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.