For the purposes of this trip I am playing the role of uncle and Mexican grandmother to my twelve-year-old nephew. Not only am I tutoring him in Spanish but I am also inculcating him into other aspects of the culture of this country that I know so well.
Since we have access to a wonderful kitchen where we are staying, we decided to cook at least a few meals at the house. Pozole (po SO lay) seems to be a pretty big item in this part of the Sierra, so I thought our first meal would be my famous Pozole el Jarocho. For those of you unfamiliar with this dish it is a sort of stew, made with lots of different things in different places, but it must always contain white corn, or hominy as we call it in our southern States in el Norte.
My nephew is a notoriously finicky eater; he will rarely try new things unless you hold him at gunpoint. Evidently there are “laws” against pulling a loaded firearm on a child so the kid sticks with cheese pizzas and burgers. While we are in Mexico I want him to try all of the different things that they offer, but I was worried he might put up too much resistance. Then he told me about the little exception to his picky eating habits: He likes things that he cooks himself.
I decided to kill two birds with one stone: I would teach him how to cook pozole and get him to eat this rather foreign dish at the same time. I started out the recipe dictating it in Spanish for the benefit of the housekeeper’s six-year-old son who was hanging out in the kitchen with us. I explained to both of these males the importance of learning how to cook. Kids will pay pretty close attention when you are teaching them anything in which they have interest. All kids like to eat.
My nephew took to cooking like a natural. I designated him the official pozole stirrer. I also explained to him all of the ingredients that aren’t common to American cooking. The recipe for my pozole (I described this dish and left a recipe on a previous February blog) uses chipotle peppers in adobo sauce. Chipotles are smoked jalapeño peppers that aren’t too hot but add a nice flavor to this dish. I also use chayote squash and, of course, the obligatory maíz blanco or hominy.
All of the cooking instructions that I gave were in Spanish and the kid performed beautifully. I highly recommend having a kid around to stir the pot, fetch another onion from the pantry, y sacar otra cerveza del refrigerador.
Along with pozole I went out and bought a spit-roasted chicken for our first home-cooked Mexican meal. They don’t call the chickens free-range here because the idea of factory-bred, hormone-injected poultry hasn’t yet occurred to the Mexicans. If it has occurred to them they didn’t think it was a very good idea. When you buy a fresh chicken in the market they are a wonderful yellow color and not that pale white breed we have up north.
One of my favorite things here are the pollos a la parilla, chickens cooked on a rotating spit. This is, without a doubt, the best way to cook a bird. As I was paying for the chicken I asked the guy if it came with tortillas. He gave me a look as if to say, “Of course it comes with tortillas, you idiot gringo. This is Mexico.” Silly me.
We also went to a huge outdoor market. Every imaginable item from fresh produce to bootleg CD’s was laid out on several acres of tables. Tents cover everything to block out the fierce midday sun. I picked up a couple of CD’s of Mexican music for the kid. Every kid needs to know about Mexico’s most famous singer of Rancheras, a type of folk song with lots of trumpets and lots of heartache. I have probably written about Vicente Fernandez somewhere or another. He is one of the biggest stars in Mexico.
You can’t really begin to understand Mexico or call yourself fluent in the Spanish of this country without a pretty thorough knowledge of Vicente Fernandez. He has also made a bunch of cowboy style movies so he is like John Wayne and Merle Haggard wrapped into one.
We also picked up a couple CD’s ofLos Tigres del Norte, a popular Norteño band. Norteño music is characterized by lots of accordion and a lively beat—Mexican polka. The music helps to put us into the mood when we are hanging out around the house.
I also picked up a book of fairy tales in Spanish--the last thing on our cultural calendar for the day. The great artwork in this book helps in learning new words. Tonight I had the kid read Jack and the beanstalk in Spanish (Juan y los Frijoles Mágicos). This is great reading material and really aids in the cultural literacy that is necessary for mastering another language. The kid is already familiar with the story lines so it is just a matter of teaching him the vocabulary of fairy tales. I learned a few things myself.
You really sleep like a baby with a stomach full of Mexican food and a story where everyone lives happily ever after (vivieron felices por el resto de sus vidas isn’t quite as poetic I must admit). A couple of strong margaritas don’t hurt either. Buenas noches.
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
AHop, Skip, and a Jump
I’m not exactly the most detail-oriented guy in the world but it would have been nice to know what flight I was looking for. As I was leaving Seattle I noticed that I had deleted the e-mail that carried this vital information. I was fairly sure that I had the right day.
The airport of Guanajuato isn’t very big. There is only one screen of arrivals, which made it easy to figure out which flight was the one I wanted. I had a beer at the bar overlooking the airstrip and watched a few planes land. An American Airlines flight from Dallas touched down and I saw my brother and nephew walking to the terminal.
From the airport it is about 140 kilometers from where we are staying in San Miguel de Allende. I had rented a little Nissan sedan that had plenty of power on the flats. As we made our way out of the plateau and back into the mountains, and with three people in the small car, it was obvious I wouldn’t be doing much passing on these narrow, vertiginous roads. Of course, that didn’t prevent the other drivers from taking some rather breathtaking chances on these goat paths without guardrails. I think they use the movie Road Warriors as a drivers training film down here.
Once we passed through the city of Guanajuato we had the road almost to ourselves and, even driving, I was able to enjoy the beautiful late afternoon. My nephew grew up speaking Spanish in Spain, but it has been a few years since he has used this language as anything other than a subject in school. I stopped at a restaurant along the highway to get a quick bite to eat and give the kid a chance to use some Spanish.
We were only a couple minutes away from San Miguel where we were planning on going out for a big dinner. I ordered one item on the menu for us all to split. The young girl brought out a large ceramic bowl of chorizo, a basket of tortillas, and a big dish of various condiments with three different types of salsa. This one dish turned out to be a meal for the three of us.
Although this area is well into the tropics at about the 21rst parallel, the high altitude keeps the temperature at a comfortable level even in the summer months, as long as you are in the shade.
The city of San Miguel de Allende sits at an altitude of 6,400 feet. I can’t say that I can even feel the difference from the change from sea level in Seattle to here. The car’s fuel injection had a harder time with the altitude than my cardio-vascular system. I’ll notice the change more when I return home and have my first, hard bike ride.
I don’t worry that the altitude will affect me adversely but I worry that I will eat myself to death. I have been here three days and I’ve already eaten twice my weight in tortillas alone. Influenced by my nephew, I actually had some sort of attack that could only be cured by eating an ice cream cone—I normally never eat sweets. I have to watch myself because these days the airlines make big people buy two seats.
San Miguel is a beautiful colonial city that was declared a national monument in 1926. There are no traffic lights, gaudy florescent signs, or any new construction in the city. What it does have is lots of construction dating from back to its conception in 1542. All of the streets are cobblestone and there seems to be a cathedral on every corner. San Miguel is also host to a sizeable ex-pat community of artists and retirees from the U.S. and Canada who live here for the excellent climate and the historic charm—the same reason I’m here.
The airport of Guanajuato isn’t very big. There is only one screen of arrivals, which made it easy to figure out which flight was the one I wanted. I had a beer at the bar overlooking the airstrip and watched a few planes land. An American Airlines flight from Dallas touched down and I saw my brother and nephew walking to the terminal.
From the airport it is about 140 kilometers from where we are staying in San Miguel de Allende. I had rented a little Nissan sedan that had plenty of power on the flats. As we made our way out of the plateau and back into the mountains, and with three people in the small car, it was obvious I wouldn’t be doing much passing on these narrow, vertiginous roads. Of course, that didn’t prevent the other drivers from taking some rather breathtaking chances on these goat paths without guardrails. I think they use the movie Road Warriors as a drivers training film down here.
Once we passed through the city of Guanajuato we had the road almost to ourselves and, even driving, I was able to enjoy the beautiful late afternoon. My nephew grew up speaking Spanish in Spain, but it has been a few years since he has used this language as anything other than a subject in school. I stopped at a restaurant along the highway to get a quick bite to eat and give the kid a chance to use some Spanish.
We were only a couple minutes away from San Miguel where we were planning on going out for a big dinner. I ordered one item on the menu for us all to split. The young girl brought out a large ceramic bowl of chorizo, a basket of tortillas, and a big dish of various condiments with three different types of salsa. This one dish turned out to be a meal for the three of us.
Although this area is well into the tropics at about the 21rst parallel, the high altitude keeps the temperature at a comfortable level even in the summer months, as long as you are in the shade.
The city of San Miguel de Allende sits at an altitude of 6,400 feet. I can’t say that I can even feel the difference from the change from sea level in Seattle to here. The car’s fuel injection had a harder time with the altitude than my cardio-vascular system. I’ll notice the change more when I return home and have my first, hard bike ride.
I don’t worry that the altitude will affect me adversely but I worry that I will eat myself to death. I have been here three days and I’ve already eaten twice my weight in tortillas alone. Influenced by my nephew, I actually had some sort of attack that could only be cured by eating an ice cream cone—I normally never eat sweets. I have to watch myself because these days the airlines make big people buy two seats.
San Miguel is a beautiful colonial city that was declared a national monument in 1926. There are no traffic lights, gaudy florescent signs, or any new construction in the city. What it does have is lots of construction dating from back to its conception in 1542. All of the streets are cobblestone and there seems to be a cathedral on every corner. San Miguel is also host to a sizeable ex-pat community of artists and retirees from the U.S. and Canada who live here for the excellent climate and the historic charm—the same reason I’m here.
Monday, November 11, 2002
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico
At least I dodged the cab or bus ride to the airport this time. Another couple were on a flight the same time as mine and I was able to hitch a ride with them. From the moment you step out of your car at the airport you are bombarded with threats and dire warnings. Don't leave your car or it will be towed. Don't leave any bags unattended or they will be destroyed. You can't go here. Stay out of this area. Pass through this machine. You need to be searched. There are countless seemingly benign items that, if you are foolish enough to carry them, will land you on the wrong side of the law.
The security people are almost all completely humorless, a condition that is either mandated from above or a result of performing an excruciatingly boring task or a bit of both. It was only 11 a.m. but all of this security stuff made me want a stiff drink. After a $10 breakfast Bloody Mary I heard my flight giving the last boarding call. The attendant reminded all of us non first class passengers to pick up our lunch bag before boarding the aircraft. A fucking bag lunch? It would have been less humiliating and perhaps more rewarding nutritionally had there been a clown on the ramp hitting each coach class passenger in the face with a pie. I was really hungry so I grabbed my bag and settled into my seat.
From being treated like a criminal by security you go to being treated like a child by the airline staff. "Sit down. Fasten your seat belt. Sit up straight. No, you can't go to the bathroom. Drink your drink. Eat your food. Don't stand up until you're told." At least the booze is cheaper on the plane than in the airport. Flying sucks.
From Seattle to Dallas and then on to Leon, Mexico. When I got to the gate for the flight to Leon the attendant announced over the P.A. that the flight had been overbooked and they were offering volunteers $400 cash and a flight to Guadalajara and ground transportation to Leon. Before I could look at my map and do the math in my head I had missed my chance. I had no place to stay on my first night so Guadalajara would have worked as well as Leon.
I like how Latinos will clap when the plane lands. I like how you have to walk from the plane to the terminal across the tarmac. It was a beautiful evening. I was comfortable in shirtsleeves. Now all I had to do was clear customs, get my car and find a hotel at 11p.m.
Along the highway from the airport into Leon are a bunch of auto hotels. I wasn't going to be particular as I was tired and I was leaving early the next morning anyway. These auto hotels are a walled compound. You drive inside and each room has its own garage. The one I pulled into had a sign saying that a single room (una sencilla) was 130 pesos. I had hit a bank machine at the airport so I had a bunch of pesos but the problem was that I had no idea how much they were worth. It had been a year since I was here last and I couldn't remember. I decided that I didn't care how much it cost. I pulled into a garage and paid the gal who lead me there. She also informed me that the exchange rate was about ten pesos to the dollar.
The room was clean and modern. It was actually a little too modern. There was a round bed with a mirror on the ceiling. The place looked like a Mexican version of Hugh Hefner's bedroom. The TV had two channels of porn (Very odd for this Catholic country). The room was about $13 and I was becoming suspicious. I began to think that this was one of those hotels where you go to have an affair and pay by the hour. Just to clear things up I walked out to the office and asked if the rate was for the entire evening. The gal in the office looked at me funny when I asked this and assured me that it was.
The next morning I got up early and pulled out of my little garage and as I made my way to the exit I saw that it was blocked by a heavy steel gate. So this is it. This is where someone comes out and tells me that I owe them $1,000 American or they impound my car. Someone did come out but she just asked me my room number. The gate swung open and I escaped. A $13 hotel room, even for Mexico this was really inexpensive.
I had a couple of hours to spend before I had to go back to the airport to pick up my brother and my nephew. I desperately needed a cup of coffee. Between my hotel and the airport there didn't seem to be any likely prospects so I continued past the airport to Siloa. I parked near the Cathedral Plaza and walked. One thing you can say for every town in Mexico is that there is plenty of commerce going on. Hundreds of little stores are crammed into the downtown area and street vendors cover the sidewalks. Even the nuns were selling stuff in front of the cathedral. I found a cool restaurant off the square for coffee and breakfast. I wasn't even sure when I was supposed to pick up my brother but I thought I had a ballpark estimate.
I brought the same notebook I had on my last trip here so I will probably rehash some of my thoughts from a year ago and sell them as new here. Time to go.
The security people are almost all completely humorless, a condition that is either mandated from above or a result of performing an excruciatingly boring task or a bit of both. It was only 11 a.m. but all of this security stuff made me want a stiff drink. After a $10 breakfast Bloody Mary I heard my flight giving the last boarding call. The attendant reminded all of us non first class passengers to pick up our lunch bag before boarding the aircraft. A fucking bag lunch? It would have been less humiliating and perhaps more rewarding nutritionally had there been a clown on the ramp hitting each coach class passenger in the face with a pie. I was really hungry so I grabbed my bag and settled into my seat.
From being treated like a criminal by security you go to being treated like a child by the airline staff. "Sit down. Fasten your seat belt. Sit up straight. No, you can't go to the bathroom. Drink your drink. Eat your food. Don't stand up until you're told." At least the booze is cheaper on the plane than in the airport. Flying sucks.
From Seattle to Dallas and then on to Leon, Mexico. When I got to the gate for the flight to Leon the attendant announced over the P.A. that the flight had been overbooked and they were offering volunteers $400 cash and a flight to Guadalajara and ground transportation to Leon. Before I could look at my map and do the math in my head I had missed my chance. I had no place to stay on my first night so Guadalajara would have worked as well as Leon.
I like how Latinos will clap when the plane lands. I like how you have to walk from the plane to the terminal across the tarmac. It was a beautiful evening. I was comfortable in shirtsleeves. Now all I had to do was clear customs, get my car and find a hotel at 11p.m.
Along the highway from the airport into Leon are a bunch of auto hotels. I wasn't going to be particular as I was tired and I was leaving early the next morning anyway. These auto hotels are a walled compound. You drive inside and each room has its own garage. The one I pulled into had a sign saying that a single room (una sencilla) was 130 pesos. I had hit a bank machine at the airport so I had a bunch of pesos but the problem was that I had no idea how much they were worth. It had been a year since I was here last and I couldn't remember. I decided that I didn't care how much it cost. I pulled into a garage and paid the gal who lead me there. She also informed me that the exchange rate was about ten pesos to the dollar.
The room was clean and modern. It was actually a little too modern. There was a round bed with a mirror on the ceiling. The place looked like a Mexican version of Hugh Hefner's bedroom. The TV had two channels of porn (Very odd for this Catholic country). The room was about $13 and I was becoming suspicious. I began to think that this was one of those hotels where you go to have an affair and pay by the hour. Just to clear things up I walked out to the office and asked if the rate was for the entire evening. The gal in the office looked at me funny when I asked this and assured me that it was.
The next morning I got up early and pulled out of my little garage and as I made my way to the exit I saw that it was blocked by a heavy steel gate. So this is it. This is where someone comes out and tells me that I owe them $1,000 American or they impound my car. Someone did come out but she just asked me my room number. The gate swung open and I escaped. A $13 hotel room, even for Mexico this was really inexpensive.
I had a couple of hours to spend before I had to go back to the airport to pick up my brother and my nephew. I desperately needed a cup of coffee. Between my hotel and the airport there didn't seem to be any likely prospects so I continued past the airport to Siloa. I parked near the Cathedral Plaza and walked. One thing you can say for every town in Mexico is that there is plenty of commerce going on. Hundreds of little stores are crammed into the downtown area and street vendors cover the sidewalks. Even the nuns were selling stuff in front of the cathedral. I found a cool restaurant off the square for coffee and breakfast. I wasn't even sure when I was supposed to pick up my brother but I thought I had a ballpark estimate.
I brought the same notebook I had on my last trip here so I will probably rehash some of my thoughts from a year ago and sell them as new here. Time to go.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
Books: The Ultimate Status Symbol
When I walk into someone’s home, the first thing I look for is books. Nothing tells me more about a person on this initial glance than knowing what they read. I don’t care how many trips you have made to the Pottery Barn to furnish your little castle, you had better have some good books if you are out to impress people in my perfect world. I would be head librarian of this world. I worked for a semester in a rare books library so I feel myself to be highly qualified for the post.
A long time ago a girl I was dating got a job house-sitting for one of her professors. I went over with her one day to feed the cat or something. I walked in the kitchen door and I immediately knew I was somewhere special. The place was lousy with books. I have never seen so many books in one home in my entire life. The collection was so vast and varied that I couldn’t even tell what the husband and wife professorial team taught at the University of Maryland. They were simply polymathic to an alarming degree. I had always been a book lover but this couple became a heavy influence in my interior design preferences.
My book collecting fetish took on a new fervor. I spent at least one full day a month combing the used bookstores and thrift shops of the greater Washington D.C. area buying books on every subject that struck my fancy. My personal library grew, women were impressed. Impressed isn’t quite accurate, women saw my library and flung themselves at me. I was the envy of all men.
I envisioned myself growing old with my thousands of hard bound volumes with library-quality plastic covers. A couple of cross-continent moves changed all of that. My books became a weight that was drowning me, a millstone around my neck. I gave away most of my library. A friend of mine called me from the other side of the country recently and told me she had bought one of my books (all of them stamped with my personal seal) at a yard sale. What goes around comes around.
I didn’t quite start from scratch, as far as my library goes, when I moved here to Seattle, but just about from scratch. My place is quickly filling up again. They day isn’t too far off when I will make another long move. My books will be sent to the Diaspora. I have had to rethink my attitude towards amassing possessions. I have come to realize that my prized possession, my books, were both a source of comfort and a hindrance to my mobility. My response to the commandment “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods” is not to have much that my neighbor would covet. If any of my neighbors would care for a book, they only need ask.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
What's the Question?
American politicians are very good at coming up with answers. Our current president has been on a whistle stop tour of the country supporting Republican candidates on the ballot for the election today. His answer to everything is to invade Iraq. The problem with our president is that he doesn’t know the question. He hasn’t listened to the country when it has posed questions.
We haven’t asked our political leaders to be philosophers. Philosophers ask questions. We see people who ask questions as being indecisive, wishy washy or just plain cowardly. We seem to view those who constantly give out answers as being the opposite of indecisive, we see them as leaders, we see them as strong. The problem, as I see it, is that the absence of philosophy is religion. Religion doesn’t ask questions, it spews forth answers. Perhaps we should seek political leaders who have more in common with philosophers than priests.
Asking questions is at the heart of the brilliant new film by Michael Moore, Bowling for Columbine. The main question the film asks is why we Americans kill one another at such an alarming rate. He asks many questions. Critics of the movie point out that he doesn’t provide any answers. Again with the answers thing!
Bowling for Columbine is steered by the questions it raises. At one point Moore travels to Canada to try to find out why Canadians are less homicidal than their neighbors to the south. He interviews three teenagers that he catches skipping school. One of the film’s finest moments occurs when he comes to the subject of Canada’s universal health care system. When he asks the kids if they think national health care for everyone is a good idea, they all agree that it is. When he asks them why, the young girl he is interviewing simply laughs at him, as if she found the question so ridiculous that it didn’t warrant a verbal response.
About as close as Moore comes to providing an answer for the senseless violence in the United States is the film’s suggestion that perhaps we are too preoccupied with fear to address the true problems of this nation. For decades we lived in constant fear of a third world nation called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. For the past year this nation has been practically paralyzed with fear because of an act of terrorism committed by a handful of fanatics. We are told that this nation cannot afford to provide health care for all of its citizens yet we have increased defense spending to the highest level in over forty years. I have a few questions of my own concerning what will make America a better place to live for its people. I don’t know the answers but I know it doesn’t entail invading Iraq.
Bowling for Columbine is not journalism. It is a work of art with more in common with the traditions of Dickens and Zola than the current trash being heaped upon us by Hollywood. I don't think that most of what we think of as literature is much better that the vapid cinema that surrounds us. Very few recent American novelists have bothered to explore our society to discover what questions we should be asking ourselves. When was the last time that a film or a novel provoked a serious dialogue? Moore's film will have viewers leaving the theaters and asking many questions of their own. I think that everyone who sees this movie will have a completely new outlook on television news. It will make everyone aware of how violence has been exploited to secure viewership. Art that doesn't provoke questions is pretty frivolous in my opinion. This isn't a frivolous movie.
We haven’t asked our political leaders to be philosophers. Philosophers ask questions. We see people who ask questions as being indecisive, wishy washy or just plain cowardly. We seem to view those who constantly give out answers as being the opposite of indecisive, we see them as leaders, we see them as strong. The problem, as I see it, is that the absence of philosophy is religion. Religion doesn’t ask questions, it spews forth answers. Perhaps we should seek political leaders who have more in common with philosophers than priests.
Asking questions is at the heart of the brilliant new film by Michael Moore, Bowling for Columbine. The main question the film asks is why we Americans kill one another at such an alarming rate. He asks many questions. Critics of the movie point out that he doesn’t provide any answers. Again with the answers thing!
Bowling for Columbine is steered by the questions it raises. At one point Moore travels to Canada to try to find out why Canadians are less homicidal than their neighbors to the south. He interviews three teenagers that he catches skipping school. One of the film’s finest moments occurs when he comes to the subject of Canada’s universal health care system. When he asks the kids if they think national health care for everyone is a good idea, they all agree that it is. When he asks them why, the young girl he is interviewing simply laughs at him, as if she found the question so ridiculous that it didn’t warrant a verbal response.
About as close as Moore comes to providing an answer for the senseless violence in the United States is the film’s suggestion that perhaps we are too preoccupied with fear to address the true problems of this nation. For decades we lived in constant fear of a third world nation called the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. For the past year this nation has been practically paralyzed with fear because of an act of terrorism committed by a handful of fanatics. We are told that this nation cannot afford to provide health care for all of its citizens yet we have increased defense spending to the highest level in over forty years. I have a few questions of my own concerning what will make America a better place to live for its people. I don’t know the answers but I know it doesn’t entail invading Iraq.
Bowling for Columbine is not journalism. It is a work of art with more in common with the traditions of Dickens and Zola than the current trash being heaped upon us by Hollywood. I don't think that most of what we think of as literature is much better that the vapid cinema that surrounds us. Very few recent American novelists have bothered to explore our society to discover what questions we should be asking ourselves. When was the last time that a film or a novel provoked a serious dialogue? Moore's film will have viewers leaving the theaters and asking many questions of their own. I think that everyone who sees this movie will have a completely new outlook on television news. It will make everyone aware of how violence has been exploited to secure viewership. Art that doesn't provoke questions is pretty frivolous in my opinion. This isn't a frivolous movie.
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