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.

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.

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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.

Puerto Escondido

I wanted out of Acapulco. The hostel was fine. The people were nice. It wasn't overly expensive. The bay was beautiful. Still, big cities tend to make my skin crawl. Sander and Albert wanted to stay an extra day, so I bid them adieu and headed for the bus station.

The plan was to take the 11pm bus to the small town of Puerto Escondido, hailed as the surf capital of Mexico. By taking the overnight bus, I'd sleep through the trip and, of course, wouldn't have to pay for a hostel.

That was the plan at least. As when Andrew and I took the overnight bus from Cuzco to Puno, on the shores of Lake Titicaca, I was mistaken. Oh, the bus took all night to get to Puerto Escondido, but there was hardly any sleeping done.

When I'd bought my ticket the day before, I was told there was only one more seat remaining after mine. That was in fact true; however, what the ticket agent didn't add was that all the seats being filled did not prevent the bus company from selling past capacity.

As I crammed myself into my seat next to a friendly Mexican teenager, I looked first with amusement, then with horror, as I realized that the 15 or so people jammed in the aisles were not going to be escorted off the bus when the driver came through to verify tickets. The engines cranked up, the door shut (sealing off the last bit of fresh air I'd get), and we were off.

As conditions were less than ideal, I tried my damndest to get to sleep as quickly as possible. It wasn't happening. The pleasant Mexican teen fell asleep before I did and threw elbows and knees at me. I was the aisle seat and so the various, squirming aisle standers jostled and bumped me as they rotated to the bathroom. Of course, children cried. Apparently, as it was December, it must have been against company policy to turn on the AC, even though it was 80 degrees outside the bus and rapidly climbing past 90 degrees inside. As it grew hotter, and hotter, the babies cried more, the aisle standers got antsier and the Mexican teen stepped up his somnapugilistic efforts. Oh, and my seat was closest to the bathroom. Behind my seat and the bathroom wall, a mother and child had crammed themselves for the ride. Whenever the bathroom door would open, and it opened often, I was blasted with no less than what I hopefully never confirm as the stench of Hell.

Bleary-eyed, sweaty, and abominably cranky, I stepped off the bus nine hours later (the trip was only supposed to last eight hours, of course) completely refreshed.

Sadly, Puerto Escondido is what everyone else would prefer their vacations to be like. I found a cheap, relatively comfortable place to stay. Te beach and town were beautiful. The water was magnificent. I lay in the sun and drank beer and piña coladas. Beach vendors peddled their wares; a few offered to sell me "mahr-ee-wanna" and "koh-keye-eena." I exerted myself about as much as a clam. I did that for five days.
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Albert and Sander met me a day after I arrived. They joined me in my sun-drenched inertia. We joked incessantly. They decided to stay in town a few more days so I won't run into them again most likely. They were good traveling buddies.

Two quick stories about the Dutchmen:

1. Our first night in Acapulco, as we walked toward the cave divers, they attempted to draw me into a discussion on politics. I refused, much to their annoyance, and explained that I don't talk politics with anyone since a) talking does nothing and b) it just gets people angry and frustrated. Albert decided to make it a one way discussion about how the US spends too much money on its military when it could be providing health care and improving its infrastructure; the evidence he relied upon came from documentaries he'd seen.

I managed to withstand his baiting for approximately 42 seconds. The political "discussion" ended with everyone's blood up and me ranting wildly to Sander about the French unemployment rate as Albert ran off to join in on a night game of soccer on the beach. Sander politely waited til I paused for breath and then bolted for soccer as well.

2. Another night in Acapulco, old man that I am, I turned in early. They boys were headed to one of the town's many night clubs. In the middle of the night, I awoke to screaming and cussing, mostly cussing. The roaring argument out in the hallway was protracted, featured cursing and accusations in English, French and some other language, and was punctuated with a deafening THWACK! I knew that a Californian and French Canadian were staying next door, so I assumed that they'd come in blitzed. I considered going out in the hall to get them to calm down, but decided nothing good would happen from that.

I was therefore astonished when myh door opened and Albert pushed Sander, gripping a bloody hand, inside. I sat up. "That "$%!ing -----!" bitched the normally preternaturally pleasant Sander.

"You got in a fight with the French Canadian?" I asked incredulously.

"No! Albert! The "$%!ing -----!"

The next day, full of remorse and bewilderment, Sander could only assume someone put something in his drink. His hand was swollen from punching what turned out to be a door (which he had to pay for). He swore off drinking and was back to his normal cheerfulness. In Puerto Escondido, he did have to get antibiotics for the hand, since it had gotten infected.

"Happy" Beach of Acapulco (By Popular Demand)

The first day I was at the beach for five hours. The water was clear, cool, and refreshing. The sun was radiant. I ended up with a mild sunburn.

I went back to the same spot the next day. I rented a chair and an umbrella. For the most part, I wrote, read, and napped. Later in the day, while writing, I noticed an old, fat, leathery white man with frost tipped hair, in a speedo, lying on his stomach, 15 feet away from me. He was facing me and staring at me through the unsquinted eye (the other being squinted because of the sun). I was wearing sunglasses, so he couldn't tell I'd noticed him staring at me. I paid him no attention and went back to writing. After about an hour of his unwavering glare, I wondered to myself, "Why in the hell is he eyescrewing the pudgy, pale honky, when there's a beach full of muscular latinos?"

That's when it dawned on me. I was in a part of the beach full of muscular latinos (and other men). I'd chosen that part of the beach because it wasn't crowded and I'd had a good time the day before (surrounded by men AND women). Apparently the gays take over on Saturdays. I hadn't noticed because of the writing, reading, and napping.

Other than a group of four women at a table in front of me, I counted no less than 20 men in the area around me, most, if not all, in briefs, speedos, or, in one case, what I can only politely describe as a banana hammock. The reality of the situation hit me with full force. The guys wrestling in the surf weren't buddies horsing around. It wasn't a friend innocently asking his friend to put sunscreen on his back. The two guys walking back and forth near the water weren't scouting for women. The poor looking young guys hanging out in the
rock formations at the end of the beach weren't just poor locals who couldn't afford to rent a chair or umbrella. (I will be explicit. They were prostitutes. I noticed another fat, old white man wander off behind the rocks and one of the prostitutes waved at me.)

I paid for the chair and umbrella, dammit. I wasn't leaving. The only concession I made to my discovery was that when I went to swim, I went to where the women were. I also made sure to leave well before sunset.

Scenes from Acapulco

New format for the ADD impaired. See if this holds the audience's attention better.

- There are certain things that randomly strike one as very odd, no matter how many times or how long one has been in another country. One of these was the other morning when I ordered breakfast. To begin with, ordering enchiladas for breakfast seemed off, but I went with the flow. The nice lady asked me what I wanted to drink, cafe o leche. As I'm not a coffee drinker I went for milk. Four minutes later I was given a microwaved cup of milk I had to break the cooling skin to get to. I suppose all that separated it from Starbucks was a
snort of coffee and 3ozs of azucar, but still, damn strange.

-Albert, Sander and I very specifically asked what time the bus to Acapulco was the day before we left. We all heard the agent at the counter say 11am. When we arrived at 1005am, a different agent informed us that the bus had left at 10am. We had to wait for the 2pm bus. Typical.

-A friend told me, "Enjoy the Myrtle Beach of Mexico," when I said I was headed to Acapulco. He was wrong; it's more Daytona Beach.

-The hostel was a bit pricy ($15) but across the main avenue from the beach. It also had air conditioning. The downside? The rooms were 8'x6'3" and had 4 bunks. Submarine quarters are more spacious. The showers weren't cold, but they didn't get hot. After my first sunburn, I realized this was a good thing.

-We arrived after sunset. I wanted to see the cliff divers, whose last show was at 1030pm. I suggested we walk to get the lay of the land and to scout out something to eat. Both Dutch, having made repeated comments in the last few days about how lazy and fat Americans are, griped about walking. I teased them into acquiescence. I insisted we eat at the aptly named, "Tacos and Beer", of course.

-I bought sunglasses from a local market. I choose to believe they are UV protected and that they're not merely darkened plastic giving unfettered, ruinous access to my retinas. I choose to believe that.

-Of course I find my favorire pens in an office depot in Acapulco. The dozen I bought are my most expensive purchase to date.

-I like Mexican food. Hell, I love Mexican food. But I'm sick of it. I walked by a BK and saw a sign for a Whopper Furioso! Of course I got one. The receipt had it labeled "combo-Angry."

Taxco

Taxis in Mexico City are notoriusly dangerous. The typical danger in getting in a random taxi is that the taxi driver will rob you, or he will arrange to have you robbed by his cousins, either by taking you to them, or having them "hold up" the taxi. As such, you are only supposed to get in taxis which you have called for. The taxis by phone are more expensive but safe.

The hostel called a taxi for me and it arrived ten minutes later. The driver seemed nice enough; he had a cross hanging from his rearview and a New Testament in his front passenger seat. Not that those necessarily deserve an expectation of upright, Christian behavior; porn stars often have crosses eithger hanging from necklaces or tattooed upon them while then engaging in all manner of, decidedly, un-Christian acts (That I am aware of this speaks as to un-Christian aspects of my nature).

At any rate, I felt secure even as he drove me north, then west, then south, then east. I knew this for two reasons. First, I wear a compass around my neck when I'm off "adventuring." Second, we arrived at the south end of the Zocalo (main plaza), two blocks away from my hostel. Were I paying by the meter, I'd have been furious, but, as the ride was a fixed price, I merely thought to myself, "Look, kids! Big Ben! Parliament!"

Eventually, our circuitous route did in fact lead us to the southern bus terminal. I was slightly amused to discover that the bus to Taxco (and a luxury bus at that) was less than $10US and was less expensive than my, still relatively cheap, taxi ride. I hopped on the next bus and snoozed til my arrival.

I went to Taxco by what I consider to be an edict from no less than the Almighty. Both my mother AND my father insisted I go there. As they have been divorced from each other these 20 years and have agreed only one other time (that I am surely their child, after, as a young boy, I'd casually remarked/hoped I was adopted or switched at the hospital), I had no choice in the matter; Taxco it was.

I lit from the bus at about 4pm and attempted, as best I could, to navigate my way to the hostel I'd chosen from the Lonely Planet guidebook. My problem lay in the fact that Taxco is a colonial mountain town. As such, the streets were extraordinarily narrow and completely devoid of any particular rhyme or reason. The map in the guidebook was about as useful as a fifth nipple. I knew the hostel I'd chosen adjoined the local market, so up I climbed, sure there was no way I'd fail to sight something so basic as a mercado.

Wrong.

In my mind's eye, I envisioned a centrally located plaza, full of shops, laid out in a rational manner. While that might be the platonic ideal of a market, what I accidentally stumbled across was no less than a Daedalusian maze nestled amongst buildings no more than seven feet apart in no arrangement of city planning discernable from sheer chaos. Relying on my army training, I wandered hither and thither, attempting to use obvious landmarks to find my way. Eventually, I located the place but solely because I walked past two gringoes on a stairwell and surmised they must have come from somewhere nearby. Sure enough, I found the Hostal de Arrellana nearby.

The hostel had the simplicity and cleanliness of a Grecian Island Bed and Breakfast. For a modest price, I was given my own room just off the third terrace. The room had two simple, yet thoroughly satisfactory, beds and the communal bathroom was only fifteen feet away. It featured a shower similar to one I'd had in Milan a few years ago, meaning it was in the same compartment as the toilet. Thus, once one removed the toilet paper and trashcan (as in other 3rd world countries, used toilet paper is thrown away, not flushed), a shower had the additional, decadent delight of dousing a household fixture.

Leaving my bags in the room, I wandered out into the labyrinth. It isn't possible to get lost when one not only does not know, but neither cares, where one ends up. Thus, after stumbling amongst rows upon rows of stands offering food, shoes, clothes, dvds, toys, and, above all, tacky silver jewelry, I found myself a block away from a restaurant the guidebook recommended for its particularly local flavor.

The next day, upon arising and walking out for the day, I ran into the two gringoes who'd inadvertently shown me the way there the night before. They did not recognize me because I'd shaved the night before. Once out of Mexico City, the necessity of protecting myself through slovenly appearance had dissipated and I wanted to be able to get a uniform tan...and I wouldn't necessarily mind not repulsing femininas for the duration. At any rate, I met Sander and Albert, twenty-something professionals from Holland just beginnning a five month Latin American trek.

It turned out we were headed on the same path, not only in Taxco, but also afterwards in Acapulco, Puerto Escondido, and Oaxaca, and so then and there decided to join forces. Sander has long reddish curly hair; Albert has short, dirty blondish hair. They both speak English well and joke all of the time. They are incredibly good natured.

As the primary draw of Taxco is its silver, and we were but impoverished travellers, we decided upon going to the famous cave complex, Las Grutas, 30km away. Taxis in Taxco are ubiquitous and are, uniformly, 1970s VW Bugs. Unlike Mexico City, they are not dangerous, save for unwary pedestrians. There are no sidewalks so one must be ever wary when walking along the sides of the streets. Even most of the cars that aren't taxis are VW Bugs, which I'm tempted to think is because other cars won't fit on the streets (though in actuality there are, so maybe Taxcoans really, really like Bugs). As it is, one must press himself against the walls of buildings every few feet as a car passes by, or, occasionally, to step into a doorway so as not to get smushed. Any walking is made all the more challenging by the fact that apparently no one in Taxco works. All day long, the sides of the streets are filled with half the townspeople standing around. The other half are driving the taxis and honking their horns.

We went to the bus station and took a "combi" out to the cave. Combis serve as a privatized form of public transport and are thus, uniformly and expectedly, 1970s VW Vans. We crammed ourselves into a combi and off we went. An interesting, yet thoroughly dangerous, aspect of a combi is that the side door is left open, even when hurtling around hairpin turns at breakneck speeds. There are, of course, no seatbelts.

At the Grutas, we ate a quick lunch outside and then stumbled upon the dimly lit pathway 2km into the interior of a mountain as tour groups of Mexican children shrieked all around us. Unlike most caves which keep a uniform cool temperature and are moistureless, the Grutas had visible clouds of humidity and was stifling hot. I surmised that was from the breath and body heat of the thousands of visitors a day.

When we arrived back at the hotel in mid afternoon, we sat on the upper terrace, drank cheap beer, and basked in the sunshine. We soon struck up an acquaintance with an Australian girl who'd just checked in, and she joined us in our reverie. At first she appeared to be a world weary traveller, but, by and by, that mask cracked. At a point she asked how old we thought she was. Albert and Sander guessed 24 and 25, respectively, but, this not being my first rodeo, I guessed 19 and shocked the astonished teenager with my deft skill at identifying immaturity. Any attraction I may have been able to develop vanished the moment I realized she was a child.

The four of us spent the remainder of the evening jabbering about all manner of nonsense, while drinking beer and searching for a place to eat supper. After supper, old man that I am (or prefer to be), I bid my companions adieu and hit the sack. The next day Albert, Sander, and I were on a bus to Acapulco.

Teohtihuican

I´d signed up the night before for the day trip to Teotihuican, the largest native ruins near Mexico City. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the tour included the Plaza of the Three Cultures and the Basilica of Guadalupe. We got out of the van at the plaza and Pepe, our guide, had us introduce ourselves. I was the only American. Along for the tour were Alex, a Quebecois TV writer, two female Australian writers, Jaako (a Fin), a Czech woman, and a Mexican music producer from Tijuana. The Mexican was white with mussed lack hair and was hiding behind retro-chic sunglasses. Somehow, he wore his tight black jeans in a way where they were falling off his butt. His grey, zippered, hooded sweatshirt was open, revealing a Pac Man t-shirt, and his sleeves were pulled up to show his tattoed arm. He was approximately 5'6" and 130lbs and I surmised by the way he announced he was a music producer that he was, in point of fact, a butthead. When he further claimed that his uncle taught Carlos Santana how to play guitar, that his maternal grandfather founded a prestigious local university, and when he proceeded to interrupt Pepe to add his own thoughts on the tour, I was sure he was a butthead.

The three cultures represented are the Mexican (by a hideous modern monstrosity of a building at the edge), the Aztec (by the foundations of their Tlalelolco pyramids), and the Spanish (by the Templo de Santiago, a 17th century church). I was fascinated by the church because of its staned glass windows. They looked to simply be colored stones rather than glass and the effect their light had on the interior of the church was beautiful.

We then went to the complex of churches which make the grounds of the Basilica de Guadalupe. The Basilica is a Marianic church (dedicated to Mary and not Jesus), arguably the largest in the world. Mary of Guadalupe is hailed as "Queen of Mexico and Empress of the Americas." As I was a) wearing shorts and b) firmly against the concept of Marianic churches, I did not enter any of the buildings but instead soaked up the ambience and sunshine of the massive courtyard as, bizarrely, a flute band played "Sound of Silence."

Pepe had given everyone an hour to explore the churches so I had time to spare. Pepe had revealed the tour included neither admission to Teotihuican nor lunch, so I was a bit light in the wallet. After getting a reasonable amount of money out from a nearby bank, I ventured to get something to eat as well. I considered getting a cheap burger as a mid-morning snack but was quite pleased with myself for instead getting a large cup of freshly cut watermelon...until AFTER I took the first bite. Then the idiocy of eating unwashed fruit comprised of a majority of local water struck me. The thought of Montezuma's Revenge as I stumbled around an archaelogical site looking for a bathroom did not stop me from eating the rest of the fruit. I figured I was doomed already so I might as well enjoy myself.

Just outside of Teotihuican, Pepe took us to a local establishment where a man taught us about the myriad uses the Aztecs and other native peoples had for a special breed of cactus, to include making paper, clothing, and, of course, alcohol. If you are averse to drinking, don't come to Mexico. They gave us each three different shots. The first was a milky one which tasted honey-like and the music producer said was partially fermented using human excrement. Pepe did not correct him... The second shot was an almond-flavored liqueur which was rather thick. The last as simply tequila. I took the one with the worm since everyone else was repulsed. I downed it in a gulp and the music producer said I should have chewed it. Butthead.

It turned out it was all a well-planned attempt to bilk tourists out of money. The man Pepe had handed us off to proceeded to show us another man flint-knapping with obsidian and then show us various idols the ancients made. He then walked us into his show to get us to purchase any of his thousands of knicknacks. Classic Bait and Switch. "Oh man! Look at all the cultural things we're learning about cacti and stones! BAM! BAM! BAM! Three shots of booze and then a store where I can buy shiny rocks and colorful blankets? Hell's YES!!!!"

Luckily, my wild tolerance gained by 2 and 1/2 years of law school enabled me to keep a cool head. I allowed them to ply me with a few more shots of tequila, but, alas for them, I still failed to buy anything. My Carpenter miser genes are strong indeed. Alex was the only one of us to succumb to their brilliant plan, but he only bought a bottle of the almond liqueur, thus showing yet again that Quebecois just love being difficult.

After lunch, Pepe took us into Teotihuican. The site is massive, impressive and words fail to accurately describe it. I made a point of climbing the two pyramids, thought to be dedicated to the moon and the sun. As I'm pretty sure people are no longer allowed to climb the Egyptian pyramids, I'm going to say I've climed the tallest pyramid it's possible to climb (the sun pyramid is over 200' tall).

I'm happy to report that my apparently iron stomach had no problems with the tequila or the watermelon and after we got back to the hostel, I went out for supper with Alex, the Australian writers, and the Butthead. I actually had a very good time with all of them, particularly the Butthead, who wasn't nearly so Buttheadish after all. We wandered around the city drinking beer and sangria and talking about film, literature, and mute, midget Drag Queens.