-inch red snapper off the coast of Isla Carmen. Upon our departure from the panga, he let us know that they could put the fish on ice for us and then deliver it to whatever restaurant we wanted later on. We asked to have it delivered to “La Palapa,” our new favorite restaurant in town where we had watched the Olympics and enjoyed excellent appetizers and fresh seafood the night before. After another day of panga spanking, Steve was snoring away at dinnertime so Ursula and I walked to La Palapa and enjoyed Francisco’s freshly-caught fish served “Vera Cruz” style, grilled then sautéed with salsa, onions and black olives. Mmmmmmmm.
The Mountains, The Mission and Tolerance of the American Tourist
After several days absorbing Loreto, we became attuned to its slower place, its casual atmosphere and especially its friendly people. Everyone on the street said hola and buenas dias. Truckloads of teenagers greeted us as they drove by with a hearty “HEY MUCHACHOS!” We began to develop the habit of saying hello right back to our smiling hosts. There’s something to be said for this attitude and it represents a big difference in the ways that we as North Americans (and especially Southern Californians) and Mexicans interact with each other. We tend to be more guarded, isolated and somewhat skeptical of each other. The Mexican people seem more open, warm and concerned for each other as well as its visitors.
For days three and four, we’ve rented a four-wheel drive Jeep Wrangler for a trip up into the Sierra Gigantes to visit the village of San Javier and its old mission and then a trip across the peninsula to Bahia Magdelina for whale watching the next day.
The trip to San Javier is rugged and beautiful. The unpaved dirt road winds for about 18 miles up into the mountains. The tight turns, big ruts and sometimes eroded road edges dropping down hundreds of feet made for an exciting and fun drive. We stopped about halfway up to check out the cave paintings on the rocks by an oasis. No one is sure when the paintings were made, or by what tribe. They are predominantly natural and geometric forms, hallucinations perhaps brought on by the smoking of tobacco, the site signage indicates. Must have been some strong stuff!
Several more miles and past at least a half dozen wild burro sitings later, we arrive in the village of San Javier. We dug the dusty streets, small houses, and assortment of farm animals strewn throughout the village. The stone mission here was built in 1799 and is the oldest in Baja. I ventured inside and sat down behind a group of middle age and senior Americans on a guided tour. The tour leader, along with the mission’s caretaker, was giving a history of the artwork found within the mission, much of it brought over from Spain.
A 50-something woman with the American flag shirt, sun visor and fanny pack in front of me whispered the names of the saints depicted on the altar’s centerpiece to her husband. “Hm. Saint Michael. Saint George. Saint Sebastian. Hm.” Her hand shot up in the air, “Excuse me! Excuse me! But where is Saint Peter?” The elderly caretaker in his best English politely replied, “Oh, there is not Saint Peter een these meesion miss.” The woman shot up in her seat and replied to her husband, “Oh! No Saint Peter!? Why I just can’t believe that!” She was really upset!
The area around the mission was overgrown and naturally beautiful. Built along a river, a one-foot wide aqueduct flows through the mission’s grounds providing irrigation for it’s olive groves and gardens. I was still bordering the tour group and listening in on the guide’s rundown of the grounds and how the monks once lived here. Another woman turned to me and nervously sputtered, “Well, aren’t you glad you’re just tagging along here for free!” Please see my statement at the end of the first paragraph in this section.
We enjoyed tasty tacos and Pacificos at the only restaurant in town, also munching on fresh peas straight from the pod grown by a local farmer. After a bit of hiking around, I relinquished the keys so Steve could enjoy the jeep and dirt road coming down the mountain. There were surveyors on the road taking measurements. We stopped and asked what the project was going to be and discovered that they are planning to pave the road to encourage more tourism to San Javier. We were glad to have visited before “progress” creeps in and homogenizes the experience.
Whale Watching in Bahia Magdelena
After a quick breakfast in our hotel, we headed out again in the Jeep to cross the peninsula to the Pacific. The grey whales migrate from Alaska in the Winter time, come down along the California coast and end up in several bays in Baja to spawn. We’ve always wanted to see this up close and this trip was our golden opportunity. February is a busy month for sweet whale lovemaking!
After about a three-hour drive through mountains and desert, we made the docks of Magdelina Bay, the spot for whale watching. We immediately made friends with Sonia and Pilar, both from Mexico City and looking for someone with whom to share the price of a panga ride. The panga took us out into the bay. Spotting whales is not difficult. Throughout the two-hour ride, we spotted dozens of them, often mothers and their calves swimming together.
Environmental regulations in Mexico are more relaxed than in the states. When we’d gone whale watching off the coast of San Diego, the charter boat had to stay 200 yards from the migrating whales. In Magdelena Bay, the pangas would swarm around the whales and often the whales reciprocate by coming up to the side of the boat and allowing humans to touch them. We were treated to this phenomenon on several occasions. Ursula touched a whale while I stayed back in the boat taking pictures. The panaga captain motioned me toward the whales with “Eet’s allright, you can touch.” I passed, preferring to get some shots.
We enjoyed a lobster and seafood lunch with our new friends from Mexico City. We found out that they both worked for the Mexico Office of Tourism and had been to every state in Mexico…with Baja Sur being their final state left to visit. We toasted them with Pacificos and exchanged business cards and travel stories. More great Mexican people.
Hotel Romantico and the “Dude Pod”
It’s Friday and the previous evening we parted ways with Steve, his snoring and the Hotel La Pinta. Ursula and I checked into Hotel Oasis (www.hoteloasis.com), on the exact opposite end of the beach as La Pinta. Steve dubbed our new digs “Hotel Romantico.” The Oasis has a very nice courtyard, restaurant with patio and palapa bar. The rooms are clean but sparsely appointed. The overall atmosphere is very early 1960’s, which is when the hotel was established. Overall, we were very pleased with the hotel, with the exception of the construction happening in the room above us at 6AM on our last morning – a Sunday (with us muy carruda!).
Steve checked into the Hotel Palmas Altas on the edge of town, not far from the Oasis. His accommodations were a bit more rustic than ours, but at a price of only $22/night for a single, he couldn’t pass it up. Built out of corrugated tin trailers, the rooms are spartan, the wallpaper yellowed and the area just large enough to fit a bed and nightstand. Ursula appropriately dubbed his room “The Dude Pod.”
This was our day off. We hung out in town, visited artisan shops and galleries, picked up some nice silver bracelets made in Taxco, hung around the beach and pool, drank Pacificos and generally did nada. For dinner, we walked to the western edge of town in search of Sonoran beef. Our destination, El Nido Restaurant (www.loreto.com/elnido). El Nido’s serves up huge slabs of grade A Sonoran beef, slow-grilled over a mesquite fire in a stone fire pit. Steve and I ordered the 20-ounce porterhouse with lobster and Ursula had the filet mignon wrapped in bacon, also with lobster. The food, service and price were all exceptional. We’ve since made plans to visit El Nido’s in nearby Rosarito based on the great time we had there in Loreto.
What the Gallos do in Life is echoed in Eternity…
We had been looking forward all week to our last night (Saturday) in Loreto. In the afternoon, the town would come together to celebrate Carnival to kick off the Lenten season. Although we had heard about a larger party taking place in La Paz, we decided to hang in Loreto to get a taste of how our newly-adopted local friends would celebrate.
The celebration took place on several fronts: the Children’s Parade on the main drag by the beach kicked off the celebration in the afternoon. In the evening and into the night a festival with rides, activities and concessions took place at the northern end of the beach. We had our sights set on the edge of town, however, where a very different type of “celebration” was to occur. The “Gran Pelea de Gallos”…the Cock Fights.
We had heard of the Cock Fights all week. It lingered in the air, part rumor and part myth, no one was able to tell us exactly what time…or even day…they were to occur. We had narrowed it down to SOMETIME on Saturday, “Maybe 2, maybe 3 this afternoon,” according to the bartender at our hotel the night before.
Earlier in the week, we had shared homemade Mescal and made friends with a couple of very cool characters from Humboldt County in Northern California — John and Darby. John was a handyman and trucker as well as an old Baja pro. Darby was a full-blooded Mono Indian, part of the last of the tribe from around Mono Lake in Northern California. Although their plan was to originally spend two weeks, they had been traveling together for about a month and a half now, driving in John’s truck all around the Baja peninsula.
While Ursula and Darby lounged by the hotel pool with cold Tecates, Steve, John and I took off to go see what the story was with the Gallos. Sure enough, we were very early. Not a soul in sight and all the chairs still stacked around the cock-fighting ring. We hung for an hour and enjoyed the warm afternoon sun, eventually heading back to the hotel to round up the girls.
After dinner with Jon and Darby at El Nido’s, we headed up the street where now the cockfights were about to begin. The ring was well lit and full of predominantly male Mexican ranchers. The beautiful and colorful fighting Gallos lined the inside of the perimeter fence feeling cagey in their cages. We waited, impatient with bloodlust for the first match to begin. Naturally, as soon as it did, the girls cruised.
Each rancher brought his gallo into the center, dirt-covered ring. There, they proceeded to tie a sharp, hook like claw to one of their rooster’s legs — using red and blue string to designate the animals and make it easier for bettors. The ranchers then used a “sparring” cock to rile their contenders and make them thirsty for blood. Once appropriately riled, the ranchers would hold their roosters up to each other several times and then set them loose on the ground.
At first, the gallos would leap at each other, tearing with their tied on deadly claw. After a few passes, the blood began to flow and the roosters tired. The ranchers would then pick them up and blow into their faces…apparently to revive them like some twisted farmyard CPR. The roosters then made a few more half-hearted lunges at each other until one finally fell and would not get back up — either dead or otherwise expired (we joked that the losers would be tomorrow’s lunch). It was hard to discern if their was any type of organized betting happening, so we bet 200 pesos on each fight with each other. The night was bloody, but very interesting indeed from a cultural standpoint.
Hasta Luego, Loreto
And so we left Loreto, promising to come back as soon as possible. What had we learned? More about Mexico and it’s people. A reiteration of what the Mexican Minute is really all about. To go easy on the homemade Mescal. That the best seafood is served in a town that makes its living fishing. That we were fortunate to have visited a somewhat rustic and unspoiled town that, like the rest of Baja, was constantly under the threat of Cabo-esque development at any time. I think our cab driver to the airport exemplified the Loreto spirit best:
“I’ve lived in Loreto all my life. I have two cabs, a nice boat, a decent place to live, nice weather, my family here. I have friends who go over to the other side (to the US). Why? I have everything I need here? I’m not rich, but I’m happy.”
February 28, 2006
Destination “Dude Town”
When my buddy Steve from Washington DC called last year to discuss a possible trip to visit Ursula and I, we discussed planning a much-needed vacation together (outside of San Diego) that would provide a break from the daily stress of our routines. After some deliberation, consideration and web surfing, we arrived at Loreto in Baja California Sur as our desired destination.
Loreto lies on the Sea of Cortez side of Baja, approximately 750 miles south of the border in San Ysidro. One of the Mexican State Tourism Departments’ five designated historical cities, Loreto was the original capital of Baja California and boasts an historic center with a 17th century mission…the first constructed on the peninsula. We had heard that Loreto is today what Cabo San Lucas was 20 years ago…before the spoils of development paved the shores with resorts, commerce and mass tourism.
We initially found and contacted Pam Bolles at Baja Big Fish (www.bajabigfish.com) in Loreto to help us put together some yellowtail fishing in the Sea of Cortez and set us up at the Hotel La Pinta (www.lapintahotels.com) at the north end of Loreto’s beach.
Originally from Connecticut (where her love of fishing was borne), Pam relocated to Southern California in the 90’s and then to Loreto seven years ago to found Baja Big Fish. We found out later in the week that Pam arrived as young, single Norte Americano in Mexico, which made her first two years as a Loreto-based entrepreneur very difficult. Typically, men in Latin America do not take a lady business owner seriously and help starting her new business was scarce. Once the locals saw her determination, however, she got all the help she needed, her business grew and she met her husband — ace fisherman and Baja Big Fish panga captain, Francisco (not a Loreto native, Francisco sends his fishing tip money to his 100-year-old mother outside of Acapulco, where she otherwise makes a living grinding corn for tortillas in small village without electricity or running water).
Pam was extremely helpful and let us know up front that February is NOT the best time of the year in the region for fishing. The winds blow harder than any other time of year causing the sea to be too choppy for the marina’s small pangas to navigate. We agreed to see how the weather would be upon our arrival before booking our day or two of fishing.
Ursula noticed all the fishermen and surfers on our flight heading south with us. She immediately dubbed Loreto as “Dude Town,” where a man can be a man and fish is always for dinner. As our plane descended, we were skeptical that the small town below was our destination. The scant city blocks were remotely tucked between the Sea of Cortez to the east and the rugged Sierra de la Gigante mountain range to the west. As we turned around and headed toward the airstrip below, however, we knew that we were indeed arriving into Loreto…destination “Dude Town.”
From the airport, we were shuttled to the Hotel La Pinta, our first hotel through Thursday. We’ve left the last part of the week open to experience a new property or possibly take a bus trip to La Paz for their Carnival (which we don’t do…but more on that later). The best thing about Hotel La Pinta is the location. The hotel is right on the beach and all rooms boast an awesome view of the Sea of Cortez. We were greeted every morning with postcard-perfect sunrises. Our triple deluxe room featured a nice fireplace, which the hotel’s staff stocked with fragrant pinion and happily lit for us. With the exception of Steve’s snoring, we really enjoyed the room as well as the hotel’s restaurant and bar. And, although at the far north end of town, the property is within reasonable walking distance to the town’s Centro Historico, about 10 minutes each way.
Isla Coronado, Fish Tacos and a Sordid Encounter with Jack Kerouac
Day one, we woke up too late to get our fish freak on though the winds were relatively calm. Pam arranged instead to have Francisco pick us up at the marina for a charter out to Coronado Island for exploration and snorkeling. The twenty-minute ride on Francisco’s panga was choppy and had Ursula screaming with a mixture of glee and sheer terror (later, as we rubbed our sore derrières, we referred to this phenomena as having received a “Panga Spanking.”). We circled the island, checking out a sea lion habitat and digging the rock formation of its high cliffs.
We hit the shore in a clear turquoise bay. Ursula grabbed her snorkeling gear and jumped in while Steve and I took a climb up an unsteady succession of steep, loose volcanic rocks through briar bushes and Saguaro cacti. We had an excellent view of the entire island and Loreto’s shore from the top while Ursula swam with the fish that would later (hopefully) become our dinner. From a mile away, we could hear Ursula exuberantly yelling “THIS IS GREAT…YOU GUYS HAVE GOTTA COME IN!”, thinking that a couple of dudes from Düsseldorf are me and Steve. From the beach, Francisco waved frantically and yelled to Ursula, “IT’S NOT THEM! IT’S NOT THEM!”
That evening, we walk to town to hang out at “McCaw’s”, which we’re told by Roger (an American from Riverside, CA down fishing for a week or two) is the place where the locals go to tell their fish tales. McCaw’s happy hour is from 4-7 and most good Mexican beers are only a buck. Their fish and shrimp tacos are EXCELLENT, reasonably priced and highly recommended.
Sure enough, Roger is there with his fishing buddy (who looks vaguely like Howard Dean), keeping court at the end of the bar. We were promptly introduced to a number of other middle-aged gentlemen. Among these fascinating characters are dropout ex-scientists, gold prospectors, businessmen, a former General Instruments engineer who had “wired” Loreto to the Internet just a few years back, and Danielle LeCour, who we jokingly compared to “The Dude” from “The Big Lebowski.” At first, I was impressed that he claimed to have hung with the Beats in North Beach, San Francisco in the fifties and sixties, no matter how sordid the circumstances (“Jack Kerouac tried to suck my D**K!” he screamed across the bar). I asked Danielle if he ever met Ken Kesey, to which he replied, “Kesey was an A--HOLE. He always had to be in control of everything.”
Danielle immediately took a liking to Ursula (bummed when he found out she was married) as well as Steve and I, and we were invited back to his trailer where he broke out his best bottle of Tequila (Internacional, a very good and dangerous brand!). Danielle’s “unique” blend of psychedelic storytelling, poetry and XM Radio kept us entertained for hours. Upon comparing him to Brian Wilson, he proceeded to recite the entire “I’M FAMOUS” monologue from the Beach Boys made-for-TV movie word for word and with serious dramatic aplomb.
“I WISH I KNEW HOW TO FISH YOU!”
Day two, we DO get our fish freak on. After a wake-up call from Pam, Francisco picks us up at the beach in front of our hotel promptly at 5:30AM (ouch!). The ride north in the panga was overcast, chilly and bumpy, but in a Hemingway-esque way, I was enjoying the hell out of myself. From the panga, we were treated to an AMAZING sunrise over Coronado Island as we made our way north up the coast to the area where a school of yellowtail had recently been discovered. The rocky coast was amazingly complex and colorful from the Sea of Cortez.
After several hours, I managed one aborted bite (my line tangled in my reel) and one brief fight for about five minutes until the big one “got away” (we deduced that it may have been a shark by the way the line was snapped – and a big one by the way it fought). Poor Steve didn’t get a single nibble, pleading to the sea in his best Brokeback Mountain accent, “I WISH I KNEW HOW TO FISH YOU!” Our bad luck was no fault of Captain Francisco’s, however. Whenever he spotted a flock of gulls, he immediately turned and excitedly gunned the boat in that direction, the assumption being that larger fish had caused smaller fish to surface causing the gulls to go into feeding frenzy mode. Francisco went out of his way to put us where the fish were.
At the end of the day, Francisco caught a 20-inch yellowtail and a nice, fat 18-inch red snapper off the coast of Isla Carmen. Upon our departure from the panga, he let us know that they could put the fish on ice for us and then deliver it to whatever restaurant we wanted later on. We asked to have it delivered to “La Palapa,” our new favorite restaurant in town where we had watched the Olympics and enjoyed excellent appetizers and fresh seafood the night before. After another day of panga spanking, Steve was snoring away at dinnertime so Ursula and I walked to La Palapa and enjoyed Francisco’s freshly-caught fish served “Vera Cruz” style, grilled then sautéed with salsa, onions and black olives. Mmmmmmmm.
The Mountains, The Mission and Tolerance of the American Tourist
After several days absorbing Loreto, we became attuned to its slower place, its casual atmosphere and especially its friendly people. Everyone on the street said hola and buenas dias. Truckloads of teenagers greeted us as they drove by with a hearty “HEY MUCHACHOS!” We began to develop the habit of saying hello right back to our smiling hosts. There’s something to be said for this attitude and it represents a big difference in the ways that we as North Americans (and especially Southern Californians) and Mexicans interact with each other. We tend to be more guarded, isolated and somewhat skeptical of each other. The Mexican people seem more open, warm and concerned for each other as well as its visitors.
For days three and four, we’ve rented a four-wheel drive Jeep Wrangler for a trip up into the Sierra Gigantes to visit the village of San Javier and its old mission and then a trip across the peninsula to Bahia Magdelina for whale watching the next day.
The trip to San Javier is rugged and beautiful. The unpaved dirt road winds for about 18 miles up into the mountains. The tight turns, big ruts and sometimes eroded road edges dropping down hundreds of feet made for an exciting and fun drive. We stopped about halfway up to check out the cave paintings on the rocks by an oasis. No one is sure when the paintings were made, or by what tribe. They are predominantly natural and geometric forms, hallucinations perhaps brought on by the smoking of tobacco, the site signage indicates. Must have been some strong stuff!
Several more miles and past at least a half dozen wild burro sitings later, we arrive in the village of San Javier. We dug the dusty streets, small houses, and assortment of farm animals strewn throughout the village. The stone mission here was built in 1799 and is the oldest in Baja. I ventured inside and sat down behind a group of middle age and senior Americans on a guided tour. The tour leader, along with the mission’s caretaker, was giving a history of the artwork found within the mission, much of it brought over from Spain.
A 50-something woman with the American flag shirt, sun visor and fanny pack in front of me whispered the names of the saints depicted on the altar’s centerpiece to her husband. “Hm. Saint Michael. Saint George. Saint Sebastian. Hm.” Her hand shot up in the air, “Excuse me! Excuse me! But where is Saint Peter?” The elderly caretaker in his best English politely replied, “Oh, there is not Saint Peter een these meesion miss.” The woman shot up in her seat and replied to her husband, “Oh! No Saint Peter!? Why I just can’t believe that!” She was really upset!
The area around the mission was overgrown and naturally beautiful. Built along a river, a one-foot wide aqueduct flows through the mission’s grounds providing irrigation for it’s olive groves and gardens. I was still bordering the tour group and listening in on the guide’s rundown of the grounds and how the monks once lived here. Another woman turned to me and nervously sputtered, “Well, aren’t you glad you’re just tagging along here for free!” Please see my statement at the end of the first paragraph in this section.
We enjoyed tasty tacos and Pacificos at the only restaurant in town, also munching on fresh peas straight from the pod grown by a local farmer. After a bit of hiking around, I relinquished the keys so Steve could enjoy the jeep and dirt road coming down the mountain. There were surveyors on the road taking measurements. We stopped and asked what the project was going to be and discovered that they are planning to pave the road to encourage more tourism to San Javier. We were glad to have visited before “progress” creeps in and homogenizes the experience.
Whale Watching in Bahia Magdelena
After a quick breakfast in our hotel, we headed out again in the Jeep to cross the peninsula to the Pacific. The grey whales migrate from Alaska in the Winter time, come down along the California coast and end up in several bays in Baja to spawn. We’ve always wanted to see this up close and this trip was our golden opportunity. February is a busy month for sweet whale lovemaking!
After about a three-hour drive through mountains and desert, we made the docks of Magdelina Bay, the spot for whale watching. We immediately made friends with Sonia and Pilar, both from Mexico City and looking for someone with whom to share the price of a panga ride. The panga took us out into the bay. Spotting whales is not difficult. Throughout the two-hour ride, we spotted dozens of them, often mothers and their calves swimming together.
Environmental regulations in Mexico are more relaxed than in the states. When we’d gone whale watching off the coast of San Diego, the charter boat had to stay 200 yards from the migrating whales. In Magdelena Bay, the pangas would swarm around the whales and often the whales reciprocate by coming up to the side of the boat and allowing humans to touch them. We were treated to this phenomenon on several occasions. Ursula touched a whale while I stayed back in the boat taking pictures. The panaga captain motioned me toward the whales with “Eet’s allright, you can touch.” I passed, preferring to get some shots.
We enjoyed a lobster and seafood lunch with our new friends from Mexico City. We found out that they both worked for the Mexico Office of Tourism and had been to every state in Mexico…with Baja Sur being their final state left to visit. We toasted them with Pacificos and exchanged business cards and travel stories. More great Mexican people.
Hotel Romantico and the “Dude Pod”
It’s Friday and the previous evening we parted ways with Steve, his snoring and the Hotel La Pinta. Ursula and I checked into Hotel Oasis (www.hoteloasis.com), on the exact opposite end of the beach as La Pinta. Steve dubbed our new digs “Hotel Romantico.” The Oasis has a very nice courtyard, restaurant with patio and palapa bar. The rooms are clean but sparsely appointed. The overall atmosphere is very early 1960’s, which is when the hotel was established. Overall, we were very pleased with the hotel, with the exception of the construction happening in the room above us at 6AM on our last morning – a Sunday (with us muy carruda!).
Steve checked into the Hotel Palmas Altas on the edge of town, not far from the Oasis. His accommodations were a bit more rustic than ours, but at a price of only $22/night for a single, he couldn’t pass it up. Built out of corrugated tin trailers, the rooms are spartan, the wallpaper yellowed and the area just large enough to fit a bed and nightstand. Ursula appropriately dubbed his room “The Dude Pod.”
This was our day off. We hung out in town, visited artisan shops and galleries, picked up some nice silver bracelets made in Taxco, hung around the beach and pool, drank Pacificos and generally did nada. For dinner, we walked to the western edge of town in search of Sonoran beef. Our destination, El Nido Restaurant (www.loreto.com/elnido). El Nido’s serves up huge slabs of grade A Sonoran beef, slow-grilled over a mesquite fire in a stone fire pit. Steve and I ordered the 20-ounce porterhouse with lobster and Ursula had the filet mignon wrapped in bacon, also with lobster. The food, service and price were all exceptional. We’ve since made plans to visit El Nido’s in nearby Rosarito based on the great time we had there in Loreto.
What the Gallos do in Life is echoed in Eternity…
We had been looking forward all week to our last night (Saturday) in Loreto. In the afternoon, the town would come together to celebrate Carnival to kick off the Lenten season. Although we had heard about a larger party taking place in La Paz, we decided to hang in Loreto to get a taste of how our newly-adopted local friends would celebrate.
The celebration took place on several fronts: the Children’s Parade on the main drag by the beach kicked off the celebration in the afternoon. In the evening and into the night a festival with rides, activities and concessions took place at the northern end of the beach. We had our sights set on the edge of town, however, where a very different type of “celebration” was to occur. The “Gran Pelea de Gallos”…the Cock Fights.
We had heard of the Cock Fights all week. It lingered in the air, part rumor and part myth, no one was able to tell us exactly what time…or even day…they were to occur. We had narrowed it down to SOMETIME on Saturday, “Maybe 2, maybe 3 this afternoon,” according to the bartender at our hotel the night before.
Earlier in the week, we had shared homemade Mescal and made friends with a couple of very cool characters from Humboldt County in Northern California — John and Darby. John was a handyman and trucker as well as an old Baja pro. Darby was a full-blooded Mono Indian, part of the last of the tribe from around Mono Lake in Northern California. Although their plan was to originally spend two weeks, they had been traveling together for about a month and a half now, driving in John’s truck all around the Baja peninsula.
While Ursula and Darby lounged by the hotel pool with cold Tecates, Steve, John and I took off to go see what the story was with the Gallos. Sure enough, we were very early. Not a soul in sight and all the chairs still stacked around the cock-fighting ring. We hung for an hour and enjoyed the warm afternoon sun, eventually heading back to the hotel to round up the girls.
After dinner with Jon and Darby at El Nido’s, we headed up the street where now the cockfights were about to begin. The ring was well lit and full of predominantly male Mexican ranchers. The beautiful and colorful fighting Gallos lined the inside of the perimeter fence feeling cagey in their cages. We waited, impatient with bloodlust for the first match to begin. Naturally, as soon as it did, the girls cruised.
Each rancher brought his gallo into the center, dirt-covered ring. There, they proceeded to tie a sharp, hook like claw to one of their rooster’s legs — using red and blue string to designate the animals and make it easier for bettors. The ranchers then used a “sparring” cock to rile their contenders and make them thirsty for blood. Once appropriately riled, the ranchers would hold their roosters up to each other several times and then set them loose on the ground.
At first, the gallos would leap at each other, tearing with their tied on deadly claw. After a few passes, the blood began to flow and the roosters tired. The ranchers would then pick them up and blow into their faces…apparently to revive them like some twisted farmyard CPR. The roosters then made a few more half-hearted lunges at each other until one finally fell and would not get back up — either dead or otherwise expired (we joked that the losers would be tomorrow’s lunch). It was hard to discern if their was any type of organized betting happening, so we bet 200 pesos on each fight with each other. The night was bloody, but very interesting indeed from a cultural standpoint.
Hasta Luego, Loreto
And so we left Loreto, promising to come back as soon as possible. What had we learned? More about Mexico and it’s people. A reiteration of what the Mexican Minute is really all about. To go easy on the homemade Mescal. That the best seafood is served in a town that makes its living fishing. That we were fortunate to have visited a somewhat rustic and unspoiled town that, like the rest of Baja, was constantly under the threat of Cabo-esque development at any time. I think our cab driver to the airport exemplified the Loreto spirit best:
“I’ve lived in Loreto all my life. I have two cabs, a nice boat, a decent place to live, nice weather, my family here. I have friends who go over to the other side (to the US). Why? I have everything I need here? I’m not rich, but I’m happy.”
Monday, December 01, 2003
Mexico 2003: One Mexican Minute is Worth an Eternity
By: W. Scott Koenig
October/December 2003
The Plan
I never really had an interest in visiting the Mexican interior. Mexico City, especially, has always been last on my list of third-world metropoli to visit – right down there with Sao Paulo, Kingston and Calcutta. The stories of crime, corruption, abject poverty, suffocating smog and extreme overpopulation (between 22 and 26 million inhabitants depending on who you talk to) were enough to keep me from ever wanting to set foot in this megalopolis. And by default, since Mexico City is the major hub for visits to other parts of the country, I simply wrote them off my list as well…
Man, was that a mistake.
Earlier this year, good friends of ours announced that they were going to be married in Mexico City, where the majority of their families live. After some pleading and many safety assurances from my wife and the bride-and-groom-to-be, I acquiesced and agreed to an extended two-week trip to Mexico — starting in Mexico City for the wedding.
In a successful effort to appease my inner travel agent, my wife Ursula let me do most of the planning. All of our travel arrangements were made via the Web. We would spend the first weekend in the City for the wedding. Then, we (along with our friend Ericka, who was also attending the wedding) would take a car to San Miguel de Allende for a week where we would stay in a private residence. For the second week, Ericka was heading home and Ursula and I were bound for Zihuatanejo on the Pacific coast – where I had arranged to rent an “eco-tourist.” bamboo hut in the jungle only 200 steps away from a crocodile infested stream and the beach.
But our adventures (and misadventures) in Zihuatanejo are best left to another story. For the purpose of abbreviation and descriptive nuance, I will focus here on our trip to San Miguel de Allende, where I learned several valuable lessons:
1) The amount of Spanish I'm capable of speaking is in equal proportion to the amount of Don Julio and Sangrita I drink.
2) Never take two American women into a men's only cantina in San Miguel de Allende at two o'clock in the morning.
3) We move way too FAST here in the states. One Mexican minute is worth an eternity.
These truths will make themselves evident as this story unfolds.
On the Road to San Miguel
The morning after the wedding and reception (which was a total blast – more on that in another story too), we had arranged for a driver to pick us up in Mexico City and transport us to the doorstep of our San Miguel de Allende house rental. Ricardo arrived promptly at 10AM and we wobbled (slightly “la cruda” from all of the tequila we drank at the reception the night before) to his awaiting town car.
The drive to San Miguel de Allende from Mexico City was relatively short – about 3.5 hours, with nearly one of those hours fighting traffic in an effort to escape the city. After saying “adios” to the last of many billboards on the road from the city, the view opened up to rolling green hills and spectacular views of distant, jagged mountains. As this was Sunday, the typically working farm fields were empty — completely devoid of the burros and caballeros we would spot during the week. The countryside was beautiful and reminded us of California, the Midwest and Tuscany all rolled into a single eternal vista.
Occasionally, we would drive through a remote, half-decaying roadside “village”, which usually consisted of crumbling raw-brick structures occupying seemingly vacant dirt lots. Invariably, these decaying, Mexican “strip malls” contained several “taquerias” (taco stands), one small market, hand-painted Sol Cerveza signs, dusty children kicking around a “futbol,” women cooking something that smelled really good, men sitting and drinking beers and dozens of squawking chickens perched precariously by the roadside.
As I scanned the brown, leathery faces of the beat Indian men and women watching us drive through, I sensed that time was somewhat different to these people. It was their Catholic god’s day of rest…and theirs as well. In this idealistic setting in the middle of the green Mexican countryside, no one seemed to be in much of a hurry or have really anything to do.
We arrived in San Miguel de Allende on October 5 – the last day of the three-week Mexican Independence Day celebration known as the “Festa de San Miguel.” As we entered the hillside town through steep, narrow, cobble stoned streets, the celebration was evident. Distant drums sounded from the center of town. Hundreds of people were winding through the alley-like streets on high, thin sidewalks. Small boys were dressed in little caballero (cowboy) costumes, complete with hats and play pistolas. The girls wore colorful traditional Mexican dance dresses. Men were dressed as Satan and other demonic costumes. After all, St. John prophesizes in the Book of Revelations that it will be “San Miguel” the Archangel who is to fight against the dragon, or Satan, at the end of days – the apocalypse.
Expats vs. the Mexican Minute
We stopped and parked on one of these bustling streets in front of our rental house, Casa Shelly. Here, we met our rental agent, Annie. Annie and her husband had just retired from Southern California to San Miguel five months ago, buying a house here, which they were currently renovating. Their main reason for moving, she says, is so that they can enjoy a slower pace, as time is definitely different here.
Annie is the first of many on our trip to tell us about the infamous “Mexican Minute.” According to Annie, a Mexican Minute may indeed be a minute, but could also be an hour…or even a day. As she talks, her sighs and the occasional eye-rolls make it obvious that time here is actually frustrating her more than it is releasing her. The lack of schedule and dependability here is tolerated however, Annie tells us, because a new Costco has just been built on the edge of town, specifically to cater to Annie, her husband and the 5 – 10,000 other ex-pats who now call San Miguel “home.”
Calling San Miguel “home,” however, takes money. There are no mortgages for Americans, Canadians or Europeans who choose to retire here. Real estate transactions are “cash-only” and a good home near the center of town currently runs anywhere from $250,000 - $450,000. During our stay, we saw plenty of older, wealthy ex-pats dressed in Sedona-style sarongs and the stylings of the cultural elite, attempting to look bohemian in expensive fitted clothing. Picture Kerouac with pressed pleats in his khakis and a $50 Perry Ellis tee.
We had arranged to rent Casa Shelly for the week over the Internet through San Miguel House Rentals (www.san-miguel-house-rentals.com). We had gotten a great deal, at only $650 for a week in this 3-story, 2-bedroom house, complete with a living room patio and roof deck. Casa Shelly was amazing! The American that bought the house had it entirely renovated and then decorated in the Moroccan style. The structure was built entirely of molded concrete, which provided cool respite during the warm days. The walls were painted coral, green and a myriad of other bright colors. The house was strewn with artwork; antique knick-knacks, art books, CDs and a note from Suzy Shelly, the house’s owner, instructing us to help ourselves to all of it!
Casa Shelly also comes with a maid, Celia, who visits three times a week to clean and do our laundry. Suzy’s note has also instructed us to treat Celia with kindness, as she and her family are like Suzy’s family. Her instruction is not hard to follow. Celia is a very sweet, middle age woman who doesn’t speak English, but somehow manages to communicate with us in a way that makes us feel welcome – as we are now part of her family too. Celia’s gentle, welcoming nature turns out to be a common trait among the other local inhabitants as well.
The Festa San Miguel
We grab a quick bite of marinated steak with guacamole in a restaurant terrace overlooking the Plaza Principal and then make our way to the market place to stock up on groceries and staples for the week. When we reach the marketplace, we realize that we are far from the land of Ralph’s, Vons and Albertsons. Fruit and vegetable vendors spill out of the decaying concrete market building and into the street. Inside, rickety old wooden stands display tomatoes, onions, passion fruit, squash and hundreds of other types of produce. The old women at the stands offer us bits and samples of their tasty wares. In the back of the building fish, sausage and meat vendors are removing their unsold inventory from the display ice chest and preparing to call it a day.
We unload our market bounty back at Casa Shelly and retire for an afternoon siesta – weary from travel as well as the previous night’s wedding reception tequila. After several hours of peaceful sleep and dreams, I awake and step out on our rooftop terrace where I am greeted with … FIREWORKS! The “Festa de San Miguel” continues into the night! I wake Ursula and Ericka and we head up the street to the center of town (which is only about 5 minutes away).
The Plaza Principal or “Jardin” is the center of most activity in San Miguel, and tonight is one of the biggest celebrations of the year. The beautiful tree-lined square is filled with hundreds of Mexican families eating jamon e queso tortas and sipping flavorful fruit drinks and horchata. A group of rowdy mariachis plays in the gazebo in the center of the garden. Fireworks strapped to bizarre 20-foot tall wire towers spin and dance throwing sparks out into the crowd. Every few minutes, we are startled by the BANG of new fireworks being shot into the cool night sky only 100 feet above our heads. The pink, gothic Parroquia, the city’s most-recognized landmark, is alit with flashing lights revealing shadows of drumming, dancing parades.
For the most part, it was more of a family celebration and not your typical US July 4th drunken brouhaha. After the fireworks ended and the last drum was banged, men, women and their children filed calmly out of the town square, into the connecting streets and toward their respective homes. Ursula, Ericka and I were approached, however, by two “barrachos” (drunks) as we leaned against a brightly painted yellow building and watched the families depart. One of the seemingly respectable middle aged men was attracted to Ericka, whose blonde, curly hair definitely stood out in the crowd of “mestizos” and Indians.
“I like, how you say?” he asked me, pointing to his hair.
“Curls.” I answered.
“YES, koorlz!” he replied. Although harmless, Ericka was slightly put off by his white-coated tongue and the spittle at the corner of his mouth, indicating a day of drink, probably of “pulque,” or unrefined tequila, a sour, working-man’s affordable alcoholic concoction. He asked to see her camera to take our “peetchors.” Ericka, fearing potential theft, kindly declined.
Eventually, we parted ways with the men and headed to the rooftop terrace of the “Char-Rock” bar, which had been filled with a number of revelers only an hour ago. Now, it was empty, and we sat nursing Indio beer, Don Julio tequila and Sangrita, enjoying our birds-eye view of the equally empty Plaza Principal. Later, we were treated to a couple of sets of classic rock music played inside the bar by a three-piece local band. After playing covers of the Eagles, the Stones, Van Morrison and others, the lead singer/guitarist greeted applause from the audience with a comical “Muchos graciaaaaaaaas,’ through a grit-toothed smile. It was the first of many live music performances we would enjoy during our week in San Miguel.
Okay, so three Americans enter a Mexican Cantina…
When the Char-Rock closes at 2AM, we amble down the dark, yet very safe, cobble stoned streets toward Casa Shelly (we had noticed dozens of very polite, young, attractive, unarmed policia patrolling the streets during the Festa). On the way, Ericka spots the simply named “Bar San Miguel,” complete with old-west style double saloon doors, which she has never walked through, though it has been her lifelong dream to do so. We enter the establishment, which has the appearance of a run-down cafeteria from the fifties with a simple, hand-made linoleum covered bar. Instantly, the 24 sets of brown male eyes in the bar are on my two obviously American female companions.
I had read in the Lonely Planet travel guide for Mexico City that there are hundreds of “men-only” cantinas throughout the region, where hard drinking, loud singing and sometimes-exuberant pistol shooting occur. I wondered if this was one of them, and asked the bartender in my broken Spanish if this was the case here, “Hombres uniquo?” He (and the rest of the male patrons, mostly local drunks and cowboy-hatted ranchers) assured me that it was not, although later I figured out that this was probably untrue. The myth of the “loose” American woman loomed hazily in their drunken minds and two seemingly prime examples had been delivered from Dios to their hole-in-the-wall cantina.
A young, 30 – 35 year old Indian immediately befriended us. With his very dark skin, high cheekbones and straw like black hair, he appears to be more of Central or South American descent than Mexican. This ends up being the case. He tells us in broken English that he came from Guatemala, traveled up through Mexico and into Austin, Texas, and was then escorted back into Mexico by “la Migra,” US Customs officers. We drink some tequila together and strike an instant rapport. We end up pumping pesos into the jukebox, discussing the virtues of Latin music as well as other western artists represented, such as “Los” Beatles. We agree that Selena was very talented and met an untimely death. We both loved Creedence Clearwater Revival, select “Proud Mary,” and proceed to sing it together at the top of our lungs. Shakira? We agree. She’s totally HOT.
In the meantime, both Ursula and Ericka have experienced the “dirtiest bathroom in Mexico” and have performed baño acrobatics to relieve themselves of the night’s drink. A handsome young man in a 70s-style yellow sweater has also entered the bar and is in the middle of giving Ericka a vigorous foot massage. He made it clear to Ericka that he was “not like the rest of the men in here,” and warned her and Ursula of the lecherous ranchers that began to close in all around them, “They want to take you to live on their ranches. Watch out for these men.” Later, we dub Ericka’s debonair suitor the “Mexican Hugh Grant.”
As we drank more tequila together, my Guatemalan friend confided that he was actually Nicaraguan, and had fled to Mexico and the States in the late 80’s to avoid the bloodshed that was occurring. He indicated that the CIA-backed Contra rebels had kidnapped him. He took my bandanna and covered his eyes to drive the point home. He pulled up his shirt and pants legs to show the many bullet and shrapnel wounds he had received as a hostage during the struggle.
We were engaged in a fluent Spanish discussion of the conflict. My Spanish is very limited and I never studied a second language. The tequila and the fervor of the cantina intensified my soul, however, and I was almost able to keep up. “Gracias, Señor Reagan,” I empathized. “Y Señor Bush, tambien!” he added. Nicaragua indeed was an early attempt by our still-governing empire at nation building, and all of the ties that the Contras had to the former Bush Sr. administration are still unknown. My new friend was another testament at our failure to provide “global security.”
Suddenly, Ursula was yelling across the bar, “Uh, Scott, get OVER here. NOW, please.” I went over to the table where she was sitting. She was desperately trying to offer an Altoid to the 60-year old rancher that seemed to be on the edge of invading her personal space. I sensed something was wrong with this curiously strong transaction, and knelt down between them, looking him in the eye. He immediately stood and rejoined his rancher friend at another table. Ursula told me that he was getting very friendly and kept putting his hands on her knees, trying to spread them apart. When the atmosphere in a bar starts resembling a visit to the gynecologist, it’s definitely time to go. The mood of the cantina had become loose…too loose.
I stood, pointed at Ericka and then Ursula and intoned in a loud voice, “Tu y tu y yo… vamanos!” I stood to leave and was immediately accosted by four or five Mexican men, all about half my height and girth. “Mas tequila! Mas tequila!” they pleaded. With an assertive surge forward, I shook them and escorted the girls out of the Bar San Miguel and into the dark cobble stoned night.
Yellow Sweater had followed us out onto the street. He asked if he could come back to our place. Ursula and I looked toward Ericka. He was her new friend, after all, and it was her decision. “No, I don’t think so.” Disappointed, Yellow Sweater turned and walked away. We stumbled down the street to Casa Shelly and fell drunkenly into our beds, full of adventure from the day and night we’d just experienced.
The Governator, Real Men and Karmic Analysis at La Gruta
The next morning, I turn the television on for the first and only time the whole week. It’s official. The celebrity-mongering hoards of California have recalled Gray Davis and have voted Ah-nold Schwarzenegger as the next Governor (or “Govenator”) of California. During voting exit polls, those who voted for Arnold are asked how they feel about his stand on specific issues. Most voters polled don’t even know where he stood on any issue. Typically, this is due to common voter ignorance. But Arnold, indeed, has thus far made only vague soundbites and puns from his movies (“Hasta Luvista to special interests in California.”). This reinforces my belief that we are more interested in personality than substantive political stances.
We decide to take a taxi about 10 kilometers out of town to the “banaleario” the region’s natural hot springs, said to contain minerals that enrich the body and skin while soothing the soul. Our taxi driver has a small passenger already in the cab – a small boy in the front seat leafing through a History textbook. “A Escuela?” I ask the driver. “Yes,” he replies in Spanish, “this is my son.” The son is dropped at a corner in town and we drive to the country another 15 minutes to “La Gruta.”
“La Gruta” is purported to be one of the better banalearios in the area. I have read about the popular gruta, or grotto: a manmade cave in the hot springs from which water flows out of the walls to replenish the warmth of the spent hot spring waters. The place is innocuous at first. Just a gravel parking lot with a huge, poorly hand-painted and decaying “billboard” letting you know that you have arrived.
Upon entrance, however, the place seems more like a wonderful, chaotic garden. There are lush tropical plants and cacti among hand-hewn stone walls that appear almost ruinistic. As we wind down the main walkway we eventually find the two main spring-fed pools that look very much like swimming pools with their light blue paint and smooth sides. We change into our suits and step down to the pools.
Wandering away from Urse and Ericka, I find that one pool is nestled against a stone wall that contains a narrow water-filled doorway. Upon closer inspection, the doorway is the portal to a 100-foot passageway about chest-deep in spring water. I wind through the passage, which leads me to…La Gruta! La Gruta is a large, kiva-like domed room made entirely of precariously placed natural stone. With the warm spring water, it has a very primal womb-like appearance and feel. Light streams in from ventilation holes in the ceiling.
I pause for a few minutes to empty my mind and mediate on the sound of water dripping from the ceiling. I then exit the cave to find Ursula and unveil this discovery. At 3PM, hot, fresh spring water gushes in from a gash high in the stone wall, providing a hydro neck and back massage if you stand directly beneath it. Another idyllic setting.
As we meander back out the tunnel, we are accosted by Annabella, a self-proclaimed spiritual healer and “Karmic Analyst” from Mexico City. Although she is a somewhat attractive woman in her 50’s, her teeth are rotting in their cavities and many of them are missing. After a few minutes of conversation, she senses my skepticism and focuses on Ursula. She asks what her zodiacal and Chinese signs are. She then pitches her healing services for a mere 750 Pesos (about $75/US). She is ready to come to Casa Shelly tonight to perform a karmic analysis.
Further, Annabella is very passionate about our new Governor and claims that he is a “real man.” Further, she eschews that “…today’s men have forgotten how to be men.” She tells us that she just did a radio show in Mexico City on this very subject. I feel like I’m on the spot now and have to defend my fellow men, and myself but have no desire to argue this point with her. I wade off and hope that Ursula declines the karmic analysis, not wanting to have our peace invaded by this middle-age new age pseudo-shaman.
True to form, my also-skeptical wife declines. I’ve always found that most women of this age that are new age practitioners typically suffer from problematic pasts and find solace in the ritual of their belief system (not unlike many practicing Christians). Most are full of shit. Does a true “guru” seek fiscal gain from fellow devotees? The Buddha would only impart wisdom when sought by a seeker. These new age hacks pitch their services in the most peaceful of places when you just want to relax and enjoy the experience of being/now.
After my soak, I dress and retire to La Gruta’s simple outdoor patio to enjoy a cheap lunch of flautas con pollo, avocado salad and Dos Equis beer, enjoying the natural surroundings of the place as the rain starts to drizzle down.
We had arranged for our taxi driver to return to pick us up when La Gruta closes at 5PM. As the last of the customers and staff drive out of the parking lot, he still has not shown. Several offer us rides back into town, but we decline, just in case he does arrive. By now, it’s nearly 6 and we decide that we’ve been abandoned in the middle of the countryside, which is actually not a bad situation. I try hitchhiking, but eventually, a bus stops to pick us up. For fifty cents each, we are dropped at the San Miguel bus terminal. From there, a 20 Peso cab fare gets us back to the Plaza Principal – our starting point. Cheap transport.
Polly Want Some Pollo?
The next day, Ericka suggested that we tour the southern part of town near Benito Juarez Park. During this excursion, we see another side of the town. The area is very green and dense with foliage. The park itself is extremely overgrown (not in an unsightly way), shady and reminiscent of the best parts of Manhattan’s Central Park. After school, dozens of teenagers congregate in the park. Young lovers seek solitude at the bottom of centuries-old stone steps near a trickling stream.
Most of the more expensive hotels are in this part of the city, built largely from former Spanish Colonial homesteads. We enjoy a cerveza in the courtyard of one of these hotels and take in the colorful stone walls, courtyard and central fountain. A beautiful place, but relatively pricey for Mexico at 2000 Pesos per night.
Eventually, we find the steep stone staircase up to “El Chorro,” the highest point in San Miguel with a view of the entire town below. “200 steps” the Maestra of the art school at the bottom tells us. We trod up, Ericka leading the way into a nameless restaurant and cantina once we arrive at the top. The restaurant has a huge patio with the best view possible of the town La Parroquia is in clear view, as is the entire town center. If it wasn’t for trees, we would be able to see Casa Shelly from here.
We sit for cerveza and Don Julio with Sangrita. After learning that we are from the US, our friendly waiter confides, “I leeved in San Antonio for awhile. I was embarrassed to speaka e pocito Engleesh.” I tell him that his English is a hell of a lot better than our Spanish and we have instantly made another new friend. Along with our drinks, he brings around the house Parrot to keep us company.
At first, Percales the Parrot is somewhat aloof and tries to peck at us when we slowly move our fingers under his feet so that he can perch. He snacks on our tortilla chips and finds a good hiding place nestled in the green ironwork legs under the table. When we order fajitas of beef, chicken, chorizo and Nopale cactus, Percales emerges to help himself to our buffet. At first, he tries the chicken, but then decides that it may be cannibalistic and proceeds to munch down no less than 10 pieces of the carne asada.
Now Percales is happy and has warmed up to us. I’d feel the same way if a table of strangers let me eat half their meal and then laughed instead of shooing me away. He especially likes sitting on my head atop my bandanna. He sings happily in the sunlight, moving down to my shoulder and warbles “Cooloo” in my ear, proceeding to shit on my shirt. Thanks for the warning, amigo!
An excellent guitarist begins to play slide blues in the corner of the patio. He also has a harmonica strap and whales into it to accompany the guitar. After the first song, he asks us if we have any requests. “Any classic rock is bueno!” I tell him. He then whips out an awesome bluesy rendition of Cream’s “Sunshine of your Love” followed by some Robert Cray. Afterward, he comes over to our table to talk. I ask if he would like a beer and he says he’d rather have tequila. My kind of guy. I call the waiter over and order two more Don Julios with Sangrita. The musician tells us that he is supposed to go to LA soon where he will record a new album with his daughter. He just happens to have some shrink-wrapped copies of their previous CD, which we buy to listen to later on. When we do, we’re a little disappointed. The CD is mostly electric pop/rock and way overproduced. We prefer his “unplugged” set at the restaurant.
Several hours later, we stand to leave. The staff is genuinely disappointed to see us go and are further saddened that we are leaving on Friday and won’t be back. Our new friend the waiter shakes my hand and says, “From now on, this is your casa.” He is very sincere and my appreciation of the openness of the locals moves me. He has trouble removing Percales from my head. I stand next to his large, black iron cage, however, and he jumps right off — singing his goodbyes as we exit into the nighttime streets.
On our way home, there are mounted police outside of the neighborhood pharmacy. A dozen locals are milling about, taking in the action. I ask an older woman in broken Spanish what has happened. She tells me that the pharmacy has been robbed by “banditos.” She then motions over to the shantytown perched atop the high, sloped concrete wall that leads down to the open sewer, or the “river of shit” as I’d referred to it earlier. I surmise that the bandito was a shantytown resident.
I think nothing more of the incident. We happily smoke as we settle in to Casa Shelly for contented sleep…at least until 3AM.
Won’t You Take Me To…A Shantytown!
At 3AM, Ursula and I awoke to very loud banging sounds coming from outside near Casa Shelly. The BANGs were intermittent, about one every 30 seconds or so. After rubbing some of the sleep from our eyes, we started cracking up with every BANG, speculating what the noise could possibly be at this hour. To me, it sounded like large sheets of corrugated tin being kicked down the street.
After about 15 minutes of speculation, we could take no more. We got up and looked out our window and saw…large sheets of corrugated tin being kicked down the street! About 10 local men were at work completely dismantling the shantytown, one sheet of tin at a time. Several mounted policemen were overseeing the process, but were doing nothing to assist the men, who were performing the demolition without tools. It was dangerous work. Juan or Mañuel could very easily have fallen back when pulling off a tin roof and suffered serious injury.
The sheets of tin were being dragged up the street and thrown into a waiting truck bed. We surmised that the residents of Shantytown had overstayed their stay. Squatters are tolerated in Mexico to an extent, but the robbery earlier acted as the signature on their eviction notice.
All Good Things…
Our final day in San Miguel is relaxing but mostly incidental. We walk the streets for our final time and Ericka and Ursula spend time in a number of interior design shops. I really dig one shop in particular that is full of antique wood furniture and accessories. The owner takes us to the front of the shop and shows us his tarantulas. His shop is colorful and vibrant.
As we meander through the town, I take pictures of the cool old beat doorways on the street in front of brightly-colored concrete facades and plan to use them as art in our house later. When we first arrived here, I asked Annie the rental agent where we could see a bullfight. She indicated that it was on a normal street behind a seemingly innocuous door. “That’s the great thing about San Miguel,” she intoned, “you never know what’s behind these thick old wooden doors.” Indeed, that is just part of the town’s charm.
While out for drinks that evening, we run into a group of people from the US that are in town for a friend’s wedding. They are festive, but after spending a week interacting mostly with locals, I notice their (and probably our) hang-ups and attitudes as obviously different than those of the town locals. They are from Texas. One guy in particular strikes up a conversation with me and we head to the bar for a drink. They are doing shots of Cuervo Gold. I tell him about the far-better Don Julio and the tradition of drinking Sangrita with it. He does not seem impressed or ready to try something new. They shoot their Cuervos. I sip my Don and Sangrita. We part ways and head back for our final night at Casa Shelly.
After a week in San Miguel de Allende, what I first thought of as a small, hovel infested, poverty-stricken town has now transformed into a friendly and magical place. The trip up to this point has been extremely memorable — comparable in enjoyment and experience to our month-long trip to Europe in 2001. I admit that the town has gotten very much “under my skin.” I understand the appeal to Norte Americanos that have chosen to move or retire down here.
Sure, the place itself is colorful and full of history. The lifestyle is slower. However, it’s the people (locals) that have made the biggest impression on me. Everyone smiles and greets us warmly. Our hosts at restaurants, bars and artisan shops have been amiable and treat us like family. The entire town seems to take a great deal of civic pride in keeping the streets clean, gardens well-kept and welcoming, and the visitor happy and comfortable. For one of the few times in my life, I feel that I could easily integrate with this community (more with the locals than ex-pats, who seem to keep very much to themselves and congregate in places that cater specifically to them).
One Mexican minute is indeed worth an eternity. We will be back.
October/December 2003
The Plan
I never really had an interest in visiting the Mexican interior. Mexico City, especially, has always been last on my list of third-world metropoli to visit – right down there with Sao Paulo, Kingston and Calcutta. The stories of crime, corruption, abject poverty, suffocating smog and extreme overpopulation (between 22 and 26 million inhabitants depending on who you talk to) were enough to keep me from ever wanting to set foot in this megalopolis. And by default, since Mexico City is the major hub for visits to other parts of the country, I simply wrote them off my list as well…
Man, was that a mistake.
Earlier this year, good friends of ours announced that they were going to be married in Mexico City, where the majority of their families live. After some pleading and many safety assurances from my wife and the bride-and-groom-to-be, I acquiesced and agreed to an extended two-week trip to Mexico — starting in Mexico City for the wedding.
In a successful effort to appease my inner travel agent, my wife Ursula let me do most of the planning. All of our travel arrangements were made via the Web. We would spend the first weekend in the City for the wedding. Then, we (along with our friend Ericka, who was also attending the wedding) would take a car to San Miguel de Allende for a week where we would stay in a private residence. For the second week, Ericka was heading home and Ursula and I were bound for Zihuatanejo on the Pacific coast – where I had arranged to rent an “eco-tourist.” bamboo hut in the jungle only 200 steps away from a crocodile infested stream and the beach.
But our adventures (and misadventures) in Zihuatanejo are best left to another story. For the purpose of abbreviation and descriptive nuance, I will focus here on our trip to San Miguel de Allende, where I learned several valuable lessons:
1) The amount of Spanish I'm capable of speaking is in equal proportion to the amount of Don Julio and Sangrita I drink.
2) Never take two American women into a men's only cantina in San Miguel de Allende at two o'clock in the morning.
3) We move way too FAST here in the states. One Mexican minute is worth an eternity.
These truths will make themselves evident as this story unfolds.
On the Road to San Miguel
The morning after the wedding and reception (which was a total blast – more on that in another story too), we had arranged for a driver to pick us up in Mexico City and transport us to the doorstep of our San Miguel de Allende house rental. Ricardo arrived promptly at 10AM and we wobbled (slightly “la cruda” from all of the tequila we drank at the reception the night before) to his awaiting town car.
The drive to San Miguel de Allende from Mexico City was relatively short – about 3.5 hours, with nearly one of those hours fighting traffic in an effort to escape the city. After saying “adios” to the last of many billboards on the road from the city, the view opened up to rolling green hills and spectacular views of distant, jagged mountains. As this was Sunday, the typically working farm fields were empty — completely devoid of the burros and caballeros we would spot during the week. The countryside was beautiful and reminded us of California, the Midwest and Tuscany all rolled into a single eternal vista.
Occasionally, we would drive through a remote, half-decaying roadside “village”, which usually consisted of crumbling raw-brick structures occupying seemingly vacant dirt lots. Invariably, these decaying, Mexican “strip malls” contained several “taquerias” (taco stands), one small market, hand-painted Sol Cerveza signs, dusty children kicking around a “futbol,” women cooking something that smelled really good, men sitting and drinking beers and dozens of squawking chickens perched precariously by the roadside.
As I scanned the brown, leathery faces of the beat Indian men and women watching us drive through, I sensed that time was somewhat different to these people. It was their Catholic god’s day of rest…and theirs as well. In this idealistic setting in the middle of the green Mexican countryside, no one seemed to be in much of a hurry or have really anything to do.
We arrived in San Miguel de Allende on October 5 – the last day of the three-week Mexican Independence Day celebration known as the “Festa de San Miguel.” As we entered the hillside town through steep, narrow, cobble stoned streets, the celebration was evident. Distant drums sounded from the center of town. Hundreds of people were winding through the alley-like streets on high, thin sidewalks. Small boys were dressed in little caballero (cowboy) costumes, complete with hats and play pistolas. The girls wore colorful traditional Mexican dance dresses. Men were dressed as Satan and other demonic costumes. After all, St. John prophesizes in the Book of Revelations that it will be “San Miguel” the Archangel who is to fight against the dragon, or Satan, at the end of days – the apocalypse.
Expats vs. the Mexican Minute
We stopped and parked on one of these bustling streets in front of our rental house, Casa Shelly. Here, we met our rental agent, Annie. Annie and her husband had just retired from Southern California to San Miguel five months ago, buying a house here, which they were currently renovating. Their main reason for moving, she says, is so that they can enjoy a slower pace, as time is definitely different here.
Annie is the first of many on our trip to tell us about the infamous “Mexican Minute.” According to Annie, a Mexican Minute may indeed be a minute, but could also be an hour…or even a day. As she talks, her sighs and the occasional eye-rolls make it obvious that time here is actually frustrating her more than it is releasing her. The lack of schedule and dependability here is tolerated however, Annie tells us, because a new Costco has just been built on the edge of town, specifically to cater to Annie, her husband and the 5 – 10,000 other ex-pats who now call San Miguel “home.”
Calling San Miguel “home,” however, takes money. There are no mortgages for Americans, Canadians or Europeans who choose to retire here. Real estate transactions are “cash-only” and a good home near the center of town currently runs anywhere from $250,000 - $450,000. During our stay, we saw plenty of older, wealthy ex-pats dressed in Sedona-style sarongs and the stylings of the cultural elite, attempting to look bohemian in expensive fitted clothing. Picture Kerouac with pressed pleats in his khakis and a $50 Perry Ellis tee.
We had arranged to rent Casa Shelly for the week over the Internet through San Miguel House Rentals (www.san-miguel-house-rentals.com). We had gotten a great deal, at only $650 for a week in this 3-story, 2-bedroom house, complete with a living room patio and roof deck. Casa Shelly was amazing! The American that bought the house had it entirely renovated and then decorated in the Moroccan style. The structure was built entirely of molded concrete, which provided cool respite during the warm days. The walls were painted coral, green and a myriad of other bright colors. The house was strewn with artwork; antique knick-knacks, art books, CDs and a note from Suzy Shelly, the house’s owner, instructing us to help ourselves to all of it!
Casa Shelly also comes with a maid, Celia, who visits three times a week to clean and do our laundry. Suzy’s note has also instructed us to treat Celia with kindness, as she and her family are like Suzy’s family. Her instruction is not hard to follow. Celia is a very sweet, middle age woman who doesn’t speak English, but somehow manages to communicate with us in a way that makes us feel welcome – as we are now part of her family too. Celia’s gentle, welcoming nature turns out to be a common trait among the other local inhabitants as well.
The Festa San Miguel
We grab a quick bite of marinated steak with guacamole in a restaurant terrace overlooking the Plaza Principal and then make our way to the market place to stock up on groceries and staples for the week. When we reach the marketplace, we realize that we are far from the land of Ralph’s, Vons and Albertsons. Fruit and vegetable vendors spill out of the decaying concrete market building and into the street. Inside, rickety old wooden stands display tomatoes, onions, passion fruit, squash and hundreds of other types of produce. The old women at the stands offer us bits and samples of their tasty wares. In the back of the building fish, sausage and meat vendors are removing their unsold inventory from the display ice chest and preparing to call it a day.
We unload our market bounty back at Casa Shelly and retire for an afternoon siesta – weary from travel as well as the previous night’s wedding reception tequila. After several hours of peaceful sleep and dreams, I awake and step out on our rooftop terrace where I am greeted with … FIREWORKS! The “Festa de San Miguel” continues into the night! I wake Ursula and Ericka and we head up the street to the center of town (which is only about 5 minutes away).
The Plaza Principal or “Jardin” is the center of most activity in San Miguel, and tonight is one of the biggest celebrations of the year. The beautiful tree-lined square is filled with hundreds of Mexican families eating jamon e queso tortas and sipping flavorful fruit drinks and horchata. A group of rowdy mariachis plays in the gazebo in the center of the garden. Fireworks strapped to bizarre 20-foot tall wire towers spin and dance throwing sparks out into the crowd. Every few minutes, we are startled by the BANG of new fireworks being shot into the cool night sky only 100 feet above our heads. The pink, gothic Parroquia, the city’s most-recognized landmark, is alit with flashing lights revealing shadows of drumming, dancing parades.
For the most part, it was more of a family celebration and not your typical US July 4th drunken brouhaha. After the fireworks ended and the last drum was banged, men, women and their children filed calmly out of the town square, into the connecting streets and toward their respective homes. Ursula, Ericka and I were approached, however, by two “barrachos” (drunks) as we leaned against a brightly painted yellow building and watched the families depart. One of the seemingly respectable middle aged men was attracted to Ericka, whose blonde, curly hair definitely stood out in the crowd of “mestizos” and Indians.
“I like, how you say?” he asked me, pointing to his hair.
“Curls.” I answered.
“YES, koorlz!” he replied. Although harmless, Ericka was slightly put off by his white-coated tongue and the spittle at the corner of his mouth, indicating a day of drink, probably of “pulque,” or unrefined tequila, a sour, working-man’s affordable alcoholic concoction. He asked to see her camera to take our “peetchors.” Ericka, fearing potential theft, kindly declined.
Eventually, we parted ways with the men and headed to the rooftop terrace of the “Char-Rock” bar, which had been filled with a number of revelers only an hour ago. Now, it was empty, and we sat nursing Indio beer, Don Julio tequila and Sangrita, enjoying our birds-eye view of the equally empty Plaza Principal. Later, we were treated to a couple of sets of classic rock music played inside the bar by a three-piece local band. After playing covers of the Eagles, the Stones, Van Morrison and others, the lead singer/guitarist greeted applause from the audience with a comical “Muchos graciaaaaaaaas,’ through a grit-toothed smile. It was the first of many live music performances we would enjoy during our week in San Miguel.
Okay, so three Americans enter a Mexican Cantina…
When the Char-Rock closes at 2AM, we amble down the dark, yet very safe, cobble stoned streets toward Casa Shelly (we had noticed dozens of very polite, young, attractive, unarmed policia patrolling the streets during the Festa). On the way, Ericka spots the simply named “Bar San Miguel,” complete with old-west style double saloon doors, which she has never walked through, though it has been her lifelong dream to do so. We enter the establishment, which has the appearance of a run-down cafeteria from the fifties with a simple, hand-made linoleum covered bar. Instantly, the 24 sets of brown male eyes in the bar are on my two obviously American female companions.
I had read in the Lonely Planet travel guide for Mexico City that there are hundreds of “men-only” cantinas throughout the region, where hard drinking, loud singing and sometimes-exuberant pistol shooting occur. I wondered if this was one of them, and asked the bartender in my broken Spanish if this was the case here, “Hombres uniquo?” He (and the rest of the male patrons, mostly local drunks and cowboy-hatted ranchers) assured me that it was not, although later I figured out that this was probably untrue. The myth of the “loose” American woman loomed hazily in their drunken minds and two seemingly prime examples had been delivered from Dios to their hole-in-the-wall cantina.
A young, 30 – 35 year old Indian immediately befriended us. With his very dark skin, high cheekbones and straw like black hair, he appears to be more of Central or South American descent than Mexican. This ends up being the case. He tells us in broken English that he came from Guatemala, traveled up through Mexico and into Austin, Texas, and was then escorted back into Mexico by “la Migra,” US Customs officers. We drink some tequila together and strike an instant rapport. We end up pumping pesos into the jukebox, discussing the virtues of Latin music as well as other western artists represented, such as “Los” Beatles. We agree that Selena was very talented and met an untimely death. We both loved Creedence Clearwater Revival, select “Proud Mary,” and proceed to sing it together at the top of our lungs. Shakira? We agree. She’s totally HOT.
In the meantime, both Ursula and Ericka have experienced the “dirtiest bathroom in Mexico” and have performed baño acrobatics to relieve themselves of the night’s drink. A handsome young man in a 70s-style yellow sweater has also entered the bar and is in the middle of giving Ericka a vigorous foot massage. He made it clear to Ericka that he was “not like the rest of the men in here,” and warned her and Ursula of the lecherous ranchers that began to close in all around them, “They want to take you to live on their ranches. Watch out for these men.” Later, we dub Ericka’s debonair suitor the “Mexican Hugh Grant.”
As we drank more tequila together, my Guatemalan friend confided that he was actually Nicaraguan, and had fled to Mexico and the States in the late 80’s to avoid the bloodshed that was occurring. He indicated that the CIA-backed Contra rebels had kidnapped him. He took my bandanna and covered his eyes to drive the point home. He pulled up his shirt and pants legs to show the many bullet and shrapnel wounds he had received as a hostage during the struggle.
We were engaged in a fluent Spanish discussion of the conflict. My Spanish is very limited and I never studied a second language. The tequila and the fervor of the cantina intensified my soul, however, and I was almost able to keep up. “Gracias, Señor Reagan,” I empathized. “Y Señor Bush, tambien!” he added. Nicaragua indeed was an early attempt by our still-governing empire at nation building, and all of the ties that the Contras had to the former Bush Sr. administration are still unknown. My new friend was another testament at our failure to provide “global security.”
Suddenly, Ursula was yelling across the bar, “Uh, Scott, get OVER here. NOW, please.” I went over to the table where she was sitting. She was desperately trying to offer an Altoid to the 60-year old rancher that seemed to be on the edge of invading her personal space. I sensed something was wrong with this curiously strong transaction, and knelt down between them, looking him in the eye. He immediately stood and rejoined his rancher friend at another table. Ursula told me that he was getting very friendly and kept putting his hands on her knees, trying to spread them apart. When the atmosphere in a bar starts resembling a visit to the gynecologist, it’s definitely time to go. The mood of the cantina had become loose…too loose.
I stood, pointed at Ericka and then Ursula and intoned in a loud voice, “Tu y tu y yo… vamanos!” I stood to leave and was immediately accosted by four or five Mexican men, all about half my height and girth. “Mas tequila! Mas tequila!” they pleaded. With an assertive surge forward, I shook them and escorted the girls out of the Bar San Miguel and into the dark cobble stoned night.
Yellow Sweater had followed us out onto the street. He asked if he could come back to our place. Ursula and I looked toward Ericka. He was her new friend, after all, and it was her decision. “No, I don’t think so.” Disappointed, Yellow Sweater turned and walked away. We stumbled down the street to Casa Shelly and fell drunkenly into our beds, full of adventure from the day and night we’d just experienced.
The Governator, Real Men and Karmic Analysis at La Gruta
The next morning, I turn the television on for the first and only time the whole week. It’s official. The celebrity-mongering hoards of California have recalled Gray Davis and have voted Ah-nold Schwarzenegger as the next Governor (or “Govenator”) of California. During voting exit polls, those who voted for Arnold are asked how they feel about his stand on specific issues. Most voters polled don’t even know where he stood on any issue. Typically, this is due to common voter ignorance. But Arnold, indeed, has thus far made only vague soundbites and puns from his movies (“Hasta Luvista to special interests in California.”). This reinforces my belief that we are more interested in personality than substantive political stances.
We decide to take a taxi about 10 kilometers out of town to the “banaleario” the region’s natural hot springs, said to contain minerals that enrich the body and skin while soothing the soul. Our taxi driver has a small passenger already in the cab – a small boy in the front seat leafing through a History textbook. “A Escuela?” I ask the driver. “Yes,” he replies in Spanish, “this is my son.” The son is dropped at a corner in town and we drive to the country another 15 minutes to “La Gruta.”
“La Gruta” is purported to be one of the better banalearios in the area. I have read about the popular gruta, or grotto: a manmade cave in the hot springs from which water flows out of the walls to replenish the warmth of the spent hot spring waters. The place is innocuous at first. Just a gravel parking lot with a huge, poorly hand-painted and decaying “billboard” letting you know that you have arrived.
Upon entrance, however, the place seems more like a wonderful, chaotic garden. There are lush tropical plants and cacti among hand-hewn stone walls that appear almost ruinistic. As we wind down the main walkway we eventually find the two main spring-fed pools that look very much like swimming pools with their light blue paint and smooth sides. We change into our suits and step down to the pools.
Wandering away from Urse and Ericka, I find that one pool is nestled against a stone wall that contains a narrow water-filled doorway. Upon closer inspection, the doorway is the portal to a 100-foot passageway about chest-deep in spring water. I wind through the passage, which leads me to…La Gruta! La Gruta is a large, kiva-like domed room made entirely of precariously placed natural stone. With the warm spring water, it has a very primal womb-like appearance and feel. Light streams in from ventilation holes in the ceiling.
I pause for a few minutes to empty my mind and mediate on the sound of water dripping from the ceiling. I then exit the cave to find Ursula and unveil this discovery. At 3PM, hot, fresh spring water gushes in from a gash high in the stone wall, providing a hydro neck and back massage if you stand directly beneath it. Another idyllic setting.
As we meander back out the tunnel, we are accosted by Annabella, a self-proclaimed spiritual healer and “Karmic Analyst” from Mexico City. Although she is a somewhat attractive woman in her 50’s, her teeth are rotting in their cavities and many of them are missing. After a few minutes of conversation, she senses my skepticism and focuses on Ursula. She asks what her zodiacal and Chinese signs are. She then pitches her healing services for a mere 750 Pesos (about $75/US). She is ready to come to Casa Shelly tonight to perform a karmic analysis.
Further, Annabella is very passionate about our new Governor and claims that he is a “real man.” Further, she eschews that “…today’s men have forgotten how to be men.” She tells us that she just did a radio show in Mexico City on this very subject. I feel like I’m on the spot now and have to defend my fellow men, and myself but have no desire to argue this point with her. I wade off and hope that Ursula declines the karmic analysis, not wanting to have our peace invaded by this middle-age new age pseudo-shaman.
True to form, my also-skeptical wife declines. I’ve always found that most women of this age that are new age practitioners typically suffer from problematic pasts and find solace in the ritual of their belief system (not unlike many practicing Christians). Most are full of shit. Does a true “guru” seek fiscal gain from fellow devotees? The Buddha would only impart wisdom when sought by a seeker. These new age hacks pitch their services in the most peaceful of places when you just want to relax and enjoy the experience of being/now.
After my soak, I dress and retire to La Gruta’s simple outdoor patio to enjoy a cheap lunch of flautas con pollo, avocado salad and Dos Equis beer, enjoying the natural surroundings of the place as the rain starts to drizzle down.
We had arranged for our taxi driver to return to pick us up when La Gruta closes at 5PM. As the last of the customers and staff drive out of the parking lot, he still has not shown. Several offer us rides back into town, but we decline, just in case he does arrive. By now, it’s nearly 6 and we decide that we’ve been abandoned in the middle of the countryside, which is actually not a bad situation. I try hitchhiking, but eventually, a bus stops to pick us up. For fifty cents each, we are dropped at the San Miguel bus terminal. From there, a 20 Peso cab fare gets us back to the Plaza Principal – our starting point. Cheap transport.
Polly Want Some Pollo?
The next day, Ericka suggested that we tour the southern part of town near Benito Juarez Park. During this excursion, we see another side of the town. The area is very green and dense with foliage. The park itself is extremely overgrown (not in an unsightly way), shady and reminiscent of the best parts of Manhattan’s Central Park. After school, dozens of teenagers congregate in the park. Young lovers seek solitude at the bottom of centuries-old stone steps near a trickling stream.
Most of the more expensive hotels are in this part of the city, built largely from former Spanish Colonial homesteads. We enjoy a cerveza in the courtyard of one of these hotels and take in the colorful stone walls, courtyard and central fountain. A beautiful place, but relatively pricey for Mexico at 2000 Pesos per night.
Eventually, we find the steep stone staircase up to “El Chorro,” the highest point in San Miguel with a view of the entire town below. “200 steps” the Maestra of the art school at the bottom tells us. We trod up, Ericka leading the way into a nameless restaurant and cantina once we arrive at the top. The restaurant has a huge patio with the best view possible of the town La Parroquia is in clear view, as is the entire town center. If it wasn’t for trees, we would be able to see Casa Shelly from here.
We sit for cerveza and Don Julio with Sangrita. After learning that we are from the US, our friendly waiter confides, “I leeved in San Antonio for awhile. I was embarrassed to speaka e pocito Engleesh.” I tell him that his English is a hell of a lot better than our Spanish and we have instantly made another new friend. Along with our drinks, he brings around the house Parrot to keep us company.
At first, Percales the Parrot is somewhat aloof and tries to peck at us when we slowly move our fingers under his feet so that he can perch. He snacks on our tortilla chips and finds a good hiding place nestled in the green ironwork legs under the table. When we order fajitas of beef, chicken, chorizo and Nopale cactus, Percales emerges to help himself to our buffet. At first, he tries the chicken, but then decides that it may be cannibalistic and proceeds to munch down no less than 10 pieces of the carne asada.
Now Percales is happy and has warmed up to us. I’d feel the same way if a table of strangers let me eat half their meal and then laughed instead of shooing me away. He especially likes sitting on my head atop my bandanna. He sings happily in the sunlight, moving down to my shoulder and warbles “Cooloo” in my ear, proceeding to shit on my shirt. Thanks for the warning, amigo!
An excellent guitarist begins to play slide blues in the corner of the patio. He also has a harmonica strap and whales into it to accompany the guitar. After the first song, he asks us if we have any requests. “Any classic rock is bueno!” I tell him. He then whips out an awesome bluesy rendition of Cream’s “Sunshine of your Love” followed by some Robert Cray. Afterward, he comes over to our table to talk. I ask if he would like a beer and he says he’d rather have tequila. My kind of guy. I call the waiter over and order two more Don Julios with Sangrita. The musician tells us that he is supposed to go to LA soon where he will record a new album with his daughter. He just happens to have some shrink-wrapped copies of their previous CD, which we buy to listen to later on. When we do, we’re a little disappointed. The CD is mostly electric pop/rock and way overproduced. We prefer his “unplugged” set at the restaurant.
Several hours later, we stand to leave. The staff is genuinely disappointed to see us go and are further saddened that we are leaving on Friday and won’t be back. Our new friend the waiter shakes my hand and says, “From now on, this is your casa.” He is very sincere and my appreciation of the openness of the locals moves me. He has trouble removing Percales from my head. I stand next to his large, black iron cage, however, and he jumps right off — singing his goodbyes as we exit into the nighttime streets.
On our way home, there are mounted police outside of the neighborhood pharmacy. A dozen locals are milling about, taking in the action. I ask an older woman in broken Spanish what has happened. She tells me that the pharmacy has been robbed by “banditos.” She then motions over to the shantytown perched atop the high, sloped concrete wall that leads down to the open sewer, or the “river of shit” as I’d referred to it earlier. I surmise that the bandito was a shantytown resident.
I think nothing more of the incident. We happily smoke as we settle in to Casa Shelly for contented sleep…at least until 3AM.
Won’t You Take Me To…A Shantytown!
At 3AM, Ursula and I awoke to very loud banging sounds coming from outside near Casa Shelly. The BANGs were intermittent, about one every 30 seconds or so. After rubbing some of the sleep from our eyes, we started cracking up with every BANG, speculating what the noise could possibly be at this hour. To me, it sounded like large sheets of corrugated tin being kicked down the street.
After about 15 minutes of speculation, we could take no more. We got up and looked out our window and saw…large sheets of corrugated tin being kicked down the street! About 10 local men were at work completely dismantling the shantytown, one sheet of tin at a time. Several mounted policemen were overseeing the process, but were doing nothing to assist the men, who were performing the demolition without tools. It was dangerous work. Juan or Mañuel could very easily have fallen back when pulling off a tin roof and suffered serious injury.
The sheets of tin were being dragged up the street and thrown into a waiting truck bed. We surmised that the residents of Shantytown had overstayed their stay. Squatters are tolerated in Mexico to an extent, but the robbery earlier acted as the signature on their eviction notice.
All Good Things…
Our final day in San Miguel is relaxing but mostly incidental. We walk the streets for our final time and Ericka and Ursula spend time in a number of interior design shops. I really dig one shop in particular that is full of antique wood furniture and accessories. The owner takes us to the front of the shop and shows us his tarantulas. His shop is colorful and vibrant.
As we meander through the town, I take pictures of the cool old beat doorways on the street in front of brightly-colored concrete facades and plan to use them as art in our house later. When we first arrived here, I asked Annie the rental agent where we could see a bullfight. She indicated that it was on a normal street behind a seemingly innocuous door. “That’s the great thing about San Miguel,” she intoned, “you never know what’s behind these thick old wooden doors.” Indeed, that is just part of the town’s charm.
While out for drinks that evening, we run into a group of people from the US that are in town for a friend’s wedding. They are festive, but after spending a week interacting mostly with locals, I notice their (and probably our) hang-ups and attitudes as obviously different than those of the town locals. They are from Texas. One guy in particular strikes up a conversation with me and we head to the bar for a drink. They are doing shots of Cuervo Gold. I tell him about the far-better Don Julio and the tradition of drinking Sangrita with it. He does not seem impressed or ready to try something new. They shoot their Cuervos. I sip my Don and Sangrita. We part ways and head back for our final night at Casa Shelly.
After a week in San Miguel de Allende, what I first thought of as a small, hovel infested, poverty-stricken town has now transformed into a friendly and magical place. The trip up to this point has been extremely memorable — comparable in enjoyment and experience to our month-long trip to Europe in 2001. I admit that the town has gotten very much “under my skin.” I understand the appeal to Norte Americanos that have chosen to move or retire down here.
Sure, the place itself is colorful and full of history. The lifestyle is slower. However, it’s the people (locals) that have made the biggest impression on me. Everyone smiles and greets us warmly. Our hosts at restaurants, bars and artisan shops have been amiable and treat us like family. The entire town seems to take a great deal of civic pride in keeping the streets clean, gardens well-kept and welcoming, and the visitor happy and comfortable. For one of the few times in my life, I feel that I could easily integrate with this community (more with the locals than ex-pats, who seem to keep very much to themselves and congregate in places that cater specifically to them).
One Mexican minute is indeed worth an eternity. We will be back.
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
It’s been Real. It’s been a Splendor. But I can’t say it was a Real Splendor.
An Encounter with American Splendor’s Harvey Pekar & Joyce Brabner
San Diego Comic Convention
Summer 2003
We’re at the San Diego Comic-Con at the convention center downtown. The Comic-Con is the largest convention of its kind on the planet. We make an annual pilgrimage here to make fun of the hardcore geeks while at the same time appeasing our own inner geeks by perusing the comics and paraphernalia and attending discussions given by our favorite industry and Hollywood insiders.
My son Ian and his friend have wandered off and are somewhere lost in anime and video game heaven. I’m introducing Ursula to “Artist’s Row,” where both renowned and obscure comic book artists create quick sketches for awestruck fans and open their portfolios for public exhibition.
As we make our way from table to table and the exceptionally lowbrow to inked masterpieces, I notice that all of the exhibitor artistes are Goths, nerds, dropouts and other societal misfits. I share this observation with Ursula, adding that the overall environment is the exact opposite of the corporate trade show crowds of ties and marketing smiles that I experienced in the past while working for QUALCOMM. Ursula agrees, making a motion with her head toward a goth mother suckling her newborn and adding “Yeah, and you never see people breastfeeding at a corporate trade show.”
“AND WHAT’S WRONG WITH BREASTFEEDING?” An agitated, nasally female voice intones behind us. We turn and confront the voice. She looks really familiar. “BREASTFEEDING,” the voice adds sneeringly, “is the ultimate expression of a mother’s love for her children!”
The big glasses. The long, stringy black hair. The face puckered in perpetual distaste. I’m now able to put the face together with the voice. It’s Joyce Brabner of American Splendor. I’ve read an anthology of this seminal underground comic, which is based on the real-life exploits of Joyce Brabner and her husband Harvey Pekar. Harvey is also the creator and writer of the comic and I am somewhat of a fan. Further, the film based on the comic has just been awarded the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival.
And where there’s Joyce, there’s surely…Harvey. He’s peering over Joyce’s shoulder as she reprimands Ursula. He’s had a bad bout with cancer, chronicled in Splendor’s “Our Cancer Year” graphic novel. He looks haggard and bemused. Seemingly disoriented and oblivious, yet at the same time acutely aware of everything that’s happening around him.
“Harvey and Joyce! It’s great to meet you. I’m a fan.” I step forward and shake Joyce’s hand. She’s confused at this gesture but obliges. Harvey peeks out further around Joyce and I shake his hand too. “How did it go at Cannes? I know the movie’s being released here in a couple of months. I can’t wait to see it.”
Harvey perks up slightly, clearing his throat and answering in a gravelly voice, “Yeah, we won the Palme d’Or there. We think the movie came out great. They did a good job. We’re lookin’ forward to seein’ what happens.”
In the meantime, Ursula, never having read Splendor and therefore not realizing the connection that’s just been made, has turned away and is moving off in a huff with an audible “Sheesh!” directed at Joyce. I watch after her and turn back to Joyce, offering, “Please pardon my wife. She didn’t mean to say that breastfeeding was a bad thing. We were just discussing how different this convention is in comparison with the usual lame corporate conventions.”
Whether Joyce accepts this or not is unknown. Her perpetual sneer does not belie any difference in her feelings, whether good or bad. “Well, great meeting you two. Good luck with the movie!” I smile and walk away, catching up with Ursula a couple of aisles over.
“Who the hell does she think she is? NOBODY whips their bare boob out at a trade show. God, how stupid!”
“Honey, you’re not going to believe this, THAT was Joyce Brabner and Harvey Pekar!”
“And he kept staring at MY chest! Straight at my chest! It was SO obvious!”
“Honey, that’s Joyce Brabner and Harvey Pekar from American Splendor! It’s a semi-famous comic. They just made a movie of it with Paul Giamatti. They just won the top prize at Cannes! He’s been on Letterman like 10 times…and written about it! That’s what they do, write comics about actual experiences that they have.”
“Whatever. Just as long as they don’t write about this one. Breastfeeding. Sheesh!”
I wonder if they have?
Later, I discuss the irony of the situation further with Ursula, telling her that I’m going to make my own American Splendor-style rant about our real-life experience with Joyce and Harvey.
This is it.
San Diego Comic Convention
Summer 2003
We’re at the San Diego Comic-Con at the convention center downtown. The Comic-Con is the largest convention of its kind on the planet. We make an annual pilgrimage here to make fun of the hardcore geeks while at the same time appeasing our own inner geeks by perusing the comics and paraphernalia and attending discussions given by our favorite industry and Hollywood insiders.
My son Ian and his friend have wandered off and are somewhere lost in anime and video game heaven. I’m introducing Ursula to “Artist’s Row,” where both renowned and obscure comic book artists create quick sketches for awestruck fans and open their portfolios for public exhibition.
As we make our way from table to table and the exceptionally lowbrow to inked masterpieces, I notice that all of the exhibitor artistes are Goths, nerds, dropouts and other societal misfits. I share this observation with Ursula, adding that the overall environment is the exact opposite of the corporate trade show crowds of ties and marketing smiles that I experienced in the past while working for QUALCOMM. Ursula agrees, making a motion with her head toward a goth mother suckling her newborn and adding “Yeah, and you never see people breastfeeding at a corporate trade show.”
“AND WHAT’S WRONG WITH BREASTFEEDING?” An agitated, nasally female voice intones behind us. We turn and confront the voice. She looks really familiar. “BREASTFEEDING,” the voice adds sneeringly, “is the ultimate expression of a mother’s love for her children!”
The big glasses. The long, stringy black hair. The face puckered in perpetual distaste. I’m now able to put the face together with the voice. It’s Joyce Brabner of American Splendor. I’ve read an anthology of this seminal underground comic, which is based on the real-life exploits of Joyce Brabner and her husband Harvey Pekar. Harvey is also the creator and writer of the comic and I am somewhat of a fan. Further, the film based on the comic has just been awarded the Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival.
And where there’s Joyce, there’s surely…Harvey. He’s peering over Joyce’s shoulder as she reprimands Ursula. He’s had a bad bout with cancer, chronicled in Splendor’s “Our Cancer Year” graphic novel. He looks haggard and bemused. Seemingly disoriented and oblivious, yet at the same time acutely aware of everything that’s happening around him.
“Harvey and Joyce! It’s great to meet you. I’m a fan.” I step forward and shake Joyce’s hand. She’s confused at this gesture but obliges. Harvey peeks out further around Joyce and I shake his hand too. “How did it go at Cannes? I know the movie’s being released here in a couple of months. I can’t wait to see it.”
Harvey perks up slightly, clearing his throat and answering in a gravelly voice, “Yeah, we won the Palme d’Or there. We think the movie came out great. They did a good job. We’re lookin’ forward to seein’ what happens.”
In the meantime, Ursula, never having read Splendor and therefore not realizing the connection that’s just been made, has turned away and is moving off in a huff with an audible “Sheesh!” directed at Joyce. I watch after her and turn back to Joyce, offering, “Please pardon my wife. She didn’t mean to say that breastfeeding was a bad thing. We were just discussing how different this convention is in comparison with the usual lame corporate conventions.”
Whether Joyce accepts this or not is unknown. Her perpetual sneer does not belie any difference in her feelings, whether good or bad. “Well, great meeting you two. Good luck with the movie!” I smile and walk away, catching up with Ursula a couple of aisles over.
“Who the hell does she think she is? NOBODY whips their bare boob out at a trade show. God, how stupid!”
“Honey, you’re not going to believe this, THAT was Joyce Brabner and Harvey Pekar!”
“And he kept staring at MY chest! Straight at my chest! It was SO obvious!”
“Honey, that’s Joyce Brabner and Harvey Pekar from American Splendor! It’s a semi-famous comic. They just made a movie of it with Paul Giamatti. They just won the top prize at Cannes! He’s been on Letterman like 10 times…and written about it! That’s what they do, write comics about actual experiences that they have.”
“Whatever. Just as long as they don’t write about this one. Breastfeeding. Sheesh!”
I wonder if they have?
Later, I discuss the irony of the situation further with Ursula, telling her that I’m going to make my own American Splendor-style rant about our real-life experience with Joyce and Harvey.
This is it.
Saturday, May 10, 2003
Amsterdam 2003: Dutch Bachelorette Party
Amsterdam, Netherlands
De Saluun, Leidseplein
Paul and I decided to walk to the Jordaan last night to check out the scene and hit some "brown cafes." We were curious to see what Jordaanians do after work on a Friday night. Interesting scene at one cafe where beat, traditional men (in 60's, maybe shopkeepers) stand at bar with beers while table of coifed, bejeweled wives smoke stinky Dutch cigarettes and sip their Heinekens from smaller logo glasses. Italian arias in Dutch language play on the jukebox.
After 5 cafes and about 6 beers each, we continue through the Jordaan, inadvertently falling in step behind 9 thirty-something Dutch girls. "Nine," I say cryptically to Paul, trying to make a play on the German word for "No" while also giving an indication of our current situation. Suddenly, the girls stop and turn around to face us. They regard us with a friendly, but serious proposition, “Excuse, me, but would you two mind being our bodyguards?” It’s a Dutch bachelorette party!
Through a quick and efficient negotiation, Paul somehow becomes their designated bag carrier (full of gifts for the bride-to-be). For performing this task and protecting their persons, we are promised a beer each when we arrive at our destination (either Rembrandtplein or Leidseplein — at this point, it's still undecided).
We end up at the "Bubbles" nightclub in Leidseplein where the young guys behind the bar fall into dance moves, clap their hands and "try to get the party started." Other than a small group in the corner, we are the only patrons here (it's only about 10PM, early by big-city clubbing standards). As Paul and I sip our Amstels at the bar, one friendly bartender gives us all a round of shots that taste of schnapps and fruit juice. He strikes up small talk with us, obviously interested in Americans (as many Dutch and other Europeans seem to be).
It's interesting talking to the girls. One cheers me in Dutch, "GROLST!" and asks me what the typical American cheer is. "Here's mud in your eye," I tell her.
"What is 'mud in your eye'?" She is visibly disturbed by the implied association. "I do not think I want 'mud in my eye.' I do not like 'mud in my eye.'" Damned literalists, these Dutch. I can't explain it to her. I wonder what it does mean?
Paul and I are part of their show. One girl tells me that it is tradition for a man to get on bended knee and ask the bride-to-be to dance. There is a fast song playing. We dance, they take pictures. Their memory is now complete.
Another girl asks if I "have a lot of girls in the US." I tell her no. She asks, "Oh, then you have a lot of boys?" I reply, "No, just one girl," showing her my wedding ring.
It's time to cruise. We bid our goodbyes. It is three kisses in the Netherlands - left cheek, right cheek, left cheek. We cruise.
De Saluun, Leidseplein
Paul and I decided to walk to the Jordaan last night to check out the scene and hit some "brown cafes." We were curious to see what Jordaanians do after work on a Friday night. Interesting scene at one cafe where beat, traditional men (in 60's, maybe shopkeepers) stand at bar with beers while table of coifed, bejeweled wives smoke stinky Dutch cigarettes and sip their Heinekens from smaller logo glasses. Italian arias in Dutch language play on the jukebox.
After 5 cafes and about 6 beers each, we continue through the Jordaan, inadvertently falling in step behind 9 thirty-something Dutch girls. "Nine," I say cryptically to Paul, trying to make a play on the German word for "No" while also giving an indication of our current situation. Suddenly, the girls stop and turn around to face us. They regard us with a friendly, but serious proposition, “Excuse, me, but would you two mind being our bodyguards?” It’s a Dutch bachelorette party!
Through a quick and efficient negotiation, Paul somehow becomes their designated bag carrier (full of gifts for the bride-to-be). For performing this task and protecting their persons, we are promised a beer each when we arrive at our destination (either Rembrandtplein or Leidseplein — at this point, it's still undecided).
We end up at the "Bubbles" nightclub in Leidseplein where the young guys behind the bar fall into dance moves, clap their hands and "try to get the party started." Other than a small group in the corner, we are the only patrons here (it's only about 10PM, early by big-city clubbing standards). As Paul and I sip our Amstels at the bar, one friendly bartender gives us all a round of shots that taste of schnapps and fruit juice. He strikes up small talk with us, obviously interested in Americans (as many Dutch and other Europeans seem to be).
It's interesting talking to the girls. One cheers me in Dutch, "GROLST!" and asks me what the typical American cheer is. "Here's mud in your eye," I tell her.
"What is 'mud in your eye'?" She is visibly disturbed by the implied association. "I do not think I want 'mud in my eye.' I do not like 'mud in my eye.'" Damned literalists, these Dutch. I can't explain it to her. I wonder what it does mean?
Paul and I are part of their show. One girl tells me that it is tradition for a man to get on bended knee and ask the bride-to-be to dance. There is a fast song playing. We dance, they take pictures. Their memory is now complete.
Another girl asks if I "have a lot of girls in the US." I tell her no. She asks, "Oh, then you have a lot of boys?" I reply, "No, just one girl," showing her my wedding ring.
It's time to cruise. We bid our goodbyes. It is three kisses in the Netherlands - left cheek, right cheek, left cheek. We cruise.
Monday, May 28, 2001
Amsterdam 2001: Ringo the Ringer (the Chess Champ of Indiana)
Aboard the ICE train from Amsterdam to Cologne, Germany
Urse and I have just boarded the ICE high-speed train to Cologne, Germany. From Cologne, we will transfer to Mannheim (home of the Steamrollers? Now that damn song’s going through my head) and onto our next destination, Heidelberg, Germany. I’m looking forward to our departure in just one minute. The ICE is a modern technological marvel, traveling up to 187 miles per hour!
We’ve taken off. This is one smooth ride! I imagine that we will be traveling even faster once we breach the Amsterdam city limits and hit the countryside.
After our night of restless “sleep” and serious jetlag, we stumbled out of our cramped room in the Hotel Acacia on Sunday in search of a “real” breakfast. Although there is a free breakfast buffet at the hotel, it typically consists of a variety of strange lunchmeats, strong odiferous moldy European cheeses and dry toast (Ursula likes to apply a strange chocolate spread to her toast, and has pocketed several packets to satisfy her sweet tooth throughout our travels). It’s Sunday and I want something a bit more substantial and less foreign.
We stumble out into the bleak morning street and have a nice English breakfast of eggs and toast at Barney's. By now, there is a steady stream of cold, misty rain. We are in our shorts (we feel like such the tourists!). Our legs are goose bumped and freezing. We decide to trek back to the Acacia to change into our jeans. Of course, once we arrive to our warm room, we crash hard and don’t wake up until 1:30 in the afternoon.
“Come on, let’s get out and about and try to get our freakin’ schedule back on track.” I urge Ursula. We decide to head toward the Prinsengracht Canal and follow it south to the Leidseplein. We are joined on this trek by hundreds of runners participating in the Amsterdam-Leidseplein race. Most are dressed in typical nylon runner’s shorts with tank tops or tees, but many are dressed in street clothes. At first, we think these casually dressed folks are merely joining the runners in a showing of sportsman solidarity, but the numbers pinned to their shirts give away the fact that they are actual race participants.
Our train is now passing through the Dutch countryside, just outside of Utrecht. There are vast, flat, open green meadows full of cows, sheep and horses. The horizon is spotted with old windmills and farmhouses. An idyllic setting!
Back to Sunday. We ended up at an outdoor café (De Saluun) in the Leidseplein sitting under an umbrella to protect us from the drizzly skies, drinking Heinekens and snacking on chicken satay. A man approaches with a violin case and stands in the center of the café. As he opens his case and pulls out his instrument, somehow I know that he is going to play the theme from “The Godfather.” He draws his bow over the strings, and sure enough…
We head up the street to find a place to get out of the increasingly heavy rain. The Rookies Coffeeshop looks inviting enough, so we step in to warm up. The Rookies is set up more as a bar than the typical coffeeshop. Behind the bar are taps and a variety of liquid libations. There is a jukebox playing good old American rock and roll. The two pool tables are in use by several groups of locals and tourists. Most of the tables are full of drinking and smoking patrons, also escaping the rain and making the best of an otherwise dreary Sunday afternoon. The coffeeshop is large and dim, just like a good, cozy bar should be.
We order a couple of Heinekens and decide to play some chess. Unfortunately, the chess set is missing several pieces. We improvise. Ursula’s lipstick becomes a queen. My cigarette lighter becomes a rook. Half a dozen more cigarettes become pawns. We stumble through several games in this makeshift fashion. As the beer pours and the atmosphere warms, we forget which piece is which and laugh out loud at our ingenuity.
Lesson Learned: Never play chess with a stranger that challenges you to a game. The stranger will always beat you (thus the confidence in forwarding the challenge) and is inevitably a ringer. Not knowing this until now, I accept the challenge from Ringo, the ringer from Indiana. Ringo is a twenty two year old guy with thick glasses who has been quietly and patiently watching us bumble our way through chess. He takes himself Very Seriously, not cracking a single joke or laughing at one of ours during our conversation.
He does, however, whip my ass in chess in minutes flat. We play another game and he whips my ass again. Ringo then demonstrates how he can whip my ass in only 5 moves. He asks if I want him to show me how he can whip my ass in only 4 moves. I decline — I’ve become bored with the game (especially since I’m on the losing end). I tell Ringo that we’re leaving. He pleads with me to stay for another game of chess. I call him a sick little masochist and we cruise.
We have dinner at de Prijns, a very cozy restaurant overlooking the Prinsengracht Canal. We enjoy a very tasty cheese fondue and a large bottle of excellent red wine. Although the spicy meal of gooey Edam and Gouda with bread was outstanding, the wine puts me over the top. I’d had enough libation and liberation for one day and was ready to crash.
Oh yeah, earlier in the day, we told a bartender that we were going to Heidelberg. He thought that this was in East Germany and told us to watch out for “Skinhead racists.” Urse thought he was saying “Skinhead races.” Now that would be interesting.
Urse and I have just boarded the ICE high-speed train to Cologne, Germany. From Cologne, we will transfer to Mannheim (home of the Steamrollers? Now that damn song’s going through my head) and onto our next destination, Heidelberg, Germany. I’m looking forward to our departure in just one minute. The ICE is a modern technological marvel, traveling up to 187 miles per hour!
We’ve taken off. This is one smooth ride! I imagine that we will be traveling even faster once we breach the Amsterdam city limits and hit the countryside.
After our night of restless “sleep” and serious jetlag, we stumbled out of our cramped room in the Hotel Acacia on Sunday in search of a “real” breakfast. Although there is a free breakfast buffet at the hotel, it typically consists of a variety of strange lunchmeats, strong odiferous moldy European cheeses and dry toast (Ursula likes to apply a strange chocolate spread to her toast, and has pocketed several packets to satisfy her sweet tooth throughout our travels). It’s Sunday and I want something a bit more substantial and less foreign.
We stumble out into the bleak morning street and have a nice English breakfast of eggs and toast at Barney's. By now, there is a steady stream of cold, misty rain. We are in our shorts (we feel like such the tourists!). Our legs are goose bumped and freezing. We decide to trek back to the Acacia to change into our jeans. Of course, once we arrive to our warm room, we crash hard and don’t wake up until 1:30 in the afternoon.
“Come on, let’s get out and about and try to get our freakin’ schedule back on track.” I urge Ursula. We decide to head toward the Prinsengracht Canal and follow it south to the Leidseplein. We are joined on this trek by hundreds of runners participating in the Amsterdam-Leidseplein race. Most are dressed in typical nylon runner’s shorts with tank tops or tees, but many are dressed in street clothes. At first, we think these casually dressed folks are merely joining the runners in a showing of sportsman solidarity, but the numbers pinned to their shirts give away the fact that they are actual race participants.
Our train is now passing through the Dutch countryside, just outside of Utrecht. There are vast, flat, open green meadows full of cows, sheep and horses. The horizon is spotted with old windmills and farmhouses. An idyllic setting!
Back to Sunday. We ended up at an outdoor café (De Saluun) in the Leidseplein sitting under an umbrella to protect us from the drizzly skies, drinking Heinekens and snacking on chicken satay. A man approaches with a violin case and stands in the center of the café. As he opens his case and pulls out his instrument, somehow I know that he is going to play the theme from “The Godfather.” He draws his bow over the strings, and sure enough…
We head up the street to find a place to get out of the increasingly heavy rain. The Rookies Coffeeshop looks inviting enough, so we step in to warm up. The Rookies is set up more as a bar than the typical coffeeshop. Behind the bar are taps and a variety of liquid libations. There is a jukebox playing good old American rock and roll. The two pool tables are in use by several groups of locals and tourists. Most of the tables are full of drinking and smoking patrons, also escaping the rain and making the best of an otherwise dreary Sunday afternoon. The coffeeshop is large and dim, just like a good, cozy bar should be.
We order a couple of Heinekens and decide to play some chess. Unfortunately, the chess set is missing several pieces. We improvise. Ursula’s lipstick becomes a queen. My cigarette lighter becomes a rook. Half a dozen more cigarettes become pawns. We stumble through several games in this makeshift fashion. As the beer pours and the atmosphere warms, we forget which piece is which and laugh out loud at our ingenuity.
Lesson Learned: Never play chess with a stranger that challenges you to a game. The stranger will always beat you (thus the confidence in forwarding the challenge) and is inevitably a ringer. Not knowing this until now, I accept the challenge from Ringo, the ringer from Indiana. Ringo is a twenty two year old guy with thick glasses who has been quietly and patiently watching us bumble our way through chess. He takes himself Very Seriously, not cracking a single joke or laughing at one of ours during our conversation.
He does, however, whip my ass in chess in minutes flat. We play another game and he whips my ass again. Ringo then demonstrates how he can whip my ass in only 5 moves. He asks if I want him to show me how he can whip my ass in only 4 moves. I decline — I’ve become bored with the game (especially since I’m on the losing end). I tell Ringo that we’re leaving. He pleads with me to stay for another game of chess. I call him a sick little masochist and we cruise.
We have dinner at de Prijns, a very cozy restaurant overlooking the Prinsengracht Canal. We enjoy a very tasty cheese fondue and a large bottle of excellent red wine. Although the spicy meal of gooey Edam and Gouda with bread was outstanding, the wine puts me over the top. I’d had enough libation and liberation for one day and was ready to crash.
Oh yeah, earlier in the day, we told a bartender that we were going to Heidelberg. He thought that this was in East Germany and told us to watch out for “Skinhead racists.” Urse thought he was saying “Skinhead races.” Now that would be interesting.
Tuesday, January 02, 2001
Florida 1989: For The Cause: Undercover with “The Florida Coalition of Peace and Justice”
I was living in Fort Lauderdale in 1989 when the space shuttle Enterprise was preparing for launch, carrying a deep-space probe (the “Galileo”)that was powered by several hundred pounds of refined plutonium. I read about this event in the Fort Lauderdale Sentinel and had a very strong reaction to the news, especially the editorial surrounding this event. There was a minor, although seemingly real, threat that if the shuttle were to somehow destruct in the atmosphere, the vessel’s lethal plutonium payload would fall to Earth and contaminate several thousand square miles of Southern Florida.
It was bad enough that I’d driven through burning Everglades that were caused by the urban sprawl of Southern Florida into the formerly WET lands, now I was expected to stand by and allow myself and my fellow Floridians to be rained down upon by nuclear fallout from space.
The paper reported that Cape Canaveral (still the correct name in 1989) had received phone calls from an activist group that threatened to mass hundreds of protestors at their gates the day the Discovery was to be launched. In addition, the group assured NASA that hundreds, if not thousands of its members and supporters planned on infiltrating government property and placing themselves at the launch pad in order to prevent liftoff.
The group’s name was “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice.” In my liberal-leaning 22-year old mind, they had a very cool name and a very ballsy position. I was immediately intrigued. There was no Justice in endangering hundreds of thousands of lives just to reach the outer limits of space in search of more resources for a greedy civilization to consume.
My outrage at this threat to humanity and the environment was raging strong in my chest. I knew that I had to make the four-hour drive from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando and join up with this “Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” and participate in their act of protest through civil disobedience.
I met my girlfriend Sherry at a gas station in Hollywood to inform her of my mission and see if she would join me (Her parents – in retrospect, correctly – viewed me as a transient and possibly dangerous influence on their daughter and forbade her to see me. So we were forced to meet in obscure places, like gas stations). I confronted Sherry with the wild-eyed idealism that I so self-righteously wore. I expressed my commitment and sense of injustice. I showed Sherry the newspaper article as well as the editorials. I expounded on the news and added my own leftist point-of-view. This was Very Important. This was Our Duty to Humanity. I think she was put-off by my overly serious presentation, and a little concerned about my mental facilities. She couldn’t join me on my overnight mission, primarily because of the consequences she’d face by simply being with me, but also because, well, okay, I think I scared the shit out of her that time.
I went home, threw some fresh undies, socks and toiletries in a duffle bag, and sped North in my Nissan Sentra to join the Rebel Forces in their battle against the Evil Empire. The drive up the 95 was uneventful. I listened to Neil Young’s “Harvest” (his song “Ohio” being the epoch of the fight against civil injustice) and smoked several nervous and frustrated cigarettes.
Finally, at around 11:00, I saw the first signs for Cape Canaveral and decided to drive around the perimeter fences looking for the hundreds of protestors that “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” had alleged. I figured that such a large protest would surely be visibly obvious – even at this late hour. I drove the fence from South to North. Nobody. I hung a right and drove the fence from West to East. Nothing. I followed the road back and traced the perimeter fence at the Southern point of the cape to the sea. Not a single protester in sight. And the shuttle was due to launch in two days!
Discouraged and beginning to feel a little stupid for willfully diving into an unknown situation, I stopped at a convenience store, picked up a six-pack, and checked into the Cape Canaveral “Motel 6” for the night. I was exhausted from the driving and passed out after only 2 or 3 beers.
I woke up and decided to call my Grandparents in Orlando to let them know that I was in the vicinity. My Grandma and Grandpa Koenig were very, very conservative farm people from the great Midwest. They were a little dismayed at the news that I was in town for a protest and possibly civil disobedience against the US Government. However, we hadn’t seen each other in about 5 years, and they invited me to come over that evening to go out for dinner…”But not if it interferes with your protest plans with your little friends, dear,” Grandma thoughtfully added.
I called Orlando information, and somehow got the address for “The Florida Coalition of Peace and Justice.” If this was such a covert operation, why was their number so readily available? This question further stirred my doubts in regard to their credibility as a legitimate left-wing organization, but did not deter me from my individual mission. Also, maybe too conveniently, the activists were located in a quaint mid-century neighborhood in downtown Orlando, a mere fifteen minutes from my grandparents’ house (not, to my disappointment, holed up in a shack somewhere in the middle of the Everglades writing their manifesto and stockpiling for The Revolution).
After a quick breakfast at Denny’s, I drove to the protest headquarters. They were in a small, white, single-story, unmarked building with a nice lawn, flowers and a white picket fence. I wasn’t quite sure that I had the right address. I got out of my car, walked up the driveway to the door, and was greeted by a Buddhist monk, bald and resplendent in orange and saffron robes. I greeted him with my typical, friendly “Hey, how’s it going?” He simply smiled, nodded and led me inside with a silent wave of his hand.
Inside, there were 5 disheveled thirty-five year old Grateful Dead burnouts gathered around a six-foot folding table. It was littered with newspapers, notebooks and overflowing ashtrays full of stale-smelling butts. There were Che Guevera and 60’s protest posters on the wall. There was (I kid you not) a 10-foot paper maché statue of George Bush Sr. in caricature style with a Pinnochio-like nose that stuck out 4 feet and even had a little paper-maché bird standing on the end of it.
The 5 immediately ceased their conversation and looked up from the table suspiciously at me. “Who are you?” a bearded man in a faded and stained t-shirt asked me.
In retrospect, I probably looked like an FBI plant to them – especially since they were probably high on their recently elevated status in the media. I was wearing torn jeans, sandals, an old grey tee and a bandana around my head “do-rag” style. It was true. I did look like I was trying too hard to look like a member of their tribe. But not because I was a Narc who wanted to infiltrate their ranks and drag them off to jail. I was just trying to look like a hippy, which I thought was way cool at the time and definitely a better look than the typical Ft. Lauderdale mullet.
I explained to them that I was interested in their cause and had come all the way down from Fort Lauderdale to join up with them. They mumbled something to each other, and all but two disappeared into the next room to discuss my possible identity and intentions.
Now I was beginning to feel VERY stupid. I had driven all night to join, what turned out to be, 5 disenfranchised ex-hippies who certainly didn’t have thousands or even hundreds of members and supporters ready to mass at Discovery’s launch pad. I looked back at the door and strongly considered cruising without saying goodbye. The Buddhist monk had taken a seat by the exit, and was writing something in a spiral pattern on some sort of an animal skin drum. He simply looked up at me and smiled, not saying a word.
Suddenly, the bearded man returned from the room, exploding onto the scene and exclaiming, “HA, HA, HA, HA…GOD DAMN! I just talked to the Orlando Sun. They actually BELIEVE that we’re going to have three thousand protestors at their gates tomorrow when the shuttle launches! Today’s headlines, baby…we’re making the news and shaking them up!”
“Wait a minute, you mean you AREN’T going to have three thousand protestors at the gate tomorrow?” I asked in slack-jawed dismay.
“No, man, no way. There’s fucking five of us here – six if you consider the silent Buddha over there.” He points at the monk, now finished with his drum artwork and smiling at us in a very blissful way. “Shit, I don’t even know if I’m goin’ myself. This shit’s not worth getting’ arrested over. By the way, WHO the fuck are you again?”
I introduce myself again, but this time without nearly as much enthusiasm. “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” is now a total sham in my eyes. Sure, they may be holding up the inevitable shuttle launch with their media scare tactics, but no one here really gives a shit enough to mobilize an actual protest – or even show up themselves. To me, they are just as bad as the government, feeding the media empty threats and unfulfilled promises to sway popular opinion and occurrence.
They continued to consider me with suspicion and a growing sense of paranoia. I begin to feel very uncomfortable and sense that they want me to Get The Fuck Out. I shrug and tell them “Well, I guess you don’t really need me, huh? Guess I’ll take off. Hey, can I get one of those t-shirts?” They have a great tee. It’s white with a simple black line drawing of the grim reaper and the space shuttle Discovery, a tail of deadly nuclear debris spilling from its payload down to Earth in the vicinity of Florida. It reads “No Plutonium in Space.” An Earth Mother with greasy, long brown hair and a pink mumu tells me the shirt’s eight dollars. I fish out a ten from my wallet and ask for change. “We don’t have change,” she informs me.
“Keep it.” I say, “For the cause.”
It was bad enough that I’d driven through burning Everglades that were caused by the urban sprawl of Southern Florida into the formerly WET lands, now I was expected to stand by and allow myself and my fellow Floridians to be rained down upon by nuclear fallout from space.
The paper reported that Cape Canaveral (still the correct name in 1989) had received phone calls from an activist group that threatened to mass hundreds of protestors at their gates the day the Discovery was to be launched. In addition, the group assured NASA that hundreds, if not thousands of its members and supporters planned on infiltrating government property and placing themselves at the launch pad in order to prevent liftoff.
The group’s name was “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice.” In my liberal-leaning 22-year old mind, they had a very cool name and a very ballsy position. I was immediately intrigued. There was no Justice in endangering hundreds of thousands of lives just to reach the outer limits of space in search of more resources for a greedy civilization to consume.
My outrage at this threat to humanity and the environment was raging strong in my chest. I knew that I had to make the four-hour drive from Fort Lauderdale to Orlando and join up with this “Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” and participate in their act of protest through civil disobedience.
I met my girlfriend Sherry at a gas station in Hollywood to inform her of my mission and see if she would join me (Her parents – in retrospect, correctly – viewed me as a transient and possibly dangerous influence on their daughter and forbade her to see me. So we were forced to meet in obscure places, like gas stations). I confronted Sherry with the wild-eyed idealism that I so self-righteously wore. I expressed my commitment and sense of injustice. I showed Sherry the newspaper article as well as the editorials. I expounded on the news and added my own leftist point-of-view. This was Very Important. This was Our Duty to Humanity. I think she was put-off by my overly serious presentation, and a little concerned about my mental facilities. She couldn’t join me on my overnight mission, primarily because of the consequences she’d face by simply being with me, but also because, well, okay, I think I scared the shit out of her that time.
I went home, threw some fresh undies, socks and toiletries in a duffle bag, and sped North in my Nissan Sentra to join the Rebel Forces in their battle against the Evil Empire. The drive up the 95 was uneventful. I listened to Neil Young’s “Harvest” (his song “Ohio” being the epoch of the fight against civil injustice) and smoked several nervous and frustrated cigarettes.
Finally, at around 11:00, I saw the first signs for Cape Canaveral and decided to drive around the perimeter fences looking for the hundreds of protestors that “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” had alleged. I figured that such a large protest would surely be visibly obvious – even at this late hour. I drove the fence from South to North. Nobody. I hung a right and drove the fence from West to East. Nothing. I followed the road back and traced the perimeter fence at the Southern point of the cape to the sea. Not a single protester in sight. And the shuttle was due to launch in two days!
Discouraged and beginning to feel a little stupid for willfully diving into an unknown situation, I stopped at a convenience store, picked up a six-pack, and checked into the Cape Canaveral “Motel 6” for the night. I was exhausted from the driving and passed out after only 2 or 3 beers.
I woke up and decided to call my Grandparents in Orlando to let them know that I was in the vicinity. My Grandma and Grandpa Koenig were very, very conservative farm people from the great Midwest. They were a little dismayed at the news that I was in town for a protest and possibly civil disobedience against the US Government. However, we hadn’t seen each other in about 5 years, and they invited me to come over that evening to go out for dinner…”But not if it interferes with your protest plans with your little friends, dear,” Grandma thoughtfully added.
I called Orlando information, and somehow got the address for “The Florida Coalition of Peace and Justice.” If this was such a covert operation, why was their number so readily available? This question further stirred my doubts in regard to their credibility as a legitimate left-wing organization, but did not deter me from my individual mission. Also, maybe too conveniently, the activists were located in a quaint mid-century neighborhood in downtown Orlando, a mere fifteen minutes from my grandparents’ house (not, to my disappointment, holed up in a shack somewhere in the middle of the Everglades writing their manifesto and stockpiling for The Revolution).
After a quick breakfast at Denny’s, I drove to the protest headquarters. They were in a small, white, single-story, unmarked building with a nice lawn, flowers and a white picket fence. I wasn’t quite sure that I had the right address. I got out of my car, walked up the driveway to the door, and was greeted by a Buddhist monk, bald and resplendent in orange and saffron robes. I greeted him with my typical, friendly “Hey, how’s it going?” He simply smiled, nodded and led me inside with a silent wave of his hand.
Inside, there were 5 disheveled thirty-five year old Grateful Dead burnouts gathered around a six-foot folding table. It was littered with newspapers, notebooks and overflowing ashtrays full of stale-smelling butts. There were Che Guevera and 60’s protest posters on the wall. There was (I kid you not) a 10-foot paper maché statue of George Bush Sr. in caricature style with a Pinnochio-like nose that stuck out 4 feet and even had a little paper-maché bird standing on the end of it.
The 5 immediately ceased their conversation and looked up from the table suspiciously at me. “Who are you?” a bearded man in a faded and stained t-shirt asked me.
In retrospect, I probably looked like an FBI plant to them – especially since they were probably high on their recently elevated status in the media. I was wearing torn jeans, sandals, an old grey tee and a bandana around my head “do-rag” style. It was true. I did look like I was trying too hard to look like a member of their tribe. But not because I was a Narc who wanted to infiltrate their ranks and drag them off to jail. I was just trying to look like a hippy, which I thought was way cool at the time and definitely a better look than the typical Ft. Lauderdale mullet.
I explained to them that I was interested in their cause and had come all the way down from Fort Lauderdale to join up with them. They mumbled something to each other, and all but two disappeared into the next room to discuss my possible identity and intentions.
Now I was beginning to feel VERY stupid. I had driven all night to join, what turned out to be, 5 disenfranchised ex-hippies who certainly didn’t have thousands or even hundreds of members and supporters ready to mass at Discovery’s launch pad. I looked back at the door and strongly considered cruising without saying goodbye. The Buddhist monk had taken a seat by the exit, and was writing something in a spiral pattern on some sort of an animal skin drum. He simply looked up at me and smiled, not saying a word.
Suddenly, the bearded man returned from the room, exploding onto the scene and exclaiming, “HA, HA, HA, HA…GOD DAMN! I just talked to the Orlando Sun. They actually BELIEVE that we’re going to have three thousand protestors at their gates tomorrow when the shuttle launches! Today’s headlines, baby…we’re making the news and shaking them up!”
“Wait a minute, you mean you AREN’T going to have three thousand protestors at the gate tomorrow?” I asked in slack-jawed dismay.
“No, man, no way. There’s fucking five of us here – six if you consider the silent Buddha over there.” He points at the monk, now finished with his drum artwork and smiling at us in a very blissful way. “Shit, I don’t even know if I’m goin’ myself. This shit’s not worth getting’ arrested over. By the way, WHO the fuck are you again?”
I introduce myself again, but this time without nearly as much enthusiasm. “The Florida Coalition for Peace and Justice” is now a total sham in my eyes. Sure, they may be holding up the inevitable shuttle launch with their media scare tactics, but no one here really gives a shit enough to mobilize an actual protest – or even show up themselves. To me, they are just as bad as the government, feeding the media empty threats and unfulfilled promises to sway popular opinion and occurrence.
They continued to consider me with suspicion and a growing sense of paranoia. I begin to feel very uncomfortable and sense that they want me to Get The Fuck Out. I shrug and tell them “Well, I guess you don’t really need me, huh? Guess I’ll take off. Hey, can I get one of those t-shirts?” They have a great tee. It’s white with a simple black line drawing of the grim reaper and the space shuttle Discovery, a tail of deadly nuclear debris spilling from its payload down to Earth in the vicinity of Florida. It reads “No Plutonium in Space.” An Earth Mother with greasy, long brown hair and a pink mumu tells me the shirt’s eight dollars. I fish out a ten from my wallet and ask for change. “We don’t have change,” she informs me.
“Keep it.” I say, “For the cause.”
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