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Can You Be Hijacked on Foot?


2010
03.29

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Zona Arqueologica de Monte Alban
Taken from the Plataforma Norte

March 10, 2010: Monte Alban

Dear Grandma,

Today we went out to Monte Alban after having breakfast at the little restaurant on the corner across from our hotel. I have started to think of this little patio café as “our restaurant,” although I was sorely disappointed in the quality of my food today. Sure, the chocolate was amazing and the fruit was sweet, but my scramble eggs were cold, cold, cold. There’s just something about the texture of cold eggs that makes me want to vomit, but I digress.

The trip to the Zona Arqueologica de Monte Alban was probably more exciting than the actual site. You see, today we did not use a charter bus. Instead, M. said we should take the one of the tourist buses up to the site, seeing how they are pretty cheap (30 pesos, or less than $3 at the current exchange rate). The bus station was only eight blocks from our hotel – an easy walk through the flat landscape of this city. A couple of the tour’s older members, however, decided to take a cab over to the bus station as they wanted to save their energy for climbing around on the ruins. So, M. loaded them into a taxi, gave the driver some directions that ended up being translated through a couple of people, and sent them on their merry way. Long story, short: they never turned up at the tourist bus station!

No, they weren’t hijacked, although I was beginning to wonder when we didn’t see them until four or five hours later. Apparently, the taxi driver was confused by the translation and dropped them off at a hotel, or a health club, or an old folks’ home. I’m not sure which one because I heard the story three different ways. What I do know is that these two women were remarkably self-sufficient: they found their way back to our original hotel, found a tour guide, and made their own way to Monte Alban. We caught with them while we were having a limonada in the museum’s snack bar after wandering around the site all morning.

Sidebar: You’ll understand why I was so impressed with their self-sufficiency when I republish my Peru stories here at The Traveling Ph.D. Not every person is worldly enough to figure out how to find his or her way back to the group. We’ve spent plenty of time in past years tracking down people who were quite oblivious to the collective needs of the group, people who just get lost because they aren’t paying attention. Sigh.

While our women were being taken for a joy ride around Oaxaca, the walking group also had a small problem. The walk started out pleasant enough, as we made our way down a street lined with chocolate shops. The smell of Oaxacan chocolate is heaven – it’s much earthier than anything you’d find in a Swiss Miss package back home. It smells real, darn it, not processed or fake. Just walking down the street made the smell linger in the back of my throat, tempting me to run into a store and buy the whole lot. I didn’t, but I sure drank my fair share of chocolate while I was in town, let me tell you!

Anyways, a couple blocks from the station, this group of women came up to us and started telling us that the bus station had moved. They kept following our leader, pestering him, trying to hand him a flyer for their tour bus company. When he didn’t respond in a positive way to their heckling, one of the women zoned in on a student, trying to pressure her into going to the “new” location. It was confusing and loud, but pretty darned funny. I’m sure we looked like clueless tourists as we kept pushing past them.

Is it possible to be hijacked on foot?

As you probably guessed, these overly aggressive people were the competition of the original tour company. Apparently they like to take advantage of confused, lost tourists. And boy, they sure didn’t want to take no for an answer. M., however, handled the whole situation with great aplomb; he had just the right mixture of confidence and language-barrier to get us away from those people. We finally got rid of these pushy folks by dunking into the station that was our original destination.

Gallery of the Dancers
Zona Arqueologica de Monte Alban

Eventually, we all had our bus tickets (mine with the much more musical version of my name, Maria Teresa, written on it) and headed up the mountain to the ruins. Ah, those Zapotecs! They sure love building their cities close to their gods!

Over the past three years, I’ve seen more archeological sites than I’ve seen in my life prior to taking these University-sanctioned trips. Teotihuacan. Xochicalco. Raqchi. Saqsaywaman. Pisaq. Machu Picchu. Seriously, I’m beginning to feel a little like a female Indiana Jones here, minus the drama of enemy spies, monkey brains, and Christian icons [1]. The one thing I can say is that if you’ve seen one ruin you have not seen them all. Each site has its own special significance. Sure, a lot of the sites in Mexico have similar ball courts, but in some places the winners were sacrificed to the gods. In other places, the losers died. Some sites have serpents carved on the walls; others have codices painted in red. At this site, there were the engravings (or low reliefs, according to my tour book) of male figures in some very odd positions and with some very interesting mutilations to their genitalia. These engravings made up the Gallery of the Dancers, some of which are shown above. M. says these carvings show the Olmec influence from the Gulf Coast [2].

Monte Alban is important for other reasons too:

“The legacy of the Zapotec world comes to us through the magnificent archaeological sites scattered in the Valley of Oaxaca. Among them, the city of Monte Alban stands out because of its enormous importance as an economic, political and religious focal point (it was the first urban complex in Mesoamerica), because of its size, almost as large as the present capital of Oaxaca, and because of its long life, which began in about 500 B.C. and ended around 850 A.D” (Monte Alban: History, Art, Monuments, English Edition. Monclem Ediciones. 2004).

The Landscape Around Monte Alban
The sun bleached out the sky a bit

Our group killed several hours at the site, walking through the Gran Plaza; cramming into a small grotto (my word – it was a little hole in the wall, with more engravings of mutilated men); looking at the outside of the Observatory. Some members of the group climbed the Plataforma Sur, while others (well, me and two other people) stayed at the bottom talking with a man named Israel who was selling jade carvings to help support his family of six kids. That guy latched onto our group, popping up in other locations around the site until B. finally broke down and bought a little jade carving of a face. Eventually, we climbed onto the Plataforma Norte to take in the views before making our way back to the museum and – of course – the gift shop.

Now, a trip to Mexico wouldn’t be complete without having some sort of crazy bus ride – and today was no exception. On the way back, our driver was an insane tailgater. He’d speed up, then hit the brakes. At least he didn’t hit a little kid or a goat or something before we made it down the mountain into Oaxaca. 

Taking Notes on the North Platform
We had amazing students on this trip!

I really don’t have much more to say about the day, other than I had an amazing tamale for lunch and a nice nap curled up with my old copy of The Catcher in the Rye or that M.’s sister tells the funniest stories about their childhood. I’ll write more later about the food, once I figure out the type of greens that were included in my salad at dinner. (Danger! Danger! I ate raw veggies in Mexico!)

Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter

Next Up: A Foodie’s Paradise

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Wooden Animals and Aztec Soup


2010
03.28

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On display at the Museo de los Pintores Oaxaqueños

March 9, 2010: Exploring Oaxaca

Dear Grandma,

I am a delicate southern flower who has been transplanted in Midwestern soil. The gray, damp winters depress me and make me want to curl up in my bed for large chunks of the day. Honestly, the area under my electric blanket is the only warm place in my life and even then it’s not a penetrating heat. In order to save energy in our old drafty house, the thermostat is set at 60 degrees for 20 hours a day. It’s not much better at work; my office always feels about six degrees colder than the hallway and there’s a distinct breeze that seeps through the window behind my desk.

So when I say that I am finally warm for the first time in months, it’s a really big deal.

Here in Oaxaca, the sun beats down on the square and seeps into my pores. I’ve been able to shed my sweaters and turtlenecks for tank tops and airy tunics. Even with my 85 SPF [1] sunscreen, I managed to get a mild sunburn. The heat makes me sweaty and red-faced, with wisps of salt-coated bangs plastered across my forehead. Sure, it makes me unattractive on the surface, but if my bones could talk, they’d be singing riotous ditties of joy.

The mornings, however, are slightly chilly as we sit on the plaza eating our breakfast. Fortunately, the little restaurant serves chocolate that warms you to the core while you wait for your food to arrive. Today, I ordered bravely and ended up with a weird amalgam of pancakes stuffed with chicken, covered with beans and chorizo, with creamy avocado and juicy papaya on the side [2]. Again, the vendors came to sell us a variety of goods, making the patio nosy and crowded, vibrant and fun. After a while, though, we headed out into the city, taking our time to poke our heads into galleries and stores, museums and marketplaces.

Our first stop was the Museo de los Pintores Oaxaqueños, a little museum just off the zocalo. Two shows were on display: one vivid, colorful and weird, the other more sedate and airy. My favorite picture was a part of this second show, a painting called “evasion” by Miguel Carrillo Lara. Standing in the foreground is a young girl in a white dress, with a red shawl hanging from one arm. In the background, mixed among the muted whites and grays, are pieces and parts of the human form. Another favorite was this odd mixed media piece that blended together computer keyboards, phone cords and a camera lens with a cattle skull with a realist human painted on top.

From the Agustin Portillo show at the Museo de los Pintores Oaxaqueños
This was one of the America paintings.

The other show was much more brazen, filled with pictures of strippers, gay men, and naked women (although, in some cases, they could have been transvestites). Of course, only the “America” paintings were full of decadent behavior; the “Mexico” pictures, although they shared the same style, had very different content. So, I’m not quite sure what the artist thinks of our country, but apparently we are a monolith, characterized by what the Christian right would call “sinful actions.” I will let the artist speak for himself — here’s a YouTube video discussing his “America” show in the United States.

Painted wooden animals @ la Mano Magica
I eventually went back and bought the purple jaguar (you can see its tail here)
and the black coyote (standing under the giraffe).

After the museum, the group – minus a couple of people who decided to strike out on their own – ended up wandering around the streets of Oaxaca, popping in and out of galleries while we headed in the general direction of the Centro Cultural Santo Domingo. At one gallery, one of the art teachers scored a set of free postcards to take back to her students; at another, some of us posed with a giant skeleton. At la mano magica, I drooled over the wooden animals, wondering how I’d ever get one home without breaking it [3]. Plus, everything in the store was expensive (one of the books that M. was looking through was close to $150!) and I wasn’t ready to part with my pesos so early in the trip.

Lunchtime found us crowded around tables in a small restaurant just off the market near Santo Domingo. This restaurant, El Topil, has apparently been reviewed by Esquire, but it was empty when we arrived. I only ordered a bowl of sopa Azteca, which was filled with strips of fried tortillas, Oaxacan cheese, and avocados and a glass of gloriously fizzy limonada. Other people loaded up on mole, chicken and pork. The problem, however, was that the waiter got incredibly confused about the number of dishes that were actually ordered and by the time everyone anted up their parts of the bill, we were still short. I guess they assessed us with a tax for being stupid Americans.

Santo Domingo Convent and Church, Oaxaca
Taken from inside the museum

By this point, the day had grown hot, so we sought shelter inside the Centro Cultural Santo Domingo which houses the Museum of Oaxacan Cultures and an ethno-botanical garden. M. escorted us into the room that housed the tesoros la tumba 7 from Monte Alban. I looked around for a while, but I’ll admit that my mind started to wander due to informational overload. Instead, I started to walk around, looking in the galleries, seeking out the modern, more political exhibits and some kind of access to the garden below. I found myself sitting in various nooks and crannies, savoring both the breeze and the quiet inside my head. You know, that’s one of the best things about these trips: although there tends to be a lot of external noise, my mind shuts out the everyday worries associated with my job. It’s a little bit like meditation, finding this calm, empty center inside myself.

The Garden with the Secret Entrance

I should note that while I did find the political exhibits, I never did get to go to the garden; by the time we found the entrance behind the convent walls, it was 4:30 and the guard wouldn’t let us in [4]. My consolation prize? Finding an UNESCO World Heritage Site plaque marking Oaxaca as a historical centre (I’m starting to chalk up a lot of these!).

More later,
Your Granddaughter

Next Time: Monte Alban and Wannabee Hijackers

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Home Alone, Grownup Style


2010
03.25

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Posted in Dogs and Cats, The Home Front | No Comments »

Just call me the bachelorette. My loving husband has abandoned me and our seven furry children for Washington, D.C. Now, there is a significant upside to having the house all to myself. I can make all the stuff he hates to eat: onion and rosemary pizza, pasta puttanesca, bagels and lox, and – my personal favorite – stuffed cabbage soup. I’ve got plans to entertain myself: the University’s annual drag show on Friday, our College’s annual Honors Day on Saturday, and the Art Department’s reception for its Senior Show on Sunday. I might even go see the Repertory Project’s rendition of Ibsen’s “A Doll’s House,” if I can get over the fact that I’ll have to go solo. Somewhere in there, I have papers to finish grading, a departmental report to start writing, and a pile of research-related books to keep reading.

And yet, there are significant cons to being home alone. I have to scoop the cat box on a daily basis. My puppy keeps finding new and entertaining to chew up. My big dog is scared of the rain. The last item is really a problem, seeing how it’s pissing buckets outside. I spent a significant chunk of time (well, 10 minutes) standing in the front yard, getting frizzy hair and slimy leather clogs, begging the dog to go poop.  He didn’t, so I am sure that I’ll be getting a 3 a.m. wake up call.

I also live in an old, old house which creaks and shutters in the wind. Normally, this wouldn’t freak me out, but I swear that the tornado/thunderstorm/insert-your-own-natural-disaster-here, high pitched siren has been going off for 30 minutes now. I’ve checked the TV. Nada. The internet. Zilch. The weather radio. Zip. I assume that there’s a short in the system while keeping my fingers crossed that a giant tree branch doesn’t fall on my house in the middle of the night!

Sidebar: When I sat down to write this blog entry, I intended to write about helping The Coach pack for his trip. I was going to tell you that we sorted through all our travel supplies – you know what I’m talking about – and found out that we had enough Imodium to clog up all of the residents of a small country for at least a week. There were four half used boxes of dental floss, three half used boxes of Q-Tips, three mini-first aid kits, and enough shampoo that I could wash every animal in my house and still have enough left for The Coach’s football players to clean up after particularly muddy game. I’d tell you that I am not sure how it all accumulated, but that would be a lie. I know how we got all that stuff because I buy new supplies every time I go on a trip because I am too lazy to dig through the bathroom cabinet. Oh well, at least I’m not like that guy on The Marriage Ref who had to go out and buy an Ikea cabinet to store all the stuff that he swiped from hotel rooms.

Editor’s Note: Our regularly scheduled programming — otherwise known as Tales of Oaxaca — will return this weekend.

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Art and Archeology, Oaxaca Style


2010
03.22

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Making red dye from cochineal bugs

March 8, 2010: Art & Archeology, Day I

Dear Grandma,

Ah, it’s always so enjoyable to be on vacation! Even though I am a part of a larger tour, I can always find time to be alone with my thoughts. This morning was a great example: I woke up, took a shower, and meandered out to the zocalo to take pictures of La Catedral de la Virgen de la Asunción in the morning light. The square was eerily quiet, with only schoolchildren and the occasional vendor wandering through. In many ways, the atmosphere felt like New Orleans the morning after a good party. It was so peaceful that I just sat a bench watching the pigeons search for food. Across the way, a man sat in the shadow of cathedral playing his guitar.

Eventually, the chilly air encouraged me to get up and walk around, so I wandered over to take some pictures of La Compañía de Jesús before heading off to breakfast at a little café on the plaza. I ordered a typical breakfast: eggs and cheese, beans and bread [1], amazing orange juice and Oaxacan chocolate. Every so often a vendor would wander up to our table, attempting to sell us rugs or purses, wooden spoons and weird toothpicks, necklaces and earrings. One member of our group started negotiating for a bolsa, only to tell the vendor to come back another day even though he matched her price. That seemed a little cruel to me. After all, why would you want to get the guy’s hopes up if you’re not actually interested in buying the purse?

Then the day started in earnest as M. loaded us up on the charter bus for round one of what I have dubbed the “Art and Archeology” tour. Our first stop was a little place in the Zapotec community of Teotitlán del Valle which is world-famous for the production of colorful weavings (at least, that’s what the Internet says). Now before I go much further, I should note that the majority of our group consisted of art students, teachers, and professors – and most of them had grants to fund their trip. Thus, it should come as no surprise when you learn that these individuals were always asking questions, taking pictures, and – and one point – participating in the demonstrations. In many ways, it’s a good thing these people were along because I probably learned more about natural dyes that I ever needed to know! There are shades of red from cochineal bugs, yellows from marigolds, moss tinged greens, deep indigo blues, and mesquite tinted blacks. The bark of an oak tree was used to make a dark brown dye while pecan shells created the softer beige colors. All of these colors could be made lighter or darker depending on the color of the wool being dyed, the addition of the acid of a lemon, or the use of some kind of alkaline product. I watched as a few group members took turns at the spinning wheel and completely embarrassed myself in an attempt to card wood (which apparently takes more finesse than strength). At one point, we observed a man operating a loom and learned that boys as young as ten were trained to be weavers by making small woolen coasters (a few of which I bought for presents).

Zona Arqueológica de Yagul
Taken from the fortaleza

After people bought their souvenirs, we loaded back on the bus and headed out to Zona Arqueológica de Yagul, home of the largest juego de pelota (i.e., ball court) in the Valles Centrales. This Zapotec walled city, built sometime between the 12th and 13th centuries, has two parts: the acropolis which is made up of the temples and palaces (see my picture above) and the Great Fortress located on a peak above the city. We climbed up a hill to take pictures of the acropolis, but I’m not sure that we actually went all the way up to the fortress. Maybe that’s a good thing because hiking paths in Mexico are not the same as hiking trails in the States – and it’s always worse coming down than going up. And, yes, I did end up on my ass a couple of times getting back down the hill because my legs simply could not reach the next “step” (and I’m using that word loosely) down. At one point, I ended up with a lovely scratched hand from grabbing some dried up plant on the side of the path, but at least I didn’t break my fool neck. {LOL}

Want a word of advice? Wear boots with grippy soles and put on a pair of pants in case you fall down.

Pix: Sweaty MT after hoofing it up the hill to take pictures of the acropolis at Yagul. Needless to say, I did not look this happy on the way down the hill.

So, my friends, what do you think was the next stop on our trip? If you guessed that we went drinking in the middle of the day, then you’d be right. Our tour guide made a stop at a fabrica de mezcal where we saw how the agave was composted, then fermented and crushed by a dangerous horse (who wasn’t present during the tour). We also had to taste the mezcal which, quite frankly, has an aftertaste that reminds me of farm animals. Of course, that didn’t stop me from having three mini-shots! And, fortunately, we were taken to lunch next; otherwise, that mezcal would have burned a hole in the lining of my stomach. Instead, we feasted on mole and rice, tortilla soup and peaches before heading down the road to Mitla.

Zona Arqueológica de Mitla
Spanish church built among the ruins

By the time we got to La Zona Arqueológica de Mitla, my supply of small change was running short [2]. In fact, when I tried to pay with a 200 peso bill, I was sent to the back of the line and told to find 37 pesos. I really had to root around my bag, but I managed to scrounge up enough change. The reward for my effort was to look around both the Grupo del Norte and the Grupo de las Columnas [3]. Sadly, the painted friezes had been vandalized throughout the centuries. In addition, the Spanish built a church among the ruins which makes it harder to visualize how the site must have looked during its heyday. I tried to be as impressed with Mitla as I was with Yagul, especially since Mitla had examples of both the Mixtec and Zapotec cultures, but mostly I was annoyed with the shortsightedness of the vandals who apparently have no sense of history. 

El Árbol del Tule

Fortunately, the last stop of the day restored my faith in mankind for the time being. M. told us that we were going to see a ‘very large” cypress tree (technically, taxodium mucronatum) in Santa María del Tule on the way back to Oaxaca. For the record, he understated the size of the tree. You see, we got off the bus and started walking towards the church. Along the way, we passed a tree. “Is this the tree?” a couple of us stated under our breath. I mean, it was a pretty sizable tree, located in an odd place. Yeah, uh, no. Talk about bait and switch, eh?

So, we kept walking until we came to the fence that surrounded the church grounds and there it was, this massive monument to Mother Earth. Although it looks like a bunch of trees that grew together, the tree has been through DNA tests that say it is a single individual. My guess is that this tree is one of the largest in the world; without checking, I bet it’s probably the biggest tree in North America. And, it’s old. Really, really old: As in, somewhere between 1,200 and 3,000 years old, according to the estimates on Wikipedia. This means that the tree was around when Monte Albán was a vibrant metropolis.

Of course, I found out later that the tree could be in real trouble. An article at Planeta notes that:

The area surrounding the mammoth trees was formerly a marsh filled with cattails or bulrushes, known in Spanish as tules, which gives the town (and confusingly the tree) its name. Environmental degradation as well as increased urbanization and irrigated farming have diverted water from the aquifers. During the dry season, the water table decreases more than six meters (20 feet).

According to the local environmental group Mi Amigo el Arbol headed by environmentalist Jorge Velasco, if only two of the underground aquifers were restored, there would be sufficient recharge of groundwater supplies to ensure the survival of these trees.

“The most effective solution to ensure survival is to have enough water throughout the year as needed to replenish the aquifers and to be vigilant on water use so that it is appropriate for local needs and avoid wastefulness.”

If only I could read Spanish, I could do a little more research on this topic. Sigh.

While we were at the tree, a vendor reached through the fence and offered us samples of her sorbet in exotic flavors such as tuna and mamey. Obviously, the tuna sorbet was not made from fish, but we couldn’t communicate well enough with the vendor to figure out what exactly was in it. Later, thanks to Chowhound, I determined that tunas were the little cactus fruits found on a prickly pear. Apparently, these fruits can be found in France, where the tunas are called Figue de Barbarie.

I ended up eating the mamey sorbet, thinking maybe it was papaya or mango or something. The funny thing is that everyone who tried it thought it tasted like something else: sweet potato, pumpkin, and carrots were common guesses. I asked our Mexican tour guide to tell me what a mamey is but she couldn’t come up with the English name for it. It turns out that there isn’t one; mamey is actually defined in my English-Spanish dictionary as a “round, apple-sized tropical fruit.” It doesn’t matter. What does matter is that this was one of the best thing I have ever eaten, even better than the orgasmic orange juice that I came across in the Netherlands.

A word of warning: It probably isn’t a good idea to buy food through fences from street vendors in strange cities. But, hey, isn’t that what Imodium is for? 

Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter

Next Time: A Tax on Silly Americans

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The Curse of Gate 11A


2010
03.21

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March 7, 2010: Louisville to Oaxaca

Dear Grandma,

It has been a long couple of days, traveling down to Mexico. When I left home on Saturday morning, I fully expected to be drinking Victoria on Oaxaca’s zocalo before bedtime. Instead, I was felt up by the TSA, delayed for hours in the Louisville Airport, and eventually stranded under the big, bright stars of Texas. By Sunday, though, my mood was greatly improved as the weather in Mexico was gorgeous and the crowd gathered in the zocalo had an infectious exuberance. After checking into our hotel and meeting up with the rest of our group – those individuals who had managed to make it into Oaxaca on the previous day – we headed out for dinner at an open air café. Sitting in the slightly chilly night air, while eating the most amazing chiles rellenos and being serenaded by a mariachi band, I was able to relax into vacation mode. By the time we went to back to the hotel, I was able to put aside my insomniac ways, despite the boisterous people on my floor and the bed that was harder than a slab of concrete.

But, perhaps I need to start at the beginning.

On my last two trips with M., our group ended up flying – or attempting to fly – out of Louisville at six in the morning. Because we live two hours from the airport (and because I am not a morning person), The Coach [1] and I have ended up spending the night before my flight holed up in a fancy airport hotel. This year, we had a more humane itinerary, so we didn’t have to leave our home for Louisville until 9 a.m. on the day of the flight. The Coach loaded up my luggage, drove me to the airport, and dumped me out at the curb. Inside the airport, M. was waiting to shepherd our motley crew [2] to the right gate.

This is when the fun started. The TSA must have my classroom bugged – or else karma just wanted to bite me on the butt for mocking silly airport security protocols during my class on Friday – but I ended up getting selected for an “enhanced” check. This seems to happen to me every time I fly out of an airport other than Evansville and it doesn’t much matter what I wear or how efficient I am when it comes to pulling out liquids and taking off shoes. Last week, for instance, I was pulled out of line in D.C. to have my hands swabbed. This week, however, it was an invasive, boob groping pat down.

Here is where I made my mistake: I made a snarky remark to the agent.

Yes, I know I should have just taken it in stride, but I was annoyed and – quite honestly this TSA agent should have been written up for sexual harassment. I’m an old, married woman, and the only people who should be poking at my boobs should be my husband or my doctor. The woman told me to improve my attitude, said I shouldn’t dress “comfortably” for a trip, and commented on the development of breast implant bombs. Now, while I can make sure not to wear layers on a flight, I sure can’t do anything within the realm of reasonable behavior about the fact that I have a woman’s body.

So, Gale Rossides, if you are reading this, please honor my request: If you’re going to have someone feel me up every time I fly because I have big ta-tas, could you at least send Brad Pitt to do my security check?

I finally made it to the gate, only to learn that our flight had been delayed because the plane had a flat tire. For a while, the Continental agent tried to keep our hopes up, saying that maintenance had been called, and for a while, I believed him. Soon, however, it became apparent that we weren’t going anywhere anytime in the near future – and then the gate agent confessed to the crowd that the Louisville airport did not have a spare tire in stock [3]. A new plane (and, I assume, a spare tire) were on the way from St. Louis but it would be a few hours before they arrived.

Needless to say, there was no way our group was going to make our connecting flight in Houston and there were no other flights to Oaxaca on Saturday. Furthermore, we couldn’t stay in Louisville and fly out the next day because, according to the ticket agent, every single seat out of Louisville was full on Sunday. Instead, the best they could offer us was an overnight stay in the airport Sheraton and $18 in food vouchers, with a flight to Mexico City and an Aeromexico connection to Oaxaca the next day. What choice did we really have? Of course we took it.

I am now convinced that Gate 11A is cursed.

I don’t really have much else to say about the trip down to Oaxaca. The Houston Airport is still obnoxious, with its warning announcements that even joking about a bomb is “an arrestable offense.” The Mexico City Airport has fallen victim to globalization. Aeromexico serves a version of mafer cachuate Japones sal Limón that everyone went crazy for. I saw an old CCCP symbol in the graffiti near the Oaxaca airport. Like I said, uneventful.

On the Zocalo in Oaxaca

After we finally made it to our hotel, a few of us decided to wander around Oaxaca until we went to dinner. We peeked inside La Catedral de la Virgen de la Asunción, then walked up to Santo Domingo, looking around a few markets. K. made her first purchase of the trip, picking up a small wooden giraffe for a friend back home. The zocalo was full of life, with couples necking on the benches and little kids chasing balloons around the plaza. Those balloons turned out to be a little dangerous as we had to dodge them quite a few times!

Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter

Next time: Art and Architecture, Part I

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Fun, Food, & Fab Times: Oaxaca


2010
03.17

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Well, I’m back in the moderately cold Midwest after spending five glorious days wandering through Oaxaca with a tour group from my University. Boy, did we have adventures: sweating our way through Yagul, Mitla, and Monte Alban; shopping in galleries while walking the streets of Oaxaca; going on art tours that included rug making, pottery throwing, and wooden animals. We ate intriguing food at a restaurant named after this book, sorbet bought through a fence at the Tule Tree, and disgusting breakfasts that included cold eggs for three days in a row. The company was amusing and the weather was amazing. Aside from this creeping crud that’s caused me to lie low for the past few days, I feel rested, happy, and ready to make the eight-week march to the end of the semester. So, stay tuned: the Oaxaca stories are coming soon!

Pix: MT standing at the museum at the entrance to the Monte Alban site.

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Retrospective: More Travel Drama!


2010
03.15

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 A Sign for Mexico City 

March 15, 2008: Mexico City to Louisville

Dear Grandma,

I am beginning to hate the Atlanta airport. Today’s travel saga wasn’t as bad as last Saturday’s, but I have to say that sitting on a regional jet with hail stones pinging off the windows is not my idea of fun. Seriously, I was having so much fun in Mexico that that the thought of coming back to the cold, dreary Midwest was a depressing thought indeed. Mexico was sunny and warm, colorful and exciting, full of new things to see and do — and my travel mates were awesome. The students were well behaved, smart, and funny. The “grown-ups” were amusing and interesting. Our leader was witty, knowledgeable and calm — even when our plans went awry.

I thought about changing my ticket so I could stay a few more days, but in the end, my status as a tenure-track professor brought me to my senses and I set my alarm clock for 3:15 a.m. so I could make my 6 a.m. flight home. Now, as you know from when I was a little kid, I am not a morning person, so when the alarm went off before the sun even came up, I thought about turning it off and going back to sleep. It’s probably a good thing that I packed the night before because even the hot shower didn’t fully wake me up. I’m sure I was a pretty sight when I finally made it down to the lobby with my overstuffed luggage in tow. At least someone else had the presence of mind to make our taxi reservations the night before, so all I had to do was climb into the van when it finally arrived.

Of course, I ended up in the second cab with a driver who could only be described as … confused. M. told him to take us to the airport and the guy asked, “¿Aeropuerto uno o aeropuerto dos?” Yeah, there’s only one airport in Mexico City, so that was a little disconcerting. Eventually, we figured out that he was talking about terminal one or terminal two — not two different airports. We told him that we needed the international terminal, but he ended up taking us to the wrong one. It’s a good thing that M. thought to jump out and check the sign at the Delta gate or else we would have had fun dragging all our luggage over to the other terminal!

Anyhow, we finally made it to the right place only to find that the Delta line was longer than one might expect at 4-ish in the morning. Honestly, I thought we might not make it through the line in time to make our flight {Okay, I had my fingers crossed that I wouldn’t make the flight because I really, really didn’t want to leave!} but they moved us up to some kind of expedited line.

While we were waiting, I had to reorganize my luggage because my big suitcase was over the weight limit. Seeing how I didn’t want to spend more money to get it on the plane, I pulled out my extra bag and started stuffing my books and papers into it. [1] In retrospect, I would have been okay if I had worn my Doc Martins instead of shoving them in my suitcase because those steel toed, lug soled boots are pretty heavy. But, I put them in my luggage because I expected to take my shoes off at the airport (which, incidentally, did not happen).

Pretty soon, it was just me and M. — who wasn’t taking the flight, but wanted to make sure that none of the travelers had trouble with their tickets — waiting in line. So, we’re standing there when this guy walks up and leaves his luggage sitting next to us. Now, remember, I am not a morning person and I had yet to have a cuppa, so I wasn’t thinking clearly when I said this next thing: “Holy crap, I hope there’s not a bomb in that suitcase.”

Oops.

Now, I suspect that if we were in an airport in the United States, I would have been in a world of hurt, because someone would have overheard me and security would have dragged my butt out of line. We’re completely anal about that kind of crap, especially when the TSA security guidelines are nothing more than a front to give people a false sense of security. I mean, one of the kids on our trip lost his pocket knife to the Mexico City security … a pocket knife he didn’t even realize he had with him because the knife made it through the security check in Louisville. Luckily, though, this was the Mexico City airport and my bomb comment went unheard by everyone except M. who gave me a weird look and told me, quite nicely, to shut up.

Eventually, I made it to the ticket counter (I was stuck in a middle seat all the way to Atlanta because the flight was full and he couldn’t move me), through immigration and security, and to the gate. Thankfully M. gave me a face mask and earplugs, because I was able to sleep most of the way to Atlanta. Really, the only horrible aspect of this flight was that they were only serving eggs in their airborne breakfast. Eggs? Seriously? Let’s just ask for food poisoning, shall we? Obviously, I opted for the fruit and yogurt … then watched the flight attendance say rude things to the people in front of me. Yeah, she was incompetent; she actually spilled milk all over the woman in front of me! Nasty!

When we got to Atlanta, I ate a pretty bad burger in a pretty bad restaurant where they wouldn’t take my $100 bill so B. had to pay for me. Oops. Don’t worry, I’ll just settle up with him later, seeing how he’s an adjunct at our school. Of course, Atlanta was having bad weather — it had just been hit by a tornado on Friday and it seemed like nature was taking a second stab at the city — so the airport was crammed full of people and we ended up sitting on a nasty, nasty floor. At least our plane was able to load on time … at least that seemed like we were making progress. I mean, the Girls’ Golf Team from our University was actually stuck in the airport (with half of them flying back the following day!), so we were lucky, or so I thought.

Hopped on the plane. Got all settled in. Pulled out the sleeping mask and prepared to nod off. And then we got stuck on the runway. Again. They loaded us up into a regional jet, put us out on the runway, and closed the airspace. We sat on the plane for 2 1/2 hours before the hail stopped and we could take off. We had the worst weather on our travel days, I swear!

Well, we made it home alive and now I’m planning my next spring break trip: Peru.

Love and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter

Originally Posted: March 28, 2008

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Retrospective: Museums & Markets


2010
03.14

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A turtle sunning in the water feature at
the Museo Nacional de Antropología

March 14, 2008: Chapultepec Park, Mexico City

Dear Grandma,

Today I learned that being a bus driver in Mexico City is probably the world’s worst job. I know, I know. Grandpa was a miner, the tunnels were deep and dark, and there was always the nasty concern that a cave-in could happen at any moment. Still, after riding the bus down {or up? I am not sure because I have what can only be described as the world’s worst sense of direction!} to Chapultepec Park, I’m completely convinced that driving a bus in Mexico City is worse. Imagine the gridlock that can happen when 20 million people are crammed into a city. Imagine choking on all the exhaust fumes that float up from the cars surrounding you. Then imagine having to deal with tourists who don’t know where they are going, how much to pay, or how to cram onto an already packed bus. Yeah, I am sure that you would be at your wits’ end too!

Of course, I happened to love riding the bus, even though the traffic was bad. We crawled down the street, weaving in and out of traffic, picking up people as we went along. I spent a lot of time gazing out the window, pondering the fact that I had another klutzy moment – this one was at breakfast when I managed to spill the dredges of my orange juice all over the table. Fortunately, it missed B. or I would have been even more humiliated! I don’t know how these things happen to me. I just get all excited and start talking with my hands, then *BAM!* something ends up getting knocked over. [1]

After a while, the bus dumped us out near the Museo Nacional de Antropologia (i.e., the National Museum of Anthropology). It was almost like being back in the States because we had to go through metal detectors to get into the place! I wasn’t prepared for that, so I had to root around in my pockets to get all of my pesos out and I had to untie my money wallet thingie from my belt loop. {Yeah, holding up the works again, what can I say?} Then we stashed our backpacks, paid our ticket fees — which were dirt cheap, less than $5 US — and headed into the museum proper.

When you leave the visitor’s center, you walk out into this giant courtyard that includes a huge pond and a massive concrete awning that is supported by a skinny little pillar. According to the evil that is Wikipedia, this concrete umbrella is known as el paraguas in Spanish. All I know is that it was an impressive feat in architecture. I really don’t want to think about what would happen to the canopy if an earthquake hit Mexico City {which, incidentally, is not out of the realm of possibility} because I am fairly certain that the roof would come crashing down, Chicken Little style.

Now, M. told us going into the museum that we would never be able to see the whole thing, so he picked out some of the more important galleries to visit. I followed along, looking at all of the statues … it seems like the Mesoamericans were really into jaguars, coyotes, and women with fat thighs. Geez, if only I had been born a couple of centuries ago, I could have been revered as a goddess. {SNORT} Again, I found myself wondering why, oh why, I had never taken an art history class because — quite frankly — I don’t know sh*t about art, anthropology, or archeology. I do, however, know what I like and I really liked the coyote statues. In retrospect, that’s a bit embarrassing because I discovered that the coyote I liked best was representative of the god Tezcatlipoca and {drum roll, please!} sexual prowess. Boo-yah!

Jaguars seemed to be very popular
in the Mesoamerican cultures

If you believe in the guidebook, the most impressive piece in the museum was the sun stone (i.e., the Aztec calendar) hanging in the Mexica gallery. Sure, it was cool, but I preferred the slightly creepy statue of Coatlicue, an earth goddess. Her head was made up of two serpents and she wore a necklace of severed hands and human heads. She’s the goddess that gave birth to the moon and the stars, and is often called the goddess of fire and fertility. What’s so amazing about this particular goddess is that I’ve actually heard about her before because she’s mentioned in a Neil Gaiman book entitled American Gods. You know, I’m going to have to dig that book out and re-read it now that I’ve seen the statue.

After a while, M. went in search of some kind of drum that he wanted to take a picture of. The gals on the trip, well, we wandered out to the pond and sat around watching the school groups and whistling {okay, I was the only one whistling} at the turtles. Eventually, we went to the gift shop and I picked up some postcards, the guidebook, and a map of Mexico City in case I lost the rest of the group on the subway. And then it happened. The guard at the entryway busted me for chewing gum. Geez, it’s not like I was going to stick a piece of Big Red to a statue or anything. I guess it’s a good thing the guard wasn’t an old school nun, or else I would have walked around with gum stuck to the tip of my nose for the rest of the day.

We ended up having lunch at the cafe in the museum. Finally, I was able to get some vegetables! I ended up eating this wickedly good cactus salad, which had a great zesty dressing … among other things. The only thing I found slightly revolting was this stained glass jello thing (see the picture in this foodie blog). Actually, it was more than revolting. It was nasty, nasty, nasty. Ranks right up there with English peas. Blah.

After lunch, we split into two groups with M. and E. going back to the Palacio de Bellas Artes to see the murals. The rest of us, with B. in charge, decided to go the mercados to buy stuff. So, here we were, crammed on the bus going back towards the zocalo, in a bus stuffed full of people, some of whom could have really used deodorant. While I was sitting there on the bus, I finally figured out why my knees looked so dirty all day. Yeah, rubbing your knees on the back of a bus seat in Mexico City equals filthy knees. I thought about spitting on my hands and trying to clean them off, but B. signaled for us to get off the bus.

Only, it was the wrong stop. Oops.

So, after consulting a map, we walked through blocks and blocks of home improvement stores and ended up at the wrong marketplace. It was small and a little low-rent, although I did buy some Mexican tiles there (which I will eventually put on my fireplace). Eventually, we ended up making our way to the right mercados and poked around for a while. I found these cute turtle whistles for my nephews, which are guaranteed to drive my stepsister right up the wall. (LOL!) B., K., and I sat around drinking juice in a little cafe while other people were milling around the stores. I thought about going back early, but we ended up poking around the stores again and soon I had purchased this really colorful painting which was done on this weird bark paper. We also saw this beautiful little girl feeding French fries to a rooster in the picnic area just outside the back of the market place, which really just made my day.

Little Girl at the market in Mexico City

Of course, we ended up missing our “meeting time” and the rest of the group left without us. Turns out that was the most excellent accident, because we ran into M. who was hauling around another huge package. Seriously, I think the man will need to buy another suitcase just to get all of his purchases home! Anyhow, we sat around drinking (not the hard stuff) and talking about old movies, which made me feel really young because I honestly don’t remember seeing The Blues Brothers. I thought I had seen it before, but I had no clue about any of the scenes they were describing. My main contribution was a description of the popcorn scene in Real Genius, which I don’t think any of them had seen before. Either way, M. promised to have a Blues Brothers night, which will fill in this gap in my (pop) cultural knowledge. {I hope he doesn’t forget. Otherwise, I’m going to have to add the movie to my Netflix queue.}

So, eventually we took the subway back to the hotel, which turned out to be another colorful experience. You see, there was this girl, a woman really, who was completely stacked and crammed into a tiny, tiny bikini top. Oh my. You couldn’t help but notice her — and notice her, we did. Honestly, I was waiting for the guys’ eyeballs to pop out of their heads and fall onto the platform, like a R-rated Looney Tunes gag. Sadly, I never did see a nice looking guy on this trip. Where are all the mysterious, handsome, James Bond type guys? I demand parity, damn it!

When we got back to the Zocalo, we took a short cut through what can only be called “Catholics ‘R Us.” Yeah, it was this urban mall, chocked full of saints and vestments and crosses and crucifixes. Anything a good Catholic would want could be found here — from the tasteful and expensive to tacky and cheap. Now, I know with a name like mine, you’d expect me to be a good Catholic, but the Holy Spirit did not come to me, telling me to “Buy! Buy! Buy!” You can thank M. for the saint that I sent you. {Yeah, I’m a bad granddaughter, but my friends think you’re cool!}

We ended the night with a final dinner in the hotel restaurant. I splurged (well, I was trying to get rid of my pesos) and ordered a fillet mignon. Yeah, that was a bad idea. It was not what I expected at all. The steak was covered in brown gravy, and was so raw that it practically moo’ed. I mean, that steak bled all over the plate. Note to self: Only order Mexican food when in Mexico.

Love and hugs,
Your Granddaughter

Originally Published: March 26, 2008

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Retrospective: The Sun & The Moon


2010
03.13

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Along the Calzada de los Muertos, Teotihuacan

March 13, 2008: Teotihuacan, Mexico

Dear Grandma,

Today, I walked through the City of the Gods. No, I didn’t actually make it to heaven, but Teotihuacan probably comes pretty close. Just getting there was an adventure worth sharing. You see, we had to get 13 people from the center of Mexico City to this archaeological site about 25 miles outside of town. This required taking three subway lines and a bus, which is harder than you might think. Even though we all made it onto the subway at the first stop, we lost four members of the group when we were transferring to the next subway line. Hey, when you are crowded onto a subway train, you have to be aggressive about pushing your way out! Fortunately, the people we lost were pretty savvy — and had written directions — so they were able to catch up with us before we made the final subway connection.

Eventually, we made it to the bus station and loaded onto the bus headed to Teotihuacan. I popped a Dramamine, opened the window wide, and let the air wash over me as we made our way out of town. M. was behind me, talking to me as we went along, so the trip was actually quite enjoyable. Even better was the fact that a guy with a guitar got on the bus at one point and stood in the aisle playing tunes as we rolled along. At different stop, another guy hopped on the bus trying to sell churros. Just chalk that up to things you’d never see in the States!

We arrived at Teotihuacan, paid our fees, and walked into the Ciudadela (the Citadel) where we were surrounded by school children. And, I do mean surrounded! There must have been at least 20 different school groups running around the grounds, each dressed in color-coordinated sweat suits. They were all so cheerful — and in damned good shape because they hoofed it up and down the stairs of the various temples and pyramids without a second thought. Me, I climbed up the Temple of Quetzalcoatl and those stairs liked to have killed me! G. and I used to have double-rise steps in our old rental house in Louisiana and it always bothered me that the stair steps hit me in the back of the knee. These temple stairs were worse. Narrow. Tall. Steep. That fear of falling that cropped up earlier in our trip really came back to haunt me when I had to go back down the stairs — and this wasn’t even a tall temple!

Well, we lost the first two members of our group at the bottom of this temple because they started negotiating with some peddlers. The rest of the group took off down the Avenue of the Dead, aiming for the Pyramid of the Sun. Yeah, I also ended up losing them because I kept stopping to take pictures. Plus, I knew if I climbed that pyramid, I’d probably be touching the face of someone’s god right about now. I figured that I’d end up catching up to them and I was right. All I had to do was look up the pyramid and I could see A.’s bright green shirt blazing against the dull brownish-yellow color of the stone.

I was taking pictures of the group climbing up the pyramid when one of the little vendor guys tried to strike up a conversation with me. “Present for your boyfriend?” he said. I turned around and said “No gracias,” and he must of have seen my wedding ring because then he said, “For your mother-in-law?” I made a face and said, “Yeah, no thanks” — because you know how much my mother-in-law hates me. The guy laughed.

“Ah,” he said, “Your sworn enemy.”

It’s amazing how the whole in-law thing transcends cultural boundaries, isn’t it?

Pyramid of the Moon, Teotihuacan

After a while, the group made it down from the (almost) top of the pyramid and we continued down the Avenue of the Dead to towards the Pyramid of the Moon, and somehow lost another chunk of our group. (The kids, they just kept peeling away throughout the day!) I think that the climb up the first pyramid must have been exhausting for the majority of the group because no one seemed very eager to scale the second one. That’s too bad because the Pyramid of the Moon looked like it was the more interesting one. Apparently, this is the pyramid where Chalchiutlicue, the goddess of water, was honored with who-knows-what type of ceremony. Oh well, it’s not like I was going to climb it! {SNORT} Yeah, I’m really going to have to get over that fear of falling thing before I go to Peru next year.

Instead of making a second summit, M. directed us over to the Palace of Quetzal-Papalotl where we looked at the carvings on the different pillars. These were of the Quetzal-Butterfly bird figure (one representing the day, another one representing the night). About this time, I got a little lost (in my mind, that is) because there were three temples all grouped together: the Palace of Quetzal-Papalotl, the Palace of the Jaguars, and the Palace of the Feathered Conches. Even after I bought a guidebook at the end of the day, I still couldn’t figure out which one was which. All I know is that I really liked the decorations throughout these buildings. It amazes me that these decorations could still be there, some still in vivid color, after all these years. I mean, Teotihuacan was built around the time of Christ’s birth (at least, that’s what the guidebook says), so we’re talking about a couple thousand years here.

It was just starting to get hot at the site when M. decided it was time to take a lunch break. We hoofed it across the site, out one of the gates, and down a road that skirted along the eastern perimeter of Teotihuacan to get to this restaurant called La Gruta. At the time, it felt like a heck of a hike, but once we got there, I was duly impressed. The whole restaurant is down in this immense cave, nice and cool, with sunlight floating down through a couple of holes in the roof. It must have felt really cold to the other group that was in the restaurant because they were actually wrapping themselves up in the colorful tablecloths!

I ended up ordering a spinach salad, to the chagrin of some of the members of our group. Yes, I know it’s risky to eat raw vegetables in Mexico because you never know what kind of water is being used, but I was dying for something that was not fried or covered in sauce. Plus, I was feeling a little brave because I had eaten a fruit salad the day before and it didn’t send me running for my Imodium. When it came out, the salad was not what I expected. Instead of being a pile of raw spinach, it was a pile of Mexican herbs (I’m not sure what kind) with four small scoops of cooked spinach around the sides of the plate. The herbs were a bit weird, but actually pretty tasty, especially since they were covered in some kind of salad dressing made out of cactus.

My only problem with the restaurant came with the bill. I gave the waiter 200 pesos for a 100 peso bill, fully expecting to get some change so I could leave a tip. Only, the waiter never came back! I sat there and waited. And waited. I was a little pissed, but figured that it wasn’t worth ruining my day over, so I was just going to leave and cut my losses. The boys, however, wouldn’t hear of it. They went after the waiter, then to another person (who I can only assume was a manager), and eventually got my change for me. Chivalry isn’t dead after all. {LOL}

Figurine. Museo de Sitio, Teotihuacan.

After lunch, M. offered to take the group to see some murals in an apartment complex on the other side of the site. I ended up ditching the group and staying behind with J. because I wanted to look through the Museo de Sitio Teotihuacan and the gardens around it. I’m a sucker for museums and plants, what can I say? Plus, I will probably never have the chance to go back to Teotihuacan, so I knew that needed to see the museum on this trip. Let’s face it: Mexico is not very high on my husband’s list of places to go (and yes, I asked him).

Although the museum was small, it was full of odd figurines, like the one shown above. [1] I never could figure out what the heck was going on with that one, but it was so weird that I had to take a picture of it. According to the guidebook, the museum supposedly explains the Teotihuacan view of the universe, but seeing how everything was in Spanish, I wasn’t able to learn very much about their gods. Yeah, I am completely a social scientist — I’ve never really had an art history class and, like I said before, my sixth grade history class obviously did not make a lasting impression on me. {You’ll remember that teacher – she’s the one who called me a social retard. Ugh!}

I worked my way through the museum, walking over the glass floor that cut across the model of Teotihuacan. {I’m not sure that I would have been able to get my dogs to walk across that floor. Visually, it really led to a cognitive distortion.} J. decided to head back to our meeting point and I set out with him. Soon, however, we decided to part ways because I kept stopping to take pictures of plants, especially these really cool cacti that lined the way. In a way, it was nice to have a little time to myself, just so I could reflect on everything that I had seen so far on the trip. It was peaceful, except for the people who zipped by on bicycles. I’m sure I looked like a real nerd because I practically crawled into the cacti to take pictures. {Don’t worry, I brought my tweezers, but I didn’t need them!}

Taken during my “alone time”

When I got back to the main area of Teotihuacan, three of the students were already there. They were out of water and pretty close to broke, so we just sat there for a while waiting for other people to show up. I did take N.’s shopping advice (he’s the king of t-shirts) and found a pretty decent deal on shirts for my little nephews, along with the aforementioned guidebook (purchased six hours too late). Eventually the other two students showed up and we wandered out to the main gate where we were supposed to meet the rest of the group. Again, we waited. And waited. And waited some more. Soon, a couple of the kids started to head back towards the marketplace at the Citadel where J. was waiting for his wife. It was about that time that the rest of the group staggered up outside the gate because they had been locked out of the site. {Oops!}

We watched a ton of buses go by, each time thinking that maybe this one was the bus back to Mexico City, and each time seeing a bus loaded with school kids. I was beginning to wonder if we had missed the last bus back to the City when it finally pulled up. Going back to the City, the bus ride was pretty uneventful. No churro salesman. No guitars. Just conversation with S. as he practiced some of his B-material on me.

The subway, however, was a whole different story! This guy hopped on the train holding up a portable DVD player that was blaring that old Village People song, YMCA. I was just getting into it (Yeah, there’s my inner nerd showing) when he started shouting out a sales pitch. Hysterical! I have to say that the public transportation on this trip has turned out to be most amusing.

I do, however, really need to point out one thing about riding on the subway. There’s something to be said for being safe, but stupid-safe is a whole ‘nother matter. I made sure that my passport was in my money wallet thingie and I buried all my important stuff (well, the camera) deep in the middle pocket of my backpack. I left my extra money back in the hotel in my locked suitcase. No big deal, right? Well, one of the group members questioned my common sense because I didn’t switch my backpack to the front of my body while riding the subway. WTF? Later, I looked over at the person and she was clinging to her husband with their backpack smashed between them, looking just like a scared American tourist.

Yeah, those are the people that the locals like to screw with. Stupid-safe just ain’t worth it!

Otherwise, the rest of the evening was rather peaceful. Teotihuacan was so damned dusty that I had probably had grit between my teeth, so I took a long, hot shower and brushed my teeth. Looking in the mirror afterwards, I realized that while SPF 50 might keep the sunburn away, it does absolutely nothing for windburn. My nose and chin were a real mess. I’m sure I didn’t look very attractive when we set off for dinner down near the Cathedral.

M. had this place in mind, a patio restaurant at the top of the Hotel Majestic, but it took a while to find it because the Hotel Majestic had been turned into a Best Western or a Holiday Inn, or some other freakin’ chain. We finally found the place, but it had changed. Apparently, it had ambiance two years ago … but the chain ruined it by making it look like every other Best Western / Holiday Inn in North America. Yet, the food was decent and we could see the fireworks that someone was setting off near the airport. Plus, it was amusing to listen to the people behind us as they were pretty hyper about the soccer game that was on the TV.

I managed to talk B., K., and M. into staying up for deserts and nightcaps in the hotel restaurant because I wasn’t really ready to go to bed. Poor MT. Too old to go clubbing, too young to go to sleep at 9 o’clock. {SNORT} I was really tickled when my “do-it-yourself” gin and tonic came out. Yes, they brought me a glass of ice, a snifter of gin and a bottle of tonic water. I wasn’t the only one who had to make my own drink. S. and J. (a different J.) showed up for dinner and S. ordered Jack and Coke — another assembly job. Really, the only person who didn’t have to fix his own drink was M. and that’s because he drank his rum straight. {Impressive!} Anyways, we sat there gossiping about the fact that one of our group members managed to pick up a Spanish telenovela star in the bar earlier in the day. {Doubly impressive!} You know, this was probably the best part of the day, just sitting around, relaxing, and chatting with people who were likable and interesting and all sorts of funny. I wish that I could find that kind of camaraderie at home.

Kisses and Hugs,
Your Granddaughter

Originally Posted: March 24, 2008

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Retrospective: Folklore, Dancing & Tiffany Glass


2010
03.12

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Mexico City, from my Balcony at Hotel Catedral

March 12, 2008: Mexico City

Dear Grandma,

Tonight I went to the ballet in Mexico City. I haven’t been to a ballet in years, not since G. and I lived in Chicago. Originally, I was just going to hang out in my hotel room and relax work on my research paper, but one of the students learned that the Folklórico de México was at the Palacio de Bellas Artes every Wednesday night. Since she was willing to walk down to the box office and buy the tickets, since the tickets were only 400 pesos (about $40), and since I had packed my pretty brown sundress, I decided to join the group. After all, I hauled that dress all the way from Indiana and I was darned well going to wear it!

Of course, the dress had one small flaw. It had no pockets! I tried to cram my passport and tourist card into the pocket of my denim coat (Mexico City was a little chilly at night), but it just wouldn’t fit. And, even though I’m not a girly-girl, I wasn’t about to wear that ugly money wallet thing around my neck. Plus, I’m not stupid enough to go wandering around a foreign city without ID, so I swallowed my pride embarrassment and asked M. to carry it for me. [1]

In the end, there were only four of us were brave enough to stroll around Mexico City at night — two students, M., and me. We headed out on the subway for the Palacio de Bellas Artes (i.e., Palace of Fine Arts) where the ballet was playing. Now, for the record, the students were a bit nervous about taking the subway because someone had told them about a man ejaculating on the foot of a passenger. Then, of course, there is the whole pickpocket issue. In fact, when the students went to get the tickets, they actually walked all the way to the opera house and back! Thank goodness, M. was able to talk them into riding the subway because I’m not sure my feet could have taken another forced march through the city. {LOL}

We emerged unscathed at our stop and walked over to the Palacio. We were a bit early, so M. — ever the artist — tried his damnedest to get us upstairs to see the murals by Diego Rivera. First, he tried to talk one of the ushers into taking us upstairs to see them. When that failed, he spotted an elevator and signaled for us to climb in. We punched the button, and waited. Did a little wishful thinking. Punched the button again. Waited some more. Yeah, that elevator just wasn’t going to move. Eventually, we had to give up, so someone punched the button to open the door and we tumbled out into the lobby where a cleaning lady said something to us in Spanish. She was probably chewing us out, but I guess we looked like dumb American tourists, so she didn’t call security on us or anything. Of course, I was having a really hard time trying not to laugh (there’s that weird sense of humor again), so I guess I’m lucky I didn’t get us all in trouble!

In a way, I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t get to see the Rivera murals because apparently there’s a fairly famous one in the Palacio de Bellas Artes. It’s this mural entitled Man, Controller of the Universe and is based on a mural named Man at the Crossroads which was originally painted for New York City’s Rockefeller Center. I guess the Rockefellers didn’t care for the image of Lenin that was in the mural, so Rivera was asked to remove him. When he refused, the whole thing was destroyed. So, Rivera ended up repainting the mural (on a smaller scale) in the Palacio. [2]

Anyways, what does a good member of the Morris clan do when faced with adversity? You know the answer to this one. We go drinking. Luckily, there was a cute little bar in the Palacio, so we took a seat and ordered. Since I was still feeling like a heroine in a 1950s comedy, I ordered a gin martini. In retrospect, that may have been a mistake because I was feeling pretty darned tipsy when it came time to climb (and climb and climb) the stairs to the galería at the top of the theatre. [3]

Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the time or the place. Or maybe I have just been so culturally deprived for so long, but that ballet was magical. Not gorgeous (although it was), not well executed (although it was), but magical. The costumes were colorful, the dancing beautiful, the music amazing. At times, I would look up at the shiny walls and watch the reflection of the dancers because it was a bit like looking through a kaleidoscope. I could literally feel the joy bubbling up inside my mind (again, maybe it was the booze?) and I felt … well, I was utterly charmed.

And that was just about the dancing. I was already giddy before the show started because I love architecture. I’m not a fancy expert or anything like that, but of all the arts, architecture is probably my favorite (followed closely by photography). The Palacio is a marvelous building and it has this impressive Tiffany stained glass curtain that depicts the Valley of Mexico, with two snow-capped volcanoes. [4] According to this website, the curtain is made up of over one million individual pieces of crystal. It was an impressive thing to see.

Of course, I haven’t even touched upon some of the funnier moments during the evening. When we first climbed up into the cheap seats, I noticed that there really wasn’t much leg room — and I’m one of the shortest women I know. I remember M. whispering something about taking his shoes off after the lights went down, but I was so busy drooling over the Tiffany curtain that I didn’t think anything about it. So, you can imagine how amused I was when I looked to my left to see that M. not only had his shoes off, but he also had his legs hanging over the seat in front of him. {Eventually, I did the same thing. I mean, it’s not like anyone was sitting in the two rows ahead of us!}

Then, at the intermission, I felt this arm snaking around my shoulders. My first thought was, “What the hell?” Then I realized it was just one of the students putting his arm around both me and the girl to his right. As you might be able to tell, said student is a little bit of a flirt. I swear, he spent a good deal of the trip practicing his pick up lines on every woman in the group. Actually, I was entertained by the whole thing which, I suppose, makes me a very bad feminist but the kid was cute and smart and evidently needs the practice if he was hitting on a cougar like me.

So, here’s the kid, with his arms around me and the other gal who was with us, when M. looks over and says: “You apparently haven’t seen her husband, have you?” Yeah, that put an end to the end of his flirting for the rest of the night. Too bad, because it was really doing my ego some good. {Just kidding!}

Hugs and Kisses,
Your Granddaughter

Originally Posted: March 23, 2008

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