Category: Travel

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Osprey, Neto and Me

I love the osprey who spend summers on a tower at the edge of a pond at the Boulder Country Fairgrounds. The resident osprey pair fly in from separate far-away places about the middle of March. And the drama begins. 

Some of us follow the osprey every year, hoping for eggs to hatch and healthy baby birds who learn to fly.

 We don’t know where the osprey spend their winters and we wait anxiously for their arrival. We worry that they may not both arrive safely. Usually the pair arrives on different days. The fun begins as we watch them get to know each other once again. 

The osprey are bonded as a pair until one of them dies. Only then do they find a new partner.

It’s a policy not to name the osprey who return to Boulder every spring. But if they had names, they would be Lynda and Ernesto.

Neto and I are very much like the osprey. For one thing, I’m older than he is. We live far apart, in two separate countries, and once a year we meet up in a familiar place. We try to arrive on the same day, but never at the same time. When we get together, we trade stories about places we’ve been and people we knew together. I imagine that’s what the osprey do, too.

The birds spend time remodeling their nest and making sure they have food. The female shrieks, “Food… Food! I’m hungry. Bring me a big fat fish!” And Ernesto leaves the tower and swoops down to find a fish for them to share.

Nights are especially tender as they share space on their perch, high in the sky, and watch sunset together. 

This year both osprey arrived at the nest on the same day. That’s where mine and Neto’s story differ from the osprey pair. I arrived in Puerto Vallarta on Sunday, April 9, after an especially easy travel day. Friends met me at the airport and took me to lunch before I checked into Las Palomas, the sweet little hotel where Neto and I stay before going by bus to Mazatlán.

While my trip was easy and predictable, Neto’s journey was simply horrible. He boarded the bus in Mazatlán at 10:45 p.m., Saturday night, expecting to arrive in Puerto Vallarta five hours ahead of me. He slept all the way to the state of Nayarit. He awoke when two inspectors boarded his bus in front of a clinic, near the bus terminal in Tepic. It was 3:30 a.m.

“We believe some people on this bus have Covid,” the inspectors announced. “Everyone needs to be tested.” 

At 5:30 a.m., the inspectors allowed the young people to exit the bus, believing that only people over the age of fifty-five might be sick. A few elderly people in the front of the bus were coughing. Neto began to think he had a fever.

Passengers had to surrender their ID’s. They were not allowed to talk to each other or make calls on their telephones. Neto texted me to say he was going to be late. The passengers sat quietly on the bus for four more hours, until 9:30 a.m, when employees of the clinic boarded the bus and began testing people.

 At noon the passengers were informed that they all tested positive for Covid and would be quarantined for 24 hours. My plane was scheduled to arrive in ten minutes.

All the passengers were escorted off the bus and into the clinic. They were given a cot  and a sandwich. I received only sporadic texts from Neto, and most of them were too cryptic to understand. Was he really sick? Was he contagious? Should I catch a plane back to Denver?

I didn’t hear Neto’s voice again until noon on Monday, when he was allowed to make a phone call and leave the clinic. He was not allowed to get on a bus to Puerto Vallarta because, after all, he tested positive for Covid. 

Neto caught a taxi to a different bus company and decided to take a bus to Guadalajara. At 5:00 p.m, Monday afteroon,I received a text from Neto. He was in Guadalajara and expected to meet me at the hotel  in six hours, by 11:00 p.m. 

By midnight, Neto still wasn’t at our hotel. I called him. His bus was not the newer, faster, express bus that travels on the toll road. Instead, it was an older, slower bus that stopped in every small town to pick up more passengers.

At 3:00 a.m, Tuesday morning,  a lovely hotel security guard walked Neto to our room, where I was waiting for him. The trip, which normally takes less than eight  hours, took more than fifty-two. I was as happy as an osprey to see him again! It had been a long, hard flight!!

 

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Leaving Mexico

Two weeks ago, on my way to the airport, I was giddy with excitement, knowing I was going back to my happy place ~ being with Ernesto in Mexico. I couldn’t wait to get there.

I pictured seeing the ocean again and smelling the wonderful salty air. Watching sunsets over the Pacific.  Having breakfast on the patio. Swimming in the pool. Taking long walks after dinner, when the nights were cool, through the beautiful grounds of our rental community.

None of this happened. Once we arrived in Mazatlán, Ernesto disappeared. I was lucky to see him a couple of hours of day. I never saw the ocean or swam in the pool. I watched glorious sunsets from my bedroom window, before the world went dark.

Ernesto made excuses for his absence. He had to work. He quit his job and needed to wait at the job site for a final paycheck. He wanted to meet with an attorney to find out which of his brothers had taken out a loan and used his mother’s house as collateral. He was beaten up by thugs who demanded he turn the house over to them. He had to go to the social security office to apply for a pension. He lost his phone. None of this was true.

Twice Ernesto was gone for more than 24 hours. I didn’t know where he was. I knew I was safe but I didn’t know if he was. My Spanish isn’t good enough to survive on my own. My lack of a sense of direction is legendary. I wanted to go for a walk but I was afraid I wouldn’t find my way home in a community where all the streets and homes look alike.

In the few hours when Neto was home and not asleep, our conversations were ugly. Neto was quiet and kind,  telling me what he thought would keep me from screaming at him. I was not rational. I didn’t mince words. I was bitter and angry. I barely recognized myself. I thought some crazy woman was sitting on the couch in my place. I knew that things were not going to get better. 

Tuesday, when Neto again didn’t come home overnight, I went to the airport, bought a last minute ticket and left. Neto called me from a pay phone as I was on my way to the airport. I told him I was leaving and asked him to go to our Airbnb rental and pick up his things.

On Wednesday, Neto texted me to let me know he is in residential treatment again for drugs and alcohol. Those of you who have read Neto’s story know that these are demons that have chased him all his life. 

Did I suspect that Neto had relapsed? No, I didn’t. He was clean for such a long time. He hasn’t abused drugs for almost 20 years. He’s been sober for ten. But I knew Neto was lying when he said he lost his phone. There were other things he said that were fishy but I never suspected he was using pills and alcohol. 

I am glad Ernesto is in treatment and getting help. Services for addicts in Mexico are available and good. Neto has been in rehab before and has made it work ~ but it is hard work.

I believe that Ernesto will work hard in order to be clean and sober again. And I have work to do, too. Our time together was a nightmare. I was like someone out of a horror movie. I really was! 

Ernesto was selfish and deceptive. My response was frightening. I never want to be that person again. I said horrible things in language that was shocking. Now that I am away and now that Neto has finally told the truth, I know that both of us reacted in ways that are understandable ~ but unacceptable. We both have a lot of healing to do. It all starts with telling the truth.

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The Things I Carry

I’ve started packing for my trip to Mexico in two weeks. It’s my nature to do things early. Some of the things I pack might surprise you.

For example, one time I took a water pump for an old Ford pickup. I put it in my backpack, so of course I had to explain myself when I went through TSA Security.

“Ma’am, exactly what is this?” asked the TSA guy.

“It’s a water pump for a Ford pick-up truck.”

“Why is it in your backpack?”

“I’m bringing it to a friend in Mazatlán.”

“Don’t they have water pumps in Mexico?”

“I guess not. He asked me to find one for him in the auto salvage yard.”

The TSA guy softened right away. “You must be a good friend,” he said.

“I bet you are a good friend, too. I think you would have done the same thing.”

“You’re right. I try to help my friends whenever I can. Have a good day.”

Actually I wan’t thrilled at having to carry a heavy water pump in my backpack, but the TSA guy made me feel a lot better about it.

Another time, I carried fifty yards of fiberglass fabric in a roll inside a very tall box. The box was 5’7.” I am only 5’2. It weighed about as much as a water pump. Ernesto needed it because he was building surfboards and couldn’t find any fiberglass in Mexico. He ordered it from a surf supply shop in San Diego and had it sent to my house in Denver.

After being dropped off at the airport, I maneuvered my bulky box inside, along with my purse, a large suitcase and my backpack. I d watched my box, tagged as “oversized luggage,” as it went down the conveyor belt to the airplane. When I got to the airport in Mexico, I  claimed my box and headed for Customs.

“What is in this box?” The Customs official wanted to know. She wasn’t as nice as the TSA guy.

“It’s 50 yards of fiberglass fabric.”

“Why do you have it?”

“My friend needs it for building surfboards.”

“Don’t we sell fiberglass in Mexico?”

“I guess not.”

“Do you have a receipt showing how much you paid for it?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a receipt. But it wasn’t very expensive.”

I was taken into a small room. I was told to leave my box outside but I could bring my purse, my backpack and my suitcase with me. The Customs official interrogated me and told me I would have to pay a “tax” to bring the fiberglass into the country because I didn’t have a receipt. 

We’ve been through this before, dear reader. Of course, it wasn’t a tax. It was a bribe. I didn’t care. I paid $25.00 and was on my way.

The Customs official also searched my purse, to make sure I wasn’t bringing any contraband into the country. When I got to my destination, I found that a beautiful rosary I brought for Ernesto’s mother was missing. I think it ended up in someone’s pocket. And, yes, they do sell rosaries in Mexico.

So now I know the drill. No more water pumps or rolls of fiberglass. Instead, I bring smaller gifts for Ernesto. I bring things that are expensive in Mexico and that I can easily purchase at the local thrift store for almost nothing. Here’s a list of things I bring every time:

  • Board shorts
  • Sunglasses
  • Reading glasses
  • Razors and extra blades
  • Dress shirts
  • T-shirts with surfer logos
  • Swim goggles

And I also bring things for the kitchen:

  • A couple of sharp knives
  • Dish towels
  • Measuring cups and spoons
  • Spices for making chai tea
  • Instant tea without lemon
  • Nightlights and flashlights

I don’t bring many clothes. I don’t have room for them in my suitcase.

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Playa Bruja on a Sunday Afternoon

 

Playa Bruja, or Witch Beach, is at the north end of the bus line out of Mazatlán. It takes forty-five minutes to get there from downtown on the bus and it is worth every hair-raising, bumpy minute. Playa Bruja is in the area known as Cerritos, a neighborhood known for drug wars and shoot-outs with the police. I don’t know when those things happen, but it’s certainly not on lazy Sunday afternoons.

Playa Bruja is a Sunday destination for lots of people, but mostly for large Mexican families who go for the great food at Mr. Leones’ restaurant. At least once a month, Neto and I went there to relax, enjoy the food, listen to the music, and watch the surfers. We were never disappointed.

Mr. Leones’ food is excellent Mexican food: Fresh fish, homemade tortillas, burritos and enchiladas, smothered in salsa. Occasionally I would go there with ex-pats from the US, who ordered a hamburger and fries to go with their beer and margaritas. I just rolled my eyes. 

There is always music in the restaurant. Small groups of musicians, or sometimes a single guitar player, go from table to table, taking requests and playing for a couple of dollars per song. I always requested my favorite, Cuando Calienta el Sol, one of the most beautiful songs ever sung in Spanish. It was re-written in English as Love Me With All of Your Heart. Trust me, the melody is the same, but it loses a lot in translation.

At three o’clock, the big band starts playing and that’s when the party gets started. Mexican couples get up and dance. Old men dance with their wives. Children dance with their parents. Young lovers dance with each other. It’s wonderful to watch.

The restaurant overlooks the beach, where surfers perform when the waves are high enough. Neto either brings his board, or borrows one from a friend. After we’ve eaten, he goes to the beach and paddles out to catch the waves. Unlike Olas Altas beach, where Neto first learned to surf, Playa Bruja is a beach for experts. That’s where I first realized how good Neto truly is. The waves are fast and strong “five footers” ~ five feet in the back, (the shoulder) and eight feet tall in front (on the face.) Often the waves are higher.

Neto catches wave after wave. He doesn’t hesitate. Somehow he knows, without turning around, when the perfect wave is behind him. He is on his feet and glides his board from side to side until he reaches the shore. I can tell it is Neto by his style. Younger surfers jerk their boards as they travel back and forth into the waves. Neto’s style is smooth. He is a natural.

Often, as Neto comes out of the water, younger surfers want to shake his hand.  They know that he is one of the surfing pioneers in Mazatlan. He discovered the sport when he was fourteen years old and has surfed all his life. He loves the water. This is where he is meant to be.

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No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I met Marisol Segundo in La Cruz de Huanacastle in 2010.  She had a taco stand with four tables on a corner near our condo. Her tacos were heavenly! Originally from Mexico City, Marisol had the prettiest smile I’d ever seen. Neto and I went to see her every day for lunch.

The following year, when we were back in La Cruz again, Marisol confided that her dream was to create a small restaurant in that same space, a corner owned by her father. We wished her well.

In 2012, Neto and I were staying in Bucerias, but took a bus one day to check on Marisol and her restaurant. The restaurant was only halfway finished and Marisol was still serving lunch on the patio. All the city workers had discovered, like we did, that Marisol’s cooking was fantastic. She served comida corrida, a daily special with a main course, rice and beans. Her specialties were chicken enchiladas, marlin burritos and tortas cubanas. The cost was usually $3.50 (U.S.)

Before we left the restaurant, Marisol asked if she could talk to me. She explained that the restaurant was costing her more than she had counted on. She needed to apply for additional “permits” (bribes) and didn’t have enough money to finish the bathroom. Marisol wanted to know if I would lend her some money and assured me that she would pay me back.

I agreed to lend Marisol the money to finish her restaurant. I came back a week later and told Marisol that she didn’t need to replay me. The money was un regalo, a gift. I felt like Oprah, except that Oprah gives away cars and I gave away a toilet.

That was the beginning of a lovely friendship. Marisol opened her restaurant, The Little Hot Grill, and got great reviews on Trip Advisor. For the next few years, whenever Neto and I vacationed in La Cruz, we hired Marisol to be our personal chef. I gave her an envelope of cash at the beginning of the week and she cooked for us. 

I was proud of Marisol. As an unmarried woman, she worked hard and learned to speak English. She provided for her entire family with the money she earned. She hired her niece to help her in the kitchen. But I could see that, while Marisol was still the best cook in La Cruz, she wasn’t happy. She was working too many hours. Her family was always asking for more money. She couldn’t find anyone to help her run the restaurant.

One day, Marisol called me in Denver. 

“I have good news,” she told me. “I’m getting married.”

“Who is he?” I asked. 

“An older man who lives near the restaurant. He wants me to move in with him, but I can’t do that unless we are married.”

“How long have you known him?” I wanted to know.

“Just a couple of months. But he says he has a lot of money and he will take good care of me.”

Marisol asked me to come to La Cruz in the middle of July for her wedding. She wanted me to be her madrina ~ the godmother. I told Marisol that I was sorry, but I couldn’t come to Mexico in the middle of July. The weather in July is simply too hot. 

I also told Marisol that couldn’t be her madrina. It’s considered an honor to be asked to be a madrina. As a Mexican friend told me, “People are chosen to be the madrina because they are the wealthiest person in the neighborhood.” 

I’ve been asked to be madrina in other situations and I’ve always said no. It’s a custom that doesn’t translate well for me. Madrinas are expected to buy big fancy cakes. Madrinas are suppose to pay for a dinner for 100 people. 

I told Marisol that I appreciated being asked. “I understand that it’s an honor, but I’m not a wealthy woman.” I said.

I tried to explain that I was happy to help her with her restaurant, but I couldn’t pay for a wedding. I certainly couldn’t pay for a wedding to a man I never met. A man who I wasn’t sure would be a good husband. 

Marisol got married without me. When Neto and I went back to La Cruz the following November, we once again gave her an envelope of money and asked her to be our personal chef.  She agreed and, once again, we often ate at the Little Hot Grill. 

But Marisol didn’t seem happy. I noticed that while we were eating, an older man stood in the doorway, watching Neto and I eat. 

When Neto stepped outside to smoke a cigarette I asked Marisol, “Who is that man?”

“That’s my husband. He’s jealous of my customers. He wants to make sure I’m not flirting with any of the men.”

Neto and I didn’t go to the restaurant very often after that. The day before we were scheduled to leave, Neto went alone to pick up our dinner. He told Marisol that I would come by in the morning to say goodby. 

As Neto was leaving with our food, Marisol stopped him and said, “Aren’t you going to pay for your dinner?” 

Neto was embarrassed. His Mexican pride was hurt. He didn’t bring extra money with him because we had  already paid for more than a week’s worth of food when we arrived.

When Neto came home and told me what happened, I gave him additional money to take back to the restaurant. We decided that we’d helped Marisol as much as we could.

Marisol called me in Denver after Christmas. She wanted to know if I could send her some money because she didn’t have very many customers. I told her no. 

I will always think of Marisol with great fondness. But I know I won’t eat at the Little Hot Grill again. 

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Clean-Up Week At Punta Burros

Selling my home in Mazatlán allowed Neto and me to explore other parts of Mexico ~ Ensanada, Cuernavaca, Guadalajara, Puerto Vallarta, and my favorite place, La Cruz de Huanacastle, a beautiful, small fishing village known for its friendly local residents and marina full of fancy yachts belonging to rich tourists.

In March, 2010, we rented an elegant apartment in the La Jolla condominiums. The cost was so reasonable, we stayed there for six weeks, often walking to the marina to buy fresh fish or to the shore at night to breathe fresh, salt-water air. We went to yoga class in the morning and swam every day in a gorgeous on-site swimming pool, built with an island of palm trees in the middle. We felt like movie stars!

Neto met me at the airport in Puerto Vallarta in his truck ~ a bright blue Ford Ranger with big tires ~ that he drove from Mazatlán. One of the first things Neto wanted to do was to find a nearby surfing spot, Punta Burros, known for its high waves and secluded access. I went along to check it out.

We parked the truck near the entrance to the Grand Palladium Resort, on the highway to Punta Mita. From there, we walked through the jungle until we reached Punta Burros. Neto walked, carrying his board, as sure-footed as a cat. I lurched and stumbled over fallen trees and muddy streams. The hike took twenty minutes. It felt like an hour. 

The beach was indeed deserted. We set up our blanket and towels by a pile of rocks, away from the shore. Only a few other surfers and paddle-boarders were in the water. The waves were enormous. Neto was in heaven. Again, he was the best surfer in the water. He took ride after ride, for about thirty minutes, before coming in to rest.

That was the first time Neto saw what I had seen from the beginning. The beach was disgusting! The water was pristine. The beach was horribly polluted from years of neglect. A beaten-up trash barrel was tipped on its side, spilling its contents on the sand. Bottles and cans, food and wrappers, dirty diapers and abandoned clothes were everywhere, as far as we could see. Seagulls screeched overhead, dove to the sand and gleefully picked through the garbage. 

Neto turned to me and said, “We’ve got to do something about this.” He was right. He loves the ocean. It is his home. It’s where he belongs. 

On the way back to La Jolla in the blue truck, Neto noticed a jeep trail going toward the ocean. We followed it and found a private entrance to Punta Burros. We made a pact to come back the next day and begin the clean-up.

And that’s what we did. We came back the next day, and every day for a week. We brought big canvas bags, the kind made for hauling discarded chunks of cement, and garden gloves. We filled bags, about four bags each day, tied them shut, and loaded them into the truck. At night we surreptitiously put the bags out in the street, where the trash man would find them and haul them away.

By day three, the beach was beginning to look more like a beach and less like the city dump. Other surfers jumped in. A few guests from the Grand Palladium hiked along the shore from their hotel and joined the efforts. By the end of the week, we had hauled away twenty large bags of garbage. The shore was beautiful. This is the way it was supposed to look ~ like someone’s home. 

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On Top Of The World

By the time we got to Mexico City, Neto and I had climbed more than a few pyramids ~ none of them easy. The steps are tiny, as if the people who built them had itty-bitty feet. And yet the risers were so steep, each climbing step felt like a giant’s footstep. No pyramid was as impressive, however, as Teotihuacán, a World Heritage Site, thirty miles outside of Mexico City.

After a week in Cuernavaca, Neto and I decided we couldn’t take being in our Airbnb for one more night. It was noisy and dirty. The art on the wall was grotesque. It was depressing. It was time to move.

“Where should we go?”

“Let’s go back to Mexico City.”

We were both leaving from the Mexico City airport in two days ~ me by plane to Atlanta and Neto by bus to Guadalajara. Spending a couple of nights in downtown Mexico City seemed like a good choice. 

As usual, we didn’t have a plan. Our bus pulled into the Mexico City terminal and we went outside to catch a taxi. 

“Where do you suggest we stay for a couple of nights?” Neto asked the taxi driver. (Note: Do NOT try this by yourself!)

“I know a nice place by the Plaza de la Republica,” the driver answered. And off we went, Neto in the front seat next to the driver, me in the back. Soon Neto and the driver were laughing and trading stories like old friends. They’d both been to the U.S. They’d both been sent home. Neither of them regretted the experience.

We pulled up next to our hotel. It was breath-taking ~ very European modern with lots of glass and hotel staff who looked like they were part of a photo-shoot. Handsome men with bright white smiles assured us we had come to the right place.

The next day, our last full day together before we had to leave, we opted for a tour of Mexico City and the surrounding area. A van picked us up after breakfast. Again, Neto sat in front with the driver. I was in the second seat, with a delightful family from Ecuador. By the time the tour was ended, we were all good friends.

I was the only person in the van who didn’t speak Spanish. The tour guide did his best to speak English. Neto did his best to translate for me. Mostly I spoke to the family from Ecuador in very short phrases and smiles. 

Our first stop was the Templo Mayor, a major attraction in the very heart of downtown Mexico City and one of Mexico’s most important archaeological sites. We wandered aimlessly around the ruins before getting back in the van to go to The Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. 

The new church was built between 1974-1976 on the same site as the previous 16th century basilica, which had been sinking into the ground for many years. The new, modern church, was filled with prayerful pilgrims from all over the world. Outside the church, priests were selling rosaries. For a few extra dollars, they would say a blessing over the beads.

No trip would be complete without a tourist stop for lunch and souvenirs, where we shopped and had free drinks of tequila and pulque. The souvenirs were mostly items made from precious stones, especially onyx and malachite, not your typical airport fare.

Our final stop was Teotihuacán, a sacred site with not one, but two, Aztec temples: The Temple of the Sun and the Temple of the Moon. Neto climbed both of them. I climbed one with my new best friend from Ecuador. We made it to the top with the help of a long rope, strung from the top of the temple to the bottom. We climbed, step by step, hand over hand on the rope, until we reached the top. We were triumphant. 

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The Magic of Tepoztlán

Seven years ago this week, Neto and I were in the Pueblo Magico (Magic Town) of Tepoztlán, Morelos. The town is the believed to be the birthplace of Quetzalcoatl, the plumed serpent god of the Aztec people. It is also home to a thriving Nahuatl community, one of the few places in Mexico where the Nahuatl language is still spoken and taught to children in school

I flew to Mexico City in 2013, to meet Neto and travel by bus to Cuernavaca. Our AirBnb apartment was so horrible we couldn’t stand to stay there during the day. We survived by taking day trips to the small towns nearby. Instead of lounging around Cuernavaca, we climbed pyramids and went to museums. We had lunch in hidden restaurants. And we went to Tepoztlán. 

There are currently 112 towns in Mexico with the designation of being “Magic Towns.” I’ve been to five of them, Todos Santos (Baja California), Tlaquepaque (Jalisco), Sayulita (Nayarit) and Cosala and El Rosario (Sinaloa.) All of these towns are, indeed, magical places. (Well, Sayulita ~ not so much.) But Tepoztlán, one of the first three towns to win that designation in 2001, was the best.

Tepoztlán is famous for its sacred hilltop pyramid, a 16th-century convent, art museums and handicraft markets. The town is surrounded by tall cliffs. But we didn’t know any of that that when we arrived. I’d never heard of the place and Neto had never been there, so we mostly wandered and learned as we went.

It was later morning when we arrived. Our first stop was the Ex-Convento of Dominico de la Natividad, built by Dominican priests in the 1500s. It is an enormous church, dedicated to Mary, mother of Jesus. The church was undergoing massive renovation, including restoring the huge, original bells from the belfry, so we weren’t allowed inside. Instead, we strolled along the church sidewalks, wondering what to do. There are two museums on the grounds, but we decided to explore a large tent, instead. That’s where the magic came in.  

Inside the tent, a man was bent over a very large piece of wood, carefully crafting a a series of murals out of seeds and different colored corn. The murals, depicting indigenous, historical events are a marriage between the Catholic feast of the Virgin Mary on September 8th, and the celebration of Tepoztécatl, the Aztec god of harvest.

Artists from Tepoztlán work on the murals from mid-summer until early September. Seeds and colored kernels of corn are sorted, filed and stored in an elaborate system of drawers at one end of the tent. The artists handle them like jewels.

The murals are enormous. When they are finished, they cover the walls on one side of the church for all to see. Including birds. For the rest of the year, birds pluck the seeds from the murals until, over the coming year, most of the seeds are gone and it’s time to start over.

From the churchyard, we could see a pyramid on top of  Tepozteco Hill. Pilgrims follow a winding path through thick forest to reach the Tepozteco Pyramid. We were told that the hike could take from twenty minutes to three hours, depending on how fast we walked. Neto could probably do it in twenty minutes. I knew it would take me three hours. We decided to wait until next time.

It was getting close to 1:00 and we were hungry. We stopped at a small restaurant across from the church. We opted for traditional street food, quesadillas and tacos, rather than try a local favorite, itacate, a tortilla stuffed with ingredients such as pork crackling and roasted grasshoppers. 

Neto and I often reminisce about our visit to the magic town of Tepoztlán. Although we talked about going back some day on September 8th, to see the murals, go to mass inside the church, shop at the market, and climb to the pyramid, it now seems an impossible journey. But, if you get the opportunity, maybe you can go in our place.

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The Fourth of July

What fun! Spending the Fourth of July in Washington, D.C!

My grandson, Connor, and I traveled back and forth to Minnesota while he was in elementary school but now he was finishing fifth grade. We wanted to celebrate. Go some place different. Some special, knock-your-socks-off kind of place. 

What could be better than Washington, D.C. on Independence Day? Connor liked history and traveling. I loved fireworks and outdoor concerts. It was going to be a perfect vacation.

When we told people about our plans ~ go to Washington, stay in an Airbnb near the Mall, see the museums, the parade, the concert and the fireworks ~ they all said the same thing, “You are crazy! Do you know how hot it will be? How crowded? Do you know what you are in for?”

Our answers were: 

Crazy? Probably.

Know how hot it was going to be? How crowded? We had no idea.

Know what we were in for? Nope. No way!

Connor had just turned eleven and I was a lot younger than I am now. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat!

We flew to D.C. on Monday, July 1st, and took a cab to our Airbnb, a private room in a beautiful, modern condo within walking distance of the National Mall. Our hostess was a lovely young woman from Vietnam. She gave us our keys, announced that she was leaving to visit friends in New York, told us to make ourselves at home, and walked out the door.

Here’s what we learned in six days in D.C.:

  • Washington is a beautiful city with flower gardens and large trees everywhere. 
  • The museums are outstanding. Almost all of them are free.
  • The monuments are incredible. We saw monuments to the Korean and Vietnam wars and monuments in honor of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and Dr. Martin Luther King. 
  • The National Zoo is phenomenal. We took the subway to get there and back, another new experience for both of us. The line to see the pandas was too long and the weather was sweltering, so we mostly saw elephants and lots of fish. 
  • The Smithsonian Folklike Festival is a wonderful, two-week celebration spread out along one end of the Mall. The 2013 themes were Hungarian Heritage, Endangered Languages, and African American Style and Identity. We spent most of our time exploring African American Identity, including eating fried chicken and waffles for breakfast. 

On Thursday, July Fourth, we got up early to find a good place to watch the parade. Floats and marching bands were lining up along the street. We saw the Budweiser Clydesdales and men on giant, old-fashioned bicycles cruising up and down the street. People were putting last minute touches on floats that celebrated cultural and ethnic diversity. Tourists from all over the world, wearing red, white and blue, were waving flags and snapping pictures.

We found a seat on a wall along the parade route and made friends with those around us. The parade lasted for hours, every float more beautiful than the one before. At one point, Connor found a cool spot under a tree and took a nap. 

A bicycle-rickshaw driver took us home, where we stayed until it was time to walk back for the concert on the lawn of the Capitol. We found a place far in the back, put down our blanket and watched the concert on large screens surrounding us. The concert finished to the roar of cannons and the 1812 Overture. We were in a perfect spot to watch dazzling fireworks right in front of us.

That was the last time Connor and I traveled together. I smile every time I remember it.

“We did it, Baby!” I said to Connor as we sat in a crowded airplane, on our way back to Denver.

“That’s right, Grandma.” He shook his head in disbelief. “We just did something no one else has ever done.”

“Indeed!” I thought to myself.

We did something that I will hold in my heart forever. Something that no one else has ever done!

 

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Zapatista

Zapatista is one of the most memorable, charismatic women I’ve ever met. A tiny woman, she was strong and beautiful with a straw cowboy hat on her head and a rosary around her neck. I’m guessing she was at least eighty years old. Her skin glowed copper. Her brown eyes sparkled. Her smile was captivating. Ernesto and I met her one day in the town of Ayala in the state of Morelos, Mexico.

Neto and I went to Cuernavaca, near Mexico City, in late August, 2013. We stayed in a truly horrible Airbnb rental. The apartment was small and dirty with grotesque art on the walls. It didn’t even have a pot for boiling water.  After going to Walmart for basic supplies, we decided we needed to spend as little time in the apartment as possible and explore the surrounding area, instead. We ate at local food stands. We spent a day in the history museum. We climbed pyramids and visited the most beautiful botanical gardens I’ve ever seen. We took taxis to nearby towns. Because of that tiny, dirty apartment, we had one of our best vacations ever.

Ayala is an agricultural town, forty-five minutes from Cuernavaca. We wanted to visit a museum, have lunch and be home before dark. Our taxi driver warned us to be careful. “There are a lot of bad people living in Morelos.” 

We didn’t see any bad people. Instead, we met Zapatista, a charming woman selling homemade pulque ~ an alcoholic beverage with a taste as smooth as honey. Pulque is tough to describe. Here is the best description I could find, taken from Wikipedia: 

Pulque is one of Mexico’s oldest, iconic alcoholic beverages made from fermented agave. It looks like semen and has the texture of boogers, but it tastes like pure magic.

Neto and I were having lunch at a busy restaurant across from an old railroad station when Zapatista arrived at our table, carrying a large, leather-wrapped jug of homemade pulque. We invited her to sit down at our table and talk to us. She was tired. Her feet were sore. She was happy to spend some time sitting at our table. But first we bought a glass of  pulque.

We called her Zapatista because we never knew her real name. When we asked her who she was, she told us that she was the granddaughter of  Emiliano Zapata Salazar, hero in the Mexican Revolution. She started telling us stories of the Mexican Revolution. The more she told us, the more I knew her stories were true. 

Emiliano Zapata was a handsome man, with dark penetrating eyes and a bushy black mustache. A man of the people and a natural leader, he led the peasant revolution in the state of Morelos. He believed in taking land from wealthy landowners and returning it to the peasants. He later became the leader of the Liberation Army of the South and remained an important fighter of the Mexican Revolution until he was assassinated in an ambush in 1919.

We were captivated by Zapatista. I was in awe of  her wonderful sense of humor and her fascinating personal stories of her grandfather and the Mexican Revolution. We asked her to join us for lunch. She agreed to let us buy her lunch but declined to stay and sit with us. Instead she put her lunch in a plastic box, packed it in her knapsack and continued on her way.

After our day in Ayala, Neto and I left Cuernavaca two days early and checked into a beautiful, ultra-modern hotel in downtown Mexico City. That gave us time to spend a day visiting the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe and climb even higher pyramids. 

Our trip to Cuernavaca and Mexico City was an unforgettable experience. We agreed that spending time with Zapatista was the highlight of our trip, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. She is one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met. Talking to her, we felt that we were in the presence of greatness.