Maravilloso Mexico

    Alright, so if you must know, life is absolutely amazing right now.  Of all of the decisions that I could have made with my life right now, I couldn’t have chosen one that gives me more satisfaction, excitement, and beauty every single day.  Although at times I do struggle mercilessly with the arduous riding and oppressive heat, and although I have encountered moments of solitude and loneliness, it is all far better than the dissatisfaction and frustration that I felt with the society and and American life before I left for my journey.  If this is the third world, then maybe being first is very overrated.

    So, were to begin?  Right where I left off, I suppose.  After descending from the hills of Papantla and reaching Costa Esmeralda in Northern Veracruz, I encountered two gentlemen on the beach who had passed in their truck while I was riding along on the highway.  I had spent several days riding incessantly and through some rather sweltering weather, and when they offered me a ride up into the high hills of Xalapa, I eagerly accepted.  Moments later I was in the back of their pickup with my bicycle and speeding off to the cool higher altitude.  The day after I arrived in Xalapa the sun was shining and the air felt fresh and pure.  I met with my new friend Aldo, from CouchSurfing, who proved to be a fantastic host and ambassador to the city.  Aldo truly loves his town and made himself completely available to show me everything that he could in the time that I was there.  I quickly took to his scrupulous nature and playful manner, and before long we were joking like old friends and putting forth our best effort at trading languages.  He invited me to lunch with his friends at the home of Doña Vicky, who cooked us an amazing four course meal and took me on a tour of her beautiful backyard, filled with various types of exotic flowers and flora.  We walked the city, meandering through beautiful and lush parks at dusk, tasting chicharrones, elotes, mole, and other delicious Mexican dishes.  We hiked our way through the thick green canopy to the top of a hill beside the city, passing recreations of Aztec statues, visiting the tiny natural museum, seeing hawks falcons, and finally arriving at the summit to enjoy a magnificent view of the city spread out around us far below in the mist.  Although one of my days there was spent completely bedridden due to an unfortunate illness, Aldo attentively took care of me, cooking a delicious chicken soup, serving me fresh fruit, and making sure that I took my medications on time.  And when I found myself alone while Aldo was at work, I found satisfaction in roaming the quaint streets of Xalapa, winding up the colorful and bustling Diamond Alley, and wiling away the hours in local cafes.  By the time I was finally planning to head to Mexico City, it was difficult to say goodbye, although I knew that I would see him once I returned to Xalapa.

    I had opted to catch a bus to Mexico City, rather than ride my bike, because almost everyone I had encountered had warned me of the treacherous traffic and insidious crime that permeated the city.  Although I never did find the city to be at all dangerous (at least not in any of the places that I went), it seem to turn out to be the right decision to leave the bike behind, although it would have been heaps of fun to ride through the pinball machine streets of the D.F. (Distrito Federal, what everyone here calls Mexico City).  I had really only intended to visit Mexico City for four days, but after falling completely in love with its many faces and never seeming to find enough time to see all of its gorgeous and fascinating faces, I found myself lingering on for much longer.

    Upon arriving in the D.F., I caught the Metro (train) to the apartment of my host, David.  David lived in an area of the city called Portales, a few kilometers south of downtown.  The neighborhood was lively and had all of the amenities that any visitor could ask for within a block or two – groceries, taco and torta stands, fruterias, bakeries, etc. (umm, yes, all of the amenities that Paul ever needs generally have to do with food…).  David himself turned out to be an amazingly welcoming and outgoing person, not only sacrificing his time to help me find a place to fix my camera within a few moments of meeting him, but also sharing an entire world of experience, language, and travel with me.  We instantly became very comfortable around one another and complemented each other well in our desires to learn one anothers’ languages.  I also met David’s cousin Rodrigo, with whom he lived, and his romantic interest, Samantha, whom had come from Australia to visit Mexico City and had found herself staying for several months.  That evening I also met beautiful Cecilia, the girl with the smile that could make anyone feel welcomed, and surrounded by my new and wonderful friends we headed out for a night of laughter, cochinada tacos, gringas, and salsa dancing at at a ridiculously fun and sleazy salsa bar called Barbazul.  

    The following day I found myself tagging along with Rodrigo and Samantha for a delicious breakfast (of which I think the dishes were called chancles, or some other synonym for sandal in Spanish) and to the overwhelmingly abundant Jaimaica Market, while we searched for gifts and props for Rodrigo’s sister’s birthday.  The market was filled with endlessly bright colors, millions of flowers, enough fresh fruit to put Whole Foods to shame, candy, piñatas, freshly butchered meats, and endless other goods.  We wandered around for several hours, and then headed to the historic district to search for silver wire, with which Samantha intended to design a set of entwined amber earrings for Rodrigo’s sister.  As we drove through the little streets surrounding the zona central, I was absolutely enchanted with the lovely myriad of old European architecture which stretched throughout the area and looked forward to the next few days when I would return to stroll the streets at a more leisurely pace.  When we returned to the apartment, the two had plans of their own and I was ready for a little relaxation and decided to stick around the apartment and do some reading.

    Later that evening, I headed out to meet a new friend for the first time, Rafael.  Showering and putting on a fresh outfit (thanks to Aldo’s washing machine!), I walked the ten blocks down the tranquil evening streets of Portales to the metro station.  After of course missing a train right as I was entering the station, I waited several minutes and was soon headed towards Condesa and yet another side of the city which I had not yet seen.  When I emerged from the Patriotismo metro station I was slightly disoriented (as one often is when in a foreign city), but after walking a few blocks Rafael came out to meet me on the street and we made our way towards some local bars for a little taste of D.F. nightlife.  Although Lady Luck didn’t seem to be on our side at first, as the first two spots that we headed to were just closing, and the next two were completely inundated due to the Dia de los Niños (a national holiday in Mexico, where it seems most of the city was off work the next day), the streets of Condesa were delightfully serene and lovely, and Rafael proved to be a witty and intellectually stimulating character to converse with (especially for a traveller who had experienced social withdrawal after spending far too much time in Tamaulipas).  After several strikes, we finally found a hip and glitzy little bar with dark stained wood paneling and stylish victorian furniture where we were able to weasel our way in.  For the next several hours we laughed, sipped some rather novel cocktails, and I met a few of Rafael’s somewhat colorful friends.  All in all the evening was declared a complete success.

    The following morning I headed out to explore the historic district at my own pace, and after strolling the streets around the Zocalo, admiring the lavish architecture, I was met by Rafael, who showed me a fantastic little downtown cafe for lunch.  Afterwards we headed for the Torre Latinoamericana for panoramic a panoramic view over Mexico City.  Once we had descended and lingered about the Alameda to enjoy the scenery, we returned to Condesa for the evening.  After relaxing at Rafael’s apartment briefly, we decided that a taste of mezcal would be a fun diversion and soon thereafter were in a tiny and vibrant mezcal bar, sipping the potent little shots alongside a few cervezas and Oaxaca cheeses.  We had plans to meet some of Rafael’s friends at a restaurant a few blocks away, and once we had boosted our mood with a few drinks, we headed that way.  Once we arrived, we were greeted by a lively and deliciously entertaining group of companions for fantastic conversation and a glimpse into the wonderful circle of friends which Rafael had accumulated.  The next several hours were spent dining amidst vivacious laughter at a sidewalk table out in the relaxingly mellow evening atmosphere of Condesa.

    The following morning Rafael left for a weekend trip to Miami and I found myself once again searching for diversion amidst the massively intimidating options of Mexico City.  I decided to head back to the Alameda where we had left off and to visit the Palacio de las Bellas Artes.  The building itself was an architectural masterpiece, and although I only spent a brief while within its galleries, exploring the historic national video exhibit and murals, I was quite content to marvel at the building’s design.  Afterwards I found myself leisurely ambling past the fountains and courtyards of the Alameda in the direction of Paseo de la Reforma.  Once on the wide avenue, I stopped into a few artisan markets and took care of a few overdue errands, while stopping to photograph the tasteful monuments which decorated the central islands of the street.  After a few hours I had stumbled into the Zona Rosa and enjoyed its colorful pedestrian walkways, passing my innumerable restaurants, edgy clothing stores, and raucously blaring bars.  The day had begun to turn to dusk and I began to feel the pangs social longing as people passed by me amidst friends and jovial conversation, and I hoped that David would soon be returning from his day’s tasks so that we could meet up for an evening of diversion.  Upon calling him, he informed me that he would head my way in an hour to pick me up and search for some excitement.  I found a quiet restaurant tucked away in an alley off the street and decided to stop in for a beer and some reading while I waited.

    When David pulled up along Calle Londres, we decided to head downtown to a hipster hangout called Patrick Miller.  We stopped for a quick bite at a restaurant around the corner first, and moments later were standing in line outside of the popular urban venue amidst a rather eclectic crowd.  At last, we reached the front of the line and headed inside where David and I grabbed a few beers and joined the crowds in a voyeuristic circle amongst locals watching pairs of club-goers dance to 80’s electro remixes.  Once we had had our fill of cheap beer and laser lights, we decided to head to another spot to meet with David’s friend Valeria and her companion.  We arrived at the hole in the wall bar where high energy Mexican jams spilled out onto the sidewalk, and were soon inside the shoulder to shoulder crowd ordering buckets of beer and bouncing to the wild music as I pretended to hear what my group of friends were saying as I nodded my head and laughed whenever it seemed appropriate.  Finally, circa four in the morning and completely exhausted, we headed back to the apartment where I soon passed out after my long day of adventure.

    Needless to say, I awoke some time in the afternoon the next day, and lacking the motivation to explore far from the apartment, I decided relax for a while.  David had gone to pick up a friend of his from San Francisco who was soon planning to move to Cuernavaca, and when they returned we decided that we would head out to pick up David’s little brother on the North side of the city and then drive to the canals of Xochimilco on the South end.  Well, this plan was all good and well, but after battling Mexico City traffic for several hours, the day was already beginning to dwindle away as we headed back south, and when we neared Portales, our appetites had grown and we opted to pass back by the apartment to cook dinner before heading anywhere else.  David prepared a fantastic vegetable penne which his friend from Italy had shown him while visiting, and we all sat at the table in the living room as dusk descended upon the endless city in hazy hues of pink and pale cobalt outside of the wide glass windows of David’s fifth floor apartment.  After dinner the rest of my company decided to head to the cinema to watch Iron Man, but not being much of a movie buff myself I was content to stay at the apartment and do some reading.  However, as is typical with me, after several hours the party had not returned and I was growing restless.  So of course, being a Saturday night in an alluring foreign city, I decided to get myself cleaned up and go look for some trouble.

    I emerged from the Insurgentes metro station unsure of where exactly I was going or what the night had in store for me, but honestly believing that I would show up at some bar, wander around alone for twenty minutes, get bored, and then head back to the apartment – having satisfied my curiosity.  But after discovering a somewhat happening looking bar, waiting in line for almost a half an hour, and paying a cover charge reminiscent of Manhattan, I had no choice but to stay and live it up.  Fortunately, once I had acquired a cocktail and wandered up to the third floor rooftop deck, I soon met with two hilarious young ladies from a city just north of Mexico and found myself lost in conversation and out on the dance floor until the early hours of the morning.  

    When I awoke the next day, right around lunchtime (Mexican lunchtime) I mentally checked my list of places that I had yet to visit in the D.F. and decided that the bohemian neighborhood of Coyoacan would be just the ticket for some Sunday afternoon leisure.  Finding myself in no hurry and no direct metro route to Coyoacan, I began walking southwest, and about half an hour later I had stumbled upon Frida Kahlo’s famous blue house.  I popped into the now converted museum to enjoy the ample art and history, stopping especially extensively to admire my favorite piece, a timeline of Mexican history through Frida Kahlo’s eyes.  Upon completing my tour and passing out of the tranquil blue courtyard, I followed the adjacent street south towards the heart of Coyoacan and found a cozy cafe, where I felt it was only prudent to stop in and sample some of the renowned coffee which the neighborhood is famous for.  Fortunately, the cafe was also equipped with wireless and I was able to while away a few hours catching up on the inevitabilities of life.  When I finally packed up and continued my tour of the quaint city streets, a somber sunset had bathed the rooftops in dull, fiery tones and the long shadows of the buildings clustered close to the street set a languid mood in the early evening.  I waded through a crowd gathered around a rock performance by the Zocalo and made my way a few more blocks south, peeking into warmly lit cafes and restaurants before ducking down peaceful tree-lined alleyways and then making my way back to the apartment.  It was an entirely romantic evening, and although I only had myself for company, the sense of timelessness and endless distance from the world that I had left behind was enough to bring me pure contentment.

El Tajin to la Costa Esmeralda

    The morning dawned pale and humid in the wide, grassy field outside of el Tajin.  I felt sticky and lethargic, and as I knew that the ruins would not be open to visitors until nine in the morning, I felt no particular rush to sit upright and begin packing my equipment.  However, only a few minutes after I had awoken and lay there in my half daze, staring up at the misty sky, the sound of a loud motor began to grow nearer to my site.  As I leaned towards one of the clear screen windows of the tent, I saw that a huge tour bus was pulling up and reversing to park only several hundred feet from my tent.  Oh great, this was just what I needed, like having an audience to watch me as I drag myself out of my tent in my not so glamorous morning state.  Well, at least I had shaved my head before I left the US.

    As several more tour busses began to pull up and park parallel to the first, nearer and nearer to my tent, it became somewhat less enjoyable to continue lying in my tent as the hundreds of tourists pouring out of the busses loitered around staring at my odd little casita.  So it was up and at em, and shortly I had dressed and packed my things.  Since I would be exploring the ruins, I opted to wear cotton clothing rather than my “sporty” synthetic cycling outfit, so as to not look too out of place.  I rolled my bike towards the front gates shortly before nine and found a security guard to ask where I could safely leave my bike.  He pointed to a spot nearby and told me that he would keep his eye on it, and as he brandished his ominous rifle, I felt that the bike would probably be safe here.  I squeezed through massive groups of school children and waited patiently in line for the ticket booth.  Once I had my little ticket stub, I headed over to the gates just as they were allowing visitors and passed through.  At first, I waded amongst the hundreds of children as a tour guide barely in earshot rambled on about something or other about the park, but then I decided that rather than stand here and desperately attempt to understand what he was saying, I would go off on my own.

    I skirted the side of the tour group and passed forward towards the ruins, strolling farther into the hazy, muted silence beyond the guide.  Up ahead, the grounds were deserted and I rather enjoyed the solitude and the opportunity to truly admire the ancient structures surrounding me and stare pensively as I dreamed of the ancient civilizations and how this place might once have been.  The ruins were quite expansive and I found myself wandering around for quite some time, always searching for the perfect picture angle and taking the time to bask in the inspiration around me.  The next two hours dwindled away there in el Tajin, but at last I had looped through the compound and saw that it was almost time for the Voladores show out by the front gates.  Although I wasn’t sure exactly what the show was, I knew that it had something to do with men in traditional garb performing some kind of acrobatics from atop a pole several hundred feet high.  When neared the performance area, I passed by a small tourist information stand and the young ladies there told me that the show wasn’t actually for another half an hour.  The two girls turned out to be incredibly helpful and I enjoyed spending some time recounting my journey to them, of which they were quite fascinated.  Then, before the show started, I figured that I would head over to one of the nearby food kiosks for a quick meal and found a little canopied area and some tacos.  As I sat and ate, a cute little niña who looked like she was possessed, writhed around on the floor near my feet, dramatically muttering something in spanish over and over again, in between glances over to me to see if I was paying attention.  I rather enjoyed the diversion as I sat and ate, and too be honest with you, it was more entertaining than the show which I was to see thereafter.  

    When I finished my lunch, I returned to the Voladore spectator area just as the show was beginning.  Five men in bright tunics with little fringed caps perched high atop the edges of a tiny platform at the top of the towering pole while one of them stood hunched in the center playing a small, faerie-like flute.  I gathered amongst all of the other tourists to wait and see what incredible spectacle was to come, and as I did, another man in one of the tunics passed through the crowd collecting donations.  Like a responsible viewer, I threw several pesos into the hat and waited for the show to get fully underway.  As I sat and waited and waited, the sweat soaking through my shirt in the balmy noonday heat, I hoped that the performance would soon commence so that I could begin making some progress for the day, at least enough to hopefully reach Xalapa on the following evening.  Finally, after about twenty minutes, the man collecting donations had approached everyone and the show began.  The Voladores atop the platform gently slipped backwards from their tower, feet coiled in a long yellow rope, arms outstretched to their sides, and slowly spun ever lower around the pole.  I waited for the acrobatics to begin and some kind of breathtaking climax… but it never came.  The four men just continued to slip towards the ground torturously slowly while the one atop the platform continued playing his flute.  Finally, the reached the floor below, and that was it, the show was over.  Hunh, I think I just got swindled…

    So anyway, as you can see, I don’t particularly recommend the show, a bit overrated in my opinion.  Anyway, it was time to go, so I went and grabbed my bike and headed for the road.  I decided that since Papantla appeared to be only a few short miles away on the map, I would just keep my cotton clothing on until I reached the town and then change once there.  Unfortunately, this turned out to be a big mistake, as I soon saw a massive hill rising to my left, and a moment later spotted a sign with an arrow pointing directly towards it in the direction of Papantla.  I thought to myself, perhaps the road will simply skirt around the hill, but no, it insisted on going straight up.  I plodded along, seriously struggling, and literally pouring down sweat, my shirt completely saturated and stuck to my skin.  Alright, so wearing those clothes was a big mistake, and I was going to have to find a place to wash my only two outfits very quickly once I reached Xalapa.  Oh, how arduous was that hill, and finally, as I thought that I was approaching the halfway point of the climb (although I wasn’t sure since the road snaked around the summit) I could take no more!  I dismounted from the bicycle and pathetically pushed it up the steep incline.  Wow, now I really realized just how ridiculously heavy the beast was.  It was actually almost more difficult to leverage all my weight into pushing the bike than it was to just pedal.  But my legs were sore and my knees needed a break in order to continue riding farther that day.  So on I went.  And yes, as you’ve probably suspected, once I rounded one of the side winding loops of the hill, I saw that the road was actually carved through the summit of the current hill and continued ever higher into an adjacent hill which had been concealed from below.  Up ahead I spotted a sign and thought to myself, at last, I must be near Papantla!  But once I got near enough to read it, I saw that it in fact had the names of two completely different towns and pointed towards the only route ahead.  I began to panic – what if I had come al this way up for nothing!  What if I had read the sign back at the foothills incorrectly and Papantla had been straight ahead!  In the smoldering afternoon waves of heat it was difficult to be sure of anything any more, and I simply longed to see the little town and be done with the miserable hill.  I saw a motorcycle approaching around the bend before me and flagged him down to ask whether this was the right way or not.  As he stopped and I questioned him, he indeed agreed that I was headed in the right direction and I breathed a sigh of relief.

    Much to my satisfaction, the town really was just over that last crest, and once I had managed to reach the other side, the road began to descend gently and I began to see the little houses at the periphery of the village.  A few moments later I was riding down tiny, windy streets with bright buildings build almost right up to the pot-hole pocked pavement.  I careened along slowly, looking for the signs that would most certainly point me in the direction of the Centro and finally spotted one.  Sadly, it pointed up a hill to my right, after I had already been crusining downwards.  And these were no ordinary hills, the town was cozily perched into the steep mountainsides, and I opted to again dismount and instead push the bike through town, especially since the narrow passes were not quite so accommodating for both a wide-load bicycle and an automobile.  But I was almost there and felt slightly more relaxed now that I was in the urban center.  As I neared the busier section of the town, I stopped dead in my tracks.  What was that I smelled?  A bakery, my weakness!  And not just any ol’ bakery, as there are tons in Mexico, but one which exuded an especially sumptuous aroma.  I found myself irresistibly drawn in and moments later had leaned up my bike and was inside with my little metal tray and tongs, heaping all kinds of little buns, cookies, and other baked goods onto the tray.  Once I was satisfied, I headed over to the register, payed the mere thirty pesos for the massive bag and returned to the street.  I pushed myself further up the hill and at the crest, I saw another street off to my left, and down below, the zocalo.  Yay!  I had made it!

    And what a fantastic place it was, like a relaxing, social oasis of indulgence.  People strolled about casually, ice cream carts with little bells pushed along the streets, and brightly colored tiendas wrapped around the square.  A high terra cotta colored church loomed off to the side of the square while wide, leafy trees within the plaza provided amble shade and small bands of musicians turned out pleasing tunes to complete the atmosphere.  Yes, this was a welcome sight after the past few days of arduous riding and not particularly lively towns that I had passed through.  Unfortunately, I had already set my goal for the day and had to be halfway down the Costa Esmeralda by nightfall.  So I sat, enjoyed my bread, had a small cup of ice cream and a bottle of water, then reluctantly began to lead my bike back to the street out of town.  After asking a few different people along the way for directions out to the main road, I finally found it and began to journey back to the coast.  Fortunately, since I had climbed to such a high elevation over the past few days, the remainder of the journey was mostly downhill.  However, not all downhill.  At times the road would suddenly skyrocket upwards and weary legs would just spin incessantly as I put the bike into low gear and tugged along.  At one point I reached the peak of one such hill and stopped for a large, chilled bottle of water.  The quaint restaurant was empty at that hour of the early afternoon, but as I walked in, I saw that there were no walls on three sides and the dining room looked out over the entire wide open verdant valley down below, almost to the coast.  A cool, floating breeze wafter by, cooling me as I sat briefly to recuperate.

    When I returned to my bike, I forged ahead over hills and under forested canopies.  Yet, not long after, I saw a sign for Gutierrez Zamora and knew that it would not be long now.  I reached the outskirts of the town and continued riding, not wanted to stop and lose my momentum.  After crossing the wide rive on the far side of the town, the road ahead began to flatten out and I hoped that this was the beginning of the coastal plain leading out to Costa Esmeralda.  I passed over several more small bridges fording tiny creeks, and after some time I began to spot sporadic stands of tall palms.  This particular form of flora had a distinctive coastal look to it and I quickened my pace in anticipation.  At long last, the palms went from a sporadic sighting to a long endless string stretched along the horizon.  No doubt this was it.  I saw the sign off to my side welcoming me to Costa Esmeralda and ached to see the ocean and stop for a real meal.  At the first turn off towards the water I pulled off the main road and only several hundred feet ahead saw the white sandy beaches.  I pushed the bike through the impeding sands until I was at the top of the dune and then laid it up against a small wall.  The mystically delicious azure blue waves in front of my lapped gently against the beach and disappeared endlessly off in the distance.  Ah, paradise!

    As I practically dragged my bedraggled carcass towards the sparkling waters, like a desperado towards a oasis mirage, I was hailed by two smiling gentlemen not far down the beach.  One appeared to be somewhat older while the other, about my age.  I began chatting with them and they told me that they had seen me riding earlier in the day.  I told them about my trip and that I was headed to Xalapa.  They told me that they too would be headed that way on business, and offered me a ride in the back of their truck!  Oh what sweet sweet temptation!  I knew that the road to Xalapa would be an incessantly hilly and steep route and considered it for a moment.  Then finally, rationality and the desire to reach civilization (and a shower and washing machine) conquered my pride and I accepted.  A few moments later we were headed to a small roadside restaurant along the beach strip for a quick bite.  Afterwards, they helped me load my bicycle into the back of their spacious wooden fenced truck bed, laid out some blankets for me, and we were off!  I can’t even begin to describe how incredible it felt to lay back there, with the tarp canopy over the railing pulled back halfway, rustling in the wind as we sped towards the cool hills of Xalapa.  Yes, this was the way to travel, Mexican’s have got it figured out.  You can save the boxed in, oppressively air-conditioned, smooth riding luxury cars for the US – I’d rather be alive and out in the open air, on the way to new and enchanting places.