Hi Ho Silver Town

As we came out of the final S-curve of the mountain pass, the town of Taxco slid into view. Hundreds of white facades grinned at us from odd angles all up and down the sun-scorched hillside. Miranda and I had read about and seen plenty of pictures of this well-hidden town of 50,000 inhabitants prior to our drive, but it wasn’t until we came around that bend – after a nearly four-hour drive with very sketchy directions – that we became aware of the architectural, geographic and geological treasure that awaited us for the weekend.

Taxco, a Nahuatl word meaning “what the hell is a Greek village doing in south-central Mexico,” is famous for much more than emulating Santorini sans the sea. It is one of the oldest silver mining sites in the Americas, and home to some of the most fascinating silver jewelry and art you will see anywhere in the world.

If you can get there.

Even if you are able to survive the GPS- and death-defying driving directions – which take you on single-lane roads chock-full of double-loaded big rigs through the mountains – there is no guarantee that your vehicle will be able to fit through or make it up the skinny and exceedingly steep streets of Taxco. Nearly 100% of the town’s ex-patriot population is comprised of tourists who simply were never physically able to turn their SUV around and go home.

Of course, what makes the town a terror for drivers is precisely what makes it a treat for pedestrians, provided they haven’t recently had hip or knee-replacement surgery, nor are wearing heels. Every year in Taxco, 20-25 wealthy yet witless female tourists are killed after one or both of their Manolo Blanhiks become lodged in the cobblestone in front of a bus. (How buses are able to maneuver through the streets of Taxco remains a mystery; it’s believed that the drivers coat their tour coaches in Vaseline.)

One of the best things to do as a pedestrian in Taxco is get lost. One moment you are in the sunny tourist-infested zocalo (central plaza), and the next you find yourself in a steep and narrow alleyway lined with humble homes, tiny silver shops and even tinier restaurants. Losing your bearings has never been so gratifying, as long as a car doesn’t decide to turn up the alley, forcing you to make love to the nearest wall to avoid getting clipped by a bumper or side mirror. I left a layer of nose skin on some stucco while dodging an unsympathetic local Toyota.

Not that all automobiles detract from Taxco’s charm. The town’s entire fleet of taxis is comprised of white Volkswagon Beetles – the original model, not the one driven by American sorority sisters and public relations assistants. There are hundreds of these vintage vehicles, scampering up and down antiquated avenues in search of tourists suffering from leg cramps, twisted ankles and dehydration.

When Miranda and I weren’t busy getting lost and dodging motorized bugs, we were popping into silver galleries and dropping our jaws. The master silversmiths of Taxco have been creating exquisite pieces ever since the arrival in 1926 of William Spratling, an American architect and artist who, upon discovering the rich silver mines surrounding the town, transformed it into a haven for modern metallic masterpieces. Not only did he create his own silver jewelry and art – each piece a solid structure somehow exhibiting the qualities of a liquid – he also set up an apprentice program for locals that has had a lasting artistic influence to this day. Therefore, there are nearly as many silver shops/galleries in Taxco as there are white beetles and wounded tourists. If you ever visit, just keep in mind that not all silver purveyors offer quality goods. Try to stay clear of the vendors pedaling silver sculptures of the Jonas Brothers or places that offer a free bowl of pozole with every purchase.

Exhausted from all the hill-climbing and silver-searching, Miranda and I couldn’t wait to sample the cocktail for which Taxco is (regionally) famous: La Berta – described in our guidebook as a combination of tequila, fresh lime juice and a touch of honey, served over ice. Allegedly the drink was invented by legendary American novelist John Dos Passos while he was passing through Taxco. A consummate artist, he was looking to create a new alcoholic beverage to help him cope with the danger of being run over each day while walking the town’s streets. La Berta was a big hit with the locals, as well as with Ernest Hemingway, who reportedly spent most of his time in Mexico in a Berta-induced coma.

We decided to try our first Berta in a place called Bar Berta, which, according to our guidebook, was THE place to taste the famous concoction. So, sitting at a table on the second floor balcony overlooking the zocalo in the afternoon sun, Miranda and I took our first sip of our inaugural Berta… and nearly spit the shit out. I’m quite certain that macho-man Hemingway – an infamous imbiber – would not have been caught dead sipping something so hideously sweet. He’d sooner eat a shotgun than toss back this drink so short on ethanol and so long on sugar. On our way out of the joint – greatly disillusioned and far too sober – Miranda and I spied a bottle of Squirt lemon-lime soda behind the bar, at which point we realized that the original Berta recipe had been barbarically modified.

Such disappointment and deception, however, was short-lived. Upon returning to our historic and inexplicably affordable digs – the Hotel Los Arcos – Miranda and I grabbed a bottle of wine we had brought from Puebla and headed to the rooftop terrace. Accompanying us and the wine was a small pizza we had picked up at a café next to the hotel to hold us over till dinner. From the rooftop, we were afforded a much more amplified version of the same view that mesmerized us the minute the city came into view upon our arrival late that morning. A panorama of white stucco houses clinging to each other and dangling from cliffs paired very well with our bottle of red and our thin-crust pie. On nearby restaurant and café rooftops, people we’d never met and never would joined us in drink. Taxco’s spectacular rose-colored cathedral – split evenly by sun and shade – dominated the foreground and didn’t judge us as we sat there slaughtering the seventh deadly sin of gluttony. Laughter ricocheted off of cobblestone and stucco all around us while we feasted and inebriated one hundred feet above the streets, gleefully wondering how we had managed to slip through a Mexican portal into a Mediterranean scene.

Happy-hour euphoria never seems to last long into the night, not even in Nuevo Santorini. It wasn’t that the evening came crashing down; it was that carbon monoxide came flooding through. While traffic is of little issue in Taxco by day, it brings the city – and one’s respiratory system – to a standstill on Saturday nights. Double the number of white Beetles come crawling through the cracks to gobble up tipsy tourists; teenagers and twenty-somethings from Taxco’s outskirts pour into the city center in cars that haven’t had their emissions tested since 1983. Miranda and my wine buzz quickly got its ass kicked by exhaust fumes. It was as if the Greek gods had decided we had had experienced enough silver rapture and sunlight for one day and dropped us into downtown Pittsburgh during rush hour.

But we didn’t let the pollution completely ruin the night; we enjoyed ambling up and down the twisted streets in a slightly drunken state despite our struggling lungs. The headlights of the gridlocked cars created a sort of contorted trail of lights, and these visuals – coupled with the cool night air – were enough to distract us from the fact that we were risking emphysema with every breath. Oxygen levels must have dipped a bit too low at one point, for the next thing we knew we were regaining consciousness in our hotel bed and it was time for breakfast.

Fortunately, we were able to restore the pink color to our pulmonary tissue that day by spending the first part of it at a nearby modest mountain hotel/resort, which could only be reached by a cable car affording gorgeous views of the entire area.

We didn’t let the fact that we were not guests hinder our ability to swim for free at the hotel pool. When it comes to sneaking into private, pristine places to take a dip, Miranda and I are hard to beat. We’ve slipped past the gate guards at the Lost Pines Resort outside of Austin on multiple occasions by posing as people with culture and class. Thus, the lethargic staff at a sleepy Mexican mountain resort were no match for us. It didn’t hurt that most of the staff by the pool were male and that Miranda’s bikini was miniscule. If one of these guys had been bold enough to ask us to exit, he likely would have been pummeled by one or more of his drooling peers. After months of seeing mostly just 60 year-old German ladies in one-piece ruffled bathing suites that didn’t cover nearly enough flesh, these guys weren’t about to let anybody oust a woman who looked more like a Brazilian model and less like a Bavarian barmaid.

But the joke ended up being on us, or on me, at least. Despite having ancestors who survived decades in the desert, this little Semite burns easily without sunblock. I’m toast with anything under SPF 15 – especially in early tanning season – and Miranda and I were not equipped with any lotion whatsoever. True, I could have sought shade during the hour we spent by the pool, but I figured I had already contracted lung cancer the night before, so what was the use in worrying about a touch of melanoma.

During the cable car ride back down to the base of Taxco, we took one last long look at the splendor surrounding us, silently sulking over our imminent and somewhat treacherous return to Puebla. We had been merely grazed by Mexican Greece, and wanted more. We even considered staying an extra night and missing half a day of work the next day, but worried that Taxco’s Monday morning rush-hour fumes would be truly toxic, thus we decided to pack up and make a Sunday escape as originally planned.

We watched through the rearview mirror as the white houses and rose-colored cathedral waved goodbye. Much to Miranda’s chagrin, we left silvertown silver-less, as we couldn’t find just the right piece at just the right price. But as we slipped deeper and deeper into the mountains, I started to regret not purchasing anything made out of the metal that made Taxco Taxco. Perhaps it would have set us back a bit wallet-wise, but had we extended a bit back in our favorite shop near the square, we would now have in our possession a piece of a perfect element from a rare and wonderful place that’s practically built out of it.

Instead of silver, we left with black lungs and red epidermis, wondering if we would ever return to our little Santorini south of the border. The slight physical discomfort and health hazards we experienced would not deter us. Sometimes you have to endure some carcinogens and sunburn if you hope to get even a distant glimpse of the gods on Mount Olympus.

Te Quiero, Man

Miranda took off on a 12-day work trip to the U.S. last week, and felt badly about leaving me alone in Puebla. I told her not to worry – reminding her that ripping out the pages of our kitchen calendar and counting down the days until we move back to Austin was something I could just as easily do alone. Still, she knows that my life here is infinitely more interesting with her around to help make fun of all the things we haven’t bothered to try to understand.

It’s not like when we live in Austin and Miranda goes away on a trip. In Austin I have friends I can go out with and Thai food I can make love to while she is away. But here in Puebla, friends are at a maximum minimum and Asian noodles are non-existent, thus I spend most of my time alone working out and watching Woody Allen DVDs. I’m getting buffer and more neurotic than ever before; when I’m not at the gym or at Blockbuster, my time is spent obsessing over the fact that my biceps are going to die some day.

For this latest work trip, Miranda decided to give me some assistance before she left. She knows how much I enjoy the company of others, and how much safer it is for me to have people around in case I overdose on vodka Red Bulls. Thus, before she set off on her business trip, my wife set me up on a date.

With a man named Oscar.

Oscar (pronounced “oh scar”) is a professional Mexican photographer Miranda knows from work; he takes pictures of the furniture products that Miranda is helping to produce down here. After learning that Oscar had lived abroad (in Milan), has travelled all over, is a big foodie, and is not an anti-Semite, Miranda was very excited to introduce us. She knew that, as eager as I am to amplify my social life in any way, I’m more interested in meeting Poblanos than I am expats, as getting to know the former is the key to understanding the essence of the city and, importantly, its speed bumps. And it certainly doesn’t hurt that Oscar speaks English with some proficiency, which can come in handy when my Spanish synapses aren’t firing on all cylinders. Oscar’s inglés is also a plus for Miranda, who continues to boycott the Spanish language due to political reasons (she feels that if she speaks español, the Mexican drug lords win).

To help keep things breezy, Miranda chaperoned Oscar and my first man-date. She arranged for the three of us to have dinner out last Tuesday, the night before she left for Texas (en route to North Carolina for a big furniture show). I’ll admit, I was excited about the prospect of having a new pal in Puebla, though I wanted to play kind of hard to get, thus I wore a long sleeve shirt so as to not show off too much sinew.

We met up at a restaurant near our apartment. I had the fish. Oscar had the big salad. It could not have been any gayer. Especially since there was a beautiful woman (Miranda) sitting right there at our table but receiving no attention. We weren’t trying to ignore her; it was just that the conversation took off in Spanish – about photography, writing, food, wine, travel, the expat experience, etc.

Oscar and I really hit it off, occasionally switching to English in honor of the wonderful woman who helped bring us together. Not that Miranda cared about being left out of the dialogue; after all, there was a bottle of wine at the table. Besides, seeing me finally connect with somebody down here (besides our beloved but often-out-of-town Tony) made her happy, as she knew that it meant a 75%-85% decrease in my bitching and moaning.

When the evening came to an end, that awkward first man-date moment arrived: Do you go in for a bro-hug, or just settle for a simple handshake? If one man initiates the former while the other simultaneously commits to the latter, irreparable damage can be done to a budding bromance. I played it safe – extending my hand for a shake – and, fortunately, Oscar had the same thing in mind. Bromance saved.

Miranda left for her trip the next day, and two days later I received an email from Oscar inviting me to hang out the following day (Saturday). He would pick me up at 5 pm, show me aspects of the city that few gringos ever discover, then we would meet up with his girlfriend and a buddy of his for dinner. While I usually reserve late Saturday afternoons for rapping alone in the bathroom and a healthy pre-vodka nap, I gratefully accepted his invitation.

Oscar arrived right on time the next day; such punctuality made me question his full Mexican heritage. After he assured me that his father was not a Swiss milkman, we took off on our tour.

Oscar is very proud of Puebla, but is also able to poke fun at some of its idiosyncrasies and annoyances. (We have that in common, minus the pride part.) We walked through the city’s historic center, which I’d seen on numerous occasions, but not in this way. Experiencing Puebla through a local photographer’s eye and via his artistic sensibility is quite different from trudging through the streets as an aggravated American in desperate search of a turkey sandwich.

Oscar pointed out several buildings I had overlooked during previous strolls, providing colorful commentary on their architectural and historical significance. He took me down a street lined entirely with shops selling nothing but traditional Mexican sweets. He urged me to try some sort of strange fried taco (called a molote) at a popular food stand. Under normal circumstances, being force-fed fatty food would be a deal-breaker for me, but for some reason I felt a sense of gratitude toward Oscar for taking the time to reveal the hidden, high-cholesterol and high-triglyceride side of his city.

Later on at dinner, I met and shared stories with his girlfriend Monica and his old pal, David (“Dah-veed”). The four of us ate and drank and laughed together, my español building up more momentum than ever before. For the first time since arriving in this city three months ago, I felt like I belonged. Ich bin ein Poblano.

During the drive home late that night, Oscar invited me to play soccer with him and several friends the next morning. You must understand, a Mexican inviting an American to play soccer is one of the most powerful and sincere gestures of friendship there is, like when a Thai invites a tourist to smoke opium, or when a Texan invites a tourist to touch his truck. Clearly, Oscar was ready to take our relationship to the next level.

But were we moving too fast? Perhaps. But when your wife is away and your only other social outlets involve imaginary dialogue with Annie Hall and real dialogue with your own deltoids, you don’t play too hard to get.

I passed the soccer test with flying colors – playing goalie (as I did in high school) for our team and helping us to a 4-1 victory, further cementing the bond between Oscar and me. (He told me before the game that it was all just for fun and exercise, but I questioned that after seeing the opposing team’s goalie cutting himself at halftime.) Gaining the soccer seal of approval in Mexico is instrumental in winning friends and influencing people. In fact, after my third diving save during the game, Oscar asked me if I had ever considered running for local office.

Since that game last Sunday, Oscar has invited me out two more times and introduced me to several of his friends, all educated creative types – photographers, writers, graphic designers – with whom I’ve had fantastic conversations. They have helped me to overcome my initial Puebla stereotypes and my desire to heavily self-medicate. Nobody I’ve met through Oscar blasts indescribably bad music from their homes or vehicles; none of them have rammed their cart into me at the supermarket; none of them have tried to end my life on the highway; and none of them have pulled me over to relieve me of what’s in my wallet. Aside from their affinity for mixing beer and clam juice, and their belief that Jesus had blonde hair and blue eyes, they are premium people.

My eyes have been opened to a whole new Puebla. I’m just sorry that all this has happened while Miranda has been away. Though she is happy that I’ve made a good friend and am on the way to making numerous others, I can tell she is a little hurt that I’m not getting drunk every morning and sobbing over her extended absence.

Miranda, don’t worry – I do miss you and I can’t wait for you to come home on Monday. You are the coolest woman I know, and I love you madly. But don’t get upset if, the next time you ask me to play Scrabble or watch dubbed re-runs of The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, I tell you that I have plans with Oscar. Often you will be invited, too; but the point is – and this may be tough to hear – I think we should see other people.

Puebla FAQs

Several of our friends have expressed some interest in visiting us in Puebla, but nobody has purchased nor even priced out any plane tickets yet. I like to think that our lack of guests has less to do with my personality and much more to do with people not being quite sure what to expect down here.

Of course, such tentativeness is my own making; after all, one day I’m blogging about the intriguing adventures Miranda and I have enjoyed since arriving, and the next day I’m hinting at obtaining a straight razor to help me cut considerably short our mandatory six-month stay. I’m not apologizing for such contradictions -- bipolar blogging is all the rage; however, I am owning up to the fact that my rapid cycling between the good and the bad/ugly might paint a murky picture for my readers.

Therefore, I feel it’s time for me to address – in a concise and straightforward manner – the most common questions that our friends and family have posed to us about our lives down here. My hope is that these responses will compel at least a handful of you to hop a jet and come experience the magnificent chaos yourselves.

Q: Is Puebla safe?

A: Puebla is safe; you in Puebla may not be. As an outsider unfamiliar with the unique ways and customs of the Poblano people, you are at great risk of physical and psychological damage. I’ve already elaborated on the physical health hazards in a previous posting (see “Drug Free Dangers"), so let’s move on to what threatens to unthread your hypothalamus.

They say that if a prehistoric man were to be suddenly placed in the middle of a crowded city in the modern world, he would go instantly insane and likely die of shock. Well, the same holds true if you suddenly place an American in the middle of a Wal-Mart parking lot in Puebla. Just imagine – dozens of overzealous lot attendants loudly tweeting whistles while wildly waving their arms in order to allegedly assist people backing out or pulling in. It’s sheer – and shrill – madness, unless your ears over the years have become accustomed to the noise and, in addition, you have taken time to carefully read the quintessential Guidebook to Mexican Hand Gestures.

Instant insanity might also ensue if you stop to ask a Poblano citizen for directions. You see, the eagerness to please others is a cultural norm in Mexico, thus most locals will avoid saying “no” or “I don’t know” to anybody they feel is looking for a more affirmative response. An endearing trait, no doubt, but not when you need to know where to turn left to get to a bar or liquor store after your experience in the Wal-Mart parking lot. Miranda and I have somehow averted any serious neurological damage from the outlandishly erroneous directions we have received from well-meaning Mexicans, but you may not be so fortunate. The key is to make a game of it – Miranda and I like to place bets on how many people we will have to ask before we actually reach our destination – 11? 12? 17? Side bets are placed on the chances of ending up exactly where you started after 30 minutes of searching. Of course, while such games may be fun and will likely fend off dementia, none of that means much if, while attempting to find a restaurant, you are unintentionally led into a drug den or, worse, the Wal-Mart parking lot.


Q: What is the weather like?
A: The climate is one of the biggest plusses about Puebla. With the city situated roughly 7,000 feet above sea level yet being so far south, the sun warms without scorching and the rain stays away for the most part, except for heavy afternoon showers in the summer months.

That being said, when it dips down to 45-50 °F – as it does most fall and winter nights and mornings – you will certainly want to turn up the thermostat. But you won’t find it. None of the housing here comes with central air or heat, nor even window units. Now, as most of you know, I work from home as a writer; thus in the frigid morning hours this past January-March, I was forced to alter my work wardrobe considerably. Donning a ski cap, a parka, fleece-lined sweat pants, wool gloves with the fingers cut out and, yes, Ugg boots, I looked much more like a gay lumberjack than a man of letters.

But now that spring is in full swing down here, we couldn’t ask for better weather. In the mid-60s in the early am and late pm; in the high 70s the rest of the day. Best of all, I can go back to looking like a real man of literary lore – working in just my underwear and a dirty wife-beater, unless it’s an unusually cool April morning, in which case I will add my Uggs to the ensemble.


Q: What is the food like?

A: Puebla is largely regarded as the culinary capital of Mexico. Most gringos are unfamiliar with the diversity of Mexican food, thus when they hear such a claim to fame they equate it to something like Everton being the oral hygiene capital of England. Being at the top of the bottom is nothing to cheer about. But the truth is, the food here in Puebla will surprise you. In addition to being the birthplace of mole sauce (an odd concoction of dried chili peppers, ground nuts/seeds, spices, and Mexican chocolate -- most commonly served over chicken), the city features numerous restaurants serving up fine international (mostly Italian, French, Spanish and Argentine) as well as fusion fare. In fact, the most renowned culinary institute in the country is located just down the street from our apartment. It’s reportedly quite difficult to gain acceptance to – and graduate from – the school, this according to a former student I met who was expelled a few years ago for cheating on his flan exam.

The only real downside to the dining experience down here is the aggressive up-sell attempts by waiters in several of the restaurants. These servers – trained to take gringos for every extra peso possible – embrace an auctioneer approach to taking your food order: “You want the steak, ok – do I hear a steak with a side of shrimp? Steak with a side of shrimp? Steak with a side of shrimp? Hey! We have a steak with a side of shrimp – do I hear two steaks with a side of shrimp, a bowl of tortilla soup and a bottle of red?...” Never look one of these waiters directly in the eye or you’re done for; just keep your head down, say or point to exactly what you want on the menu, then feign a narcoleptic episode.


Q: What are the people like?

A: I would rather not try to respond in detail to this one at the risk of over-generalizing such a large group of people (Puebla has a population of nearly 1,500,000). It’s is safe to say, however, that every Pobano citizen is 5’ 4” tall and an Aries.


Q: What are the most interesting things to do in Puebla?

A: There are countless responses to this question. Here’s a brief list of some of the most enjoyable thing to do here:

• Going to the bus station and taking a bus to Mexico City
• Going to the bus station and taking a bus to Oaxaca
• Going to the bus station and taking a bus to Vera Cruz
• Going to the airport and taking a plane to Cancun
• Playing Scrabble.


So come on down and visit us already! Just be sure to bring some earplugs, a detailed map, your appetite, and extra money for bus tickets. Oh yeah, and a pair of size 9 ½ Uggs – mine are rapidly wearing out.

Vino Something You Don’t Know

I bit my lips to keep from laughing after the waiter told me the bottle of red wine he had just suggested was from – get this – Mexico. Poor guy, I thought. How deeply engrained his Mexican ethnocentrism must have been. I mean how could he, with a straight face, have just eschewed the French, Spanish, Chilean and Argentine offerings on the menu in favor of some libation borne from grapes that likely had grown on or near a cactus?

Kind sir, we are south of the border, not south of Bordeaux.

Needless to say, we went with a mid-range Argentine malbec – after thanking the waiter for his recommendation, of course. I didn’t want to seem rude, and fortunately was able to contain my snickering until after he was out of earshot.

We’ll give you the nod, Mexico, on tequila and some beer, but unless you are chucking in fresh fruit, orange peel and ice and calling it sangria, kindly keep your vino in the vat, señor.

A few nights later at another restaurant, the same thing happened – a waiter recommended another regional red, at which point Miranda and I tried to camouflage our laughter by feigning a cough. My thinking was that the terms “cabernet sauvignon” and “Mexicano” should never be combined in serious conversation. Such absurdities cause synapses to snap, like when one hears “Swiss courage” or “Canadian football.” Again, we politely passed on the waiter’s advice and ordered a Spanish tempranillo instead.

The third time we were steered toward a Mexican vintage, the suggestion came from our old friend Tony – the charming restaurateur/suspected crime boss whom we met during our first week here in Puebla, and whom I’ve mentioned a couple of times in previous postings.

Now, when an ordinary waiter recommends a Mexican red wine, you chuckle; when Tony Mena recommends a Mexican red wine, you order two bottles of the stuff and shut your freaking trap.

When the sample pour was finished, I gave it to Miranda to taste – giving me the appearance of a romantic and selfless man, when in reality I did it because I felt Miranda would be able to handle the stomach cramping better than I. She raised the glass and, just before taking her first sip, looked at me as if to say, “If I don’t make it back from this, I’ve always loved you. Bitch.”

With Tony standing over us, Miranda did the pre-requisite pre-sip swirl of the glass then stuck her nose into it to capture the fumes. (Miranda and I learned everything there is to know about wine from just a single viewing of Sideways.)

Then came the sip.

Miranda didn’t appear to suffer from any physical pain upon swallowing. On the contrary; she smiled and said “wow” as the cab sav slid down. Naturally I assumed she was just putting on airs – waiting until Tony Soprano left the table before running to the bathroom to purge herself. But when I reached for her glass to take a swig with the intent of applauding the wine in front of Tony, Miranda quickly pulled it away from me as if to say, “Get your own. Bitch.”

Actually, that is what she said. And if you had tasted what we drank that night, you would have said the same. It was one of the best bottles we had ever polished off – a mighty red kicking with pepper and sporting just enough fruit, with none of the excess residual sugars that make so many other inexpensive and mid-range wines way too sweet. (That’s right Yellow Tail, I’m talking to you.)

I felt the way the creature from Dr. Seuss’ Green Eggs and Ham must have upon tasting for the first time what he was so certain would disgust him. “I DO like Mexican wine! I DO! I will drink it on a boat; I’ll get drunk on it and float. I will drink it in a box; forget about my vodka rocks!”

It was that good. Lucky shot, we thought. Surely this bottle was not representative of what most Mexican vineyards were corking up and shipping out. Surely Tony had picked the best of the best in an effort to impress us with what his countrymen were capable of.

The only way to find out for sure was for Miranda and me to drink a lot of national wine. And if anybody was up to the task of tackling bottle upon bottle of 30-proof pop, it was two ex-patriots who had been struggling for over a month to make friends, understand the local customs and muffle the local music. Mucho vino? Bring it.

Now, I’m not going to bore you with the fine details of our ensuing alcoholic exploration – mainly because I’ve already used up all the wine-related terms and adjectives I know – but let me just tell you that, over the past 2-3 weeks, we have yet to encounter a bottle of Mexican red that hasn’t tickled our palate pink.

While we are thrilled to have discovered such excellent and affordable wine in our new backyard, Miranda and I can’t for the life of us figure out why we have never seen such Mexican nectar in the States. I even called Whole Foods in Austin the other day, figuring they must have at least half a shelf dedicated to bottles from South of the Bordeaux; after all, I’ve gotten lost in their wine department before. (In my defense, Whole Foods really shouldn’t pour so liberally at free tasting stations.) But no, not even Whole Foods had any, though after hearing how excited I was on the phone, the wine man said he would look into ordering a few.

But that won’t really help, as most people would likely just walk by the Mexican bottles and laugh as Miranda and I did at the waiters in the two restaurants. What’s needed is marketing. Why in the hell is the fruit of the labor of such fantastic vintners – so close to the U.S. border – not being sipped and lauded all across our land? To date, the only easy way to obtain these too-well-kept secrets is to contact the wineries themselves, or to try one of the many online wine retailers that exist. Or you can come visit us (be sure to bring us some good cheese; the stuff that goes in quesadillas down here just doesn’t cut it).

I fear that Miranda and I will suffer serious withdrawal symptoms when we move back to the U.S. in July. The mere thought of heading to our local Austin wine supplier and seeing the shelves completely devoid of any product from Viños L.A. Cetto or Viños Pedro Domecq or Bodegas de Santo Tomás or, sniff, Monte Xanic is enough to make us consider postponing our return. Sadly, our Honda CR-V will simply be too full of suitcases, boxes and Dingo to fit any cases of wine to bring back. And even if we could squeeze in a case or two, knowing that there is such a finite number of bottles to enjoy would likely turn us into wine-misers, with Miranda and I closing ourselves and our precious bottles off from the world so that we won’t have to share. We might even turn on each other. (That’s turn on each other; not turn on each other.) I can just imagine one of us going so far as to arrange for the other to have an “accident” that would, in effect, double the amount of vino available to the survivor.

But for now, our marriage and lives are safe. Partaking in a prized vial of Mexican manna is as simple as moseying on down to the local grocery store or one of the dozens of restaurants within walking distance of our domicile.

So what if our best Mexican friends are bottles – is that so wrong? If it is, then Miranda and I don’t want to be right. We may still be struggling to adapt to the constant honking, the daredevil driving and the murderous music down here, but we have become quite cozy with several varietals from the nearby vines.

Don’t worry, we’ll be back. As good as it is, the wine isn’t quite enough to keep us from the country that’s filled with our friends and family. But when we do return, if you come over to visit us and begin to stare longingly at the bottles we've brought back, don’t be surprised if we try to avert your attention. And if you seem insistent, please don’t be insulted when we tell you to get your own.

Bitch.

A Fresh Perspective

I’m a bit of a perfectionist, thus it’s not uncommon for me to read each of my own blog pieces over and over and over again – pausing occasionally to email myself praise. In reading over some of my previous postings, however, I couldn’t help but notice a rather strong, almost unhealthy negative undertone emanating from in between the lines of playful parody and satire.

When adjusting to a new culture and customs, some frustration and critical commentary is only natural, but that doesn’t give me the right to lampoon an entire country and its people just because they seem to lack any sense of direction or driving rules. Or humor. Or hearing.

After my seventh or eighth reading of my entire blog repertoire, I started to feel ashamed of the negativity and the stereotyping so prominent in many of the pieces. I was writing like a reactionary American, not an open-minded world traveler.

But I aim to make amends. There’s a wonderful quote that I once heard or came up with myself: “You can change the world simply by changing your mind.” When things seem to suck, you need only to view what’s going on from a different perspective, such as that of a dying man or somebody who just got transferred to Newark, and soon the situations, sights and behaviors that were initially bothering you will start to seem trivial, even endearing.

Since altering my mindset – a process that has been aided by Vicodin and Valium – I’ve come to realize just how lucky Miranda and I are to have been given this once in a life-time experience in Puebla, Mexico, just how much beauty and mystique surrounds us, and just how limber I can be.

So, what I’d like to do now is go back over some of our previously cited Mexican struggles and annoyances, and highlight the brighter side of each.

The Crooked Cops. Yes, at first you will be miffed about being pulled over for doing nothing wrong and getting extorted by a fat man who smells of smoke and cilantro, but there are benefits to such a seemingly unjust and unsavory occurrence. For one, you’ll get to practice your Spanish with somebody new, perhaps even learn some new vocabulary – like the word for “bribe” or how to say “suspend your license.” In addition, while you are being escorted by police motorcycle to a clandestine ATM machine, you will get to see parts of the city that few tourists ever discover. Exposure to such exotic, off-the-beaten-path areas can be a godsend, especially if you happen to be a weapons collector or have always wanted to know how crystal meth is made.

The Death-Defying Drivers. While you as an American with license plates to match are getting pulled over for letting your tires revolve while accelerating, Mexican drivers who run through red lights and shopping centers are totally left alone. Unnerving initially, but actually quite enjoyable once you learn how to get out of the way. In America, you would typically have to go to a large stadium on a Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! and pay upwards of $50 to $75 to see a pick-up truck drive over another vehicle, but here in Puebla it’s free and occurs daily right outside your door. Another positive is that the total lack of road rules will likely discourage you from ever trying to drive again down here, which is good for the environment, and enables you to take the money you’d normally spend on gas and put it toward the police bribes you’ll be making to avoid a jaywalking ticket. And if you do decide to continue driving in Puebla, you can be assured that the constant tension and torsion of your body as you grip the wheel in terror will help you to develop well-defined arms, abs and gluteus muscles, thus making it easier to kick the shit out of any meth addicts who try to accost you while at the ATM.

The Bad, Blaring Music. True, I have ripped into and ridiculed Mexican music in several of my blog pieces; however, I have since learned to accept it and to appreciate what it has done for Miranda and me. If it weren’t for Mexican music, I would spend much more time outside of our apartment, where the vodka is a lot more expensive than the bottle in my freezer. Also, excess time outdoors would greatly limit the amount of blog writing I could get done, as well as put me at a much higher risk of being struck by a pick-up truck or getting extorted by Puebla’s finest. Furthermore, hearing how awful yet extremely popular the music and musicians are here has given Miranda and me the confidence to form a band of our own, where she plays the kazoo while I rap and smash bottles together. Our first single is currently number 2 on the Mexican Top 40, right behind a song by a mariachi band that specializes in Shaun Cassidy covers.

Our Struggle to Make Friends. Though I think the local people will really start to take to us after they read this posting and see how open I am becoming to their culture, Miranda and I remain relatively amigo-less in Puebla. But the truth is, we are quite fortunate that such is the case. If we were in Austin, where we are adored by so many, we would be hemorrhaging cash. Miranda would be buying dresses for all the cocktail parties we’d have to attend, and purchasing gifts for all the baby showers she has been invited to; and I would be spending a ton of money on Miranda to make up for coming home at 4 am when out with all my drinking buddies. But here in Puebla, our non-existent social life has left us with more than enough funds to get Miranda a top-of-the-line kazoo for the band, and to fly my shrink down every two weeks.


As you can see, by simply changing my perspective and my attitude, Puebla has completely transformed from being a hum-drum city full of annoyances to a place where I may very well not commit suicide or murder. In addition to all the positives I have pointed out in this piece, let me remind you also that the food here is quite good, the climate is quite nice, and, most importantly, it’s only a 20-minute ride to the airport.

A Brief Guide to Some of the Lesser-Known Mexican Fiestas

Since our move to Puebla, I’ve come to strongly respect Mexicans and their undying commitment and devotion to celebrating. These people have never been ones to let continuous economic struggles or political corruption hinder their natural born right to dance badly to horrific music on a very frequent basis.

There seems to be a major fiesta here every week or two, and a minor one every day or two. Being a heavily Catholic country, the vast majority of these Mexican fiestas feature thousands of Jesuses being waved around like so many giant foam fingers at a Packers game. It’s really quite invigorating… for the first two weeks you are here. After that, you find yourself vehemently honking at and cursing the alleged son of God for singlehandedly shutting down the street you need to turn left on to get to the liquor store, which, for Christ’s sake, is probably closed anyway.

I realize that all the Jewish whining and complaining in the world isn’t going to make these fiestas fade away. I’ve simply had to come to grips with the fact that Jesus and all the celebrated saints are much bigger than me, even though I’m pretty sure I could take them in a fight.

Once you stop trying to resist all the raucous religious fervor, Mexico’s fierce fiesta culture becomes quite endearing. You begin to honk less angrily when stuck in traffic caused by Jesus; you stop holding up Iron Maiden album covers to infuriate crowds; you even begin to look into what each fiesta is actually about so that you can better understand the culture and country in which you are immersed.

I’ve reached the latter level of self-actualization, and would like to share a bit about what I have learned. Rather than highlight the holidays with which you may already be familiar; here I describe some of the lesser-known though no-less important Mexican fiestas:


El Día del San Adolfo (“Saint Adolf’s Day”). Every February 6th, the Mexican people take time to honor San Adolfo – the patron saint of speed bumps. Candlelight tributes are held in the middle of highways and roads across the country, where people give thanks to Adolfo for protecting their children and goats from velocity-crazed tourists, as well as for turning valuable vehicles into scrap metal that can be used to help build more churches. Some citizens dress up like San Adolfo and walk around giving fatty snacks to children to teach them the value of slowing down. The most devout take things a step further by dressing up like actual speed bumps and lying across thoroughfares where Germans are known to drive.

La Semana de la Pelota (“Ball Week”). In Mexico, when the professional soccer season ends, the citizens of this country have to wait an entire week before the next season begins. La Semana de la Pelota was invented relatively recently to help fill that game-less gap and to dramatically reduce the male suicide rate during this very trying seven day period. All activities during this week are soccer related and include: tripping and pretending to be hurt until somebody pays attention to you; watching videos of the greatest near goals of all time; and contests to see if any living person can clearly define the rules for “offsides”. This fiesta is tons of fun for everybody – the young, the old, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers – as long as they have a penis.

El Cinco de Junio (“The 5th of June”). While nowhere near as famous as El Cinco de Mayo, El Cinco de Junio is an important day for the Mexican economy, as it is when the entire country resumes drinking tequila after a devastating one-month hangover from the stuff. On this day, people all over Mexico decorate their homes with lime wedges and show a strong communal spirit by licking salt off strangers. Babies who are born on this day are typically named after famous tequila brands or Lindsay Lohan.

El Día de la Santa Cecilia (“Saint Cecilia’s Day”). Saint Cecilia is the patron saint of musicians. Her day is celebrated every November 22nd, which is the day she died of complications brought on by listening to Mexican music. She achieved sainthood because she reportedly sang to God as she lay dying, when what she should have been doing was asking Him to give Mexico the same sense of rhythm and cadence that He gave Cuba and Brazil. Most Mexicans spend el Día de la Santa Cecilia dancing, singing and throwing kisses at Cecilia’s image. Most tourists in Mexico spend el Día de la Santa Cecilia drinking and throwing stones at dancing, singing Mexicans.

Las Posadas. This holiday – which runs from December 16th until December 24 – celebrates Mary and Joseph’s arduous search for shelter where Mary could give birth in Bethlehem. The reason it lasts nine days is that a very pregnant Mary was traveling by donkey, and most of the inns in Bethlehem did not allow pets or children. Mexican communities celebrate Las Posadas today by selecting a man and a woman to play the part of Mary and Joseph, and a local politician to play the part of donkey, all of whom move from house to house until they are finally welcomed by a family on December 24th. It is at this point that the entire neighborhood joyously sings carols and races to find Mary an epidural.

Drug-Free Dangers

With the recent increase in drug cartel-related violence throughout Mexico, a lot of our friends and family members have expressed concern for Miranda’s and my safety – particularly friends/family to whom we still owe money. I assure you that there is nothing to worry about. Puebla is pretty much out of the big drug loop, which is why there are so few really good parties around here. This city is perfectly content to leave the carjacking, machine-gunning and beheading to the narcotics ninjas in such cities as Juarez, Cuernavaca and Acapulco.

To help quell everyone’s concerns that Miranda and I might meet our maker at the hands of callous Mexican drug lords, I’ve decided to make a list of all the other ways that we are much more likely to die down here.

Based on rigorous research that I’ve conducted over the past two months, there is only a 0.8% chance that we will become victims of the Mexican drug war. Now, compare that miniscule number to the chances of us biting the dust via the following:

1) Grocery cart collision – 75% chance of death. Each day I step into Wal-Mart (I know, but it’s the only grocery store close to home), I take my life into my own hands. Mexicans, you see, have sincere problems with personal space and peripheral vision, but none with high speeds. Even if I’m in Wal-Mart with just one other shopper, that shopper will find a way to ram their cart into mine or my hind quarters. And when the store is crowded – which is almost always – I have about as much chance of not being struck by fast moving metal as I do of finding decent deli meat down here. The good news is that in Mexico there is specialty grocery shopping insurance I can purchase that will cover Miranda, my daughter and Dingo in the event that something tragic happens to me in the produce section.


2) Self-inflicted ear impalement – 68% chance of death. You have two choices when it comes to music here in Puebla: 1) Indescribably horrible Mexican music that shoots from speakers almost everywhere you go; or 2) A sharp stick that you can jam into your own ear to save yourself from choice #1. Miranda and I have gone with option 1 thus far, mainly because we want to stay alive long enough to visit the Mexican Riviera and Cabo while we’re down here. There have been some close calls, though – I have taken a sharp stick and raised it to my head a few times, only to be talked down by my darling wife who really loves beaches. It would be one thing if such loud, grating, harmony-less music were played in just bad bars and clubs; then we could avoid it. But it’s blasted in most restaurants, shopping centers, streets, neighbor’s homes, et. al. And it’s played especially loud in grocery stores, I guess to mask the sound of collision victims’ screams of pain.


3) Hit and run, and hit again – 57% chance of death. I’ve already commented on the dangers of driving here in Puebla. But at least when you are in a car, you have a layer of steel and some airbags to protect you. As a pedestrian in Puebla, all you have to protect you from the vehicular madness is good sense and God – thus, I’m fucked. The only reason I’ve been able to avoid being struck while crossing the street is that I wear earmuffs everywhere I go (to drown out the music), which causes cars to stop and stare instead of accelerate. Miranda has been lucky, too, as Mexican drivers aren’t used to seeing a woman in her 30s with an ass smaller than a mattress, and thus often brake to get a better look.


4) Heart a-taco – 52% chance of death. Unless you eat at one of Puebla’s fantastic Argentine steak restaurants, the beef in these parts is graded not “Prime” nor “A”, but rather “B”, “C-” and “Donkey”. Sure, you can avoid serious health issues by abstaining from beef while living here, but when you are freakishly starving and/or highly inebriated – or if you are Miranda – it’s very difficult to resist a beef taco from a street vendor. If you are unfortunate enough to get a tainted taco, the onset of toxicity is swift and excruciating; symptoms include everything you don’t want to read about if you are eating now. Best thing to do if you ingest one is to quickly put yourself out of your misery by walking across a busy street or going to the grocery store.


5) Tiger or lion mauling – 44% chance of death. There is a safari park called Africam just outside the city where you can drive your car through fields of giraffes, ostriches, rhinoceroses, gazelles, tigers and lions, among other animals. Miranda and I went last weekend (because we were bored, and because we heard that no music was played there), and we couldn’t believe how lax the park was about rolling up windows and staying in your vehicle at all times. There was a small sign here and there to that effect, but nothing like what you’d expect considering the fact that lions and tigers are blood-thirsty carnivores and Mexicans smell a lot like meat. Parents had kids hanging out of windows and standing up through sun-roofs. I was seriously concerned -- what if the blood of a mauled child got on our car and drew a tiger's attention to us?


6) Dingo mauling – 40% chance of death for Miranda; 0% chance of death for Greg. By moving into a fourth-floor apartment down here, we took away the backyard and climbing trees that our cat Dingo had become so accustomed to in Austin. We tried to accommodate his inner-savage by buying him a scratching post and some animal toys, but he just laughed at us, then proceeded to tear apart our two rented sofas over the next several weeks. Not content with shredding only vinyl, Dingo has started attacking Miranda’s legs whenever she walks across a room. It was kind of cute at first, but he has since started hitting bone, which is not cool because he could hurt his teeth. Miranda has become a nervous wreck, unsure if or when she’ll be attacked every time she gets out of bed or up from a chair. Why Dingo only tries to maul his mama and not me is a mystery, though it likely has to do with the fact that Miranda used to do the same thing to her mother and now karma is kicking in.


7) Death by landlord – 37% chance of death. When our landlord sees what Dingo has done to her two sofas, Miranda and I will likely be killed or, worse, placed in a room and forced to listen to the Wal-Mart soundtrack. Miranda thinks that our fate will be worse than that – she fears we might be forced to buy and take back to Austin the two destroyed pieces of poor quality furniture, which go with nothing in our house. But all hope is not lost. There is a good chance we will get off Scott free after we tell the landlord that one of the lions escaped from Africam, followed Miranda and her bag of beef tacos home, then went berserk over the awful music blaring in the street and proceeded to slash the couches, which the lion mistook for wildebeests.


8) Alcohol poisoning – 35% chance of death. Don’t judge. We need something to help us cope with the lethal dangers that lurk around every corner and supermarket. We tried yoga, but getting to the yoga studio requires us to cross two streets. We’re not ashamed to say that alcohol plays an essential role in our lives here in Puebla. We realize what we are doing to our livers, but we can live with that, at least until we can’t.


9) Starvation – 31% chance of death. All the money that Miranda and I spend on wine and vodka leaves us with little funds for food. If you truly are concerned for our safety and well-being, you should send us care packages containing healthy, non-perishable items such as cans of Amy’s organic soups and plane tickets back to Austin. DO NOT send money! We have no willpower; any cash we receive will likely just go towards opening our own liquor store, thus accelerating our untimely demise.


10) Old age – 29% chance of death. Don’t worry, we still plan on returning to the U.S. in July. However, with all the stressful situations and sounds we confront each day, Miranda and I are aging exceedingly pre-maturely. I have replaced my gym workouts with games of shuffleboard, and Miranda has replaced her Vogue with AARP magazine. And if the old age doesn’t get Miranda, there is a good chance she will fall from the bathroom sink that she hops up on to tweeze her gray hairs. That fall will likely cause her to break her hip, which invariably leads to incurable pneumonia in old people even though nobody knows why.


So, as you can see, the drug cartels present little danger to us. Going forward, whenever you see or read media coverage of Mexican gang violence and innocent people getting caught in their crossfire, don’t worry about Miranda and me. Rest assured that we will be securely holed up in our apartment dodging attack cats and drinking ourselves stupid.

Art and Rebellion

Few people know this about me, but I used to be a card-carrying member of the Democratic Socialists of America – back when I had long hair, poet glasses, and a spine. Mind you, the DSA is not the Socialist Party, but still, it plays pretty near the foul line in left field. Like full-on socialists, DSAers are very much about limiting corporate power; the big difference is that DSAers still want their 401 k plan and full medical and dental.

The point is I’ve always focused a little more on the “red” in “red, white and blue”. So naturally I was excited about visiting the house of artist Frida Kahlo (my favorite Marxist Mexican woman with a mustache), and the Mexican home of Leon Trotsky (my favorite Bolshevik revolutionary to be assassinated by an ice axe), during our recent visit to Mexico City. The two homes-cum-museums are just a few blocks away from one another in Coyoacán – a peaceful neighborhood in the south central region of the city. (There hasn’t been an ice axe attack reported there in over 70 years; property values have risen nicely.)

We started out at Frida’s house – where the incomparable artist was born and where she lived the majority of her life, painting away the pain of bones that shattered in a bus accident at the age of 18. Whenever she was not covering a canvas with graphic yet gorgeous depictions of her broken insides, she used it to portray the power and the plight of Mexican workers and indigenous peoples, or to obsess over her beloved, Diego Rivera, who, on any given day, gave her more artistic inspiration than most could ever hope for and more heartbreak than most could ever bear.

We stood next to the bed where Frida would lie motionless in traction one hour, and the next paint masterpieces – relying on a mirror above her while she lay supine. We stared at the desk upon which still lie the decaying tubes of paint that Diego would mix to immortalize his models before pouncing on them. We walked through perfectly maintained rooms where these two mad radical artists ate, slept, screwed, and screamed in oils and agony.

Miranda was so moved and impressed by Frida’s talent and mystique, she has since decided to take up either painting or photography, and to do everything in her power to grow a uni-brow. And me, I was so awed by Diego’s talent and mystique, I have since decided to do everything in my power to get Miranda to let me wear a smock and hang out with nude women.

As alluded to earlier, when not painting – and even while painting – Frida and Diego immersed themselves in progressive communist politics. Hence, when they found out that comrade Trotsky – a man they deeply respected and admired – was in exile from Stalinist Russia, they offered their home to him and his wife, Natalia. Naturally, Trotsky was extremely grateful for such hospitality, and to express his sincere gratitude he had an affair with Frida.

From Russia, with love.

The temptation of having Frida in the other room distracted poor Trotsky from his manifesto writings; thus he decided to rent his own house. The decision to move sat well with Trotsky’s wife, who had suspected that something was going on between her husband and Frida after noticing the beard-burn on Leon’s chest.

When you first step into the Trotsky house/museum, it’s shocking to see how modestly the man lived while in exile. I mean, this cat was the founder and former commander of the Red Army, and there he was in Mexico living in glorified servants’ quarters: A tiny kitchen with very basic utensils; a bathroom that doubled as a clothes closet; a drab bedroom practically devoid of natural light; and a small study.

Ah, the study. The scene of the fatal blow. The place where a single swing of a pick-axe by an assassin – an avid supporter of Stalin – took a lethal chunk out of one of the most brilliant and fearless brains of the 20th century. It’s one thing to sit through a college lecture on Trotsky’s death; it’s quite another to stand in the very spot where the legendary Ruskie got lobotomized without the benefit of anesthesia.

It was all so sobering, and made me wish that Miranda and I had reversed the order of our house visits – to end with revolutionary art instead of a revolutionary’s murder. Nonetheless, I walked out of the Trotsky house feeling not leveled but lifted. We had just spent several hours with two heroes who dedicated their entire existence to revealing – each in their own way – as much truth and beauty as they possibly could; two people who lived extraordinarily authentic lives, defying conformity and convention until they reached the grave.

On the way to lunch, I thought back to my DSA days, back to when I was hell-bent on shaking shit up, railing against greed and injustice, and extending an arm to help the fallen stand. I remembered that I once swore I would use my pen (okay, my keyboard) to push limits and pierce souls, not to pander to corporate giants. While pondering all of this, I felt a fair amount of self-disgust over the compromising man I had become, and promised myself that I would get back to my pseudo-socialist, artistic roots. I could sense that Miranda had been moved as well; that she, too, after brushing against such creative and indefatigable icons, was ready to reinvent herself.

Of course, such momentous transformations don’t just happen overnight. It’s going to take some time for me to grow my hair out again and re-memorize quotes from Mao Tse-tung. But we are making small strides. Miranda has been reading fewer magazines, and her uni-brow is coming along beautifully. And me, well, I may not have pierced any souls with my words yet or conspired to take down any multinational goliaths, but I did win at Scrabble the other night and later used my corporate Amex card to pay for a non-business dinner.

The revolution, my friends, will not be televised.

No Friends in Low Places

People who have been regularly reading my blog – all 7 of you (or 2, if you exclude my blood relatives) – have expressed how envious they are of Miranda and me because of all the adventures we are having in Central Mexico. While we recognize how very fortunate we are for the opportunity to experience a whole new culture and ways of napping, I’ll have you know that it isn’t all fun in the sun down here.

Yes, we have great food. Yes, the weather is fantastic. Yes, the cost of living is low. Yes, we have a great apartment. Yes, we are in relatively close proximity to several fantastic cities and beaches.

Yes, I can see now why you are all envious of us.

However, those of you with schadenfreude tendencies will be thrilled to know that Miranda and I are, indeed, struggling – particularly in one key area: Making friends.

I know, it’s hard to believe. I mean, with my scathing atheism in this mega-Catholic metropolis, and Miranda’s unsurpassed ability to say nothing to locals, you’d think we’d be the tostada of the town by now.

True, we did befriend Tony – the possible mafia guy from 8 blog posts ago – but he is so busy running his restaurant, traveling, and shattering knee caps that we rarely get to spend any quality time with him and his wife.

We are not asking for pity; we are merely asking you to come visit and tell us how much you like us.

It’s gotten so bad that we have even tried befriending Germans. There are plenty of them down here, as Puebla is the location of Volkswagon’s North American headquarters. No scheiss. In fact, there is a German man and his Thai wife who live on the same floor as us. Upon learning this a few weeks ago, Miranda prepared a very thoughtful gift basket containing some good beer and some ingredients for Thai cooking, and left it outside their front door with a note attached saying “Welcome, from 401” (our apartment number). Well, the next day the gift basket was gone, and we haven’t seen or heard from them since. We have heard them – rushing into the elevator, probably with their fingers crossed hoping they can make their escape without having to endure any violent hug attacks from overzealous Americans.

The whole neighbor incident really irked Miranda, who, in a fit of frustration, uttered a few anti-Teutonic epithets in the privacy of our apartment. I told her that I understood her anger, but that it isn’t right to denounce an entire ethnicity or nationality based on one or two negative personal experiences. I didn’t want to sound too strict or preachy, but I explained how there are only two things I cannot abide by in life: 1) people who are intolerant of other cultures; and 2) Belgians.

Our lack of local cronies is all the more puzzling because, generally speaking, Mexicans are easy-going, social creatures with little animosity toward gringos. The truth is, I have no difficulty striking up conversations with cabbies, waiters, shopkeepers and hotel personnel, but for some odd reason have had little luck sparking discourse with people who aren’t paid to talk to me. I’m not saying that everyone I meet should adore me, but I had assumed that my drunken rapping alone would be a big draw.

Miranda has become friendly with several colleagues from work, but nobody from there has invited us to any dinners or weddings, tried to borrow any money or power tools from us, or severely pissed us off, thus really can’t be considered friends.

I guess it isn’t a total shock that we remain amigo-less in Mexico. After all, I spend every weekday working alone from home in my pajamas. The only social activity I engage in are conversations with a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Vladimir Nabokov that I placed near my writing desk. Add to that the fact that Miranda hasn’t had time to master Spanish and refuses to befriend any woman who doesn’t own a decent pair of designer jeans, and I guess it’s easy to see why we’ve yet to host any dinner parties.

I should point out that we have had some near misses with making friends, but are usually foiled by geography. For instance, during a recent trip to Mexico City, we met a young American couple – vacationing USC medical students – who were staying in the same guest house as we were. I typically don’t connect strongly with people in their early-to- mid 20s, mainly because I can’t keep up with the text messaging, but these guys were very bright, well traveled and, most importantly, they talked to us. But, inevitably, they had to head back to Southern Cal – despite our attempts to persuade them to drop out of med school and hang out. Thus, our amistad never had a chance to bloom. As we parted ways, I held a loose fist to my ear and whispered, “Call me”.

We won’t give up on the quest to make real friends who live real close. In the meantime, Miranda and I will continue to be each other’s best and only friend. We’ll continue to invite one another to dinners. We’ll continue to borrow money and power tools from one another. We most certainly will continue to piss each other off.

And as anxious as we are to form lasting bonds with new and interesting people, we both know deep down that nobody we meet will be able to compare to the best friend each of us already has. Especially if they are German.

Mexican't

What do you get when you cross an Australian with an Indonesian?

Apparently, a Mexican. At least in Miranda’s case.

Despite having an Aussie papa and a Sumatran mama, Miranda looks more like she hails from Baja than from Brisbane or Bengkulu. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing. In fact, in America, she is often able to use her Mexican complexion to her advantage. For instance, she frequently receives preferential treatment – e.g., faster service, fewer hairs in her refried beans – when drunk-dining at Taco Cabana. And back in 1993, Miranda was able to get accepted to the rather elite Trinity University because the theater department was putting on a production of “West Side Story” and needed an understudy for the role of Maria. (I realize that Puerto Rico and Mexico are different countries, but not to Americans.)

The problem is that when you live in Mexico and you look Mexican, people tend to address you rapidly in Spanish. Worse, they expect you to respond in kind, unless you are hearing impaired, mentally handicapped or a professional soccer player. Well, the locals know that Miranda can hear just fine because she’s constantly covering her ears when Mexican music is playing. And they know she’s not a pro soccer player because she has no Adam’s apple, plus they can see that her freakishly long second toe would preclude her from comfortably wearing cleats.

Thus, in the eyes of Mexicans, Miranda – a highly cultured world traveler with a Master’s Degree – is a little “special.”

Miranda’s current inability to speak Spanish has nothing to do with aptitude and everything to do with circumstances and time. She is certainly smart enough to learn the language, but she has been working long days at a furniture factory where the people with whom she interacts on a daily basis speak English. She then comes home – too tired to study – to an American husband with whom she is accustomed to speaking English. Thus, she has neither the free time (the few spare hours she has are spent wondering why she ever left Austin) nor the necessity to excel in Español.

And the truth is, I don’t really push her to learn, as I benefit somewhat from her mono-lingualism (ok, she can speak Indonesian). When waiters or retail salespeople or building tenants here in Puebla begin speaking to the very local-looking Miranda and see how she simply smiles and looks for me to step in and respond, they assume I am a saint – a compassionate man who has dedicated his life to assisting the developmentally challenged.

In addition to Miranda’s lack of Spanish earning me respect and admiration among the Poblano populace, it enables me to converse in front of her without her understanding that I’m just as obnoxious in my second language as I am in English. Yes, she probably suspects that such is the case, but without being able to discern exactly what I’m saying when I speak Spanish, for all she knows I might be coming off as a likeable, well-adjusted man to the Mexicans.

But, alas, all good things must come to an end. Lately, Miranda has been picking up on some key verbs, nouns and modifiers when others and I are engaged in Spanish discourse. I’ve noticed she has started laughing right on cue when an amusing anecdote is told, and nodding her head in agreement when the conversation calls for such action. The other day she even rolled her eyes when I made a corny joke in Spanish. She is on to me, and her growing comprehension has become a big concern.

Fortunately, however, she still struggles to put the words she’s beginning to recognize into any kind of fluid order when trying to speak. So, the Mexican misperception of me as a humble Samaritan who delights in helping people with cognitive disorders is still intact.

Now, if I can just find a good hiding spot for the Spanish grammar books I brought to Puebla, and pick up the pace when speaking with locals, there is a good chance that Miranda will remain that “special” girl I married.

Echoes of The Inquisition

Miranda and I are starting to dig beneath the surface of this colonial city in which we live, and in doing so have discovered that there is more to Puebla than just a well-maintained historic center, several baroque cathedrals, and the cheapest maids in North America.

The city, we found, also offers much to learn about brutal torture.

While walking aimlessly about town in hopes of discovering where the cool kids hang on weekends, Miranda and I stumbled upon a huge historic building that billed itself as an art museum – one we hadn’t heard of. Outside was a banner promoting an exhibition called “Instrumentos de Tortura y Pena Capital” (“Instruments of Torture and Capital Punishment”). Miranda and I, it just so happens, have always been big patrons of the arts as well as of unrelenting pain and suffering, so this was really right up our alley.

I have always had a strong stomach and a high tolerance for physical trauma and gore – I went to public school. Miranda, too, having grown up on Indonesian and British food, is practically immune to that which typically horrifies others. However, little could have prepared us for what was waiting behind the curtains of the exhibition.

All the popular apparati and techniques were well represented: The Rack, The Guillotine, The Iron Maiden, The Judas Cradle, The Chair of Torture, The Skull-Crusher, The Breast-Ripper, The Breaking Wheel, The Pear of Anguish, The Pendulum, The Thumbscrew, The Brank, The Garrotte, The Heretic’s Fork, Water Torture, Crucifixion, Upside-Down Crucifixion, Burning at the Stake, Burning Not at the Stake, Exposure, Impaling, Stoning, Flaying, and Flagellation – to name just a few.

If any of the aforementioned devices and practices are unfamiliar to you, Google them, as I simply don’t have the strength to relive the graphic descriptions and illustrations of flesh ripping, bones twisting and orifices expanding that we read/saw throughout the exhibit. Suffice to say that, while sickened and shocked, we were wholly impressed by how creative humans could be in their cruelty. The inventors of these machines and methods were artists in their own right. Maestros of mutilation. Architects of agony. Miranda and I imagined the conversations these men might have while networking at medieval torture conferences: “I really like the way you designed that giant iron wedge to pierce a victim’s perineum when he or she is lowered upon it, Eugenio, but I think the effect could be greatly enhanced by smearing olive oil on the apparatus and hanging heavy weights from the victim’s arms.”

That sort of ingenuity can’t be taught; you’re either born with it, or you’re not.

Some of the devices on display sounded more like things you’d see in a sex shop and less like what you’d find in a torturer’s toolbox. The Spanish Tickler, for instance, elicited a few giggles – until we read about what it was used for.

While thorough, there were several obvious omissions at the exhibit – lesser-known torture tactics that I felt still deserved a place among the big boys. Examples include The Yerevan Kiss, in which the victim is forced to inhale while standing next to a homeless Armenian, and The Dip of Death, where the victim is forced to go swimming immediately after eating a big meal.

At several stages of the gruesome exhibit, Miranda and I became a bit wobbly and thought about exiting, but each time felt morbidly compelled to forge onward. It was like driving by the scene of a car crash or, more appropriately, an execution -- we couldn’t help but look despite the onslaught of nausea.

While you can read about such torturous and murderous tactics online, or even catch a similar exhibition at some museum in the States, nothing quite compares to seeing the actual instruments here in Mexico. This is one of the places where it all happened. Having been on the business end of the Spanish Inquisition, Mexicans in the Middle Ages got to see – and feel – these horrific contraptions in action. The Spaniards terrorized almost as many Mexicans as the INS does today. Non-believers, heretics, homosexuals and pagans who once walked the same streets as Miranda and I took a pounding starting in the early 1500s. In fact, when in Puebla, if you pick up a taco and hold it to your ear, you can still hear the torture victims’ collective cries for mercy.

(Note: Me being a Hebrew who lived in Spain from 2000 to 2004, I can say with authority that modern Spaniards are much more lenient toward people who refuse to convert to Catholicism. The worst I ever had to endure in Spain was a few pieces of undercooked pork.)

Roughly 45 minutes to an hour after we entered the chamber of atrocities, we walked weak-kneed back out to the street, only to find that the exhibit hadn’t actually ended. Every common outdoor object we saw with any kind of point, edge or plank was instantly converted into an instrument of torture or execution in our heads. Church steeples. TV antennas. Café chairs. Every person we saw was an ancestor of either a victim or a tormenter. Every plaza or square we passed became in our minds the site of a public stoning, stake burning or beheading.

We needed something beautiful and perfect and gentle to help erase the evil acts and inhumanity that had just been etched into our hypothalami. We needed to feel something wonderful, sublime and pure. Something ethereal and exquisite.

But it was too early to start drinking. So we headed to our favorite market in Puebla and risked walking among a sea of human beings – the same animal species that has demonstrated time and again its propensity for callousness, barbarity and savagery. Surely all the smiles we saw in the market were duplicitous. Certainly the laughter we heard was malevolent. Without a doubt the flowers and plants being sold were poisonous. Miranda and I boldly approached a food stall where a local woman was whipping up fresh Poblano-style quesadillas – the same that were likely eaten by angry 16th century crowds while witnessing the flogging of a wrongfully accused witch. The woman cooked her handmade tortillas on a huge metal plate that was suspended above coals hot enough to burn through the flesh and bones of an unwed pregnant peasant woman.

Though we were greeted by the quesadilla cook with a grin and some kind words, I knew in the back of my mind that we were risking death by intentionally tainted cheese. I had already witnessed 30 minutes earlier just how vicious man is at his core. You can neither rely on nor trust the kindness of strangers.

But we were hungry. And so, with the sun shining and couples kissing and children playing all around us, Miranda and I each took a bite of the fresh, hot quesadilla that had been laid before us, knowing full well the great risk we were taking.

And it was delicious.

Mexico Gets a Bad Rap

As most of you already know and try to forget, I have a slight addiction to freestyle rapping. Like so many other 40 year-old white married Jews who grew up skiing and playing tennis, rapping is simply in my blood.

The trouble is, here in Mexico it’s very difficult to find anybody who can rapidly rhyme in English off the top of their head, or who can understand me when I do. I feel like Eminem must have back when he worked as a dishwasher.

I so need to express myself through street poetry, but I realize it would be totally preposterous for me to take my boombox to the main square here in Puebla and just start rapping in English in front of a crowd of Mexicans. Again.

I’ve thought about giving rap a go in the local language, but have discovered that, while fluent, I’m not so proficient in Spanish as to dazzle the fair people of Puebla with my verbal dexterity. When rapping in Spanish, my flow is not unlike that of Miranda when she tries to rap in English, which she does only after a bottle of wine and a couple of bowls.

This is my plight. So many lighting-fast lyrics to share, so little opportunity to release them in public.

Which, I’m sorry to say, is where you come in.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the next big musical genre – "blog hop":


Let’s do this thing, feel the sting of a gringo
My life’s so appealing with my wife and a Dingo
In Mexico
I delight as the wind blows
Surprises arise right outside of our window

The life of a king, yo
This land’s full of beauty
You’ll have to excuse me but I feel it’s my duty
It truly behooves me to pander and plug for
a country that’s more than a band full of drug lords
a country that’s more than just sand and green cacti
that stands for much more than fajitas and fat guys

The truth is the stats lie,
They ain’t worth a word
Mexico’s first world but painted as third
It’s tainted as dangerous, crappy, corrupt
Then explain how I came to be happy as fuck?

Yes, it’s cracking me up
How one’s set to go silent
about DC, Detroit but says Mexico’s violent
Yes, no denying it – there are drugs, here you’ll find it
But guess where they’re headed, and just guess who is buyin it?

I’m done with trash-talking and America-smacking
Don’t get hysterical, I wasn’t attacking
I like the U.S., but was happy when packing
America’s snappy, but in fact can be lacking
What is it lacking, you’re asking?
A few things
Americans make cash; Mexicans do things
Even when living on fumes and on shoe strings
They do fiestas, we do school shootings

In Mexico, you can see colors exploding
within inner cities with buildings eroding

You can taste food that elicits reflections
of American farms before testing injections
You’ll see raw religion deflecting repression
No see-saw depression over Wall Street’s recession

No Mexican stressing
They just don’t believe in
stress – it’s a blessing to get to be breathing
For me, who’s obsessive, such talk is outrageous
Though “no pasa nada” is awfully contagious

(Note from Miranda: “Thank god we’re only here for six months.")

A Tale of Two Ciudades

Now that Miranda and I have kicked our Scrabble habit cold turkey, our G.A.D.D.* has once again flared up.

(*Geographic Attention Deficit Disorder -- a chronic condition that causes the afflicted to frequently flit from place to place in uncontrollable fits of exploration. A.k.a., “Wanderlust”.)

Despite having barely scratched the surface of Puebla, we went on our first out-of-town excursion this past weekend. On Saturday, we boarded a bus that I thought was bound for Mexico City, but was actually pointed toward Cuernavaca (Miranda tricked me as part of a low-key Valentines adventure).

Cuernavaca was nicknamed the “City of Eternal Spring” by some nerdy German naturalist in the 1900s, and it was easy to see why as soon as we arrived. I disembarked the bus (yeah, we’ve learned to avoid driving like the plague or prime-time Leno) – overdressed in a sweatshirt and light jacket only to find temperatures that perennially stay in the 75-80 degree range. Not surprisingly, Cuernavaca is a favorite escape for citizens of nearby Mexico City as well as for non-Mexican tourists. With its warm, dry and stable climate and its abundant vegetation, Cuernavaca is like San Diego – sans the surfboards and stiff tits.

The bed & breakfast that Miranda had reserved online was a multi-level, mostly open-air home awash in orchids, violets and cacti – all protected by two attack Chihuahuas named Carmen Miranda and Coco Chanel. Bill, the proprietor, is a retired Arizona public high school art teacher with a seriously green thumb and a gourmand’s touch – a true renaissance man. It’s hard to say which was more delightful – Bill’s food or his flowers. The guy can make hibiscus grow out of a hand grenade, and a gourmet meal out of bread crumbs and butter. During our stay, Bill was so accommodating and hospitable, so helpful and humble, that it made it hard to not feel bad for secretly despising his two yipping bitches.

Upon arriving around 10 am, Bill gave us a quick tour of the place, then whipped us up what he would consider a quick snack and what you and I would consider an epicurean gem: A pan-roasted poblano pepper (sweet and smoky) with Spanish manchego cheese wrapped in a fresh corn tortilla, served with a plate of homemade tangerine bread. Thankfully, Bill is in his mid-60s, otherwise I might have returned from the trip wifeless.

As anxious as we were to venture out into the center of town that morning, we became highly engaged in conversation with Bill and his two other guests – a couple of cheerful ladies from Houston, about Bill’s age, who stayed at the B&B years back and have remained close friends with Bill ever since. While Miranda and I munched, Bill and the girls shared their favorite spots in Cuernavaca and beyond, asked us about our jobs, congratulated us on securing a six-month stint in Mexico, and demanded I send them a link to my blog. It was refreshing to encounter older Americans who embraced Mexico not as a trio of snowbirds but as passionate expats and travelers who detested bus tours and souvenir shops.

Around 11 pm, Miranda and I bid Bill and the ladies a fond adieu and made our way toward the city center. We quickly learned that to truly experience Cuernavaca, you need to peek behind the walls of the less-than-spectacular houses and buildings, as this town is all about its hidden courtyards and gardens. Many of the best restaurants and cafes are situated in terraces behind old converted homes, and many of those old homes once housed A-list Hollywood celebrities and mobsters back in Cuernavaca’s heyday. John Wayne, Rita Hayworth, Al Capone and Bugsy Segal all either lived in or frequently visited/hid out in Cuernavaca.

We visited the home of Robert Brady – a highly eccentric American artist and collector who used to hobnob with the who’s who of Hollywood at his extravagant pool/garden parties in the 1960s and 70s. Not a particularly accomplished artist, Brady it seems was more famous for being famous… and a player – a sort of Paris Hilton with a penis and paint brushes.

Brady died of cancer in Cuernavaca in 1986 after 26 years of swanking it up. His house and all its contents look exactly (more or less) as they did the day Big Bob bit the dust. And oh what contents there are. Upon purchasing the sprawling house in 1960, Brady transformed it into a private art and collectible museum. His eclectic collection occupies 14 rooms of the house, featuring art, crafts, antiques and archaeological tidbits from around the world. Save for the stories of Brady’s frequent bashes, the highlight of the house tour is the original "Self-Portrait with Monkey", painted by the one and only Frida Kahlo.

But the real pinnacle of our weekend was Sunday, when, upon Bill’s strong recommendation, Miranda and I hopped on a little bus and headed to a town called Tepoztlán – or, as I now like to call it, my future retirement home.

What looks like a combination of the Fourth of July, Mardi Gras and the mayor’s birthday to an American is just the street market on any given Saturday or Sunday in Tepoztlán. The lion’s share of streets and squares in the center of town are converted into a pedestrian playground of food stalls, flower stands, and cubicles of arts and crafts. Clotheslines of colorful banners flutter above in the breeze; a band of town elders toot tubas and trombones; mothers and fathers spin their children in the plaza as pigeons take cover; and the heart health of each citizen is tested every few minutes with the sudden explosion of petardos (firecrackers), tossed to amplify the merriment. (The petardos actually help identify the tourists, who flinch and clutch their chest or cover their ears upon detonation, while the locals remain unfazed by the blasts though enjoy pointing and laughing at each deafened gringo.)

As if this astonishing mix of colors and movement and sounds and smells wasn’t enough, the entire town of Tepoztlán is engulfed in jagged, pine-crusted mountains. Few things in life compare to sitting in an open-air food pavilion amid these mountains with your Valentine while a local septuagenarian street chef and her daughter prepare you an authentic blue-corn chicken quesadilla. I told the old woman who provided our amazing lunch that I had traveled to many places, but had seldom seen a town so enchanting and full of vitality. She smiled and said, “Que suerte que has viajado por el mundo” (“How lucky that you have traveled the world”). I told her that if I were from Tepoztlán, I might not have ever felt the need to.

Supposedly there are some famous remains of a temple built on top of a nearby Tepozteco mountain, but these remains were not visible from any angle of the Sunday market. Sure, we could have gone off the beaten path to explore the temple’s carcass, but this was a day dedicated not to relics and ruins, but to the living, to everything awake, laughing and alive.

Inside Out

It takes a while to develop any sort of rhythm once you move to a new country. All the activities that you take for granted in your homeland – conversing, shopping, driving, digesting – can present formidable challenges on a daily basis in a país nuevo. Without a healthy sense of humor and a surplus of Imodium AD, you will likely develop a habit of cutting yourself with salted tortilla chips as auto-punishment for your decision to expatriate.

Each exit from your apartment becomes an adventure. And while adventures can be highly invigorating, educational and life-affirming, history shows that they sometimes end badly. Had Captain Cook known that his exploration to Hawaii would lead to him being beaten, stabbed to death and dragged off by natives, he likely would have stayed home and traded his compass in for a cribbage board.

Once you venture over international borders, one wrong turn or one overlooked decimal place or one missing preposition can decimate a perfectly laid plan. Consequently, it’s not uncommon for newly arrived expats – with every intention of embracing the local/regional culture – to soon develop a strong desire to stay inside. Inside, you are the master of your domain, commander of your fate. Inside, you greatly decrease the chance that your cognitive development will be called into question. Inside, you virtually eliminate the chance that you will get lost. Inside, you will not get on – or get hit by – the wrong bus. Inside, there is no confusion over currency, no confrontation with freelance windshield washers, no police force extortion, and no hirsute soccer-obsessed macho men with chronic delusions of grandeur caused by mothers who named them Jesus.

What there is inside is Scrabble.

While Miranda and I came to Puebla to immerse ourselves in Poblano customs and traditions, such desires have recently been supplanted by the temptation of triple word scores and inventive uses of the letter Q. Scrabble is our crack cocaine, our connection to text that is second nature rather than second language. Whenever we sit on our couch and lay down six- and seven-letter American English masterpieces that intersect with other six- and seven-letter American English masterpieces, all the Spanish conditionals and subjunctives we’ve fumbled out on the streets and in restaurants begin to disintegrate. Since I am rather fluent in Spanish, I imagine that our Scrabble sessions are much more cathartic and self-affirming for Miranda. Nevertheless, I cannot deny that I, too, experience a gratifying sense of total lexicon domination when I throw down an X on a double or triple letter square moving in two directions. Fuck the fiesta down the street – I just got 62 points, biatch!

Help us. Help us please.

Miranda and I are well aware that we have a Scrabble problem, one that threatens not only our acclimation to Poblano life and language, but also our productivity in general. That’s not to say that we are Scrabble-haggard hermits; we do on occasion muster up the courage to leave our familiar flat, to willingly thrust ourselves into the cultural confusion four floors below. And often such explorations prove promising; however, typically after a couple of hours of popping into shops, snacking on regional treats and tripping over cobble stones, we both start to experience withdrawal tremors and rush back home to quell them with our daily fix of wooden letters.

Junkies, for sure, but ones for whom there is much hope for rehabilitation. I say this because lately, whenever I’m busy scanning the Scrabble board in search of the perfect home for a powerful word, I often catch Miranda gazing out the window at the rich historic city that surrounds us rather than using the time to construct a seven-letter gem of her own. I’m showing signs of recovery, too. Mid-game, my feelings of guilt over this city I’ve shunned are starting to supersede my obsession with torching my wife with a triple-syllabic strike.

The familiarity and comfort and English inside is starting to lose out to what we know is outside: Wonder, unpredictability and oddness. Outside, there are no neat little squares upon which we can set our letters. Outside, we receive no points for being clever, creative or crafty. Outside, we often stutter, stammer, slip up and fall flat.

Outside, we lose. We lose our bearings. We lose our pride. We lose our minds.

Which is exactly what we need.

When In Puebla, Do as the Romans Do

Puebla is quite well known for its beautifully maintained colonial architecture, its enviable climate, its stunning volcanoes, its mole sauce and its… spaghetti Bolognese?

Odd as it seems, there is a long Italian history here, which adds a welcomed touch of Italia to regional fiestas and, in particular, food. Manhattan transfers from Mott St. wouldn’t have to search long in Puebla to find a marinara sauce or a plate of gnocchi that rivals that of their dear old nonna.

In one nearby town, not only is the pizza and pasta delizioso, the residents – mostly descendents of Italian dairy farmers – speak Spanish with a decidedly Italian accent. Like Argentines, without the attitude and anger.

Some restaurants here get jiggy with it, experimenting with Mexi-talian fusion – artfully incorporating smoky poblano chiles and other regional treats into dishes that originated in the Old Country. Of course, there is such a thing as too Mexi-talian. I could see some cooks going overboard with the likes of barbacoa al fredo or squingili tacos.

The most interesting Mexi-talian meld that Miranda and I have encountered isn’t food at all; it’s our new friend, Tony. We met Tony our first week here while dining in his restaurant, Laberinto -- a wonderful little spot across the street from our apartment building. We were very much enjoying our inspired and surprisingly affordable Mexican-Asian dishes, when out popped a barrel of a man who looked one part David Crosby and one part Don Corleone. He solicited our opinion on what we had ordered, and I enthusiastically responded with “Está buenisimo!” -- not only because it was true, but because I didn’t want to wake up with a horse head in my bed.

Tony had lived in Queens for several years, just long enough to become proficient in New York English. “Foged aboudit” and “Ey, you’re talking to Tony” are part of his regular discourse when conversing with Americans. I prefer to speak with Tony in his native Spanish because, first of all, we are in his country, and secondly because it is less frightening. In Spanish, I feel like I’m getting to know a charming local character; in English, I feel like there’s a distinct chance I will get whacked if I say the wrong thing or speak out of turn. On the other hand, Miranda -- still finding her feet when speaking Spanish -- is thrilled to have met somebody with whom she can speak American, somebody who understands her sense of humor, and whose bilingual sister appreciates her Sex and the City references.

While menacing in appearance, Tony is a big teddy bear once you pay him protection money and compliment his menu. In all seriousness, the guy is aces in our book. Smart, very well traveled, funny as hell, and exceedingly large-hearted. For instance, when we went to dine at Laberinto the second time (just two days after our first meal there), Tony came and sat at our table and, after chatting for about 20-30 minutes, invited us to have brunch the next day at his mother’s restaurant in historic Puebla. Miranda, being a big fan of brunch, and myself, being a big fan of not rejecting suspected mafiosos, eagerly accepted his invitation.

The next day, Tony, in atypical Mexican form, arrived to pick us up in his car right when he said he would. He was joined by his wife, Feli (short for Felizidad, which means “happiness”), who doesn’t speak a lick of English. So on the ride to Tony’s mother’s restaurant, I spoke with Feli and Tony in Spanish, Miranda spoke with Tony in English and with Feli in smiles, and Miranda and I didn’t speak to each other at all, as we’ve been married for over a year now.

Tony parked the car on the street across from what I assumed was an historic museum or the estate of some famous Poblano official. Thus, I was surprised when Tony directed us into the incredible colonial building upon which my gaze had been fixed from the moment we had turned onto the street. “This is my mother’s restaurant,” he said matter-of-factly, then led us through the main dining room into a dimly lit, private cave-like area. We were either about to experience the most special brunch of our lives, or had just been led into a lair where unsuspecting Americans get turned into chorizo.

The answer was soon evident, as Tony’s gracious mother popped her head into our private cavern to greet us seconds after we had taken our seat.

Over the next hour or two, we met practically every member of Tony's clan, who showed up sporadically throughout the meal: His two sisters, his niece and nephews, his mother’s close friend, et. al. It was a delightful and largely multi-lingual crew, with English, German, Italian and, naturally, Spanish well represented. Even the kids spoke at least two languages -- each child the obvious product of the finest private education Poblano money can buy. Of course, Tony did a nice job of keeping the refinement and sophistication at bay with his frequent New York-inspired profanities. ¨Fuck” and “cock-sucker” were his verbal weapons of choice, though were never used aggressively or derisively. A master of not the Queen’s English but rather of Queens English.

The whole experience at Tony’s mother’s restaurant epitomized a quote I once saw on a chef friend of mine’s refrigerator:

“When you dine alone, you feed the body; when you dine with friends, you nourish the soul.”

After the meal with Tony and family, Miranda’s soul and mine nearly vomited from overconsumption. Such regal treatment from near strangers was a wonderfully shocking contrast to the crazed drivers and crooked cops who greeted us when we first arrived in Puebla.

And there was still more warmth and kindness awaiting us. Following brunch, Tony issued a death threat when I tried to pay our bill, then took us on a tour of the establishment along with Feli and his sisters. Abstract paintings and lithographs produced by a personal friend of Tony’s peppered the impossibly thick stone walls of the restaurant -- creating a captivating marriage of traditional and modern. Exposed beams and ancient bricks bled a rich history all over the place. And just when we thought things couldn’t get better in terms of architecture and ambiance, we were led up a winding wrought iron staircase to an area that will soon be home to six spectacular guest rooms. I told Tony that I want Miranda and I to be the first guests -- paying guests -- once the upstairs inn is open for business. Tony just smiled, probably because he could see the unbridgeable gap between what a room would cost and -- based on my non-Italian shoes -- what I could afford.

During the tour, Tony’s sisters uttered several earnest “if you ever need anything”s to Miranda and me. I was beginning to wonder if maybe these people had mistaken us for a couple of Americans who actually mattered. But I soon came to accept the fact that Tony and his family simply take great pride in making everyone around them feel comfortable and welcomed. Just like real New Yorkers, only the opposite.

Our day with Tony ended with him taking us to the best grocery store in the city (earlier I had mentioned that I was looking for something other than a Walmart or Mega for my own culinary creations). He walked with us, pointing out the best produce, fish and poultry. He took us up and down aisles showcasing the finest gourmet items. If MySpace still mattered today, I would have hurried home, sent Tony a friend request and, upon his acceptance of said request, moved him to the forefront of my Top 10 list. Finally, I had met another heterosexual male who could become aroused over fresh basil, natural beef, whole red snapper, and imported canned tuna in olive oil.

Tony just gets me.

During the ride home, Miranda and I mentioned that we were looking forward to our first visit to Mexico City together. From the back seat, I could see Tony’s eyes open wide enough to fill the rear view mirror. “You have to let me show you Mexico City. Nobody knows it like I do.”

“That would be great,” I replied. “But would you be able to get away from the restaurant for an entire weekend?”

Tony laughed. “What are you, kiddin me? I’m the fucking boss!”

Nobody’s arguing that, mi amigo.