Tortilla Security

Latin Americans take security very seriously.  Lot's of bars, broken glass shared fence tops, and a few spikes thrown in.  In my favela experience over the last few weeks I have found that every single rooftop in Guanajuato has a barking dog.  In San Miguel there are fewer dogs but more outside cameras and locks.   A safer place?  Maybe.  At least my small B and B is safer with the addition of a new twist.  A security pig named Tortilla.  Tortilla is the most sociable local I have found on this trip. Always wanting to come in and hang around.  He seems to have a fondness for my traveling sandals. That could be an indication of a lot of things.   Now not knowing much about pigs other than what a guy learns from a good BLT.  I have to say that a couple of times he scared the shit out of me.  You see Tortilla does not like to be rushed and certainly do not push him from behind.   Lucky for me he doesn't like large rustling plastic bags.  Right now he is standing guard outside my door.  Occasionally giving it a nudge just to see if it's closed.  I can sleep well tonight.  Tortilla is on the job.

The Clave Azul Boozeria

Every once in awhile you stumble on a place that you can't describe to anyone.  Usually a dive by most standards or whatever the new term is.  It always seems dark and smokey smelling with some electic owner or bartender hanging around.   He is usually drinking and being loud and nuts.  Well, the place for that is the La Clave Azul in Guanajuato.   It's up this narrow alleyway off the Plaza San Francisco off of Juarez street.   The alley is unmarked and you could not roll a wheelchair up the thing.   Restaurante-Taberna the card says.  I would say it's a Mexican Boozieria.  They serve tapas that are huge for free and the best tortilla soap I have ever had.  Ever.

When you go you will most certainly meet Pompeyo.  The owner, greeter, womanizer, comedian, and friend to all those folks who are capable of spending 9 hours in a bar.  Move over Sam Malone, there is a new Cheers in town.  

For Momies Everywhere

I miss my Momie a lot sometimes.  Today was one of those days.  Sometimes it's hard to think about how you want to be remembered.  Again, today was one of those days.  I can assure you that being dug up and put in a glass case in a black room with some dude making a few pesos off of me is not the way.  NOW, that said, who would not sort of enjoy being remembered after the big moment.  Really.  Maybe for the hair or the trousers or the dental work.  Thanks Dr. H.    So today I was searching for momies and found some.  The fact that I was given a senior discount without asking only added to my enjoyment.   If you come to GTO you have to take a look. I mean anyone would.  Just up the hill from Benito Juarez is the Momie Museum.  Take any bus with momies on it.

The last shot is a view off of my balcony after switching from the shit smell hotel on the jardin.  The Guanajuato Film Festival is in town with red carpet and everything.  I guess they got the good rooms at the Posada Santa Fe.  I'm now in the Casa Azul around the corner.  The curly headed 10 year old Salvador is taking care of everything.  I mean it .  10 years old.  So, tip one up for your moms tonight where ever they are.  Cheers.

My quest for Culture

Another great day in GTO.  Getting ready to head out soon and thought I should get some culture thrown into the mix.  A day at the Diego Rivera museum proved interesting.  The most interesting part of it had nothing to do with Diego.  The Black and White piece shown?  Photo or painting?  Well I guess yo would have to guess painting because it looks so much like a photo.  Fine.  It's a paining.  Juan Carlos Manjarrez is the artist and he is amazing.  The painting is about 8 feet by 8 feet.  He is a master of tones and shades.  Mostly all black and white.

The other is equally interesting.  I found this display I will call the "wall of nameless frames", not in the Diego Rivera or any other famous galleries or museums in GTO.  You have to go down Benito Juarez about half a mile from the Theater.  Turn  into a small doorway and go into the closed courtyard.  It is elegantly displayed on the wall there.  Right above the trash cans.  Oh, you can also pick up some quick, "comida chino" on the way to the piece.  These frames or drilled into the wall, high above the floor in the lone Chinese Eatery.  My kind of art.  The art of nothing.

Baggage Bobsled Guanajuato Style

Living with a view is a wonderful thing.  The lights of the city or the vistas of a mountain valley always get me going.  The views from the Casa Pipila high on the hill in Guanajuato is right up there with some of the best ever.  That is the good news.  Now for the bad news....Just two words sums it up.   "ASS KICKING".  Say it with me...."ASS KICKING".   Heart pounding, leg burning, knee melting ass kicking.    As my stay at Pipila was winding down,  I was pulled into the mind numbing fear of how I was going to get my truck load of crap out of there.  It was a huge climb to the road above.  We are talking some altitude here.  You have to lift and carry going up right?  Physical Science was not my specialty but I do have more pain receptors than the average Joe.  The other option, a Frans Klammer type downhill run down the super steep, rock covered, uneven steps of the Hahnenkamm of Guanajuato.  (1976 Winter Olympic gold medal run.  Innsbruick, Austria).  Come on sports fans!   I chose the later and put my fate in the hands of gravity.

Downhill momentum can be a wonderful thing, sometimes.  No doubt locals trying to come up the alleyways on this run would think differently.  It was a high speed, mostly out of control, bone jarring bounce to the bottom.  Fear of death aside, I had made the right decision.

I was a low life, flat lander again.  No more steps, slopes, or climbs for me.  I now even look at the step in the bathroom with some reservation.  Level is difficult in a city like GTO but I'm dedicated now.   Flat is beautiful.  Well, in most things.   So, when you come here, and you really should because there is no place like it, bring a good pair of shoes, extra nitro for the ticker, and a flashlight.  Power doesn't like the hills either.  

Buen Dia Guanajuato

I have not written much about Guanajuato, the city.  The truth is there is so much to write about.  It has to be the most beautiful and romantic cities in Mexico.  Narrow alleys and sidewalk cafes.  Good food and a level of energy that is not found everywhere.  It's easy to just find a bench somewhere and sit and watch all of it come to you.  Sitting on the steps of Theatre Juarez is one of my recommendations.   One of the best restaurants is just 50 yards down the road.  Grab one of the two outside tables and watch the street come to you.  That is my preferred hang out now.   These minstrels walk and sing in the streets.  You follow them through the narrow alleys and stop at wide places.  They will blow some sangria at you for a few coins from a ceramic bong looking thing.    Most groups will finish at Callejon de Beso.  Alley of the Kiss.  This alley is so tight that two balconies almost touch on each side of the street.  You can lean over and get kiss.  Yes, there is a love story involved.  

The World's least interesting Man- Women's Shoes.

He can make sandals grow taller.

He once played Mixed Doubles with a partner in Heels, and they won.

When he passes a shoe store...the heels bang on the glass.

Women stand on their tip toes when he walks by.

Christian Louboutin  asks him for advice.


"I don't look at women's shoes often, but when I do,  I prefer Stilettos !

He is....the world's least interesting Man.

Which way is NAPA?

As I was sitting and contemplating the origins of life.  I was also thinking about home.  The burring question in my mind was simple.  "Why does wine in Mexico suck like a 12 HP Black and Decker Shop Vac?"  Why?  I mean they have the arts, culture, good food, and the second richest dude in the world at times.  The city I'm in, Guanajuato, has every imaginable fine restaurant and hotel.  The most romantic city in Mexico by far.  So, it stand to reason that they would have good wine.  HELL, the Spanish from across the pond have good wine.  LIPS knocked down some liters of same on trips to Pamplona.  (Louisiana International Pleasure Society).  So what happened?  It must be some trade agreement.  They don't even have wine from Argentina most places.  Don't they speak Spanish?  Only Mexican wine or Chilean varieties.  Now that gives me a wine woodie,  Chile can stomp a pretty good grape but that quality doesn't seem to get to Mexico.

The best wine I have had in Mexico was in Zihau and it was from California.  How it got to Mexico one can only guess.  I imagine a portly woman with bottles of Sonoma duct taped to her thighs pushing the big red customs button in the Mexico City airport.  I just don't know why they choose to torture themselves.   I am far from a wine connoisseur.   How far you ask?  How far is NAPA.  No, I'm not, really.  I'm drinking a glass  of Chilean swill right now.  Perhaps it's because I'm afraid to drink the tap water,  I do not know.   So, Mr. Trump if you build that wall please put a hole in it somewhere around Nogales and let them run a few cases on down here.  It may eliminate the need for a wall.  Our South of the border friends, and they are friends, may be just looking for a semi with good legs, and some hint of pear.  

Callejon of Death

Hope was fading now...I had reached the point where the will to live was almost gone.  The narrow callejon and the twisting hand made concrete steps had sucked it out of me.  My lungs were on fire, my knees were like mush.  Pain, over all over, consuming PAIN.  I had been lost now for over an hour.  Climbing up and down the narrow alleys on this uber steep hill.  The route I had taken down to the centro was now a faded memory.  I leaned over the rocky wall  trying in vain to catch my breath.   This was it, I thought.  There was nothing in the tank.  The disappointment of reaching the very top staircase where my host's manager said, "it's easy from here", played over and over in my mind.  I made it to that spot again with monumental effort.  Only to be completely lost from there.

Of course this was the rocket scientist from New York, who saw me sitting in front of the Statue Pipila for over thirty minutes.  Never in that 30 minutes did he make the connection that I might be the gringo with the moving truck full of shit, that he was waiting for.  I had to go over and ask him.

Back to the story.  Your mind runs through all kinds of emotions at the end.  I was thinking of those Mount Everest guys and how similar our thoughts were.  Except I never found that peace and crap.  I was worried and scared of how the rats would treat me.  I never knew a rum bottle, a diet coke, and a small container of milk could be so heavy.  Should I drink the rum and just drift away....  Then I heard voices.  A woman and a small child approached down the narrow gutter I was in.   "Buenos tardes," she said as she passed. She then turned and said that I was going to right way... Down.  NOOO.  I summoned up the energy to tell her that I was lost and looking for some Irish guys B and B?  "Oh, said smiling.  She pointed down the fork of the path that I  had not taken earlier.  "Cerca", she said with a smile.  How near I wondered.  I willed myself to rise one last time and stumbled down the path.   During my battle this afternoon, I tried without success to keep the strategy.  "Never give up altitude".   Going down again was a huge and perhaps final mistake.

Nothing, there was nothing but a dead end.  Should this dirty little place be the end?   With all my strength, I tried to gain my "other" final resting place again.  One step at a time.  Visions of blind and unknowing effort filling my head.  Everest again,   just above Camp 6,  elevation  28, 754 ASL.  One slow heavy step at a time. Some guy crossed himself as he passed me on his way down.  Not a good sign.  Hugging the corner I looked up a another set of uneven steps and saw the woman again.   She looked at me and through the coughing spells , I could see her saying 'NO"?, I'm sorry.  She came down to me and I tried to describe it again.  CASA DERMOT or something.  She thought and asked the woman she was talking to and they both started to smile.  Not at the thought of taking my cash and milk when I died I hoped.  The woman said she thought she knows now.  She even offered to carry MY bag.  Just give me a necktie and a doorway please.  We made it to the top of those stairs and then she lead me down another alley.  Even though it was downhill I tried several times to stop and die.  She would not allow it.  She even smiled back at me and said, "good exercise".  We finally came to another tight alley and she pointed down.  This was it for sure.  I had a spot picked out at the bottom of this drop and that was it.  Limping down, I realized this was it.   She had a huge grin on her face as she waved.  Wait,  "I Love You", was the only thing I could think of in Spanish past Gracias.  I would have offered her a kidney if I knew the word, how about putting your children through college.  In a flash she was gone.  Maybe I will run into the Patron Saint of the West Side of Big Ass Hill.  Again.  Tonight I am recuperating.  Warm Rum with Diet Coke and Milk.  The Angel of Death may still be near.

Can We Find a Better Way?

A festival in town.  Old people, children, and everyone in between are laughing and singing.  Thousands are enjoying the food, music, balloons, and generally having the time of their lives.  It goes on everywhere.  All over the world.  But for how much longer?  

IS THIS REALLY THE DIRECTION WE WANT TO GO?

Let's find a better way.  NOW.

Nacho and the Game

It usually starts around 6:00 PM just below my window on Purchecho street.  I know it is starting because I start hearing the random scream and yell.  That is about the time I make my way to the box seat I have on the balcony.    The street is narrow and slopes drastically to the busy main avenue below.  The game usually migrates from in front of the little store front to my section of street after a few minutes.  You see the slope and the tradition that the younger kids have to fetch the ball, makes it dangerous for the rookies near the fast moving avenue.  You have to take care of your players as any good manager would tell you.

Everyone has their favorite players, right?  Maybe it's a Rolando, Romo, or LeBron.  I could have chosen the tall lanky guy of about 15 with his signature behind the back moves.  Or the shorter kid with the perfect knowledge of how to play the ball off of the side of the buildings.  Sure they would be solid choices.  However, my favorite guy is Nacho.  Nacho is a solid young man of about six.  He is in the green Jersey with a 9 on the back today.  Nacho has considerable skills for his age.  The older boys know it too.  He mans up with the best of them.  Taking a ball in the nuts or mouth without much more than a whimper.  Occasionally his shoe will come untied which requires the service of an older teammate to fix but Nacho can hold his own.  Why even today during the game he withstood a wicked ball to the face that sent him to the cobblestones.  He also endured a sneak attack from yellow kid.  Yellow kid always wears yellow and is dirty as they come.  When an errant kick flies into the old ladies
garden, it's Nacho who is elected to knock on the door.    Pound for pound my Nacho is the meanest dog in the fight.  When the ballots come out I urge you to consider Nacho for the all La Loma Team.

Right now he is driving to the goal...driving....GO GO GO   OWWWW GOOOOOOOAL!!!!! SCORRRRRRRRE!  

Hold that Delivery

I was walking down the street yesterday and saw this casket delivery truck waiting to unload.  Counting the boxes I realized that it would take just over 10 of these trucks to account for the men and women in Blue who have been killed in the line of duty in our country.  I usually never comment on a political situation in social media.  Now, I'm making an exception.  Just once.  Being out of the country, the majority of the news comes to me from the internet and a little from TV.  Everything out there is some kind of race article that seems it's only purpose is to make headlines and work up hysteria.  I know for a fact that, "Black Lives matter".  I know that and I always have.  Never once in my "Mesquite" upbringing or my living in Terlingau (black population, 3. ) did anyone say Black Lives don't matter.  Not once.  So, I'm completely sure in my heart they matter.  But I'm also sure that White Lives matter, Native Americans matter, I think a few Asians would like for their lives to matter.  Maybe the the guy doing the rock work on your patio matter too.  There are people in this country that don't want their lives to matter and we make them matter anyway.  So WTF.  How much more stupidity can we absorb from a few wanting some headlines.  Enough.  

Now for my rant.  I only know a few things for sure.  Taxes are too high, there is some really bad chardonnay, ear hair can't be stopped, no one cares about Taylor swift or deflatgate. and we owe a debt to law enforcement officers in every city, town, rural nowhere in this country.  We owe them a debt.  Plain and simple.  Are they heroes?  NO. not all the time.  Some of them are flat out gold plated heroes.  They are doing a dangerous, difficult, and mind bogglingly unappreciated job.  Nothing less.

I have been a paramedic for over 30 years.  Not on the streets all that time but a lot of it. Maybe the world is a safer place when I off the street. Who knows.  It's a job I've done around the world.  I can tell you this.  In all those times, hundreds of calls in the worse conditions, I have never gone in first when they were there.  They do shit you can't even imagine.  Deal with people our society would not even agree to believe exist.  AND they do it every damn day of the year and you never ever hear about it.  Unless, something goes wrong.  If we could "get it right" as much as they do everyday around this country....we would cure cancer, decrease big government, teach dogs to talk, and have the cowboys win another Super Bowl.   You don't need to buy them coffee to feel better.  Just give them the respect they deserve for what they do.  The bad ones need to go and the good ones need to know that you understand they are not part of that.   I've had some shitty bank tellers in my years, but I don't refuse to sit next to people that work at a bank.

If you have a minority friend, tell them how you feel.  We all have to change.  They have their feelings and fears too, If you don't have a minority friend....find one.  If you have a redneck friend, educate them and listen to their story too.  Let's put the casket truck out of business for everyone, especially the men and women in Blue.   If you agree with this message, you don't have to do a damn thing with it.  In fact, get off social media and find something productive to do.  Adios.  

Commando in Mexico

Right when you think you have identified the things to worry about in Mexico you get "holed below the water line" by something domestic.   Cartels in your neighborhood....sure no problem.  Explosions in the distance...I can live with that.  My bank card getting cut off...not going to ruin my trip.   BUT...the laundry lady losing my underwear?  That could spell disaster beyond my most uncomfortable imagination.  Not one pair, not my spares....all of them.  I decided it was a good day to clean the hamper.  Commando for a morning.  Sure... even feels a little sporty.  Not my first time mind you.  I went sans" ropa interior" for a while when I heard Bjorn Borg did it.  Now however I am bit more reluctant.  When I picked up my laundry from Lavanderia Anyelin I had no reason to believe that it would be missing a garment or two.  After all, Señora Anyelin and I have a close working relationship.  So my return to her shop was something South of awkward.  Especially when I had no idea how to say underwear in Spanish.  Thanks to modern technology my translation app didn't let me down.  Her response was less than fulfilling to say the least.  You don't want to hear her mumble "no se" when you have already walked a mile or so from the plaza in old jeans.  She assured me or at least I think she was, that she would find them and I could pick them up in the morning.  I took this photo this evening after the bad news.  Señora Anyelin is the one in the red sweater.  I'm hoping she is asking the group about my ropa interior.  So for now...it's Commando.  I'm hoping I don't have to get into the tiny backseat of a taxi. If you know what I mean.

The Family on the Hill

That sounds a lot like a Walton episode title doesn't it?  I can see John Boy bringing a Sunday lunch package to those folks and saying welcome.  You always want to meet the neighbors.   Yesterday I got some solid confirmation of what I was pretty sure was going on.   I live on "La Loma", and La Loma belongs to "La Familia".   Nope, not the Walton's but that other family.  The one that hangs their competitors upside down from bridges.   The taxi driver was afraid to come up to my house.  Now that was the first time that happened but I did get checked out by cartel guys a couple of days ago.  Two 20 year olds came by on Motorbikes as I was outside.  They slowed and watched me for a minute. Then went down the hill for a bit and pulled walkie talkies out of their pockets and radioed somewhere.  A minute later another guy comes down on a bike and was much better dressed.   He stopped and asked me all these questions about me and why I was here.  It was  in a round about way.  He said he was looking for an address.  LOL.  I'm certain if I saw me in the street in Mexico I would think, "oh sure this guy looks like a local, I bet he knows where this place it?"  Anyway,  I'm farther down the hill so it's closer to the Funerales Alvares.  You remember the 24 hour funeral home and casket take out place.  Makes sense really.  A vertically integrated industry.  They can get paid on either end.    It might be time to move on in  a few days.  I mean family is important but.....

A little Music Please

They say that music soothes the savage beast.  I'm not sure if that is a good thing or not.  Depending on where you are you could get a saucy wild dance or the beach boys strolling on the sand.  I managed to somehow turn the camera the wrong way so you are not going to get a sideways Elvis with an amplifier.  To all those minstrels out there tonight.  Keep on strumming.

Market Food

Anthony Bourdain would be proud.  A stroll through the night food market was quite the experience. Full of people and food.  Every smell you could imagine.  Hawkers pulling you in this direction and that.  Every dish looked appealing.  Plenty of picnic tables and single light bulbs on single wires.  You just have to love the energy of a good food market.   Patzcuaro on a Saturday night.  No place like it.  Viva la comida locale.

You Just Never Know

OK.  Have you heard the one about the really tall clown girl and the Mexican lasagna?  Well, too long a joke for this one but enough to say that they were funny...really funny.   Sitting at the cafe of the Hotel Virrey de Mendoza on the plaza in Morelia you just never know what might happen along.  It was a nice distraction on beautiful day.  A break from the Italian anyway.

Walk, Run, Stop

Continuing on my daily observation of myself observing those who deserve to be observed, I have found this.   It is a mixture of hope, calm, panic, fear, and obvious disappointment.   Disappointment? Hum.  Maybe?  What if the Red guy is the real message.  STOP.  Maybe stop wasting time doing things you really don't like?  Maybe the faster you try to run toward something the less likely it will be there?   Maybe the standing red guy is the only one who sees what is around him.    Or maybe it's just a funny crosswalk light in a little town in Mexico.   You tell me...

Sometimes a pigeon, sometimes not

We have all had those days.  I mean you know....those days.  When life reminds you that you are nothing but a one legged bus station pigeon.  I'm talking about those times when life throws you a lemon and you keep the stiff upper life and try to make lemonade, only to find out you have no ice, no glass, and the lemon is filled with worms.  Yes...you are a one legged bus station pigeon.  Noticing the interior wildlife at the Zihuatenjo bus station today I realized it's still good to put up the noble fight.  Inspiring you might say.  So the take home from this is ....no matter how much you feel like the one legged bus station pigeon,  fight for the scrapes anyway.  Sometimes you just wear the opposition out.  

La Reyna de Masaje de la Playa la Ropa

Or...the queen of massage on La Ropa beach.....or....something like that.  Few things are more enjoyable than a good firm massage.  Nothing is more enjoyable than a good firm massage in a beach tent with the breeze blowing for less than 20 bucks for an hour and half.   La Ropa must be the mothership for massage in the state of Guerro.  Every few yards seems to be a massage tent.  The rubbistas.  (my new word) are more aggressive than five mothers with girl scout cookies.  I mean ferocious.  Cards in hand they ID you before you hit the sand and lay in wait for you to get within striking distance.   After being robbed the first day at the hotel, it was apparent that there was some consumer advantage by shopping around.   The informed consumer I had become finally paid off in finding Mariel.  After some hand to hand combat to get into her tent, I was completely impressed.  In fact it got to the point that the two competing rubbista tents were actually trying to out do each other.  Really.....a consumer paradise.  So, if you come to Zihuatenajo any time soon.  go to the South end of La Ropa and find the tent.  Ask for Mariel.  Her semi sadistic blood letting leg massage will make you glad you did.  The gallon of oil she bastes you in is included.  Vaya con Dios mis amigos.  

Paradise

Early morning on La Ropa beach can provide some interesting entertainment.  Foot prints in the sand leading you to somewhere then fading to nothing in the foaming surf.  Where were they leading you? No one knows... maybe to a local Stevie Nicks convention or perhaps to Mary's restaurant in a narrow alleyway to sit with Mario.  A local mobster with a few years of prison in the U.S.  " I run from probation officer this since 3 years, you tink dat is enuf".  A few years in a Portland prison and a few in Pecos, Texas.  Mario likes to drink and sometimes drive among other things.  Not a bad guy but one that you wouldn't want to cross.  So, maybe the Marinas are looking for Mario or maybe a cartel guy next door.  The coast does seem to be on alert.  There are few rules here.  but some should be universal the world over.