I drank too much Sol yesterday and didn't get around to part two. I just got to Guadalajara, but wrote this on the bus ride down. Down? Over? Over. Here's a map of Mexico if you want to connect the dots: http://www.lonelyplanet.com/maps/north-america/mexico/
PUERTO VALLARTA, Mexico - The actress Roby Packer dug into her deep Hollywood pockets and paid for us to get a room at the Hotel Suites Nadia (http://www.hotelsuitesnadia.com/) for five nights. She was tired of my insistence on staying at hostels, and I can't blame her. This is her vacation, she has a job to go back to, she deserves what she can afford, and I'm the moocher who helped her live it up. It's a different story for me, I seem to remember now that I quit my job two months ago, and that's why the comfiest living I'll have on this whole adventure was in this city.
And that went a long way in my enjoyment of this place, but I also found something to like in the streets, in the restaurants and out on the water in the Liza, the private 20-foot boat we rented Saturday. I think it was roughly $90 US to take it out for four hours. We went south along the rim of the Bahia de Banderas to Los Arcos (http://www.vivanatura.org/BanderasBayPhotosPh1.html), some beautiful rock formations/islands with natural arcs under them. They make for great snorkeling, and the bread our captain Ramone was throwing out to the fish would bring nearly a hundred angel fish up to the surface at a time. They would look me right in the face, appear to cock their heads in confusion, then go about snatching up bread crumbs. Small, slender fish with red, gold and black stripes swam in place near the rock walls all shouting "Hello! Hello! Hello!" in their fish language.
After that we hung out at Las Animas, a beach that's far kinder than Playa Camarones, near our hotel, where rough last-second waves come at visitors and pound them out of nowhere when they walk into the surf. I almost died on my first day in Vallarta, not even knee-deep in the water, but that doesn't matter. "We survived!" I once shouted at Moze, a fellow writer, when we were running back into the Gulf of Mexico like mad one night moments after running out of the sea because sharks bit us. I would like to think it was our optimism that instantaneously healed those tooth marks we never saw in the light.
We headed even further out almost to the mouth of the bay where it meets the Pacific and snorkeled some more in a rocky little spot with no one else around. This was maybe 15 or 20 feet deep, and I put the snorkel aside and just dove down again and again with my mask on looking at the bottom feeders scurrying in between the rocks. Roby said I looked like a little boy out there having fun. I wanted to pluck a stone from the bottom to bring back with me but none of them really stuck out. The last thing I saw underwater was looking back at a school of angelfish trailing my toes. I got back in the boat, and thunder rolled over the mountains.
It rained the whole boat ride back, but it really didn't matter. Our excursion beat out the one had by the two-story boats that meandered by us kicking out smoke, the 200 or so passengers all waiting in line for another water taxi to take them to shore. This is the benefit of having the courage to walk up to a line of seemingly shady water taxistas, haggle over prices and come to a good deal on your own boat.
The only friends we made in Vallarta were the hotel staff and the crazed gringos who bought some of the condo rooms there. One was crazed in a good way, a woman in her 50s from Las Vegas who was married back in the States, had a gay best friend in Vallarta and loved to socialize and thought everyone should do what makes them happy. The other was, well, he whistled at all the hotel staffers (who were very nice and considerate and personable with us) and laughed incessantly with the kind of cackle I could only imitate with a mouthful of beer and fried shrimp. "It's Mexico. It's OK to whistle. Ramone? Can I get a drink dude? Ramone, this pool is cold. Ramone, turn the heat up buddy. Ramone?!?!" Fuck you buddy.
The eats were hit or miss, but at least the service was good everywhere we went. I would recommend Las Palomas on the boardwalk if you're down there. Melted cheese with chorizo and steamed flour tortillas, where have you been all my worthless life?
I thought this entry would be a little more poignant, but oh well. A little more than two weeks ago Roby flew from Dallas to Houston to meet me and take a 15-hour Greyhound bus ride to Monterrey. We then rode nine hours to Zacatecas, and another 13 from there to Mazatlan, and another nine from Mazatlan to Vallarta. Roby's flight from Vallarta to Dallas today lasted three and a half hours.
And I keep on getting farther away. Now I'm on my own, with no familiar face to greet me until Granada, where my roommate, hopefully, will be waiting.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Vallarta, part 1: Lost in the Supermarket
PUERTO VALLARTA, Mexico – I was hesitant about coming here, because towns with reputations that precede them as being incredibly touristy really turn me off. One touristy beach town is hardly different from the other, especially in Latin America. I only added Vallarta to the itinerary because this is where Roby could get the cheapest flight home. The city has proven itself much more versatile than I was expecting, I've actually had a great time, but part of the culture here has still fallen victim to the power of the tourism industry.
The goals of businesses in most touristy towns I’ve been to in Latin America all stress homogenization, whether they realize it or not. Each restaurant owner, hotelier, water taxi captain and artisan is greedy for as much business he or she can get, and whichever has the most success gets imitated to the fullest extent. It’s been four-ish days since we got to Puerto Vallarta, and Roby now knows what I’m talking about.
The culture of the small merchants here is strikingly different from what we encountered in Monterrey, Zacatecas and Mazatlan, and no place is a better example of it than the Mercado de Artesanias here. It has 300 stores and 100 items, with everyone jumping on you as soon as you walk past their section in the merchandise maze. A college-aged, drunk, shirtless Mexican greeted us as we got out of the cab and gargled something about his large T-shirt selection. Business was bad that day. He could cut us a deal. A lot of the shirts were in English, with such endearing statements as “It ain’t a beer gut, it’s an engine fer a sex MACHINE!” and “FBI: Fuckin Boobie Intelligence,” or something like that. The last guy who bought that shirt was probably right up the street that moment getting a pair of breasts tattooed on his calf to show his diligence to the cause, all smiles while his buddy bought an 80-dollar skull and dragon bong up front for “almost free.”
“Almost free.” Once we got away from the first guy, those would be the last two words we heard from anyone chasing us down the aisles as we tried getting away from the merchant cabal. “You want to buy something amigo? How many you like? This one have beads. We have the turtle. Almost free!” I could not stand still and just look in peace, like I am accustomed to doing in Mexico. It’s like the merchants in other cities had treated me almost like family compared to the pack of hyenas they had running wild in this market. And I’ll go ahead and say that calling them hyenas is harsh, because they’re just trying to make a living.
And I appreciate that in Mexico people understand they have to work if they want to make money. Unfortunately for the salesmen in this market, I met a lot of good salesmen on my way here who knew that having Zen-like patience and never letting their want for money get the best of their human side are the best ways to do business. I only call those here hyenas because I felt like injured prey trying to find my way out of that market.
The artisans and merchants aren’t the only ones. Every taxi honks at you; every restaurant has someone in the street to drag you in; you can’t talk to a water taxista without three others trying to distract you; and on some isolated beaches here you will think you’ve found peace, lay your head back and close your eyes, only to hear someone in the darkness say, “Senor, bracelet, almost free!" then "Take a picture with iguana almost free?"
But there’s a reason this is a two-part post about Vallarta. I’m getting the bad things out of the way, because this is easy, because few things inspire me to write as prolifically as my occasionally poor attitude, and because it’s bad form to not end on a good note when you’ve had a genuinely good experience somewhere. I’m going to drink another cerveza (Sol, to be exact), go for a dip and get on later to tell you about how Vallarta won me over.
The goals of businesses in most touristy towns I’ve been to in Latin America all stress homogenization, whether they realize it or not. Each restaurant owner, hotelier, water taxi captain and artisan is greedy for as much business he or she can get, and whichever has the most success gets imitated to the fullest extent. It’s been four-ish days since we got to Puerto Vallarta, and Roby now knows what I’m talking about.
The culture of the small merchants here is strikingly different from what we encountered in Monterrey, Zacatecas and Mazatlan, and no place is a better example of it than the Mercado de Artesanias here. It has 300 stores and 100 items, with everyone jumping on you as soon as you walk past their section in the merchandise maze. A college-aged, drunk, shirtless Mexican greeted us as we got out of the cab and gargled something about his large T-shirt selection. Business was bad that day. He could cut us a deal. A lot of the shirts were in English, with such endearing statements as “It ain’t a beer gut, it’s an engine fer a sex MACHINE!” and “FBI: Fuckin Boobie Intelligence,” or something like that. The last guy who bought that shirt was probably right up the street that moment getting a pair of breasts tattooed on his calf to show his diligence to the cause, all smiles while his buddy bought an 80-dollar skull and dragon bong up front for “almost free.”
“Almost free.” Once we got away from the first guy, those would be the last two words we heard from anyone chasing us down the aisles as we tried getting away from the merchant cabal. “You want to buy something amigo? How many you like? This one have beads. We have the turtle. Almost free!” I could not stand still and just look in peace, like I am accustomed to doing in Mexico. It’s like the merchants in other cities had treated me almost like family compared to the pack of hyenas they had running wild in this market. And I’ll go ahead and say that calling them hyenas is harsh, because they’re just trying to make a living.
And I appreciate that in Mexico people understand they have to work if they want to make money. Unfortunately for the salesmen in this market, I met a lot of good salesmen on my way here who knew that having Zen-like patience and never letting their want for money get the best of their human side are the best ways to do business. I only call those here hyenas because I felt like injured prey trying to find my way out of that market.
The artisans and merchants aren’t the only ones. Every taxi honks at you; every restaurant has someone in the street to drag you in; you can’t talk to a water taxista without three others trying to distract you; and on some isolated beaches here you will think you’ve found peace, lay your head back and close your eyes, only to hear someone in the darkness say, “Senor, bracelet, almost free!" then "Take a picture with iguana almost free?"
But there’s a reason this is a two-part post about Vallarta. I’m getting the bad things out of the way, because this is easy, because few things inspire me to write as prolifically as my occasionally poor attitude, and because it’s bad form to not end on a good note when you’ve had a genuinely good experience somewhere. I’m going to drink another cerveza (Sol, to be exact), go for a dip and get on later to tell you about how Vallarta won me over.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
John Wayne was here, but they didn't name the airport after him
MAZATLAN, Mexico – No sooner did things seem to be going perfectly than Roby and myself both came down with Montezuma’s revenge. We have spent about as much time in the bathroom here as we have swimming in the ocean, but today I think we’re both healthy enough for the bus ride to Puerto Vallarta.
At least Pierre had fun in the city, though he was almost murdered by a Mexican boogie board gang on Monday.
It is beautiful here, however dated the H.R. Puffinstuff-inspired art on the Olas Altas promenade may seem. In Old Mazatlan where we’re staying (haven’t even bothered to check out the more modern-looking part of town), it’s a dirty beach town that passed its heyday, but it’s clearly gone through a revitalization in the last 10 years and is on the upswing. Maybe five blocks away from the beach is the Plazuela Machado, which comes alive at night with Christmas lights decorating the park in the center and live acoustic music pouring out of fancy restaurants. We walked down one side of the little park before dinner and smiled at a peanut vendor in his 50s, sleeping sitting up on a bench. After dinner, my last meal before Montezuma snuck up on me, we walked the other side of the park, and saw the same peanut vendor sleeping on the bench opposite from his first spot.
The people here are just as nice as those we’ve met anywhere else in Mexico, and the retired gringos who pop up at outdoor cafes along the beach are also eager to get to know you. But the friendliness of the people in Latin America is something I am already familiar with, and one of the reasons I keep coming back.
I was reluctant to shower at all here in my weakened state, and when I have showered it’s taken only about an hour to sweat myself back into a hot mess. All of my clothes are dirty, and I haven’t shaved in weeks at this point, and the hair on my head is standing like a rooster’s. I am the towering spectacle of that which is rude, dirty and presumably rich gringo. I decided the other night though that when I put my glasses on I go from beach bum to beach scientist and have been wearing them around ever since.
We head for the bus station in less than two hours, and I have to put everything up in my bag again. For those who don’t know, I am making this 4-, 5-, 6-month trip with one 70-liter hiking pack (thanks to former REI employee Adi Nevo for picking it out) and then a regular Jansport school backpack. It holds just what I need to get by with room to spare, so long as each time I re-pack I do so just as meticulously as when I was loading it up back home in Spanish Fort.
I’ve taken a lot of pictures and I know this blog would be more interesting with some art, but my camera won’t work with a MacBook. I will make some picture posts as soon as I get the motivation to find a PC, I promise.
Hasta la vista.
At least Pierre had fun in the city, though he was almost murdered by a Mexican boogie board gang on Monday.
It is beautiful here, however dated the H.R. Puffinstuff-inspired art on the Olas Altas promenade may seem. In Old Mazatlan where we’re staying (haven’t even bothered to check out the more modern-looking part of town), it’s a dirty beach town that passed its heyday, but it’s clearly gone through a revitalization in the last 10 years and is on the upswing. Maybe five blocks away from the beach is the Plazuela Machado, which comes alive at night with Christmas lights decorating the park in the center and live acoustic music pouring out of fancy restaurants. We walked down one side of the little park before dinner and smiled at a peanut vendor in his 50s, sleeping sitting up on a bench. After dinner, my last meal before Montezuma snuck up on me, we walked the other side of the park, and saw the same peanut vendor sleeping on the bench opposite from his first spot.
The people here are just as nice as those we’ve met anywhere else in Mexico, and the retired gringos who pop up at outdoor cafes along the beach are also eager to get to know you. But the friendliness of the people in Latin America is something I am already familiar with, and one of the reasons I keep coming back.
I was reluctant to shower at all here in my weakened state, and when I have showered it’s taken only about an hour to sweat myself back into a hot mess. All of my clothes are dirty, and I haven’t shaved in weeks at this point, and the hair on my head is standing like a rooster’s. I am the towering spectacle of that which is rude, dirty and presumably rich gringo. I decided the other night though that when I put my glasses on I go from beach bum to beach scientist and have been wearing them around ever since.
We head for the bus station in less than two hours, and I have to put everything up in my bag again. For those who don’t know, I am making this 4-, 5-, 6-month trip with one 70-liter hiking pack (thanks to former REI employee Adi Nevo for picking it out) and then a regular Jansport school backpack. It holds just what I need to get by with room to spare, so long as each time I re-pack I do so just as meticulously as when I was loading it up back home in Spanish Fort.
I’ve taken a lot of pictures and I know this blog would be more interesting with some art, but my camera won’t work with a MacBook. I will make some picture posts as soon as I get the motivation to find a PC, I promise.
Hasta la vista.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Beer in the nose is a Mexican trick
MAZATLAN, Mexico = Today, one week after leaving Mobile, I swam in the "olas altas" of the Pacific Ocean here on Mexico's central coast. I now have sand in every region, sun in my skin and a cold bottle of water on the nightstand at Hotel La Siesta in Old Mazatlan, where Jack Kerouac would roost on his stays here in the 1950s.
I didn't even know that about this hotel until today when me and Roby walked past a sign commemorating him outside. We got in around 3 am after a 13- or 14-hour bus ride from Zacatecas in the country's interior, where we spent Wednesday through Friday. Roby learned that little sleep and no stops along a dark bumpy route can make me a little hostile and schizophrenic a la The Shining. I slept in late today and we made it a point to take it easy and not do anything too tiring today, until we let the beach kick the crap out of us this afternoon.
And I have plenty of time to talk about Mazatlan. We'll be splitting the last week of Roby's part of the journey between here and Puerto Vallarta, where she will fly back to the States and things will inevitably get weirder for me as I continue south on my own towards Mexico City and beyond. So let's talk Zacatecas.
Zacatecas is a historical city of more than 100,000 that seems to be off most people's radar. Really, the whole interior of Mexico aside from Mexico City or Guadalajara seen to be off the grid. Its historical element gives it everything I love about old colonial cities that tourists bypass: beauty, intrigue and pride. We stayed at a sad little hostel one block up the hill from the most highly recommended one in town, which was sold out, but it met our basic needs. Weather was much cooler there, I guess because it's in a valley between some small mountains, and it only got hot around midday. It's a very steep city though, and the old roads and steps get pretty slick in the rain. It rained on and off while we were there, and the hostel owner David had to sweep the water off the roof every time to keep it from leaking over the toilet.
We rode a European-made (ooh la la Europe wonderful Europe) cable car from one mountain to another, with a bird's eye view of every cathedral, plaza and aqueduct along the way. We got lost in the alleys and bought some fresh pastries after being drawn to a bakery around one street corner by the smell of cinnamon in the air. There was a week-long music festival going on in one plaza in support of gay rights as well, with everything from mariachi to marching bands to blues singers. We applauded, partly for the music and mostly for the cause.
Our favorite place for a drink was Las Quince Letras (count 'em up). Founded in 1906, it's the city's oldest surviving bar and too small for it's popularity. It gets to be standing room only pretty quickly in there, but the bartenders aren't pretentious and don't even ask for your name or a credit card to start a tab. They have a red paper mache devil that rises up from behind the juke box with the tug of a plastic wire stretching across the ceiling from behind the bar. One old man who had been at the bar longer than we were was fumbling with his change at the juke box when the devil rose up to face him. He took a step back, grimaced and then flipped off the devil. We made some friends there, Daniel and Irwin, both university students in town studying English and economics, respectively, who showed us some of the other bars. You can tell two guys are close when they can call each other "cabron" back and forth, the Spanish equivalent of such classic hits like "bastard" and "motherfucker." If a stranger calls you that you're either doing something wrong or they're too drunk for tener razon.
"Watch," Irwin said as he tapped the bottom of an empty beer bottle on the top of his own Corona and made it foam to the top. He lifted the bottle to his nose and snorted the foam as it poured out everywhere, with Daniel laughing hysterically, his John Stamos locks bouncing. "Beer up the nose is a Mexican trick!"
I've probably left out some other good stories, but there'll be more to come from Mazatlan.
I didn't even know that about this hotel until today when me and Roby walked past a sign commemorating him outside. We got in around 3 am after a 13- or 14-hour bus ride from Zacatecas in the country's interior, where we spent Wednesday through Friday. Roby learned that little sleep and no stops along a dark bumpy route can make me a little hostile and schizophrenic a la The Shining. I slept in late today and we made it a point to take it easy and not do anything too tiring today, until we let the beach kick the crap out of us this afternoon.
And I have plenty of time to talk about Mazatlan. We'll be splitting the last week of Roby's part of the journey between here and Puerto Vallarta, where she will fly back to the States and things will inevitably get weirder for me as I continue south on my own towards Mexico City and beyond. So let's talk Zacatecas.
Zacatecas is a historical city of more than 100,000 that seems to be off most people's radar. Really, the whole interior of Mexico aside from Mexico City or Guadalajara seen to be off the grid. Its historical element gives it everything I love about old colonial cities that tourists bypass: beauty, intrigue and pride. We stayed at a sad little hostel one block up the hill from the most highly recommended one in town, which was sold out, but it met our basic needs. Weather was much cooler there, I guess because it's in a valley between some small mountains, and it only got hot around midday. It's a very steep city though, and the old roads and steps get pretty slick in the rain. It rained on and off while we were there, and the hostel owner David had to sweep the water off the roof every time to keep it from leaking over the toilet.
We rode a European-made (ooh la la Europe wonderful Europe) cable car from one mountain to another, with a bird's eye view of every cathedral, plaza and aqueduct along the way. We got lost in the alleys and bought some fresh pastries after being drawn to a bakery around one street corner by the smell of cinnamon in the air. There was a week-long music festival going on in one plaza in support of gay rights as well, with everything from mariachi to marching bands to blues singers. We applauded, partly for the music and mostly for the cause.
Our favorite place for a drink was Las Quince Letras (count 'em up). Founded in 1906, it's the city's oldest surviving bar and too small for it's popularity. It gets to be standing room only pretty quickly in there, but the bartenders aren't pretentious and don't even ask for your name or a credit card to start a tab. They have a red paper mache devil that rises up from behind the juke box with the tug of a plastic wire stretching across the ceiling from behind the bar. One old man who had been at the bar longer than we were was fumbling with his change at the juke box when the devil rose up to face him. He took a step back, grimaced and then flipped off the devil. We made some friends there, Daniel and Irwin, both university students in town studying English and economics, respectively, who showed us some of the other bars. You can tell two guys are close when they can call each other "cabron" back and forth, the Spanish equivalent of such classic hits like "bastard" and "motherfucker." If a stranger calls you that you're either doing something wrong or they're too drunk for tener razon.
"Watch," Irwin said as he tapped the bottom of an empty beer bottle on the top of his own Corona and made it foam to the top. He lifted the bottle to his nose and snorted the foam as it poured out everywhere, with Daniel laughing hysterically, his John Stamos locks bouncing. "Beer up the nose is a Mexican trick!"
I've probably left out some other good stories, but there'll be more to come from Mazatlan.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
La Salida de Monterrey
MONTERREY, Mexico - Good morning you soulless machine. And to everyone reading this.
Roby and I are packing up and getting ready to head to the bus station, where we'll hopefully find a timely and air conditioned bus to Zacatecas, about a 6 and a half hour ride southwest of here. The locals we've friended here tell us Zacatecas is more representative of real Mexico than Monterrey. I don't really know what to expect if that much is true. Everyone we've met here is so friendly, the food is great, the landscape is amazing, etc. Our friend Roberto, a pilot originally from La Paz in Baja California who is now based out of Monterrey, who we met singing karaoke at a bar just a few blocks up from the hostel, said with Monterrey being the country's wealthiest city comes an elitist upper class culture that we were never exposed to hanging out in the Barrio Antiguo. He said in other parts of town there are numerous bars and nightclubs where if you don't walk in wearing Dolce & Gabbana you'll probably be kicked out, and you don't always know if you're entering one of these places until you've stepped in.
That's not to say Roberto didn't know a thing or two about how to party in style. We spent hours at the karaoke bar Monday night until it closed around 2 a.m., and stayed past then with the stragglers all beating on drums and bongos while they finished their drinks in the dark with one black light painting them all neon. Our refusal to leave didn't seem to bother our drunk bartender Panchito, who began embracing me like a brother every time we crossed paths. Once we left finally Roberto invited us back to his apartment in downtown Monterrey. It turned out he lives in an 18-story apartment complex with a large private lounge area upstairs that's open to the renters and their private karaoke parties into all hours of the night. Roberto had a microphone he attached to his computer and then hooked it up to the lounge's PA system, then found karaoke videos on YouTube for us to enjoy. Yes, you missed Mike Faulk sing such hits as "Fotografia," "Me Gustas Tu," and "1979" We were rolling on the floor laughing trying to figure out exactly how to make that "coo" sound in between the lyrics in "1979." The lounge was decorated in modern art and also had a balcony with a view of the whole city, which was surprisingly quiet to me as I stood out on it by myself pondering which Hulu video I would have fallen asleep to watching by myself that night in Anniston had I not left my job.
Yesterday was tranquilo, our heads hurt, so we spent a lot of time in air-conditioned museums and shopping malls downtown. We now have one hour to check out, and I need to wash this sweat off of me to make room for today's new batch. Ya venimos Zacatecas.
Roby and I are packing up and getting ready to head to the bus station, where we'll hopefully find a timely and air conditioned bus to Zacatecas, about a 6 and a half hour ride southwest of here. The locals we've friended here tell us Zacatecas is more representative of real Mexico than Monterrey. I don't really know what to expect if that much is true. Everyone we've met here is so friendly, the food is great, the landscape is amazing, etc. Our friend Roberto, a pilot originally from La Paz in Baja California who is now based out of Monterrey, who we met singing karaoke at a bar just a few blocks up from the hostel, said with Monterrey being the country's wealthiest city comes an elitist upper class culture that we were never exposed to hanging out in the Barrio Antiguo. He said in other parts of town there are numerous bars and nightclubs where if you don't walk in wearing Dolce & Gabbana you'll probably be kicked out, and you don't always know if you're entering one of these places until you've stepped in.
That's not to say Roberto didn't know a thing or two about how to party in style. We spent hours at the karaoke bar Monday night until it closed around 2 a.m., and stayed past then with the stragglers all beating on drums and bongos while they finished their drinks in the dark with one black light painting them all neon. Our refusal to leave didn't seem to bother our drunk bartender Panchito, who began embracing me like a brother every time we crossed paths. Once we left finally Roberto invited us back to his apartment in downtown Monterrey. It turned out he lives in an 18-story apartment complex with a large private lounge area upstairs that's open to the renters and their private karaoke parties into all hours of the night. Roberto had a microphone he attached to his computer and then hooked it up to the lounge's PA system, then found karaoke videos on YouTube for us to enjoy. Yes, you missed Mike Faulk sing such hits as "Fotografia," "Me Gustas Tu," and "1979" We were rolling on the floor laughing trying to figure out exactly how to make that "coo" sound in between the lyrics in "1979." The lounge was decorated in modern art and also had a balcony with a view of the whole city, which was surprisingly quiet to me as I stood out on it by myself pondering which Hulu video I would have fallen asleep to watching by myself that night in Anniston had I not left my job.
Yesterday was tranquilo, our heads hurt, so we spent a lot of time in air-conditioned museums and shopping malls downtown. We now have one hour to check out, and I need to wash this sweat off of me to make room for today's new batch. Ya venimos Zacatecas.
Monday, August 17, 2009
El Barrio Antiguo
MONTERREY, Mexico - You learn to appreciate the simple pleasures very quickly when trying to bus from Mobile to Nicaragua. I'm here at La Casa del Barrio hostel in Mexico's proudest city hoping my computer doesn't short circuit in my lap from all the sweat it's absorbing right now. A rare breeze has made its way into the room I'm sharing with the actress Roby Packer (who is downstairs eating a chorizo omelette) and the tingling hairs on my sweaty legs are telling my brain that this is ecstasy. Just a few days ago I would have shut the window and turned the AC lower in the comfort of my home in Alabama. But this is a whole different frontier, and I'm already good at sweating even in climate-controlled rooms. Sweat. It'll be one of the themes of the next six months.
My bus to Houston from Mobile left around midnight Friday and arrived at about 10 am Saturday. The last time I would look over my shoulder to see Alabama passing behind me there was a pink (waning) crescent moon rising over her. I had two seats to myself for several hours of uncomfortable sleep until the bus filled up around 4 am in Baton Rouge. I have to be exhausted out of my mind to actually sleep on a bus, and because of my 6-foot-4 frame it's impossible to get comfortable. People lean their seats back into my knees, which makes my legs fall asleep, which forces me to adjust with little space to utilize, which infuriates me, which ultimately makes me sleepy and doze off into some light trance just as the sun is rising and the bus is heating up again inside.
I was running on fumes when former Anniston Star reporter Nick Cenegy and his Laura Lee picked me up downtown and took me on an unexpected whirlwind tour of the city's best spots. I thought my 12 hours in Houston would only involve gazing out the windows of the Greyhound station downtown when I couldn't sleep on the metal benches, but instead I got to tour the Rothko Chapel (http://www.rothkochapel.org/), The Saint Arnold microbrewery (http://www.saintarnold.com/) and took a clutch nap in one of Houston's many outer lying cookie cutter subdivisions, on a street ironically titled Unique Court.
Roby and I were reunited for the first time in three years outside the Hobby airport around 5:15 pm, having last known each other as students at the University of Alabama, and Nick and Laura Lee took us to Montrose, a hip part of town that many would say is the only hip part of Houston, for some food, wine and storytelling. Soon enough it was 10 pm and me and the actress were back at the Greyhound station, tickets in hand and all points south. This bus was bigger and less crowded than the one I took from Mobile. We fell asleep at some point after passing through San Antonio and didn't wake until it was time to change buses at the border in Laredo. It was past 4:30 am, the bus was late, and our talks had dwindled down to incoherent mumblings. When the bus did arrive we thought it would be smooth sailing, but we hit the Rio Grande at 6 am and didn't get across it and through Customs in Mexico until about 9 am. The immigration official filled out two tourist forms for us and by the authority vested in him marked down that we were married. I had promised myself I would not get married in Mexico, but it appears I had no say in the matter.
Getting from the bus station in Monterrey (around noon Sunday) to the Barrio Antiguo where our hostel is was maybe the easiest experience I've ever had upon first arrival to a city in Latin America. Normally you can expect a maelstrom of fake taxi drivers with kids peddling gum and trying to pick your pocket in between the masses. Mercifully, we didn't have to deal with any of that and instead had the option to buy a $5 taxi ticket to take us right across town to what is supposedly the city's safest and most well-preserved area. We got a room at La Casa (http://www.lacasadelbarrio.com.mx/movie.html) and tried to nap but just sweated. The cold shower afterwards went a long way in making me feel better, but getting to eat barbeque pork cooked over a corn tortilla with melted cheese on top, a form of a dish called "memela," and downing some fruity frozen tequila drinks at La Casa de Maiz helped even more. Last night we went on a walk through the city's historic plazas, caught a little street theatre here and there, and ended the night at a cafe in the Barrio called 13 Lunas, where in the back you can take some winding rickety steel steps all the way up to the roof and drink surrounded by a gorgeous panoramic view of the city.
Everyone is so friendly here, it feels incredibly safe and I don't think I could have asked for a better introduction to Mexico Lindo. Today we'll be perusing the Contemporary Art Museum (http://www.mtyol.com/marco/) and hopefully catching a cable car up to one of the gorgeous mountains that surround this bustling city. We'll have to decide by the end of the day whether Monterrey is worth spending one more night in or if we should move on to Zacatecas, http://www.zacatecas.gob.mx/, the second of five stops I'll make with Roby before she flies back to Texas on August 31. After Zacatecas we'll go to John Wayne's old stomping grounds in Durango, followed by a week of Pacific beach living in Mazatlan and Puerto Vallarta.
Ok my friends, time is of the essence, adios.
My bus to Houston from Mobile left around midnight Friday and arrived at about 10 am Saturday. The last time I would look over my shoulder to see Alabama passing behind me there was a pink (waning) crescent moon rising over her. I had two seats to myself for several hours of uncomfortable sleep until the bus filled up around 4 am in Baton Rouge. I have to be exhausted out of my mind to actually sleep on a bus, and because of my 6-foot-4 frame it's impossible to get comfortable. People lean their seats back into my knees, which makes my legs fall asleep, which forces me to adjust with little space to utilize, which infuriates me, which ultimately makes me sleepy and doze off into some light trance just as the sun is rising and the bus is heating up again inside.
I was running on fumes when former Anniston Star reporter Nick Cenegy and his Laura Lee picked me up downtown and took me on an unexpected whirlwind tour of the city's best spots. I thought my 12 hours in Houston would only involve gazing out the windows of the Greyhound station downtown when I couldn't sleep on the metal benches, but instead I got to tour the Rothko Chapel (http://www.rothkochapel.org/), The Saint Arnold microbrewery (http://www.saintarnold.com/) and took a clutch nap in one of Houston's many outer lying cookie cutter subdivisions, on a street ironically titled Unique Court.
Roby and I were reunited for the first time in three years outside the Hobby airport around 5:15 pm, having last known each other as students at the University of Alabama, and Nick and Laura Lee took us to Montrose, a hip part of town that many would say is the only hip part of Houston, for some food, wine and storytelling. Soon enough it was 10 pm and me and the actress were back at the Greyhound station, tickets in hand and all points south. This bus was bigger and less crowded than the one I took from Mobile. We fell asleep at some point after passing through San Antonio and didn't wake until it was time to change buses at the border in Laredo. It was past 4:30 am, the bus was late, and our talks had dwindled down to incoherent mumblings. When the bus did arrive we thought it would be smooth sailing, but we hit the Rio Grande at 6 am and didn't get across it and through Customs in Mexico until about 9 am. The immigration official filled out two tourist forms for us and by the authority vested in him marked down that we were married. I had promised myself I would not get married in Mexico, but it appears I had no say in the matter.
Getting from the bus station in Monterrey (around noon Sunday) to the Barrio Antiguo where our hostel is was maybe the easiest experience I've ever had upon first arrival to a city in Latin America. Normally you can expect a maelstrom of fake taxi drivers with kids peddling gum and trying to pick your pocket in between the masses. Mercifully, we didn't have to deal with any of that and instead had the option to buy a $5 taxi ticket to take us right across town to what is supposedly the city's safest and most well-preserved area. We got a room at La Casa (http://www.lacasadelbarrio.com.mx/movie.html) and tried to nap but just sweated. The cold shower afterwards went a long way in making me feel better, but getting to eat barbeque pork cooked over a corn tortilla with melted cheese on top, a form of a dish called "memela," and downing some fruity frozen tequila drinks at La Casa de Maiz helped even more. Last night we went on a walk through the city's historic plazas, caught a little street theatre here and there, and ended the night at a cafe in the Barrio called 13 Lunas, where in the back you can take some winding rickety steel steps all the way up to the roof and drink surrounded by a gorgeous panoramic view of the city.
Everyone is so friendly here, it feels incredibly safe and I don't think I could have asked for a better introduction to Mexico Lindo. Today we'll be perusing the Contemporary Art Museum (http://www.mtyol.com/marco/) and hopefully catching a cable car up to one of the gorgeous mountains that surround this bustling city. We'll have to decide by the end of the day whether Monterrey is worth spending one more night in or if we should move on to Zacatecas, http://www.zacatecas.gob.mx/, the second of five stops I'll make with Roby before she flies back to Texas on August 31. After Zacatecas we'll go to John Wayne's old stomping grounds in Durango, followed by a week of Pacific beach living in Mazatlan and Puerto Vallarta.
Ok my friends, time is of the essence, adios.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Pierre Sendero: Llegó la hora
"Like most of the others, I was a seeker, a mover, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right. I shared a vagrant optimism that some of us were making real progress, that we had taken an honest road, and that the best of us would inevitably make it over the top. At the same time, I shared a dark suspicion that the life we were leading was a lost cause, that we were all actors, kidding ourselves along on a senseless odyssey. It was the tension between these two poles - a restless idealism on one hand and a sense of impending doom on the other - that kept me going."
---Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary
Mike Faulk quit his reporting job at The Anniston (Ala.) Star July 2 after nearly one year of writing, carousing and mostly sulking in the isolation of the verdant Appalachian foothills of his home state. He said it was as much an experience to grow as a person as it was a time in which he came dangerously close to forgetting everything about himself. There was order, and there was chaos. Joy and depression. ACCOMPLISHMENT:DEFEAT. He emptied his apartment of all his possessions following a July 4 holiday with our friend Clover on the Atlantic coast, giving most things away to charity and taking with him only that which he could fit in his small SUV. He took off in the middle of the night. He imagined there was a cloud of dust behind him that spun around and settled in the quiet brush of the Talladega National Forest off Alabama 9. It would have been symbolic, and he would have been able to write about it in that way.
I am not Mike Faulk. The literary device known as I came into the picture a few weeks later. It was at sunset this past Monday. I was in downtown Mobile mingling with partygoers on the deck of the Carnivore Fop cruise ship parked in the bay just off Water Street. I was soaking in the hideous purple- and pink-tiled cafeteria, the laughing red-faced lobsters that were once middle-aged couples two hours before they hit the plastic tiki bar, and keeping my eyes turned politely away from the 14-year-olds as they discovered things in the hot tub in the absence of their parents at the casino. I was miserable, and the boat just hummed, and soon the city skyline would turn to open Gulf and no matter how much further the alcohol and cash-addled debauchery went I would have to be there every second. I thought about Faulk, who had warned me about these things, but my love for free drinks and bizarre company led me there. I had a spouse ticket to the Knights of Old Royal Street's summer cruise retreat thanks to my friend Junior Clayborne, recently divorced, in need of a wingman and one of the Mardi Gras society's top directors, but in that moment I began to question whether my talent as a social chameleon had taken me too far over the edge by accepting Junior's almost weeping invitation to join his rich friends on their lush retreat. I wanted adventure, but not with these people. Their interests were clear, the greatest cultural experience of their lives would be a booze cruise off the coast of Cozumel, a floating Sodom and Gomorrah where they could share their disgust for the way the media treat Sarah Palin, and that would only require one flaming Perseid falling from heaven to send it to the bottom with the old pirate ships. They'd think it's just like Universal Studios. I texted Faulk about my personal hell in only so many words. I began sweating and unbuttoned my American flag polo shirt, which I specifically bought to fit in with the gentiles, and put out my cigarette. Moments later, Faulk responded, "JVMP! VAMOS!"
I handed off my Fiesta Fun cocktail and souvenir glass to my obese associate and cruise director, Big Steak, kicked off my alligator shoes and ran for the back of the boat diving off head first into the bacterial stew of Mobile Bay, knocking the wind out of myself and staining my new shirt and Wrangler's boot-cut jeans a sewage shade of brown. God knows what kind of mutant crustacean is living in my cowboy hat at the bottom of that natural drainage ditch, nibbling on whatever it is that grows on the outer shell of the Bankhead Tunnel while pondering quantum mechanics. Like I said, it's a mutant. I swam to the dock and grabbed a rope dangling over the water and used it to pull myself up to the pier. Higher above on deck I could hear Big Steak jostling through the crowd, probably sweating like a thawing raw chicken, shouting "No no no! Not another one! Buh-bye Pierre! Buh-bye!"
Junior, my apologies.
I have not heard from Faulk since then, but I know where he is going and have a rough idea of his schedule. We are very close, close enough to where we trust each other completely despite fundamental disagreements, and close enough to where he allows me to write whatever I want in his blog. His place and time are never far off from my own even if we don't see each other for however long. It's complicated, but I think you the reader will come to understand me and my relationship to Mike with a little patience. Who am I? My name is Pierre Sendero; who I am is something that my creator (more so a title than a job) has left up to me to decide as I go.
Señor Faulk quit his job at The Star for a newspaper internship in Nicaragua that begins the first week of October. He quit three months in advance so he could move home to see his family and friends, and because he estimates that it will take roughly a month and a half for him to get there when he begins his journey on a Houston-bound Greyhound late Friday around midnight. This Friday. Tonight. It's why he has this blog and why he recruited me to help tell the story as it unfolds, albeit sparingly. He will meet a good friend of ours in Houston, the actress Roby Packer, and they'll take another bus from Houston to Monterrey, Mexico, where they have arrangements to see a puppet show Sunday. Roby and Faulk will bus through the likes of Zacatecas, Durango and Mazatlan to the Pacific resort town of Puerto Vallarta, where Roby will board a flight back to the States Aug. 31 and Faulk will continue south. The other details will just be a matter of time and experience, and I'm fairly certain he'll be on here any day now to tell you more. The next time I write something, I'll make it clear from the beginning which one of us is doing it.
---Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary
Mike Faulk quit his reporting job at The Anniston (Ala.) Star July 2 after nearly one year of writing, carousing and mostly sulking in the isolation of the verdant Appalachian foothills of his home state. He said it was as much an experience to grow as a person as it was a time in which he came dangerously close to forgetting everything about himself. There was order, and there was chaos. Joy and depression. ACCOMPLISHMENT:DEFEAT. He emptied his apartment of all his possessions following a July 4 holiday with our friend Clover on the Atlantic coast, giving most things away to charity and taking with him only that which he could fit in his small SUV. He took off in the middle of the night. He imagined there was a cloud of dust behind him that spun around and settled in the quiet brush of the Talladega National Forest off Alabama 9. It would have been symbolic, and he would have been able to write about it in that way.
I am not Mike Faulk. The literary device known as I came into the picture a few weeks later. It was at sunset this past Monday. I was in downtown Mobile mingling with partygoers on the deck of the Carnivore Fop cruise ship parked in the bay just off Water Street. I was soaking in the hideous purple- and pink-tiled cafeteria, the laughing red-faced lobsters that were once middle-aged couples two hours before they hit the plastic tiki bar, and keeping my eyes turned politely away from the 14-year-olds as they discovered things in the hot tub in the absence of their parents at the casino. I was miserable, and the boat just hummed, and soon the city skyline would turn to open Gulf and no matter how much further the alcohol and cash-addled debauchery went I would have to be there every second. I thought about Faulk, who had warned me about these things, but my love for free drinks and bizarre company led me there. I had a spouse ticket to the Knights of Old Royal Street's summer cruise retreat thanks to my friend Junior Clayborne, recently divorced, in need of a wingman and one of the Mardi Gras society's top directors, but in that moment I began to question whether my talent as a social chameleon had taken me too far over the edge by accepting Junior's almost weeping invitation to join his rich friends on their lush retreat. I wanted adventure, but not with these people. Their interests were clear, the greatest cultural experience of their lives would be a booze cruise off the coast of Cozumel, a floating Sodom and Gomorrah where they could share their disgust for the way the media treat Sarah Palin, and that would only require one flaming Perseid falling from heaven to send it to the bottom with the old pirate ships. They'd think it's just like Universal Studios. I texted Faulk about my personal hell in only so many words. I began sweating and unbuttoned my American flag polo shirt, which I specifically bought to fit in with the gentiles, and put out my cigarette. Moments later, Faulk responded, "JVMP! VAMOS!"
I handed off my Fiesta Fun cocktail and souvenir glass to my obese associate and cruise director, Big Steak, kicked off my alligator shoes and ran for the back of the boat diving off head first into the bacterial stew of Mobile Bay, knocking the wind out of myself and staining my new shirt and Wrangler's boot-cut jeans a sewage shade of brown. God knows what kind of mutant crustacean is living in my cowboy hat at the bottom of that natural drainage ditch, nibbling on whatever it is that grows on the outer shell of the Bankhead Tunnel while pondering quantum mechanics. Like I said, it's a mutant. I swam to the dock and grabbed a rope dangling over the water and used it to pull myself up to the pier. Higher above on deck I could hear Big Steak jostling through the crowd, probably sweating like a thawing raw chicken, shouting "No no no! Not another one! Buh-bye Pierre! Buh-bye!"
Junior, my apologies.
I have not heard from Faulk since then, but I know where he is going and have a rough idea of his schedule. We are very close, close enough to where we trust each other completely despite fundamental disagreements, and close enough to where he allows me to write whatever I want in his blog. His place and time are never far off from my own even if we don't see each other for however long. It's complicated, but I think you the reader will come to understand me and my relationship to Mike with a little patience. Who am I? My name is Pierre Sendero; who I am is something that my creator (more so a title than a job) has left up to me to decide as I go.
Señor Faulk quit his job at The Star for a newspaper internship in Nicaragua that begins the first week of October. He quit three months in advance so he could move home to see his family and friends, and because he estimates that it will take roughly a month and a half for him to get there when he begins his journey on a Houston-bound Greyhound late Friday around midnight. This Friday. Tonight. It's why he has this blog and why he recruited me to help tell the story as it unfolds, albeit sparingly. He will meet a good friend of ours in Houston, the actress Roby Packer, and they'll take another bus from Houston to Monterrey, Mexico, where they have arrangements to see a puppet show Sunday. Roby and Faulk will bus through the likes of Zacatecas, Durango and Mazatlan to the Pacific resort town of Puerto Vallarta, where Roby will board a flight back to the States Aug. 31 and Faulk will continue south. The other details will just be a matter of time and experience, and I'm fairly certain he'll be on here any day now to tell you more. The next time I write something, I'll make it clear from the beginning which one of us is doing it.
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