=3=

Guadalajara had ended on such a positive note (see previous posts for undeniable evidence to this effect), that in a small way, I felt a little sad about splitting town for the much sleepier Unesco World Heritage city of Guanajuato.  Still, we’d been given every indication that "GTO”, as it’s known (all the Mexican cities/towns we’ve visited thus far have had this abbreviated sort of nickname, though I can’t imagine Pontiac [are they still even alive?] would have a beef with any others), was a can’t-miss Mexican must-see and we dared not defy all those well-intentioned hyphenations.

Immediately upon our arrival to the town center, we were smitten.  It reminded me of the Italian Riviera, with wildly colored homes dotting the slopes of the surrounding mini-mountain range, later spilling out into the nestled valley of red roofs, church steeples and dappled clotheslines.  It didn’t hurt either when the cabbie pointed out the local baseball team’s stadium, though I was bummed to later learn we’d only just missed the ending of the Mineros’ (Miners) season.  Maybe next year, boys…

We’d arranged for lodging in the closest thing to a hostel we’d experienced, and though its brother owners were most helpful and kind, and the place itself— described in our Lonely Planet as “a labyrinth of various sized rooms”— certainly lived up to its billing, our matrimonial bunk bed (that’s what they call a queenish-sized bed around here, evidently) underwhelmed in the sort of way that made these weary travelers not look forward to sleep for once.  What’s more, the way sound carried in that place was freaking ridiculous.  I suppose it didn’t help that our first morning there coincided with a parade commemorating the 100th anniversary of the first victory in Mexico’s war for independence (from Spain; read Sally’s post mentioning El Pípila for the scoop) complete with an endless drum-heavy marching band, jets, helicopters (I swear I heard both jets and helicopters), bullhorns plus the next door neighbor’s frigging rooster collection who’d been on the job since dawn.  By the time we got out of bed and down to the street to find out what had been going on, all that was left was pastel confetti and horseshit.  Must’ve been a good party.

Guanajuato was sights- and activities-rich, and we were good little tourists during our time there.  One “highlight” was the Mómias Museum, where, when the local cemetery had gotten too full, bodies that were excavated to make room for the new were found to be highly preserved by the high lime and calcium concentrations in the soil.  Bodies that went unclaimed by relatives (yes, babies included :\) were turned into part of an attraction, really, complete with weird first-person blurbs accompanying each mummy speculating as to how they’d died or who they’d been in life.  We’d been warned a sense of humor would be necessary, but I still left this place feeling unsettled and a little pukey.

  I don't suppose a little extra barf would've bothered him.

Another less, well, disgusting site of interest was the Bocamina San Ramón, where Sally and I descended over 60 meters into the metal-rich earth for which the area has been well-known since the mid-1500s.  Besides the dorky, über-posed photos our tour guide made us take (and I mean he instructed us as to what to do to. the. letter.— it felt more than a little bit voyeuristic), the best bit had to be when, upon reaching the deepest point of the tour, homeboy shut the lights out(!).  To prove a point, he flicked on a little lighter and demonstrated how early miners had to go about searching for their target (though for accuracy’s sake, I don’t think Bic Corp. really got up and running until at least the 18th century…).

Sííí, that's just right... *click*

Despite these and a number of other worthy and interesting cultural attractions, I think our favorite part of our time there had everything to do with a couple of no-good rotten bums we met from (now think Anchorman here:) Sahn Di-ah-go (Hola Veronica y Chris!).  We met them one evening on the terrace at Casa Bertha (if this place had one thing right, it was the view from the terrace), having brought home our first take-out pizza of the trip.  They offered beers; we surplus ‘za, and the friend fest was on. 

You see, Veronica had this habit of making these really delicious breakfasts and, for some reason, inviting us to join!  So each morning we’d look forward to getting up, getting out of our bed, and heading up to the terrace where these two would have the spread on: two (2) different kinds of juice, fresh-brewed Chiapas coffee, yummy guavas and the makings of another lovely meal.  These events would usually take a couple of our best-spent hours of the day, which we filled up listening to and talking about music (Sally’s best idea in the packing portion of our trip was to bring her little iPod speakers— true brilliance in foresight), discussing baseball, the many merits of living in California (but also the quality of the Midwest [Chris was from St. Louis and knows the deal]!), philosophies on life and living, and projections for how we all might live and work someday in Mexico.  These guys introduced us to probably the best burgers we’ve had in Mexico (if only we knew what was in that carrot/cactus topping or whatever— wait!— maybe that was it!), eggs so fresh you could still smell the chicken’s ass (evidently), and about as nice of a time as we could’ve imagined having in GTO.  Of course, these all-too-brief traveling relationships always seem to end too soon, but this one was a goodie, and I’m hopeful we’ll meet again— perhaps even back in ol’ Mexico. 

When we split town for San Miguel de Allende (more magical stories to follow there, fo’ sho’), we had drinks in the town square and arranged to meet up in a few days in SMA (again, another nickname and another story to follow…).  It was sad to split, but when I think and talk of Guanajuato, I’ll think of us and them.

Salud, dudes!

Guanajuato

Guanajuato is a city that everyone should visit.  To see it is to realize a whole new world has cracked open before you.  The weather is perfect, the architecture causes you to gaze, and the steep roads lead you to imagine that anything could lie in wait at the top of the next hill.  And just when you think you have experienced it all, its history and beauty pick you up and then plop you back down somewhere else that you didn’t even know you wanted to be. 

At times, the city feels a bit claustrophobic because everything is so compact, but this simply adds to its charm.  There are two major roadways and a bunch of narrow alleys, but most of the traffic runs on a series of over sixty underground tunnels.  Plazas are decorated with statues to pay homage to the likes of Diego Rivera, Cervantes, Don Quixote, and a myriad of other Guanajuatan revolutionaries.  Mounted on the highest hill is Pipila, the man responsible for securing Guanajuato’s first victory towards independence.  As the story goes, he strapped a stone slab on his back like a bulletproof vest and then set the doors of the of Alhondiga (a large grain bin-like structure) gates ablaze.  Thus, the holed up Spanish army was forced from its fortress and was easily taken over by the revolutionary forces.

Mexicans were first attracted to this city for its rich resources of silver and gold, but today you should visit it to see rows of red-roofed houses and kids playing soccer in the plaza shouting challenges and insults at one another. People raised in this city must weep when they leave and discover the dismal sprawl of the rest of the world.   I can’t blame them.  The imagery of this town makes me want to be only here.

In case you still aren’t convinced, Guanajuato has this amazing roadside hamburger stand that only sets up shop in the evenings.  The line is long, but the hamburgers are spicy and savory and topped with some sort of pickled carrot and pepper deliciousness that has had me scouring the internet to find the recipe for the greater part of a baseball game.

So, skip the beaches and head straight to Guanajuato.  Its colonial charisma is one of a kind.

Guadalarja (September 22-25)*

*Sally has asked me to provide my thoughts alongside this entry, and I sort of look at it as an opportunity to do this cool sort of Joe Posnaski-thing with it, so I agreed.  Plus, I get to stick up for myself paragraph for paragraph, and it seems like a good time to try and put a poll up to see which one of us is the biggest jerk (hint: spelled A-N-D-E-R-S).  Here goes…

Traveling with Anders is akin to coloring inside the lines of a coloring book— each stroke exact and purposefully executed.  Relying heavily on our Lonely Planet guidebook, he studies the map of each new city, finds the hot spots to visit, and then takes plenty of photographs so he can get just the one he is after. I’m annoyed at times with having to find the ideal eatery after a long day of walking, but remind myself that there are two travelers here and not just me.

This frogging ingrate sure has a way of exaggerating things— especially with the photo-taking mania— so I’ll give her that.

Here’s a prime example: Anders main quest in Guadalajara was to find the perfect surge protector.  The People’s Guide to Mexico strongly suggested this purchase, and he took their advice and ran with it.  I, on the other hand, was eager to walk amid layer upon layer of metropolitan people and sights in Guadalajara and then rest at a café and people watch.  Trekking around for days to electronic stores was not my ideal, but four days later with a great deal of patience and deliberation we were able to locate what Anders refers to as “the jewel of the fucking Nile of surge protectors.”

Damn tootin’: ooooohhh... aaahh...

Day one: We decided to compromise our agendas.  Whenever we walked by a store that might carry electronics we would dip in and see if they had what we were after.  It seemed the perfect balance. Unfortunately, the stores that line the sidewalks of Mexico are filled with such a jumble of items that it was hard to know which store to enter.  Eventually, we stumbled upon some sort of electronic Mecca with story after story of electronics, but each surge protector we found was either too large or too expensive.

Despite my limited knowledge of thangs muslim, it seems a sacrilege (am I already outed?) to refer to a joint that didn’t have what I wanted as “Mecca,” but that’s just a-‘ligious me…   
 
Day two: Already tired of the pavement and in need of something green, we chose to visit Parque Agua Azul.  During the bus ride to what Anders referred to as Guadalajara’s Central Park, we spied a Wal-Mart and gave in to its enticing promise of unbeatable prices.  Although the surge protectors were cheaper, Anders was not convinced (as only he can be) so we headed out to the street vendors to see what we could find.  Street after street we searched, Anders never tiring and me lagging along behind.  When none of the stores had exactly what he wanted, he decided to give the Internet a try.  He performed a lengthy search for the perfect Mac travel surge protectors in Mexico, how much joule protection was necessary, and if surge protectors were necessary at all.  Eventually, he discovered the surge protectors of all surge protectors (the aforementioned “jewel of the fucking Nile”).  Its slim body caught his eye, and he was ready to get his hands on it, but first he had to continue his search to see which stores carried it in Mexico.

In fairness, I’d intended to do the web research before bothering to check all of these stores out, but trying to keep my baby happy is already a full-time job.  Did you catch those sweet little USB chargers?!?  Oh, and Wuck Mal-Fart.

Day three: Apparently, the only store that carried our surge protector was Office Depot.  It seemed a long shot to me, but he did not waiver.  We had already made plans to head to tequila country for the day, so the hunt was put on hold momentarily while we sipped the drink of the gods during our tour of Jose Cuervo.  With alcohol pumping through our veins (making us believe we could accomplish anything), we were off to find a friend at an undisclosed locale to take in the Jalisco Symphony Orchestra performance.  And that is when it came like a shining beacon casting its light all over us.  Far in the distance was an Office Depot sign.  This luck seemed impossible in a metro area of six million plus, so I was ready to abandon our plans and go buy the surge protector immediately.  Anders, however, decided we would come back the following day.

As I recall, I was purely an advocate of coming back later, what with the awesome-if-unlikely, free opportunity and all.  Sally did spot the sign though ;).

Day four: Off to Office Depot we went.  Keep in mind that we had no idea if this particular Office Depot carried our product of choice, but that did not matter, we were going there anyway. And that is what we did.  We figured out our bus route and then went about our business.  And the miracle is, they carried his precious Belkin surge protector.  Purchase in hand, we walked away triumphant— to a Starbucks.

This, despite the ‘net being down at Starbucks, was a great day and great moment in our vidas mexicanas… 

The journey was long, but the familiarity of corporate America somehow gave us a little taste of home that we both needed.  And now when we plug that computer into the outlet there is no hesitation because we are protected.  It is interesting how you can get so far away from home and yet always come back to it somehow.

And it’s a good thing too, ‘cos I’d be heartbroken if I couldn’t catch the MLB postseason on my sure-to-be-safe-‘n-charged lappy, baby!  Also, to be kept in mind: during those four awful, arduous days, we didn’t have shit else to do ;).

Does this look like a jerk to you?  ROCK THE VOTE!

=2=

The bus ride into GDL was mostly notable for its terrain, where the myriad blues of the Pacific were replaced in similar proportion by the spiny leaves of the blue agave (more on those boys in a bit). We arrived into the bus station and cabbed it to our slightly less regal accommodations, only to discover that our confirmed reservation was never actually taken down. Delightful. Still, the desk clerk very kindly assisted us in finding a nearby posada (an inn, really; in an old converted home) where I caught my first Spanish Monday Night Football (which I’m not too proud to mention on this blog here, evidently) and we still laughed, smiled and joked about how crappy the place was.

We were able to secure better lodging— cheaper and with a second floor balcony— the following day, and it’s been from here we’ve day-tripped, walked, walked, and even started this blog(!). Food has been wonderful here, and though I’ve discovered that I, in fact, cannot eat Mexican food for every meal, we’ve sampled tortas ahogadas (literally “drowned sandwiches” made to die in a pool of yummy salsa), Mexican Chinese food (twice!), steamed lamb tacos (¡super ricos!), diner food and two-for-one alkie drinkies at a hip sandwich/café/bar spot. That last spot, though great and also deserving of a second visit, seems to be responsible for our first proper sick day here in Mexico, with Sally going down hard in the night and spending most of the next day catching up on the sleep she never got. She’s been a full-on trooper and I anticipate her full recovery in a day or so’s time.

 Themz ladies get things done in the kitchen.

But it hasn’t all been doom and gloom! In fact, last Thursday, the day of our one-week anniversary here, was easily one of my favorites to date. We set out a bit earlier to catch a local bus to Tequila, Jalisco, Mexico (I realize at this point you’re aware we’re in Mexico, but wanted to make sure that one and all understood that Tequila is, like Goehner, say, an actual town in a state in a country— so be advised!): a two-hour sojourn that hardly had us feeling like it was worth the bus ride’s physical discomfort upon arrival, but, as with lunch, our words we’d soon be eating (LAME!) ;).

These boyz get things drunk the world over.

You see, José Cuervo isn’t actually such a bad guy, and is credited with producing the first publicly-available tequila to the masses. I know many of us appreciate the temporary superpowers it unfailingly provides, and so we decided to go for a sort of “when in Rome/what the hay” tour of its original factory and facilities. It turned out this time— perhaps despite the involvement of tequila— that was a good idea. We were the only people taking the 3pm English tour, and by the end of the hour-and-a-half event (mucho tequila [sorta] gratis was involved, mind you) we’d befriended our tour guide, Mark, who was kind enough to offer to drive us back to town. Of course we accepted, and after some fine rooftop chatting and sipping (this guy was really great and knew a ton about a ton of stuff— seriously), he directed us to a nearby university where we’d mostly been invited to attend a free performance of the Jaliscan Symphony Orchestra by a friend of a friend of Sally’s (I say mostly because we didn’t officially know where it was even taking place, but with some e-sleuthing c/o the ‘net…). Somehow we pulled the thing off, and for unexpectable moments like these— like that entire day, really— I was, am and will always be truly grateful. After the beautiful performance (tell that to the two husbands sitting in front of us who’d obviously not come of their own volition) we escaped a sudden rainy season thunderstorm at a local open-air taco stand with our new friend Aimee. Tacos were composed, disposed of, and a cab was hailed. I couldn’t believe we’d had a day/night like that only one week in. Here’s to many more to come!

For luck (that's pre-tour, by the by). ;)

P. Vallarta

Mexico. The land that was merely an idea is now staring us in the face. Our four a.m. departure and slight hangovers provided a rough start to our travels, but the ocean view from the taxi window in Vallarta helped put things back into perspective. Life has in its way grown life-sized, providing us with new things to see and do each day, and afternoon rains that rearrange our plans and relieve our guilt of napping and reading. And yet somehow, it becomes easy to forget where we are, and we must remind ourselves to look up at the ocean waving its arms in welcome, reminding us we have arrived in Mexico.

Travel is different this time, because instead of seeing new places and taking pictures as an observer, I must ask the question, can this be home? Part of this is freeing, wondering how I will create and define home here, but somewhere else there is a desire to return back to the home I knew. For now, I push away my uncertainties for the gift of time, and focus on my daily to-do list: wake up with the sun, order food, wander until tired, sit in a plaza and people watch, and then learn a few more Spanish words to enhance my limited vocabulary. These activities make up my day, and are what I call home for now. Anders is also home and without knowing it directly, we create a new definition together as we walk the uneven streets and sit on uncomfortable bus rides to new places.

We are unsure where our journey will end, but the impulse to find a place to settle and live amongst a new culture compels us to keep looking and planning and dreaming. Mexico is like an art museum. We circulate its rooms taking in new colors, figures, and settings, and then mash them all together to create a new impression of life where we are inspired and frustrated, but pleased at what we have experienced.


Favorite moments in Puerto Vallarta:

• Swimming in the rainwater pool at our bed and breakfast. This was the only thing that made the intense heat okay.
• Setting the alarm so we would not miss Rita Love’s exquisite breakfasts
• Discovering beaches outside of Vallarta
• Drinking cervesas with every meal and during our afternoon breaks
• Successfully taking buses on day trips and to Guadalajara
• Getting caught in a rainstorm with the rain up to our ankles and then falling asleep to the lightning and thunder
• Hiking to the waterfall in Yelapa with our eight year old tour guide Yuni

=1=

It’s hard to confine this experience into a Word doc.  Really, it seems kind of silly to me that this is how some great pieces of literature have gotten started— not to suggest this trave(b)logue advertently aspires to become one— but it’s true.

The night before we left was really quite lovely.  Some of our siblings came out and saw us off in style with a couple of hours at a West Lincoln bar food/pub spot that replaced a lesser bar food/pub spot where Sally and I actually had a little bit of history.  Of course the trade-off was a wrenching hangover the next day pour moi that I like to think was largely born of very little sleep— not the $25 shots of whiskey.

Though Houston was too stingy to cough up free access to our beloved intertubes, it was of little matter what with my recently-purchased four-disc Big Star anthology set and lovely, beautiful baby beside me (I don’t worry when my baby’s beside me all I know…).  Having experienced something like this before I knew that soon the comfortable expectancy of English-speaking crowds and flight attendants would give way to a much more alien condition; in this case, the largely Spanish-speaking hustle and bustle of the Puerto Vallarta (that’s Mexico, y’all) International Airport.  Fortunately, after some still-born transportation negotiations, that ol’ lost luggage feeling and a slightly overpriced taxi ride, we were calmly pressing cold, lemony towels to our faces and getting the dish on what to expect at the dreamy B&B, la Casa Amorita.

That's Maya and Huevos Divorciados junto con my baby.

I like to think that we fell in love with the place almost immediately, as over the course of the few Rey Peterson-sponsored days we were there (thanks, Daddy-o), la Casa was a refuge and place of great pleasure and leisure: a truly perfect place to begin the journey. 

Despite the oppressive humidity of the place, we explored the cobblestone streets of the town, walked its long maleceón and bits of its beaches, and wined (well, “cocktailed”) and dined at both high-end and bargain-priced restaurants and bars.  We were briefly entertained by a young Kansan exchange student and I practiced my Spanish on otherwise bothersome panderers and street vendors.  No voyage into town was complete without a long dip in our rain-watered pool upon our return (the pool wall tile appeared to holler “PIG PIG PIG”!), and breakfasts at la Casa were worth setting the alarm on vacation for.

Indigenous design aesthetic my ass.

All told, we had our successes and (very) minor failures, but after a couple of day trips and just enough luxury, we were ready for some crappy, dubbed, bus-ride movies (I couldn’t have enjoyed Beverly Hills Chihuahua if it weren’t on a bus and in Spanish, but on a bus and in Spanish, I almost cried) on our way to GDL: Guadalajara (about six more a’s in that word and I think they might be onto something :\).

ARP