I've given up on that show. I'll catch it online, maybe, but I'm not altering my schedule for it anymore. I'm willing to bet they have the baby, Aaron, murder someone, since everyone on the island has apparently killed someone. Gimme a break.
I'll give a random plot summary (doesn't matter the episode): Something unusual has happened at the end of the last episode that boggles the mind. Something even more outrageous will happen in this episode, thus distracting from the fact that the earlier incident was never properly explained.
You could weave the Bayeux Tapestry with all of Lost's untied-up, loose plot threads.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Random Facts About Ajax
1. Every Six months, I'll stare at a door knob and try to open it only using my mind. You never know when you might have developed Telekinesis.
2. My eyes started out dark brown, then went light brown, then hazel, now they're mostly green with a ring of brown.
2. My eyes started out dark brown, then went light brown, then hazel, now they're mostly green with a ring of brown.
3. I have not intentionally killed anyone.
4. I have never been in a real fight.
5. My left ring finger has a fused joint so I have a hard time grasping things.
6. One of my ears is cocked upwards at a weird angle.
7. I have 20/10 vision in one eye, 20/15 in the other.
8. I come across as stone cold deaf often, but it turns out the reason I can't hear people talking is because I
hear so well that I pick up more background noise than most people so I can't distinguish their voices unless I'm looking at them or it's quiet.
9. I got an A in Great Books of the Western World without reading any of the books.
10. I am a trivia guru. I don't mean I know a lot of useless junk. I mean I actually consistently win trivia competitions which pay for meals and drinks. Shy of going on a gameshow, this talent is not worth much more than meals, drinks, and aggravating my friends.
11. I have traveled to every state in the Union except for Hawaii and maybe North Dakota (I was up that way when I was 11 but can't remember if we went there.)
12. I went to first grade in England (my dad was on sabattical and writing a book).
13. Because I lived in England in the mid-80's, the Red Cross won't let me donate blood for fear of Mad Cow's Disease.
14. Because of being injected with the Anthrax vaccine (well, only partially...what a crock), the Red Cross will not let me donate blood.
15. If you dropped me off in Madrid, Paris or Rome, I could make myself understood and understand what the hell was going on.
16. I have an unnerring ability to NOT get in trouble, even when I'm doing pretty bizarre things that sound as if they very well might not be completely legal.
17. For instance, I watched sunrise and sunset on the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, on the Summer Solstice, even though it "technically" is located within an unmanned British Naval Radar Installation.
18. I get outrageously altitude sick when I get above 13,000 feet so Nepal and Everest are out of the question.
19. I used to go to sailing camp, and I was very good at it, but I did win an award for "Most Ships Sunk."
20. Until I was seven I was left-handed. The teachers in England make everyone write right-handed so they don't smear pencil. My handwriting has been since described as being like a "serial killer." In 3rd grade, I did manage to get an A in handwriting, but that night, when mom and dad took me out to celebrate, Dad accidentally slammed my writing hand in the door. After that, neither of them yelled if I didn't get good handwriting grades.
21. I made the varsity baseball team (at a small private school) as an 8th Grader. I proceeded to lead the Universe in batting that year when I batted 1.000 (they put me in when we were being no-hit. I got a hit and didn't get to bat again that year).
22. I hit full-grown height (6'2") by the time I was fifteen. I only weighed 135lbs and you could see my heart beat and count all my ribs without me raising my arms.
23. I was captain of my high school baseball team and quiz bowl team.
24. I've never done drugs, but I did have my first drink as a fourteen year old.
25. My grandfather William Connor is my role model. He was a Brigadier General, a Rhodes Scholar, spoke 5 languages fluently (3 more partially), married and in love for 36 years, a phenomenal father, and he died 2 years before I was born.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Tulum
We arrived in the hamlet of Tulum just as evening had descended. It was Liz's birthday so we sauntered out for a nice bite to eat at a German chef's restaurant (of all places in a small Mexican beach town). Afterwards, we went for drinks and I insisted that, for the occasion, we had to drink one of every tequila they had on the drink menu. The only thing that tempered our good time were the campaign trucks for the candidates in the local elections a month hence. The trucks dragged trailers behind them which had video screens of the candidates' messages and the most grating, annoying music known to man blaring at ear-splitting decibels. Despite their endless circuit down the main drag, Liz made it to about four or five (they were large shots) before her consciousness failed her, in spite of the racket, and we stumbled back to the hotel.
Unfortunately, there just isn't a whole lot to say about spending time at a beach. We mostly lazed around, reading under umbrellas, drinking margaritas or pina coladas, and standing in the remarkably clear, yet mind-bogglingly blue water of the Caribbean. Oh, well, it was a topless beach. So there's that. One thing that they don't tell you before you go to your first trip to one is that there aren't bouncers at the entrances making sure only amply-endowed, gravity defying, young, nubile women are admitted. Thus, while there were some spectaculars, they were more than offset by the 48yo, overweight, pallid, Ginger, British women and fat men in speedos. Well, there were muscular men in speedos too. The fact that speedos are worn by anyone possessed of a y-chromosome is just damned disturbing, regardless of their fitness. Were there bouncers, I am honest enough to admit I wouldn't have been admitted entrance, but there weren't, so I ogled behind my sunglasses til I'd been desensitized to breasts, which took a surprisingly short amount of time.
The main adventure we had, of sorts, was our visit to the Dos Ojos cenotes. Many do not know, but the Yucatan peninsula doesn't have rivers or lakes. It's on top of a gigantic slab of porous limestone, so all the water sinks in. Cenotes are natural sinkholes in the limestone and, because water is so scarce, they were seen as mystical, holy places by the Mayans. Of course, today, the sinkholes are spectacles and so they charge admission to let slimy tourists swim in their pristine waters. Liz and I got there quite early and jumped on in, frolicking about for an hour or so before the hordes arrived.
And that, dear friends, was Tulum. I sent Liz on her way to Cancun to fly home to Dallas and I got on a bus for Mexico City. Half of the 24 hours I spent on the bus was in the company of at least 12 young children. If anyone ever needs to dampen their biological clock, I can think of no better way. Jabbering, hyperactive miscreants have done it for me. If I don't see another child for 5 years, it will be too soon. I spent a couple of days in Mexico City, where I finally wore long pants and entered the Cathedral, but other than that, I did very little. I got on my plane and headed, joyously, back to the world of proper plumbing. Adios, Mexico.
Unfortunately, there just isn't a whole lot to say about spending time at a beach. We mostly lazed around, reading under umbrellas, drinking margaritas or pina coladas, and standing in the remarkably clear, yet mind-bogglingly blue water of the Caribbean. Oh, well, it was a topless beach. So there's that. One thing that they don't tell you before you go to your first trip to one is that there aren't bouncers at the entrances making sure only amply-endowed, gravity defying, young, nubile women are admitted. Thus, while there were some spectaculars, they were more than offset by the 48yo, overweight, pallid, Ginger, British women and fat men in speedos. Well, there were muscular men in speedos too. The fact that speedos are worn by anyone possessed of a y-chromosome is just damned disturbing, regardless of their fitness. Were there bouncers, I am honest enough to admit I wouldn't have been admitted entrance, but there weren't, so I ogled behind my sunglasses til I'd been desensitized to breasts, which took a surprisingly short amount of time.
The main adventure we had, of sorts, was our visit to the Dos Ojos cenotes. Many do not know, but the Yucatan peninsula doesn't have rivers or lakes. It's on top of a gigantic slab of porous limestone, so all the water sinks in. Cenotes are natural sinkholes in the limestone and, because water is so scarce, they were seen as mystical, holy places by the Mayans. Of course, today, the sinkholes are spectacles and so they charge admission to let slimy tourists swim in their pristine waters. Liz and I got there quite early and jumped on in, frolicking about for an hour or so before the hordes arrived.
And that, dear friends, was Tulum. I sent Liz on her way to Cancun to fly home to Dallas and I got on a bus for Mexico City. Half of the 24 hours I spent on the bus was in the company of at least 12 young children. If anyone ever needs to dampen their biological clock, I can think of no better way. Jabbering, hyperactive miscreants have done it for me. If I don't see another child for 5 years, it will be too soon. I spent a couple of days in Mexico City, where I finally wore long pants and entered the Cathedral, but other than that, I did very little. I got on my plane and headed, joyously, back to the world of proper plumbing. Adios, Mexico.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Merida
Having flown from Oaxaca to Mexico City, I needed a cheap place to stay. As expected, everywhere near the airport was extortionately expensive so I headed back to the Zocalo to the hostel I'd stayed in before. Instead of taking a taxi, which would have cost as much as the hostel, I ventured into the subway, which cost approximately eight cents. I had my knife in my pocket and my head on a swivel, but, alas, I had no excitement. After an evening tossing, turning, and NOT sleeping because of a snoring Slav in the room, bleary-eyed, I got back in the subway and ventured to the airport.
In an effort to be in a somewhere pleasant mood (I'm a bit of a cranky bastard when short on sleep), when I met my friend Liz, I drank a couple of beers on the flight. My aggravation at the crying children onboard dissipated. After landing, I made my way to the international terminal to meet Liz. For those who do not know, Liz and I were stationed in Germany together for a couple of years. I met her through my good friend Chris, whom she dated.
Liz is an excellent travelling partner. As it happened with me, being in a warzone (She also is an Iraq veteran), has made it so not much bothers her. That is key when travelling. I cannot stress that enough. Things never go to plan, hence why I don't have a plan, so one must simply shrug and figure out the next move. Liz excels at this. Our one difference, and a major one at that, is that, whereas I view my past experiences with privation to be evidence that I not only can, but should, experience more, Liz figures, sure, she could suffer, but luxury is more appealing. Our paths, once so similar, in that we were once army captains in the Army, diverged substantially; I now an impoverished, supremely indebted student; she now a well-paid yuppie.
In an effort to accommodate her, I reluctantly agreed to allow her to put us in a 5 Star Hotel, pay for it, and otherwise be my "sugar mama" (her words). At one point, she referred to me as a "master manipulator", which, considering that she thanked me for "letting [her] tag along" and letting her pay for opulence, perhaps I am. If only I were a conscious master...
I sat outside the international terminal, where one must meet arrivals, set my bags down, and sipped on an exorbitantly priced piña colada as I wated on her plane to land. Aggravatingly, they had no monitors in the waiting area to show incoming flight stati, so I had to simply deduce where the avarious people were coming from. I knew the flight from Dallas had arrived when the doors opened and waves of fake breasts poured fourth. As I don't watch much television and I'm generally surrounded by law students, I am always taken aback by the hoi polloi. The women were dressed, by and large, by waht the common parlance of our times would no doubt label as "hoes." The men were t-shirt wearing slobs. I am admittedly dressed like a buffoon and I rightfully was ashamed to be seen amongst them.
My favorite couple, a trashy blonde whose massive boobs were about to burst out of her skin-tight black mini-dress and her oafish, baggy jean, designer t-shirt, gold-rimmed sunglasses wearing boyfriend took two steps out of the terminal, dropped their seven bags, thus blocking everyone behind them, and pulled a carton of cigarrettes out. They joked and laughed with such volume that it was only so obvious they craved attention, even as they didn't notice (or perhaps didn't care) that they were in everyone's way. The blonde bounced and shook enough to get every man's attention in the area, mine included obviously, in hopes of a wardrobe malfunction, while the local porters lined up to take pictures with her ("¡Jose! ¡An American pornstar!",
they were no doubt whispering amongst themselves) and her boyfriend roared non-sensical gibberish and guffawed. Sometimes the best argument against a higher power is that it in no wise should or would ever have bestowed the gift of life on the vapid and conscious alike. To temper my misanthropy, I ordered another drink and Liz finally appeared. We took a taxi to the bus station and got the hell out of Cancun. My mood improved considerably.
Uxmal
The next morning, after breakfast, we wandered around Mérida and stumbled into a travel agency. For the monumentally ridiculous price of about $120USD a piece, we scheduled three tours (2 with meals included) to Uxmal, Celestun, and Chichen Itza, the one for Uxmal being later that day.
Uxmal is less well-known than Chichen Itza but many prefer it since there aren't as many tourists. Liz and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as we took goofy pictures around the ruins. As part of the tour included an evening sound and light show (which sounds kitschy and touristy but is actually quite impressive), we broke for supper.
At the restaurant, the waiter brought out the house "salsa picante." As I've been woefully unimpressed with the state of the supposedly hot Mexican food since I've been in country, I slathered it on my meal. Huge mistake. Finally I'd found habañero. A lot of them. My lips and mouth were nuked. I was on the verge of crying as I poured sweat and blew my nose repeatedly. I did my best to keep it in and bluffed nonchalance as best I could as I attempted the flames with more beer. I tried to remove the frantic tone from my voice as I pleaded "mas cerveza." The third beer did the trick as I began to return to my normal color.
Celestun and Merida New Years
The next day we went to Celestun, on the Gulf Coast, where we took a boat ride to see flamingoes and sit on the beach. The big excitement was not there though, but in Mérida, since it was New Year's Eve. We wandered around the main plaza looking for an interesting place to eat when a hostess pulled us into "Mr. Banderas"
restaurant. Not Señor, but "Mr." It was quite the tourist trap.
I will be generous and say that our waiter was moderately disinterested in performing his job; lichen show more activity. He took forever to bring out the drinks, brought the appetizer out at the same time as the entrees (all of which had obviously been under a lamp for hours but were somehow cool nonetheless), and attempted to rip us off. The bill was for 800 something pesos. I showed him the coupon the hostess had given us stating that margaritas were free with meals and asked him to remove them from the bill. Twenty minutes later, he returned with two small margaritas and a new bill saying 795 pesos in his handwriting, since he'd scratched through the printed total. That didn't look right so I whipped out my pin and added it up. 723. Then I looked at the bottom of the bill and the same number was printed out in words, "sieteciento veintitres." Thoroughly annoyed, we paid the exact bill and fled before our sloth-like waiter returned.
As we wandered in a plaza, people lit M80s. Both Liz and I have been mortared, so neither of us really like fireworks; thus it was with these. After our initial shock at the explosions, we were a bit confused by the pitter-patter sounds all around us, until we realized that they were using the fireworks to clear the trees of birds. We covered our heads and ran like hell through the white rain, somehow miraculously making it through the gauntlet with nary a splat.
We found a nice balcony table to watch over the dancing in the square beneath as Liz drank toxic Cuba Libres and I tequila and beer. At the countdown to midnight, we leaned forward, I took her face in my hands, and...I kissed her on the forehead. "That is bull·$%!!" she roared. I laughed and kissed her. Then it turned out they'd screwed up the time and did the countdown again. I forewent the forehead the second time.
Chichen Itza
After a full day of recuperation on the first, we went to "Chicken Pitza." Sure, there were swarms of tourists and vendors, but there's a reason it's one of the wonders of the modern world. Our guide gave us a comprehensive tour and explained much of the site's significance in terms of Mayan numerology which was quite interesting.
Thoroughly satisfied with our cultural experiences around Mérida, we got in a bus on the 3rd and headed to the Caribbean beach town of Tulum.
In an effort to be in a somewhere pleasant mood (I'm a bit of a cranky bastard when short on sleep), when I met my friend Liz, I drank a couple of beers on the flight. My aggravation at the crying children onboard dissipated. After landing, I made my way to the international terminal to meet Liz. For those who do not know, Liz and I were stationed in Germany together for a couple of years. I met her through my good friend Chris, whom she dated.
Liz is an excellent travelling partner. As it happened with me, being in a warzone (She also is an Iraq veteran), has made it so not much bothers her. That is key when travelling. I cannot stress that enough. Things never go to plan, hence why I don't have a plan, so one must simply shrug and figure out the next move. Liz excels at this. Our one difference, and a major one at that, is that, whereas I view my past experiences with privation to be evidence that I not only can, but should, experience more, Liz figures, sure, she could suffer, but luxury is more appealing. Our paths, once so similar, in that we were once army captains in the Army, diverged substantially; I now an impoverished, supremely indebted student; she now a well-paid yuppie.
In an effort to accommodate her, I reluctantly agreed to allow her to put us in a 5 Star Hotel, pay for it, and otherwise be my "sugar mama" (her words). At one point, she referred to me as a "master manipulator", which, considering that she thanked me for "letting [her] tag along" and letting her pay for opulence, perhaps I am. If only I were a conscious master...
I sat outside the international terminal, where one must meet arrivals, set my bags down, and sipped on an exorbitantly priced piña colada as I wated on her plane to land. Aggravatingly, they had no monitors in the waiting area to show incoming flight stati, so I had to simply deduce where the avarious people were coming from. I knew the flight from Dallas had arrived when the doors opened and waves of fake breasts poured fourth. As I don't watch much television and I'm generally surrounded by law students, I am always taken aback by the hoi polloi. The women were dressed, by and large, by waht the common parlance of our times would no doubt label as "hoes." The men were t-shirt wearing slobs. I am admittedly dressed like a buffoon and I rightfully was ashamed to be seen amongst them.
My favorite couple, a trashy blonde whose massive boobs were about to burst out of her skin-tight black mini-dress and her oafish, baggy jean, designer t-shirt, gold-rimmed sunglasses wearing boyfriend took two steps out of the terminal, dropped their seven bags, thus blocking everyone behind them, and pulled a carton of cigarrettes out. They joked and laughed with such volume that it was only so obvious they craved attention, even as they didn't notice (or perhaps didn't care) that they were in everyone's way. The blonde bounced and shook enough to get every man's attention in the area, mine included obviously, in hopes of a wardrobe malfunction, while the local porters lined up to take pictures with her ("¡Jose! ¡An American pornstar!",
they were no doubt whispering amongst themselves) and her boyfriend roared non-sensical gibberish and guffawed. Sometimes the best argument against a higher power is that it in no wise should or would ever have bestowed the gift of life on the vapid and conscious alike. To temper my misanthropy, I ordered another drink and Liz finally appeared. We took a taxi to the bus station and got the hell out of Cancun. My mood improved considerably.
Uxmal
The next morning, after breakfast, we wandered around Mérida and stumbled into a travel agency. For the monumentally ridiculous price of about $120USD a piece, we scheduled three tours (2 with meals included) to Uxmal, Celestun, and Chichen Itza, the one for Uxmal being later that day.
Uxmal is less well-known than Chichen Itza but many prefer it since there aren't as many tourists. Liz and I thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as we took goofy pictures around the ruins. As part of the tour included an evening sound and light show (which sounds kitschy and touristy but is actually quite impressive), we broke for supper.
At the restaurant, the waiter brought out the house "salsa picante." As I've been woefully unimpressed with the state of the supposedly hot Mexican food since I've been in country, I slathered it on my meal. Huge mistake. Finally I'd found habañero. A lot of them. My lips and mouth were nuked. I was on the verge of crying as I poured sweat and blew my nose repeatedly. I did my best to keep it in and bluffed nonchalance as best I could as I attempted the flames with more beer. I tried to remove the frantic tone from my voice as I pleaded "mas cerveza." The third beer did the trick as I began to return to my normal color.
Celestun and Merida New Years
The next day we went to Celestun, on the Gulf Coast, where we took a boat ride to see flamingoes and sit on the beach. The big excitement was not there though, but in Mérida, since it was New Year's Eve. We wandered around the main plaza looking for an interesting place to eat when a hostess pulled us into "Mr. Banderas"
restaurant. Not Señor, but "Mr." It was quite the tourist trap.
I will be generous and say that our waiter was moderately disinterested in performing his job; lichen show more activity. He took forever to bring out the drinks, brought the appetizer out at the same time as the entrees (all of which had obviously been under a lamp for hours but were somehow cool nonetheless), and attempted to rip us off. The bill was for 800 something pesos. I showed him the coupon the hostess had given us stating that margaritas were free with meals and asked him to remove them from the bill. Twenty minutes later, he returned with two small margaritas and a new bill saying 795 pesos in his handwriting, since he'd scratched through the printed total. That didn't look right so I whipped out my pin and added it up. 723. Then I looked at the bottom of the bill and the same number was printed out in words, "sieteciento veintitres." Thoroughly annoyed, we paid the exact bill and fled before our sloth-like waiter returned.
As we wandered in a plaza, people lit M80s. Both Liz and I have been mortared, so neither of us really like fireworks; thus it was with these. After our initial shock at the explosions, we were a bit confused by the pitter-patter sounds all around us, until we realized that they were using the fireworks to clear the trees of birds. We covered our heads and ran like hell through the white rain, somehow miraculously making it through the gauntlet with nary a splat.
We found a nice balcony table to watch over the dancing in the square beneath as Liz drank toxic Cuba Libres and I tequila and beer. At the countdown to midnight, we leaned forward, I took her face in my hands, and...I kissed her on the forehead. "That is bull·$%!!" she roared. I laughed and kissed her. Then it turned out they'd screwed up the time and did the countdown again. I forewent the forehead the second time.
Chichen Itza
After a full day of recuperation on the first, we went to "Chicken Pitza." Sure, there were swarms of tourists and vendors, but there's a reason it's one of the wonders of the modern world. Our guide gave us a comprehensive tour and explained much of the site's significance in terms of Mayan numerology which was quite interesting.
Thoroughly satisfied with our cultural experiences around Mérida, we got in a bus on the 3rd and headed to the Caribbean beach town of Tulum.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Oaxaca
I left Puerto Escondido at 2:30 in the afternoon, just long enough for me to get in a real good sunburn since I won't be back near the beach for a while. I thought the busride would take 6 hours, thus getting me in at 8:30, easily early enough to find a hostel. By that time; however, we were only half-way. I'd somehow bought a ticket for the indirect route. There were no people standing in the aisles and it wasn't unbearably hot, but I did have to watch Vin Diesel's "The Pacifier", dubbed, and even worse, Dolph Lundgren's new film "Direct Action"; unfortunately, that one was in English.
As I hadn't planned a) on getting in at 2:30am and b) at all for this trip, the first hostel was booked. God smiled upon me though because the next one, very nice and incredibly cheap, did. I dropped my bags and collapsed on the bed.
Besides wandering around Oaxaca, my object for the day was to figure out how I was going to meet my friend Liz, who was flying into Cancun in two days. Fearing a 24- hour bus ride(s), I walked to the bus station. No dice. There was no bus to Cancun. I'd have to make a connection at Villahermosa, 12 hours away. All the seats for Villahermosa were booked til the next day as it was, and if I got a immediate connection to Cancun, a big if, I would still be late
meeting Liz.
I marched back to the city square and talked with a travel agent I'd seen when I'd walked through before. The only flights I could take would cost a fortune and get me there late. They didn't have any cars for me to rent either. I left the travel agency, went to an internet cafe, and found a cheap plane ticket that would get me there in time. I hate middle men.
My transportation resolved, I took time to wander about and enjoy the art capital of Mexico. I found myself not straying far from the zocalo (main square). At its center was a rotunda, but what set the zocalo apart for me were its massive oak trees, which seemed to form a cannopy, the ruby red poinsettias planted in between the walkways, and, most of all, the festive atmosphere. Cafes ringed the square, which was restricted to pedestrians. Street musicians played, the impoverished peddled their knick-knacks, shoe shiners toiled at their stands, and people sat wherever they could, talking, resting, laughing, singing, or kissing as the spirit moved them.
I must admit a shameful secret. I wanted one of the dozens of beggars who pleaded with me to cuss me out for not giving him money. Oh how I wanted that! "You're just broke. I owe 100k. Why don't you give ME money, you selfish, lazy bastard!!" Sadly (fortunately?), no turned-away beggar rebuked me.
Besides being the art capital of Mexico, Oaxaca is the Mezcal capital of the World (not to be confused with Mescaline. Belgrade is the Mescaline Capital of the World). I wasn't 100% on what Mezcal was when I came to Mexico. Someone once told me that when they make tequila, the prime liquor removed is the tequila and the dregs are mezcal. Once here though, I discovered that like squares and rectangles, all tequilas are mezcals, but not all mezcals are
tequilas. To further my research, I took my notebook with me and headed to the aptly named "La Casa de Mezcal."
Stone-cold sober, I took a seat at a table in the dimly-lit, smoky bar. Two tables away sat the best looking girl I've seen in this country. Damn my elementary Spanish! Five word sentences in the present indicative are more than fine to get me where I need to go and function day-to-day. I can't imagine I'd "spit game" at her with such captivating locutions as "Estas guapa. ¿Donde esta el baño? Quiero una cerveza." Much as I do in bars in the states when I'm near a pretty woman, I figured, "Why waste my time?", pulled out my notebook and started writing.
When my waitress finally came I ordered a beer and mezcal, though I told her to choose the mezcal. She came back a moment later with an impressively large shot of their 12-year-old house reserve. Of course she brought me the most expensive one. I was a tad embarrassed. What to do, what to do? Obviously it was in a shot glass, but, at the same time, it was a very nice mezcal. I didn't want to throw it back only to have all the locals gasp in horror at the American if I were supposed to sip and appreciate it. The only people with full glasses near me was the table with the good-looking girl. I kept sneaking peaks to see what they did, but they just wouldn't touch their drinks. I had to stop peaking because the good-looking girl caught me multiple times.
Finally, I asked a waiter. "¿Trago o sorbo? (Gulp or sip?)"
He looked at me as if I had something growing out of my forehead.
"¡Trago!" he said in such a way, which I deduced was an idiomatic way of saying, "Duh, you stupid American!"
I hoisted the shot glass and knocked it back. YOWSA!!!! What Devil drink is this? I immediately got that warm, rosy feeling I used to get when I'd first started drinking bourbon as a teen. Certainly, the bar was crowded, but it had to be the mezcal that made me start sweating. I began to sense it was going to be one of "those" nights. A bit more social lubricant and I might very well end up robot-dancing on a table and getting tasered into a filthy gutter.
I quickly used my dictionary to learn how to say "I want to sample more!"
The following are my notes on the other mezcals:
1. Gusano: smoother
2. Cedron: harsh again, with rubber aftertaste (I think a guy is hitting on me. Hard to say. He hates mezcal. WTF?)
3. Pechuga: vodka-like, but with the agave aftertaste.
4. Minero: Jesus Fire and throat clenching
5. Sol de Vega: Honey-like, but cough worthy. Save me Cuenta! Please, please save me.
____________________________________________________________
So yeah, in the middle of my research, a mexican guy sat down at the table next to me. He started a conversation. Usually, I'm pretty damn oblivious to that sorta thing since I'm friendly, but the beach in Acapulco had me wary. I made sure to mention meeting my GIRLFRIEND Liz (a small lie, but defensible in the situation) in Cancun.
"You meet a girl in Cancun...or maybe you meet a guy! If that's what you want!"
I wanted to scream, "Look MF! Just because I'm wearing a hawaiian shirt with a floral print, that doesn't make me gay. In fact, I'm pretty sure that no self-respecting gay man would dress like I do. That should be your first clue to leave me the #$%! alone!!!!"
What I actually said was, "No. I like women," and turned my back to him, which, in retrospect now completely sober, I think was probably the last thing I should have done to a man who was interested in my backside.
I went back to writing and taking shots and he left me alone, save for a brief spell where he tried to get me to hit on women and then later when he took my pen to write down his number, which he gave to the waiter who'd mocked me. I paid my bill and got the hell out of that place, and made it back to the hostel posthaste.
____________________________________________________
When I got tot he airport, I made sure to put my knife in my check-in bag. I blanched white when security stopped me after the xray machine and pulled out the wine bottle opener I'd forgotten to take out of my small backpack. Visions of Mexican jail danced through my head but the security guard just told me to take it and put it in my check bag. I told him to chuck it in the trash.
As I hadn't planned a) on getting in at 2:30am and b) at all for this trip, the first hostel was booked. God smiled upon me though because the next one, very nice and incredibly cheap, did. I dropped my bags and collapsed on the bed.
Besides wandering around Oaxaca, my object for the day was to figure out how I was going to meet my friend Liz, who was flying into Cancun in two days. Fearing a 24- hour bus ride(s), I walked to the bus station. No dice. There was no bus to Cancun. I'd have to make a connection at Villahermosa, 12 hours away. All the seats for Villahermosa were booked til the next day as it was, and if I got a immediate connection to Cancun, a big if, I would still be late
meeting Liz.
I marched back to the city square and talked with a travel agent I'd seen when I'd walked through before. The only flights I could take would cost a fortune and get me there late. They didn't have any cars for me to rent either. I left the travel agency, went to an internet cafe, and found a cheap plane ticket that would get me there in time. I hate middle men.
My transportation resolved, I took time to wander about and enjoy the art capital of Mexico. I found myself not straying far from the zocalo (main square). At its center was a rotunda, but what set the zocalo apart for me were its massive oak trees, which seemed to form a cannopy, the ruby red poinsettias planted in between the walkways, and, most of all, the festive atmosphere. Cafes ringed the square, which was restricted to pedestrians. Street musicians played, the impoverished peddled their knick-knacks, shoe shiners toiled at their stands, and people sat wherever they could, talking, resting, laughing, singing, or kissing as the spirit moved them.
I must admit a shameful secret. I wanted one of the dozens of beggars who pleaded with me to cuss me out for not giving him money. Oh how I wanted that! "You're just broke. I owe 100k. Why don't you give ME money, you selfish, lazy bastard!!" Sadly (fortunately?), no turned-away beggar rebuked me.
Besides being the art capital of Mexico, Oaxaca is the Mezcal capital of the World (not to be confused with Mescaline. Belgrade is the Mescaline Capital of the World). I wasn't 100% on what Mezcal was when I came to Mexico. Someone once told me that when they make tequila, the prime liquor removed is the tequila and the dregs are mezcal. Once here though, I discovered that like squares and rectangles, all tequilas are mezcals, but not all mezcals are
tequilas. To further my research, I took my notebook with me and headed to the aptly named "La Casa de Mezcal."
Stone-cold sober, I took a seat at a table in the dimly-lit, smoky bar. Two tables away sat the best looking girl I've seen in this country. Damn my elementary Spanish! Five word sentences in the present indicative are more than fine to get me where I need to go and function day-to-day. I can't imagine I'd "spit game" at her with such captivating locutions as "Estas guapa. ¿Donde esta el baño? Quiero una cerveza." Much as I do in bars in the states when I'm near a pretty woman, I figured, "Why waste my time?", pulled out my notebook and started writing.
When my waitress finally came I ordered a beer and mezcal, though I told her to choose the mezcal. She came back a moment later with an impressively large shot of their 12-year-old house reserve. Of course she brought me the most expensive one. I was a tad embarrassed. What to do, what to do? Obviously it was in a shot glass, but, at the same time, it was a very nice mezcal. I didn't want to throw it back only to have all the locals gasp in horror at the American if I were supposed to sip and appreciate it. The only people with full glasses near me was the table with the good-looking girl. I kept sneaking peaks to see what they did, but they just wouldn't touch their drinks. I had to stop peaking because the good-looking girl caught me multiple times.
Finally, I asked a waiter. "¿Trago o sorbo? (Gulp or sip?)"
He looked at me as if I had something growing out of my forehead.
"¡Trago!" he said in such a way, which I deduced was an idiomatic way of saying, "Duh, you stupid American!"
I hoisted the shot glass and knocked it back. YOWSA!!!! What Devil drink is this? I immediately got that warm, rosy feeling I used to get when I'd first started drinking bourbon as a teen. Certainly, the bar was crowded, but it had to be the mezcal that made me start sweating. I began to sense it was going to be one of "those" nights. A bit more social lubricant and I might very well end up robot-dancing on a table and getting tasered into a filthy gutter.
I quickly used my dictionary to learn how to say "I want to sample more!"
The following are my notes on the other mezcals:
1. Gusano: smoother
2. Cedron: harsh again, with rubber aftertaste (I think a guy is hitting on me. Hard to say. He hates mezcal. WTF?)
3. Pechuga: vodka-like, but with the agave aftertaste.
4. Minero: Jesus Fire and throat clenching
5. Sol de Vega: Honey-like, but cough worthy. Save me Cuenta! Please, please save me.
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So yeah, in the middle of my research, a mexican guy sat down at the table next to me. He started a conversation. Usually, I'm pretty damn oblivious to that sorta thing since I'm friendly, but the beach in Acapulco had me wary. I made sure to mention meeting my GIRLFRIEND Liz (a small lie, but defensible in the situation) in Cancun.
"You meet a girl in Cancun...or maybe you meet a guy! If that's what you want!"
I wanted to scream, "Look MF! Just because I'm wearing a hawaiian shirt with a floral print, that doesn't make me gay. In fact, I'm pretty sure that no self-respecting gay man would dress like I do. That should be your first clue to leave me the #$%! alone!!!!"
What I actually said was, "No. I like women," and turned my back to him, which, in retrospect now completely sober, I think was probably the last thing I should have done to a man who was interested in my backside.
I went back to writing and taking shots and he left me alone, save for a brief spell where he tried to get me to hit on women and then later when he took my pen to write down his number, which he gave to the waiter who'd mocked me. I paid my bill and got the hell out of that place, and made it back to the hostel posthaste.
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When I got tot he airport, I made sure to put my knife in my check-in bag. I blanched white when security stopped me after the xray machine and pulled out the wine bottle opener I'd forgotten to take out of my small backpack. Visions of Mexican jail danced through my head but the security guard just told me to take it and put it in my check bag. I told him to chuck it in the trash.
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