A Note for Newman

Part VIII - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico

When all is said and done, the enduring memories from this trip result from the generosity and kindness of my "hosts", Marco and Hector, in Guanajuato and Queretaro, respectively. Both had never laid eyes on me previously but had graciously agreed to our common friends' request to show me around. Their company made my trip much more fun and laughter-filled than I had ever imagined, and provided an insight into local life and ways of thinking as well. Then there are the fellow travellers I met at the hostels - the comical Crazy Su and the extremely nice Swiss girl Simone. (Somehow I always meet a Swiss national on recent trips...what's up with that?).

I had gotten Hector's contact info from Katherine, and had sent him an email before arriving in Queretaro, informing him of the dates I would be staying at Hostal K'angi. His reply was prompt, but much to my puzzlement, it bore the signature "Omar". I assumed then that I had probably confused his name with another one of Katherine's friends who lived in Mexico, and looked forward to meeting Omar. That night, Simone and I had dinner at a Thai resto and upon returning to the hostel the proprietresses Ana and Isabel waved me over.

Isabel: "Hey Eric, is your last name Newman?"

Me (taken aback): "Noooo...why do you ask?"

Isabel: "Someone came around asking for a "Newman" who was supposed to be staying here. We thought it might be you".

Me: "What?! I am expecting someone to call for me, but I thought he knew my name was Eric, because we had exchanged emails previously".

Isabel: “No no, he was asking for a Newman". (Ana nods in agreement)

Me: "Was his name by any chance Omar?".

Ana (looking at me strangely): "No! The guy's name was Hector".

Me (shocked): "Hector?! Yeah, that might be him! But I thought his name was Omar".

At this point, the two girls were laughing hysterically at the confusion of me and this mysterious caller who couldn’t get each others names right. I hastened to explain the situation and why I had assumed Hector and Omar were two different people. Luckily enough, Hector (his full name is Hector Omar...duh) had left a note stating that he would be at a lounge called "La Casa de Cuerva" as part of a student arts group performing a tango show. As I stood there mulling how to find this place, Ana read the note and exclaimed, "Oh, its just right down the street at the corner". Indeed it was, about a thirty-second walk from the hostel! Crazy coincidence.
 
So I went over to La Casa, just a few minutes before the show started at 10pm. Had to pay the cover and drink yet more beer while watching the show which was pretty good. The ticket seller pointed out Hector to me, and after the we got to meet and chat for a few minutes. We agreed to meet the following night at the hostel. Ana and Isabel (pictured) greeted his arrival with more laughter at the remembrance of the previous night's confusion, and I got more ribbing from them. Along with Simone, we spent an enjoyable night eating French crepes, checking out the flood-lit Los Arcos, and conversing about a wide range of interesting topics.


P.S. This concludes the series of posts from Mexico. My next trip awaits.

Salsa in San Miguel

Part VII - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico

Stumbled upon quite a find today. Literally across the street from the hostel is Juan's cafe, a small (4 tables) cafe/restaurant serving the best coffee I tasted on the trip - strong, tasty and smooth. Later, in answer to my inquiry the owner said the coffee came from Oaxaca - I should find some back home, probably at Whole Foods. He's quite a jazz aficionado too - at another table three middle-aged American women were poring over his voluminous records collection, and he indulgently played the ones they chose.

Knocked myself out sightseeing today. In addition to walking around San Miguel de Allende, I opted to take the hour and a half-long trolley tour to learn more about the town's history. Won't bore you with the sordid stuff, but easily the highlight was going up to the mirador, from which one has a panoramic view of SMA. In theory, it's only a few blocks away from El Jardin, but quite a steep uphill walk, so I couldn't imagine doing that.

Despite my fatigued state, I found myself at Mama Mia's bar at 7pm for the FREE salsa lessons, given by Roberto and Trish on Tues and Wed nights. I found out about it thru Salsa Power, and fortunately they taught the style (on the 1) that I was familiar with. Pretty soon the duo were demonstrating a series of turns to us seven or so students crowding around the smallish dance floor. The 2 hours of lessons were jolly good fun, practice and exercise, all rolled into one (oh...my aching feet). Since I had stopped taking lessons back home, it was exhilarating to do salsa once again, and my spirits soared when they started playing my favorite salsa song, "Lluvia" (listen). After the lessons ended, Roberto invited me to return the following night (Wed) for the classes and group outing afterwards to El Ring, but unfortunately I would already be in Queretaro by then. Went back to the hostel hungry and barely standing, but with a big smile on my face.

Gringo-landia

Part VI - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico

On hindsight it was probably the worst day for travelling to another town. Today was Nov 20, Day of the Revolution, thus any town worth its salt held a parade. True enough, central Guanajuato was blocked off to vehicles. Just stepping outside the hostel brought me face-to-face with marching bands and curious onlookers. Taking the advice of the hostel manager, I walked across town towards Mercado Hidalgo carrying my stuff and chanced upon a cab there. Right on!

San Miguel de Allende is one of those small, lovely colonial towns that tourists fall in love with. For all its charm however, I found it a bit of a letdown after visiting Guanajuato. All the elements were there - hillside setting, colorfully painted houses, winding cobblestoned streets, majestic church domes - but somehow it didn't have the "Wow" factor. Not for me, anyway. San Miguel is incredibly popular with American retirees though, thousands of whom have settled here and consequently driven up prices - real estate and otherwise. To give you a rough idea of their presence (and purchasing power), quite a few upscale restaurants offered a prix-fixe Thanksgiving holiday meal package. Only in San Miguel de Allende!

Pictured above is the pink, pseudo-Gothic Parroquia de San Miguel Arcangel, on the south side of El Jardin in the center of town. Looking nothing like any other church in Mexico, this over-the-top building has an even more incredible history. Legend has it that the architect of the distinctive facade, which was added only at the turn of the 20th century, was a self-taught Indian stonemason who did not even possess the necessary degree and license, and came up with the design solely by looking at postcards of Europe's gothic cathedrals. He then drew up the plans on the sand in front of the church site to explain to the workers what he wanted. Other detractors have claimed somewhat sarcastically that, with its turrets and spires, the Parroquia served as an inspiration to Walt Disney in creating his magical kingdoms.

Da-Da-Danzon

Part V - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico



Sadly, it is time to move on from lovely Guanajuato. I truly will have fond memories of this town and the gang, without whom my stay wouldn't have been half as enjoyable. As a parting shot, here is a short video (53 seconds) of couples dancing to danzon music. Marco, Crazy Su, and I had stopped for an early dinner at one of the numerous restaurants surrounding Plazuela San Francisco. Little did we know that on Friday nights, a band plays danzon music and couples dance right on the plaza, thus we unwittingly had front-row seats to the spectacle. Although Marco derided danzon as too slow and “for the old folks”, it was nevertheless a delight to experience this slice of local life. One couple in particular (featured in the clip) was quite nifty with the footwork and turns, and elicited strong applause from the numerous onlookers after each number (including yours truly :-D). Neither Mario Lopez nor Emmitt Smith has anything on this guy! The other couples weren't so dynamic and just sort of shifted their weight listlessly from one foot to another. Well, time to see and judge for yourself. (Slackers accessing the video from the workplace, please remember to check the volume level first).

The Guanajuato Gang

Part IV - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico

This was my gang in Guanajuato which made my stay very memorable. Beside me is Ryan, his wife Lily, then Marco holding the couple's baby whose name and gender I immediately forgot, and of course Crazy Su.

Marco was waiting at the hostel when we arrived. We got introduced (I had only been in touch with him via email before the trip) and along with Crazy Su, we quickly set off to explore central Guanajuato. We were led by Marco to most of the major sights - from the Alhondiga, Mercado Hidalgo, Jardin Union, Baratillo, University of Guanajuato, and much more. He did an outstanding job in showing off his hometown, and I interrupted our tour a few times to take pictures - blown way as I was by Guanajuato's mixture of architectural styles, colorful facades of the houses including the ones on the adjacent hills (Marco's house itself was painted green), and fun, lively vibe. Although his native language was Spanish, Marco spoke passable English, actually even better than Crazy Su’s. At times our trio's communication became quite comical - I'd talk with Marco en Espanol and reprise the convo for Crazy Su's benefit, and vice-versa. Probably explains why I needed a stiff drink afterwards.

The next day, Crazy Su and I spent the entire day sightseeing. We stopped at the Museo Casa Diego Rivera, where Mexico's most famous painter was born and raised until age 6. The museum contained mostly his early works, in a variety of styles - Cubist, Pointillist, and Impressionist. The portion of the mural (see picture) shows a poor native family being denied entry to the Alameda (Central Park), while the affluent, lighter-skinned and fancy-dressed upper class exchange smirks.

Another highlight was taking the funicular up to the Momento al Pipila on the hillside which affords fantastic views of Guanajuato. Pipila ("the Turkeycock") was Guanajuato's Independence Day hero who helped overthrow the Spanish, and whose statue looks like one of the Fantastic Four. It is indeed quite an incredible view - you appear to be standing directly on top of the Jardin Union, and the Cathedral seemingly so near that just by reaching out you can touch it. Was really glad Crazy Su was around, who else would take my picture? LOL. We also climbed up a steep, narrow staircase to a point immediately behind the statue's shoulder, where the view was much worse. She was terrified of both the climb and the funicular ride, so I unmercifully teased her and had a good laugh at her expense while she clung to me for safety.

The gang met up for dinner at a pizza place with cheap Corona beer. Marco proposed going to a club afterwards, and though I was pretty tired was prevailed upon to accompany them to smooth out the communication. So we all (except Ryan and the baby) walked over to Colorado, a disco popular with young Mexicans playing mostly Norteno and cumbia music. Marco, for some reason, bought an entire case of beer (24 bottles) which the four of us obviously couldn't finish. After dancing – or rather, flailing her arms, bopping her head, and generally just hurlting about – for a few songs, Crazy Su declared that she didn't like the music at Colorado. I inquired why that was so. She said she wanted to hear English songs played and actually instructed our waiter to call the manager. Unable to resist this opening, I pointedly remarked, "Well, last time I checked we are in Mexico". In the end, Marco suggested that we head to another place, and I quickly backed up his idea. In truth, I wanted to simply disappear - due to Crazy Su's complaints and the attention her "moves" was attracting - the other dancers were stealing sideways glances at her, and after having their mouths agape for seconds would invariably turn away and cringe in horror. It wasn't hard to notice her style, or lack thereof. The only worse dancer I've ever seen was Elaine in the Seinfeld episode, "The Little Kicks". Lily, on the other hand, is very talented and possessed smooth, creative moves. Heard that she even won some salsa competition in the past.

So finally, we stepped out and walked ten minutes to the next stop, Chel-Oh's. More of the same really, except they had two jampacked dance floors, and the crowd seemed to consist mostly of teenage Mexican girls on a school clubbing field trip whom I'd have trouble believing are at least 18 years old. Same as in Colorado, the locals kept looking at Crazy Su and wondering what the hell she was up to. Inexplicably, Marco bought yet another case of beer. To this day, I have no idea what happened to the unopened bottles as I excused myself at 1:30am and flagged a cab back to the hostel. Nor did I care.

Happy Hostelling

Part III - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico

WHAT is that?! If you guessed "tool shed" or "storage room", I wouldn't blame you. I myself thought the same but in fact it is my private room (the only one!) at Hostal K'angi in Queretaro. Notice the number 6 above the door? Comes with its own toilet and shower facilities too, all for a nightly rate of roughly $17 - not a bad deal. Colorfully painted in a combination of blue and fuschia, Hostal K'angi is located in a nice, quiet, upscale part of town, and was recently opened in early 2006 by two young entrepreneur women (yes, I spent half my time in Queretaro flirting with them and didn't get to see much :-D). The faded "look" was not done on purpose but rather was caused by rains that washed away the improperly-mixed powdered paint, according to Ana.

So what was I doing staying in cheap hostels, in some cases sharing bathrooms down the hall with strangers? Well, the operative word here is "cheap", as in "cheap bastard". LOL. I figured that since I got a free flight, I'd take the cheapo-fest further and stay in hostels for the entire trip. Also, hostels are the best way to meet other travellers on the road. So all I was after were basic, clean, and safe rooms. Of course, sometimes you also get weird (I prefer the term "unique") room interiors like this Martian floating above my bed at Hostalito Guanajuato, painted on the flimsy room divider that doesn't do much to suppress the sounds emanating from the adjoining bedroom. Kinda creepy having someone (something?) peering down at you in your finest sleepwear.

In some cases, guests take matters into their own hands and express their artistic talents on the walls, like my room at Hostel Moneda in Mexico City. The Lonely Planet guidebook actually said that, although it didn't indicate if they were stoned as well. After staying at four different hostels, I can wholeheartedly recommend all of them, and not just as a form of self-inflicted torture for my enemies. True, a little sacrifice in comfort is necessary, but this is offset by the hostels' central location, value for money proposition, free high-speed Internet (!), and opportunities to interact with other travellers.

Nowadays, checking hostel facilities, amenities and rates, reviewing previous guests' feedback, and even making bunk/room reservations worldwide has become easy. (I pre-booked all my rooms). Some websites to consult are HostelWorld and Hostels.com. I wouldn't expect much info regarding interior decoration though.

Damsel in Distress

Part II - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico

Today's plan was to travel to Guanajuato, a five-hour bus ride away from Mexico City. One of the more picturesque and gorgeous colonial towns in Mexico, according to my Rough Guide, "Guanajuato is home to one of the country's finest Baroque churches, a thriving student life, and a relaxed cafe and bar culture". As if that wasn't enough to entice any tourist, the historic town center was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Zone in 1988. With no traffic lights and no garish neon signs, Guanajuato was recommended to me by my friend Pei, who took Spanish courses there last year and who simply insisted that I had to see it for myself.

The taxi was late of course, this being Mexico. This thought crossed my mind as I waited impatiently at Hostel Moneda for the cab to take me to the bus terminal Norte. Yes, it would have been easier to just hail one of the ubiquitous green-and-white cabs on the street, but at the risk of your safety. Every guidebook strongly advised against doing so due to unscrupulous or fake drivers looking to relieve tourists of their belongings. Taking the subway was also an option (only 20 cents!), but it involved two transfers and not something I looked forward to while weighed down with luggage..The girl at reception finally got hold of the driver who arrived 15 minutes later, and in due time I was deposited at terminal Norte.

As I boarded the Primera Plus first-class bus, the ticket checker asked me which drink I preferred, at the same time pointing to the selection laid on the table in front of him. Thinking that they were for sale, I declined. He then burst out in his best English, “It’s free!”. Pleasantly surprised, I chose the Boing! Tamarind drink, which he duly put in a plastic bag along with the free sandwich. Wow, can this get any better?. Well, in fact it could. The seats were comfy, the legroom was to die for and akin to sitting in the exit row of an airplane, the interior was very clean and airconditioned. Moreover, English movies (of questionable taste with children present) provided entertainment during the ride.

Another surprise was in store – this Korean girl I spotted at Hostel Moneda was also taking the same bus to Guanajuato. I introduced myself, found out her name was Su (let's call her "Crazy Su", an apt nickname as I found out later), exchanged some pleasantries, and told her that if she was interested we could split the cab from the Guanajuato bus terminal into downtown. She was travelling by herself for three months in Latin America, on a yet-to-be-decided itinerary, and spoke no Spanish and barely any English. Props to her for bravery.

A little later, the conductor approached Crazy Su with a grave look on his face. Indicating to a ticket stub in his hand, he explained something to her in rapid fire Spanish, only to be met by a blank stare. Su called out to me and asked, “Do you speak Spanish?”. I replied in the affirmative, and walked over to her seat to try and help out. The conductor explained to me that Crazy Su's bus ticket was expired, invalid, and thus she couldn’t go to Guanajuato!!! Simultaneously amused and shocked at the situation, I translated this to her, repeating the key parts slowly until she understood the implications. Shocked, Crazy Su looked on the verge of tears, and wondered aloud, “Why???”.

The conductor pointed out that the ticket was for the previous day (Thurs), and not for today’s (Fri) travel. As I translated back and forth and asked questions, the crux of the matter came out. Apparently, Crazy Su had bought the ticket a day in advance (Thurs), but due to her limited language skills had been unable to explain to the ticket agent (whose English no doubt was flawless) that she wanted to travel the next day (Fri), and not on the same day as most travellers usually do. To resolve the issue, the conductor explained, she had to pay an additional half-price of the original fare ($12.50 more on top of the original fare of $25). At this point, Crazy Su almost burst out crying, but in the end had no choice but to shell out, and the conductor was kind enough to accompany her to the Primera Plus ticket counter to prevent any more mix-ups.

After the brief delay, our bus departed terminal Norte, and we were on the way to Guanajuato. I could barely contain my excitement, at the same time pleased that I had saved the day. Recounting the events in my mind made me chuckle, as I sipped the Boing! tamarind drink and tried to ignore the gory movie being shown.

Sightseeing in D.F.

Part I - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico

For some reason, most of my friends thought that I had already been to Mexico. This was a reasonable assumption, given that I had visited a few countries in Central and South America, and in the words of one, "You always seem to be going somewhere in Latin America". However, the fact is that I hadn't been south of the border for one reason or another, thus I was excited to embark on this brief (relatively), solo trip. I admit to being a bit surprised at my friends' confusion - somehow I thought they paid more attention to which countries I actually visited on "yet another vacation". Aha! Now I know its just feigned interest and fake enthusiasm. LOL. Oh well. Anyway, this post kicks off the memories, musings, and funny happenings on the trip. Each post in the series will have a "Part X - Ten Day Jaunt in Mexico" header to make it easier to view the posts in sequence, though for the most part the posts will be unrelated.

My first day was going to be spent in the capital, Mexico City, known among locals as Distrito Federal. To feel like a local, simply refer to it as "D.F." ("de-effay"). The taxi deposited me right at the Zocalo (main square), which was amazing at first sight. I was like, "Whoa, this IS huge!". Surrounding the Zocalo are the gigantic Cathedral Metropolitana, Templo Mayor, and Palacio Nacional, among other important buildings. I had to walk a block or so to Hostel Moneda, situated on a side street right off the Zocalo. No location can be more central than this. Right outside on the street was one of the street markets or tianguis, a noisy sidewalk marketplace for anything and everything. The hostel itself was not bad - clean, basic accomodations at cheap rates - the main asset is the location and the rooftop terrace affording great views of the Cathedral. The tiny speck in the distance resembling the Empire State building is actually the Torre Latinoamerica, at one point the tallest building in D.F. - and featured in the enjoyable film "Solo con tu Pareja" as the setting for the ill-starred lovers suicide attempt, for film buffs out there.

Pretty much the entire afternoon was spent walking and taking pictures around the Zocalo, mainly of faith healers working their magic on the populace. I got a kick out of watching people actually lining up for the healing session, closing their eyes and standing with palms open and facing upwards, while the healer circled the customer and waved the incense pot up and down, left to right over the customer's entire body. Unfortunately I didn't ask how much they charged, but from the looks of it quite a steady business. Patrons came from all walks of life - from the cellphone-totting executives clad in business attire to the middle-aged housewives to the everyday Joes stopping on their way to the Zocalo subway station.

The next destination was the Palacio de Bellas Artes, constructed in grandiose Art Nouveau style of Italian marble. Inside are impressive murals by the "Big 3": Diego Rivera, Jose Clemente Orozco, and David Siqueros. Mind you - these murals are not your ordinary paintings. For one thing, they're colorful, detailed, large-scale works of art spanning entire walls. The fun lay in examining the specific details of each section of the mural, and figuring out what it intends to convey to the viewer. Small placards described each mural and its significance, though alas only in Spanish. The one pictured is either by Orozco or Siqueros (forgot to jot it down), and you can probably figure out what its all about.

All that sightseeing can be tiring, not to mention waking up early for my flight. Hey, got a free ticket using my miles, so I'm not complaining. (Sorry, I had to throw that in and gloat). As I sat on a bench and drank a soda at the nearby Alameda (Central Park), managed to strike up a conversation with a father-and-son clown duo, Eduardo and Juanito respectively, getting ready for their act. They graciously allowed my request to take their photo. Eduardo told me about the Chinese community concentrated a few blocks away and warned me to keep my eyes open for pickpockets, simultaneously pointing to his own eyes for emphasis. After a few minutes they left to start their act on the streets, while I returned to Hostel Moneda to sample the free dinner special.

Why You Should Visit Granada, Nicaragua

From time to time Associated Content solicits articles touching on a specific theme. When I saw a call for travel stories along the veins of "Why You Should Visit ______", this was the article I wrote. Granada was one of the more enjoyable stops on my Central America trip last year, made all the more memorable since we spent Christmas there. The town itself is colorfully painted, the people are friendly and haven't become jaded by tourism yet, and there are a ton of activities in the surrounding area that beckon to the traveller.

Read the full story.

Baffled by Bidets

That's the headline straight out of MSNBC. And I thought it was only me! I still recall my first brush with the bidet in Lucerne, Switzerland, and the ensuing lively debate my friend Greg and I had on how to operate this peculiar piece of porcelain. "What is it for?". "How do we position our extremities to use it?". Suffice it to say that on the return flight out of Zurich my mind was still pre-occupied with the image of this contraption.

Years later, my second encounter with the bidet in Cuzco, Peru proved no less mystifying, coupled with my bemusement at encountering it in Latin America, of all places. Never did bother to figure out how to use the bidet that time either.

Here is the full article from MSNBC.

Loading up on the OJ

Part 5 Colors of Morocco
One thing I didn't find mention of in any guidebook is the HUGE business of growing and selling oranges in Morocco. It seemed that everywhere there were roadside stands selling a glass of orange juice for roughly 5 or 6 dirhams ( $1 = 9DH), with the oranges being squeezed by this mechanical contraption in front of you. Fresh off the farm, so to speak. On one occasion, having been quoted the outrageous sum of 10 dirhams, despite my initial misgivings I went ahead and paid for the glass of OJ and gulped down my drink. Upon learning of this, John had a chat with the proprietor and warned him of the dire consequences of his actions ("No more tour groups, mate!"), thus I was handed back a 5 dirham coin which I promptly blew on a second glass.

Wandering around at Djemaa el Fna, the intense competition among the numerous orange juice stand vendors is readily apparent. For one thing, their stands were virtually identical, were placed right next to each other, and there was no obvious product and price differentiation, thus they relied on their guile to gain your custom. A casual glance in their direction would elicit a stream of entreaties to approach and have a glass. In case one did fancy quenching one's thirst, taking a few steps towards any stand would result in cries from all directions begging you to approach their stand. Yes, you've died and gone to orange juice heaven.

Finally wilting under the hot sun, I approached a vendor's stand at random and ordered a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. "4 dirhams", he barked. A bit lower than what I was accustomed to paying, but this being Morocco no transaction is completed without some semblance of bargaining, thus I haggled down to 3 dirhams which he accepted somewhat grudgingly. I stood there for a few minutes, savoring my drink while watching the madness and chaos of Djemaa el Fna all around. Then it occurred to me to take a photo of the vendor's stand. Knowing fully well how the Moroccan people dislike being photographed and the need for some monetary inducement, I offered him a dirham and gestured towards my camera. He agreed, and I took the picture you see above (look at that frown!). Afterwards, much to my surprise, he filled up one-third of a glass of OJ and handed it over to me, at the same time putting him palm on his heart to indicate that it was a gift. A cynical traveller I admit to being, yet this gesture was quite touching.

Quickstepping in the darkness of Midelt

Part 4 Colors of Morocco

Morocco ranks up there as one of the most unlikelist places to practice my limited salsa dancing skills, being a conservative society with no ingrained Latin rhythms culture. Not even sure they've heard of salsa, in contrast to my previous Central and South American journeys, where sadly didn't get much opportunity to wow everyone - probably all for the best, since I sucked big time. Anyway, just when I was on the verge of questioning my sanity for taking salsa "On 1" despite its limited practical use in the New York club scene, developments in Morocco give me renewed life. (For non-salsa dancers: "On 1" is classic salsa style, "On 2" is New york club style).

As luck would have it, there was this Dutch girl "Bini" in our Intrepid group whom I overheard telling another woman that she liked to take salsa lessons and go to socials once a week or so. I expressed my pleasure at meeting a fellow salsero, replied that that I had been taking classes on-and-off for about a year but noted (as my usual disclaimer is) that my competency level wasn't all that great. Bini herself had been taking them for a year and a half, and was probably more dedicated to the craft than I was.

One night when we stopped in Midelt (in possibly the worst auberge in the entire of Morocco and where moths laid a nest in our bed), after dinner the hotel wait staff, no doubt eager to please yet another batch of captive tourist audience, proceeded to play some Berber music for our entertainment. Or rather, they tried to - sounded like a cat being strangled was the general consensus. After a few minutes of this torture to which we clapped politely on cue, predictably enough they dragged each of us tourists to the dance floor to heave our bodies to the rhythmless music. Not kidding - each of us was clapping and shifting around to different beats! Total asynchronous disorganized dancing at its finest!!! Finally this rather aimless but still joyous celebration had wound down, and I was ready to call it a night, but then - Bini stops by, grabs me by the shoulder and insists we practice salsa...so I was like, "Uh, now? Where???". My hesitance was due to her being the more experienced dancer, my forgetfulness and general ineptitude in executing complicated turns - just ask Frenchie**), and discomfort in performing in front of a large group of people (yes, 12 people qualifies as such).

The group had gone out on the rooftop terrace for drinks, and we decided this was the place to practice - in pitch black darkness no less, and in front of a dozen instant salsa critics. I had unleashed a monster LOL. Despite my initial misgivings, we managed to go through several steps and turns we both knew while having a lot of fun, and even managed to impress our audience. There was even some suggestion of us conducting a basic salsa class for everyone at some point during the trip (sort of like "talent night") - an idea I agreed to as long as Bini taught it. Hahaha...

A couple of nights later, relaxing in the beautiful setting of Todra Gorge in another poorly ventilated hotel, after yet more drinking in the hotel terrace, Bini requests some salsa music to be played and before I knew what was happening, was getting dragged out to dance...half dizzy, half drunk, managed to muddle my way through a few steps and turns - neglected to mention that at this point I had consumed an entire bottle of Moroccan white wine (which wasn't bad at all) - the only reason I drank all of it was that the rest of the group preferred red wine. Jordi, whose family owns the auberge (memo to Jordi: put fans inside the rooms please), told me that in Spain white wine was known as the ladies' wine...oops. In this hampered state, I told Bini to demo some shines which she did while I just puttered about doing the basic step while trying my best not to fall face down on the concrete...so eventually we finished an entire song to much acclaim. That turned out to be the conclusion of my salsa adventures in Morocco, as plans to visit the salsa club in Marrakesh fell through. Fun while it lasted.


**my sometime partner in salsa class who habitually berates me for holding
her hand too tight, failing to catch her after a turn, almost stepping on her feet,
and other egregious sins - all in that cute French accent of hers

Friend for a Day in Casablanca

Part 3 Colors of Morocco

If you're anything like me, instead of watching dumb inflight movies (usually along the lines of "Big Momma's House 2") you like to kill time by practicing your sarcasm on your seatmates, hoping at the same time they wouldn't get too annoyed and put on their headphones. The seven hour flight to Casablanca proved to be quite different though.

Sitting next to me was Karen, and after the initial introductions, we managed to get a good conversation going. She was just connecting at Casablanca and moving onwards to the country of Guinea (NOT to be confused with Equatorial Guinea, people!) where she will be working at a reproductive clinic for a couple of months as part of her Masters in Public Health degree. I sheepishly admitted to having less lofty objectives for my visit to Morocco, only playing the part of not-too-idiotic tourist. Strangely enough, we found each other's planned trip to be fascinating, and this fueled further delving into the other's background and life interests.

Upon arrival at Mohammed V airport, Karen and I decided to share a grand taxi into town. Quite fortunate for me. Her impressive French language skills managed to keep the driver occupied, while I tried to listen for phrases here and there that were comprehensible. The driver tried his best to steer us away from our destination, the Hotel Rio, by claiming it was substandard and suggesting an alternative hotel (plain old Economics 101: the power of incentives, in the form of commissions from the establishments - bien sur!). Among his other "paid for" recommendations were getting massages at a newly opened spa, and somewhat puzzling, touting some newly built condominiums as a great bargain.

The first item on our agenda was to visit the Hassan II mosque, one of the rare mosques open to non-Muslims which possesses the tallest minaret in the world. Visible for miles around, the complex was built at the cost of $800M and was completed in 1993. Guided tours are scheduled a few times per day, with different groups for Spanish, German, French, Italian and English speakers. After paying our 120 dirhams, our group was ushered inside to marvel at the finely decorated interiors, elegant furnishings and design. Almost all of the granite, marble, wood and other materials used in the construction were flown in from Italy, and over a thousand master craftsmen worked around the clock. The mosque can accommodate over 25,000 worshippers inside, and an additional 80,000 in the courtyard. It has its own hammam (communal bath) as well to serve as a social gathering place for locals.

After the tour, what with the heat in Casablanca, we hopped on a petit taxi to one of the finest restaurants in town, Al Mounia, which serves traditional Moroccan food in an elegant setting. It would've been wonderful to sit outside in the garden, but the heat was unbearable and we were both dying for some AC. The lamb tajine dishes were sweet and superb, even if the price was a bit on the high side, and the decoration quite traditional - the quintessential Moroccan restaurant. From then on, it was another petit taxi ride to the new Medina where some shopping for cheap, high quality scarves and babouches (pointed flat-heeled slippers) was done by Karen (I wasn't in a buying mood yet, being so early on the trip).

Finally, jet lagged and wilting from the heat, we looked for a place to have a cool drink and ventured inside the Hyatt hotel (the fanciest digs in town). Unfortunately, after perusing the menu and finding the prices to be a bit stiff, we slipped out to one of the numerous outdoor cafes lining the main streets of Casablanca. One thing most tourists notice immediately is that the clientele is almost entirely male - I thought there was either a massive shortage of women or an entire cadre of unemployed men whiling away their time sipping mint tea - this is not due to any explicit ban on women sitting in cafes, but in traditional Moroccan society the woman's domain is the home and that is where she is normally found. After a couple of Cokes (no alcohol - hey it's a Muslim country) and some interesting conversation, we walked back to the hotel where Karen was being picked up for the ride back to the airport.

Thus ends the day's adventures, an amazing and unexpected experience that only travel can bring. "Friend for a day" is really a misnomer, as we continue to keep in touch. Read more about Karen's adventures in Guinea.

Dentistry at Djemaa el Fna

Part 2 Colors of Morocco

After spending a bit of time in Morocco observing and mingling with the locals, my attention was caught by one trait they consistently possessed, from Casablanca to Fes to Marrakesh: bad teeth. As in grossly misshapen, decaying teeth that would leave me staring in mid-conversation and wondering about the state of dental care (or lack of) in the country. How did this happen? Was it from all those sugar cubes in the mint tea, perhaps? (Speaking as one known to drop in three of those for some very sweet tea).

I finally gathered enough courage to ask Hakima, our guide for the day in Fes, about the situation. According to her, most of the population were unable to afford proper dental care and had to resort to illegal or badly trained "dentists" whenever their toothaches were too much to bear. Well, if you happen to experience such pain, do not have possess dental insurance, and are travelling in Marrakesh - you're in luck. Just wander over to the central square Djemaa el Fna - a madhouse of snake charmers, fortune tellers, story tellers, acrobats and food stall vendors - and make your way to the tooth puller's stand (near the locals walking around placing snakes on unwitting tourists' shoulders, causing some very unpleasant surprises). Marvel at the row of neatly piled molars and rows of false teeth. He will wipe his pair of pliers clean, give you a maniacal grin, and ease your suffering for a few dirhams.

The Case of the Missing Window Handles

Part 1 Colors of Morocco

According to the wildly informative Lonely Planet Guide to Morocco, taxi drivers remove the window handles from their cabs "because it is believed in Morocco that the wind makes you sick."

Unfortunately, as many tourists can attest too, the ever-present hot sun makes the insides of taxicabs pretty stuffy and quite an uncomfortable ride, especially on long distances like the 30km or so from Casablanca airport to downtown. Usually I ask the drivers, "How do I roll down the window?", at the same time making hand signals showing how unbearably hot it was - most instances this request is met by an amused smile, shrugging of shoulders, and the reply, "Sorry, we don't have the window handle". In short, grin and bear it.

One time though, having made such request, the driver opened up the glove compartment, brought out the missing window handle, and passed it to me. I then inserted the handle into the slot and rolled down the window, savoring the welcome respite from the stuffiness inside the taxicab. Afterwards I passed it back onto his outstretched, waiting hand. We both burst out simultaneously in knowing laughter.

Great Cheapo Youth Hostel in Philly

Without doubt, the historic area known as Old City is the most interesting part of downtown Philadelphia. Boasting of nearby attractions such as the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall (where the signing of the Constitution took place in 1787), and the waterfront Penn's Landing, it also possesses the most vibrant nightlife, with numerous bars, restaurants, and cafes concentrated in Old City and packed to the brim with revelers on weekends. Incredibly exciting, huh? The downside is that if your travel plans include staying in the Old City, most of the hotels in the area will set you back at least $150 per night (not including applicable taxes). Quite an expensive proposition indeed.

For more, the full article appears here at Associated Content.

The Longest 3 Km. in Ometepe

(Part 7 of the Volcano Trail series.)Another ferry ride, this time to Ometepe, an island in the middle of Lake Nicaragua. Ometepe has lush scenery and a tranquil atmosphere, and due to its unusually fertile volcanic soil has an amazing argicultural output, thus the island's population of 30,000 people are considerably more prosperous than most of Nicaragua's mainlanders.

We had just missed the 10am ferry by minutes and were waiting for the 1130am one, so a few of us decided to use the restrooms and grab some drinks by the small convenience store. At around 1115am just as we were preparing to walk back to the dock, who else but U. was dashing in our direction - he saw us and frantically gestured for us to get our asses to the boat pronto!!! Yes, this one time – of all times – the boat happened not only to be leaving on time, but even early! Surprising...no, shocking and quite unheard of in Latin America. No kidding. As we approached the island, dramatic views of the island's two volcanoes, Volcan Concepcion and Volcan Maderas, were offered.

The subsequent van ride was a bit rough – there’s only one main road circling the island, and once you get off-road it’s a horrible bumpy ride for 4km. Our cabin at Hotel Villa Paraiso was a welcome relief from Hospedaje Cocibolca in Granada, and a few steps away from the beach. Since an ardous, steep climb up either of the two volcanoes wasn't my cup of tea (7-8 hours), two days of R&R seemed to be in the cards.

However, feeling a bit guilty at my sloth, and eager to be in the company of the girls (haha), at the last minute decided it might be fun to join the early morning hike to the San Ramon waterfalls which was supposed to take about an hour each day. C. billed it as not-too-strenuous, or in her words, "easy-peasy". At the falls entrance, the first clouds of trouble appeared. Our guide indicated that it was more like two hours to hike up because it was all uphill - uh oh, how do I say this? NOT GOOD. Too late to back out now, "what the hell...it's only 3 km. according to the sign", I hopefully told myself. And of course, our 32 cordobas (roughly $2) entrance fee had already been collected.

We all hiked along the path - at first it was smooth sailing on the well-defined trail, but as it gradually became more and more uphill, rocky, and crooked I soon got tired and just willing myself to reach the falls – from time to time I’d stop to catch my breath and silently curse at my decision and resolve to spend more time at the gym (yeah right). Other members of the group were getting knackered as well. Pei (a full name mention for you :-D) had on flip flops which I’m sure weren’t the most ideal footwear for this actvity. After each mile elapsed, there was a marker which counted down, almost teasingly, "2Km to the falls", "1Km to the falls", and left me shaking my head and wondering why it seemed like an eternity between each kilometer. It was the longest 3km of my life, and felt more like 30km. U. explained that the signs were indeed misleading and the work of amateurs, in his native Switzerland they take into account steepness and other factors - thus the signs in the Alps indicate "how long it feels like for the average person to hike", and not the actual distance.

At last, we reached the falls which to my blurred vision looked only barely more than a trickle and did not appear to be impressive at all. (Judge for yourself, refer to photo). So all that effort for a trickle. Too tired to be mad, I just sat silently and enjoyed the cool breeze which from time to time sprinkled me with water. After a big lunch back at the Villa Paraiso, the afternoon was spent napping and reading up on "Naked Economics" down at the beach. Relaxing, idyllic - yes, tranquility is more like it - not much else happened, except for a passing bird which shat on my leg, thus I had to go into the water to wash it off.

Note: This concludes the Volcano Trail series. Although I have not talked about Costa Rica at all, I've simply ran out of steam. Among the great things that happened in CR were spotting the resplendent quetzal (usually follows the words "damned elusive" in the same sentence) at Monteverde cloud forest, churrasco and shrimp at Nene's (Sta. Elena), beholding majestic Arenal volcano on a clear day exploring downtown San Jose (better than expected), relaxing at Baldi hot springs, and best of all - a smooth border crossing!

Great Times in Granada

(Part 6 of the Volcano Trail series.)

Well, let's get the disgusting story out of the way first. Since there were an odd number of men on the trip, we would take turns occupying the single room for some well-needed privacy, as well as relief from snoring roommates. As luck would have it, for the 3 nights in Granada, who else but the youngest of the bunch, N., was my assigned partner. He was a nice enough fellow, a bit strange for my taste, but then that's my general opinion of everyone who is a decade or more younger than myself.

We were sitting around inside the dreadful room at Hospedaje Cocibolca chatting before the Christmas Eve party, and in the middle of our conversation N. suddenly paused, strained his body and bended his knees a little, and a strange grimace appeared on his face - and suddenly N. let out a huge fart!!! Impressed at his achievement, wacko N. exclaimed, "Yeah!!!". I was flabbergasted at this sequence of events and lost my train of thought. For several moments I sat silent and waited for some sort of apology but it was in vain - for none was forthcoming, and thus I busied myself fanning the air as the noxious fumes slowly wafted thru the poorly ventilated room and threatened to knock me out. Unfortunately, that is my deepest memory of sick N., probably imprinted in my mind for eternity. Wonder if I would've been kicked off the tour for strangling my roommate?

Along with the northern city of Leon, the Nicaragua Tourism Board has devoted its marketing efforts to promoting Granada as one of the must-see destinations, and it is easy to understand why. This ancient town on the shores of mighty Lake Nicaragua is full of history and Spanish colonial charm and is one of the oldest European settlements in the western hemisphere. Granada has undergone a recent refurbishment, with the Cathedral and other buildings, given a fresh coat of brightly colored paint that is pleasing to the eye and reminiscent of Antigua in Guatemala.

There are a lot of cheap hotels and hostels to accommodate the growing number of backpackers and package tourists, and the restaurant scene isn't too shabby either. In fact, the best fruit punch I tasted on the trip was on our Christmas dinner at El Zaguan, an upscale family-owned restaurant just behind the Cathedral. It was also on this occasion that wacko N. decided to order the parillada, an assortment of various meats guaranteed to fill up the hungriest man alive. I myself had reservations in ordering this dish since it was too much for one person to consume. My thinking proved to be correct. After scarfing down the beef, N.'s strength flagged and he wound up giving half of the meal to the eagerly awaiting V.H. and myself, much to our obvious delight.

Activities-wise, an entire day could be spent walking around town and exploring the different churches and museums. The former Convento de San Francisco (pictured) is worth exploring and has a museum inside containing impressive murals depicting various stages of the colonization and liberation of Nicaragua from the Spanish. At Parque Central, I unwittingly stumbled upon the food stalls serving vigoron, a dish which consists of pickled cabbage, tomatoes and onions with yuca and fried pork skins (chicharon!), and is the closest thing to fast food in Nicaraguan culture. I sat down and happily ate my $2 lunch (with drink).

Outside of town, there are numerous things to do as well. An hour outside Granada is the town of Masaya, whose claim to fame is the active cone of Santiago at the Masaya Volcano National Park. The inside of this big smoking crater can be observed from a viewing platform (no hiking required). Also nearby is the Apoyo Lagoon, or Laguna de Apoyo, one of the most pristine lagoons in the country. The lagoon, created when a volcano erupted hundreds of thousands of years ago, has tempting sky blue waters which is always great for swimming.

I decided to spend an afternoon on a leisurely boat tour of the 365 small islands, called isletas, on Lake Nicaragua. Home to over a thousand fishermen, most of these islands have now become weekend vacation homes for the upper class and foreigners - weekend rentals are a big business, and hey, they throw in a boat for free to ferry you to and from the mainland. As our boat made its way back to the shore at sundown, I was treated to a spectacular sunset - the orange-streaked sky with the huge profile of Volcan Mombacho in the background.

With the rapid rise of tourism (over 500,000 foreign visitors in 2004) in Nicaragua, Granada is sure to be a much-talked about place in the years to come. I have fond memories of the town, notwithstanding the incident with wacko N., and consider our 3 days there as one of the highlights of the trip.

Nightmare Crossing into Nicaragua

(Part 5 of the Volcano Trail series.)

Another long travel day to cross into Nicaragua. As we neared the border at Las Manos, this local on board our bus whipped out his calculator and offered his services in changing our lempiras into cordobas. Pretty crafty move, as he got a jump on the other money changers waiting at the border and who were left wondering why no one had further need for currency exchange.

Somewhat extortionist fees at this border - $7 to exit Honduras and another $7 to enter Nicaragua. Of course this being Latin America (read: a hotbed of graft and corruption), the official rates were not visibly posted anywhere, and we just relied on the figures quoted by the officials manning the border offices. The tout who insisted on leading the way to the immigration office (like we couldn’t find it ourselves) apparently got $2 from each transaction, with the connivance of the authorities of course. What a pathetic state of affairs. N. got held up for 160 lempiras ($10) based on his idiocy, while M. insisted on paying only $5 – the “official” rate net of the tout's cut.

At the Nicaraguan office, I could see the official thumbing through every page of my passport, in a futile search for a tourist visa. Finding none, he informed me that I needed one and thus would not be allowed entry – which I objected to, having done the research beforehand and knowing fully well that the Philippine passport alone was sufficient to gain entry – after a few minutes going back and forth, our tour leader C. jumped in and forcefully declared that I was not required to procure one since I was a green card holder. Although this logic was faulty, I kept silent and hoped the tactic would work. This made him blink and think twice. I could see his brain working overtime, processing this bit of information, debating inside himself if he should let me enter or not – finally he asked for a copy of my passport and green card, which I readily supplied and I was in!!! What an relief! I raged at the official's appalling ignorance of his country’s rules but calmed down a few minutes later. After all those days enduring cramped public buses, thankfully we had a spacious private van which met us at the border and which brought us all the way to Granada by nightfall – my initial impression of the city was that it was quite vibrant, and there was a festive atmosphere that comes only at Christmas time.

The owners of Hospedaje Cocibolca (ironically, the most dismal of all lodging on the trip) graciously invited its guests to a Christmas Eve dinner – the homemade pork was absolutely superb, and along with the strong flor de cana rum, made for a festive night indeed. Before that, we had our Kris Kringle (Secret Santa) activity – everyone wondered who gave N. his present, and I’m sure no one suspected it was me (being quite a enigmatic personality, according to M.). The most imaginative gift was for tour leader C. though, basically a list of coupon "vouchers" entitling her (“the bearer”) to different things – a day without lifting her enormous backpack, a massage (this caused much hilarity as the gender of the gift-giver was still unknown), and a “stress free border crossing” (pretty sure I have something to do with that). We just sat outside the hotel talking, and taking in the celebration – fireworks everywhere! Just like in Manila. Feliz Navidad!

Rainy Days in Roatan

(Part 4 of the Volcano Trail series.)

Cheers erupted as I entered the waiting room of the bus terminal in San Pedro Sula, with tour leader C. even bounding up to me and giving a big hug. No, I hadn't turned into a rock star, but the reason was in my left hand I was holding my long-lost duffel bag. Congratulations were heaped upon me, and cries of "That small thing caused all this trouble?" were heard as well. Earlier that day, after 6 long days of waiting and constantly calling up the baggage claims office of Continental Airlines, U. and I had separated from the group and made our way to San Pedro Sula airport, where the bag had just arrived from who-knows-where. The others had kindly waited in town so that the whole group could proceed to Comayagua together, and everyone was happy to finally be able to bid adios to the stench of the garbage-lined streets. Rain had fallen recently, making a bad situation worse - the trek to the next bus terminal through mud and water-filled potholes was disgusting. (Eerily reminded me of my college days, when I took public transit through Blumentritt market everyday). Another puzzling feature of San Pedro Sula was that several bus terminals were in close proximity to each other, and one had to know exactly which terminal one's bus departed from - usually a function of destination (e.g. to the North, to the South) - adding to the foreign traveller's confusion. U. and I asked no less than 5 locals where the buses for Comayagua departed from, and in each instance got a different answer. The concept of a central bus station appeared to be light years away.


Not much had happened during the past three days in the island of Roatan, famed for having the world's cheapest scuba diving courses, other than the constant downpours. The island wasn't all that impressive - the sand was dark brownish and the beaches so-so, and for some reason I considered it as some sort of "poor man's Boracay". This pretty much confined us to our hotel rooms and I spent most of the time watching CNN or reading. At dinnertime, we would console ourselves by eating fresh, cheap lobster or another seafood - as if this would make up for the wonderful time we were all having due to forces of Nature. Oh well, we wanted total relaxation, and we got it in a slightly different form - I also busied myself with calling up Continental, and this proved both to be a huge expense as well as a source of frustration, as it became evident that their staff had no clue where my bag currently was, nor when it was expected to arrive - each conversation brought a different excuse and timetable. One day C. and I paid a visit to their office in Roatan airport, whereupon their staff proved displayed both unhelpfulness and a despicable attitude severely lacking in customer service. Fortunately, in one of the later phone conversations, agent Amilcar Fuentes was put on the line, and he proved a great help both because he actually spoke English and he went above and beyond his duties in setting the wheels in motion for the search and eventual retrieval of my bag.

Perhaps the most memorable thing that happened was on the bus ride to La Ceiba. This huge, black man (a rarity) boarded our bus and pretty soon he was preaching about eternal damnation, the flames of hell, and salvation in a manner not unlike that of those fire-and-brimstone preachers on television. I was utterly riveted by his spiel (delivered en Espanol), and followed his every word and action intently. At the end of it, I thought how great it would've been if he had been a pastor in my church during my younger days, instead of the ones who tended to have a soporific effect on the congregation.

Stay tuned for more posts from my Central America trip.

Captivating Copan Ruinas

(Part 3 of the Volcano Trail series.)

The first "real" day of adventure had come. Today's agenda was to drive 7 hours from Antigua into Copan, Honduras, crossing the border at El Florido. Though Copan was dwarfed in size by the grand Mayan ruins of Tikal with its soaring temples, its strength lay in the ornate stelae and intricate stonework which were the finest in the Mayan world.

The van ride was uneventful. There wasn't much scenery to appreciate, and I doubt if anyone would have anyway, since most were groggy from last night's festivities and silently cursing the early 5am start. Traffic flow was better than expected, and pretty soon we arrived at El Florido where C. collected the passports for validation at both the Guatemalan and Honduran immigration offices. Money changers were soon crowding around our van, and despite some misgivings about getting a raw deal I parted with my leftover quetzales and was soon examining the lempira notes. After a few minutes delay caused by my passport (Honduran authorities had to double check entry requirements), we continued on to Copan.

After a cheap, sumptuous steak lunch, five of us walked the 1km or so towards the ruins. The whole visit took a mere couple of hours - we happened upon different impressive stelae, the ball court, the Hieroglyphic Stairway, and altars. All the while, our local guide Virgilio was telling us fascinating facts about the various kings and their reigns of power over Copan - with very exotic names like Moon Jaguar, Smoke Serpent, Eighteen Rabbit...(Crouching Tiger?!)...you get the idea. All this information, while educational and made all the more so by Virgilio's enthusiasm and "interesting" use of English, proved to be too much to digest - that 430am wakeup call and long travel must've taken a toll - thus towards the end, I simply shut my ears off to the commentary and concentrated on taking pictures. To sum up, a worthwhile visit to one of the most important Mayan ruins.

Stay tuned for more posts from my Central America trip.

Nostalgia in Antigua

(Part 2 of the Volcano Trail series.)

The first order of the day was to call up the Continental Airlines baggage claim office. Bad news - turns out my bag would not be arriving till the following day in Guatemala City - a bit of a problem since by then I will be on the road to Copan, Honduras. Uh oh. Eventually I instructed the agent to forward the bag to Roatan, where I would pick it up in a couple of days. Trying to shake off the sinking feeling in my stomach, I made my way to Parque Central to meet up with M. for brunch. I suggested we walk a few blocks to Rainbow Cafe, one of coolest hangouts in Antigua with a different style of live music played every night, and where they served arguably the best brownies in town (as my Spanish classmate N. can attest to, having wolfed down tons of them).

Afterwards, I decided to play tour guide and show M. around town. We headed for the handicrafts market where M. was almost (but not quite) tempted to purchase some lovely colorful scarves. The adjacent public market is a combination really of a dry goods and wet market, plus a thriving second hand clothing bazaar. Yes, this is where those old clothing donated to charity actually wind up in. Imagine my astonishment at the sight of one of my professors proudly wearing a T-shirt with a huge logo of Delilah's Den - a popular strip club in Philadelphia! Anyway, we also made a stop at the newly-restored Spanish cultural center (pictured), as well as the local McDonald's outlet. This branch is undoubtedly the most beautiful one I've ever set foot on, without the obstrusive golden arches, and being a converted colonial house it came with a huge garden complete with water fountain. Interestingly, a Happy Meal purchased here entitled the customer to 30 minutes of free Internet access ("McInternet"), a concept yet to be adopted in the US.

After we parted, I walked over to Parque Central and sat there watching the locals spending a lazy Sunday afternoon sitting around and relaxing, and listening to the live bands performing onstage across the street. Later that night, I checked into the hotel and met C., the tour leader, and some of the other members of our tour group. I wasn't too surprised to see that there were a lot of young Aussies among them who were on holiday for several months while I was content enough to be away from work for two and a half weeks. C. had organized a basic salsa lesson which I happily joined - turned out to be loads of fun with laughter all around as we gringos got tangled up practicing the moves, much to the amusement of the native hotel staff.

Stay tuned for more posts from my Central America trip.

HELLO again, Antigua

(Part 1 of the Volcano Trail series.)

I watched each of the bags slowly move on the creaky conveyor belt in Guatemala City airport, wondering where mine was. With increasing impatience I tried to spot my gray duffel bag, probably sandwiched among all those huge suitcases the Guatemalan natives had brought with them. From time to time the bags belt would bunch up against one another causing some to fall on the ground. This necessitated the baggage crew activating the blaring siren signal, stopping the entire belt and reloading the fallen bags, and restarting the whole darned thing. Quite comical actually. I had a laugh at my own feeling of deja vu, since only last May I had witnessed the same exact thing happen.

Finally the last of the bags were claimed by their owners, and mine was nowhere in sight. Roughly a third of the flight's passengers suffered the same fate. Apparently all those suitcases did not fit into the plane's cargo area, and thus we were the unlucky ones. After filling out the baggage claim form at the counter, I decided to find a shuttle van to take me to Antigua - the scene of many amazing memories from my last vacation. Waiting for the van to leave, I exchanged the usual pleasantries with the woman seated next to me, and to our amazement, M. and I discovered we were part of the same tour group and spent the hour-long ride exchanging travel stories.

Don Juan greeted me warmly when he opened the door to his house. We talked about the old times, my current trip and luggage predicament. Dona Amalia walked by with a noticeable limp and saw me - she had fallen down some stairs, broken her hip, and was on the long journey back to recovery. And as usual, the numerous (6 in all) grandchildren came by to play and were surprised not only at my presence, but also that I had still remembered all of their names.
There was another student staying at the house, J., a gregarious German (the rarest of species!) hell bent on learning Spanish – in addition to his classes, he played on three futbol teams with the locals, and insisted on speaking only in Spanish, even to the extent of using it in emails to his friends back home knowing full well that they didn’t speak the lingo! (“No me importa!”). After dinner, he plopped onto the bed in my room and we spent the night discussing our experiences in Antigua, and a wonderful book of Spanish idiomatic expressions translated into English he had found. Predictably, we cracked up over the curse expressions and slang words for private parts. Perhaps I shall buy my own copy - yes, it would be useful to learn how to say “Go to hell!” in another language.

Adventure at the Travel Show

It comes as no surprise to my friends that less than two weeks removed from my Central America trip, I was checking out various exhibitors' booths at the "Adventures in Travel" show in NYC. I had also made the trip to the Javitts Center last year, and this year's offerings brought pretty much the same: scuba diving outfits (there was a shallow pool for first-timers to try it out), Caribbean islands' tourism offices, hiking/biking tours (those sound dreadful), African safaris, and a large number of companies hawking trips to Latin American countries (Peru, with Machu Picchu as the star attraction, seems to be a perennial favorite).

It proved to be a fun, entertaining way to pick up some ideas for my next big trip - among some of the diversions were attending a seminar of responsible travel given by National Geographic Society, tasting some fine Bulgarian grappa, watching Lebanese dancers strutting their stuff on stage, and getting a quick qi-gong massage on one of those chairs where you put your face through the hole. I was amused to see several booths offering spa vacations - not that I have something against them, but quite a stretch of the concept of adventure travel, one has to admit - although after a hard day of white water rafting, that is precisely what ageing boomers pushing their bodies to previously unknown limits need to recover.

Lots of attendees were walking around carrying bags of glossy brochures. No wonder, each exhibitor had gone to all that trouble to stuffing them with the most unrealistic pics and accompanied by glittering prose that makes the destination seem like the world's best, thus they were eager to shove them into the most hands as possible. I seriously doubt that 90% of the people will actually get around to reading them once they get home (I took only 3, honest) - most will suffer the indignity of landing in the recycling bin with nary a page turned.

Moreover, let's admit it - getting freebies is a big part of the fun. I was pleased to note that the giveaways had improved from the usual pens, keychains, mugs, and notepads. Some of the more interesting articles in my stash are a couple of colorful Guatemalan bracelets, a sample of Sri Lankan tea, and vegetable capsules made from a plant called Maca which grows only in the Andean highlands of Peru. Reading off the label, among its magical powers are being an aphrosiciac and "has been noted to promote hormonal balance, including thyroid support". Amazing claims indeed.

MEET (MEAT?) MARKET WOES

(Event happened sometime July 2005). Not exactly about travelling - my first brush with speed dating, as recounted in an email to Guin, which originally appeared in my Xanga blog, and reprised here due to popular demand.



ok so about the speed dating. after a year of cajoling and convincing from my girl friends who had found success doing it (if you're not sure as to how the thing works, check this out - http://www.hurrydate.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=frontstatic.howItWorks), i decided to take the plunge and try out speed dating. my friend H. found this website which catered primarily to asians (click2asia.com - doesn't this suspiciously sound like a discount international long distance calling service to the Far East???) so i thought that'd be a nice way to dip my toe into the waters, so to speak (i talk in such a cliched manner huh, como se dice "dip my toe into the waters" en espanol?). also i thought i'd be more comforable in this setting coz the chances of attracting white chicks is much smaller anyway...so there i found myself in a club in Chelsea w/ all these trying-to-be-cool asian guys and trying-to-look-americanized asian girls hahaha - they separated the throngs of single lonely asians into groups of 15 guys/girls each, thus my $25 (only $10 for girls!) conceivably bought 15 dates (talk about cheap dates haha)...due to some annoying no-shows only got to "meet" 12 girls, 10 chinese and 2 koreans (strangely, no filipinas - altho there was a token filipino guy and also a token white guy with an asian fetish probably lol)...i would say that physically i didnt really like any of them, but personality wise maybe 2 or 3 were interesting to talk to...some were unspeakably boring, some didnt even bother to hide their disdain/contempt/boredom and made no effort to initiate conversation (esp. the woman who works 13-14hrs a day incl weekends at IBM - she complained that she didnt have time to date but this event had TOO MANY guys - so she was pissed at answering the same old questions - i wound up just trying out my zany one-liners on her so as to alleviate the situation, since it was pointless to engage in conversation - she laughed, albeit not spontaneously but in a somewhat deliberate manner, as if she chewed on my joke for two seconds and then decided it WAS funny, and THEN burst out laughing - geez, gimme a break), some did initiate conversation but it was the usual job interview -like questions (e.g. what do u do? where do u work/live? yada yada)...acting on a tip from a guy acquaintance, i tried to steer the conversation away from the ho-hum same old same old dialogue and towards the topic of vacations (their latest trip, most memorable experience, etc) with some degree of success - i found out that a few of them had been on caribbean cruises and since i havent been on one yet we wound up discussing the merits of the Western Caribbean vs. Eastern Caribbean, weight gain due to the buffets, staid vs. lively cruise lines, etc. - also, i made my usual jokes and sarcastic comments (you know how i am, dear Guin) and much to my annoyance (me puse furioso!!!), they failed to elicit laughter from a few of the serious minded women (thus they were "eliminated" immediately in my mind)...at the end of the night we were supposed to turn in our forms where we indicate who we want to see again by checking on the "yes/no" box beside each name - and guess what? i chose NONE. yes, that's right. none. nadie. zip. zilch. this predictably enough elicited groans of dismay from my legion of women friends, and thus the accusations of my alleged pickiness were rehashed once more (and once again, i'm denying it haha) - as u said in your email below, "la calidad es mas importante que la cantidad"... so there's the story. maybe i'll have better luck next time, or maybe i'll run into the same old women again...another girl friend is asking me to accompany her to a hurrydate event in a couple of weeks time so maybe i'll try my luck there, this time with a white (or mixed) crowd - hopefully i'll be in top form with the jokes hahaha.

Ladies Night at Frida's

(Event occured on May 18, 2005. Dedicated to Bro. Patrick)

If there is one thing the hordes of Spanish language students love to do in Antigua, it must be bar hopping. The logic is quite simple: bored foreigners faced with the prospect of sitting around in their host families' houses generally prefer to hang out and meet other foreigners in bars (and converse in their native tongues, unfortunately). As expected, one soon becomes familiar with the drink specials on offer at each bar, and the respective timings of that crowd-drawing phenomenon called Ladies Night.

At Frida’s, Wednesday night was THE night. Yes, the place was named after the famous artist Frida Kahlo - numerous portraits of her adorned the walls. The gang found an upstairs table quite easily, and soon the place was bursting at the seams with gringos out for a night on the town. Quite the scene indeed. Mojitos were the night's special bargain – only Q5 ($0.67) for ladies but Q10 ($1.33) for lads, and the bar management was canny enough to provide different-shaped glasses to implement their pricing structure - short, stout glasses for the former, and tall, skinny glasses for the latter.

As I stood there talking to Byron, suddenly there was a brief commotion by our table and I saw an angry waiter stride away with a ladies' drink in his hand. Turns out that the vigilant waiter had seen Patrick (the dude beside me in the pic) holding on to Hannah’s glass briefly, and intrepreting this as an act of deception (and cheapness), he went ahead and snatched the drink right out of poor Patrick’s hand, at the same time sternly reprimanding him, “For ladies only!!!”. Never before had anyone seen anything like it. We all had a good laugh about the incident later, and Patrick took the good-natured ribbing in stride, and everyone acknowledged that what made the whole thing doubly hilarious was that as a seminary student he fit the unlikeliest profile of a petty thief.