Buen Provecho!

What the Poblanos (the people of Puebla) lack in road rules, Netflix and Asian food, they more than make up for in manners. Especially at meal time. Almost to an extreme.

Miranda and I were sitting in a café a few mornings ago, and when our breakfast arrived, the man eating alone a few tables over looked at us and shouted, “Buen provecho!” (the Spanish equivalent of “bon appetit”). The man looked relatively normal, though obviously suffered from Tourette syndrome or some type of brain lesion. I mean, as charming as the action is, who yells such things at strangers in a restaurant?

Minutes later, another man walked into the café and, as he passed us on his way to the pastry counter, smiled and said, “Buen provecho,” then continued on.

What is wrong with these people? In the U.S. (on the East Coast, at least) you could get seriously killed, or worse, for telling a complete stranger to enjoy his meal. We Americans generally feel that we have the right to have a disappointing dinner, to brood over breakfast, or to lament over lunch if we so choose. We certainly don’t need to have our personal conversational space invaded by any Juan, Dick or Harry who feels compelled to tell us how to experience our food.

The nerve.

Only, the thing is, here in Puebla you quickly start to get used to it, enjoy it – even look forward to and expect it. And the real transformation comes when you, yourself, actually build up the confidence to do it to somebody else. It requires stripping yourself of years of American “leave-me-alone-and-I’ll-do-the-same-ness”, but once you do, and the first proactive “Buen provecho!” leaps out of your mouth and into the ears of Mexican diners you’ve never met and will likely never speak to again, something inside you will have changed. A warmth of heart and spirit will overtake you, and you will suddenly realize that being a cold, uptight American a-hole in public isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

I’m not saying I’m going to rush back to the States to spit “Enjoy your meal” at strangers all over the place (especially not New York or Boston); however, I might – if I’m drunk enough and see that I have a straight shot to the restaurant exit – test one out at a friendly Texas barbeque joint, or, to be even safer, at a nursing home cafeteria in Kansas.

Skylines, Drives and Bribes

Now that Miranda and I have had a week or so to settle in, let me describe our domicile here in Puebla, minus the half-empty cardboard boxes and scattered cat toys that currently cover most of the square meterage.

We were lucky enough to receive – without asking – an apartment upgrade in the recently constructed building that houses our fourth-floor abode. The upgrade came in the form of a much improved view – that of the Puebla cityscape and surrounding volcanic mountains, instead of the parking lot and uninspired cathedral we had seen from the apartment that had been pitched to us during a pre-move visit. Me being an atheist and a telecommuter, neither parking nor priests move me much. Give me a panorama of stucco, steel and snow caps over an eyeful of asphalt and Jesús any day of the week. God bless our rental agent.

In addition to us being the benefactors of a magnificent and divinely secular vista, the modern furniture rental package we had chosen a while back turned out to be much more stylish in person than it had appeared online. Not exactly our taste to a tee, but much better than expected, except for the humongous and clunky glass-top dining table that eats up our entrance and encroaches on our living room. We can’t decide whether to consume our meals on it or rent it out to local corporations looking for a place to hold their conferences.

We only hope that we survive long enough to truly experience the comfort of our casa and the beauty of our views. I say this because driving in Puebla puts outsiders like us at serious risk of cardiac arrest or collision – or both – every time we take the wheel. Automakers in the Mexican market should save themselves the trouble of installing turn signals, as they get used here about as often dental floss does in England. Instead, the automakers should take the cash they save from eliminating turn signals and use it to equip each car with a polyurethane coating to protect drivers and pedestrians.

That being said, there is an explanation for the reckless road habits down here: Most Mexicans, you see, are true professional Catholics (not just weekend warriors like in the States), and they feel confident that, in return for their religious dedication and frequent donations, God will protect them from massive head trauma and crushed sternums.

It all makes me miss the deadly cliff-side roads described in my previous post.

Adding to our driving aversion in Puebla is an entrepreneurial traffic police force that seems intent on turning extortion into an Olympic sport. I’m not suggesting that all traffic cops here are corrupt; just the ones who are currently alive. In a way, their dedication to pulling over and collecting (read: strongly encouraging) bribes from motorists – particularly those with American plates – is noble. These Mexican cops no doubt take their illegal earnings and donate them to the church to help pay the sculptors who specialize in constructing solid gold messiahs.

On our second night in Puebla, Miranda and I had the good fortune of experiencing first-hand the artistry with which the city’s traffic police practice their craft. We had made a left turn on a green light at an intersection that was clear of oncoming traffic – a highly legal maneuver in the U.S. – only to find out from the motorcycle-riding man in blue who stopped us that in Mexico, you can only turn left at such intersections when you have a green arrow. We apologized, explaining that the rule was different in the U.S. and that it was our first full day in Puebla. The cop smiled and was quite sympathetic, but wasn’t about to lose out on his donation money. He started to write me a ticket, then paused and asked himself out loud, “Hmmm, te doy una multa, o no?” (“Do I give you a ticket, or not?”). Naturally, I chose option B, since taking option A meant handing over my International Driver’s License, then reporting to some city office somewhere to pay the roughly $90 fine to get it back. Option B, on the other hand, entailed taking the cop’s hint and digging into my wallet to make a cheaper and easier transaction (about $50) right then and there, with the added bonus of getting to hold on to my license.

(Interjection by Miranda: “Greg has neglected to mention that with only a 200 peso note ($17) in his wallet, the police officer kindly escorted us to the closest ATM machine so that we could be a little more generous with our donation. In all the excitement, Greg withdrew the cash and left his bank card in the machine. It was not until we had returned home that we realized this, and made a quick dash back to the bank -- making several illegal left turns along the way -- only to find that the card was gone!")

Miranda, shush. ...So, the cop was happy, I was happy, and, most importantly, by not taking a stand against the illicit activity, I helped to ensure that a longstanding tradition – one that adds such color and nuance to the city’s culture – remained firmly intact.

Far be it from an American to come in here and start ruining things.


Note from El Gringo: Before you start judging this town based on the aforementioned and somewhat unsavory encounter with the Poblano police, be sure to read my next blog (soon to come) – one that will feature prominently the extraordinary kindness, warmth and grace for which the Poblano citizens are known. For real.

Passport to Puebla – Part 2

In the words of the immortal John Lennon, “Life is what happens to you when you are busy making other plans -- while driving through Mexico.”

Soon after we left the parking lot of the monolithic vehicle permit building in Nuevo Laredo, Dingo started to go stir crazy. He was squirming non-stop inside his carrying case, repeatedly letting out a cry that could best be described as that of a cow in labor. Miranda remembered the handful of cat sedatives the vet had given us for the long ride. However, after careful consideration, we decided we would save Dingo’s drugs for us.

I was doing most of the driving, thus it was Miranda – with Dingo perched on her lap – who had to bear the brunt of his continuous case-shaking contortions. (Miranda couldn’t drive too much during the trip because she’d been having contact lens/eye problems that impacted her depth perception and made objects look more invisible than they actually were).

Dingo finally fell asleep, as did Miranda, and we reached Monterrey a few hours later. There was still a bit of daylight, but I had learned during my pre-trip research that driving at night in Mexico is more dangerous than driving drunk, and as dangerous as attending a U.S. public school. The night-driving danger is not – as the American media would have you believe – due to American-hunting banditos, kidnappers or drug lords; rather it’s due to the unmarked 8-inch high speed bumps that frequently break axles and render cars immobile, thus making you easy pickings for the American-hunting banditos, kidnappers and drug lords.

Banditos, kidnappers and drug lords don’t kill Americans; speed bumps do.

So, we found a familiar hotel chain in the middle of Monterrey (a city surrounded by gorgeous mountains and immense rock formations), and I checked us in while Miranda smuggled our wild Australian dog of a cat around the side entrance of the hotel and into the elevator lobby. We got to our room, let the cat out of the bag, showered, then each put on the same underwear we had worn all day. Neither of us had implemented a very wise undergarment initiative – all our unmentionables were buried in suitcases beneath suitcases beneath boxes in the back of the Honda. We abandoned Dingo in the room, grabbed a cab, had a nice dinner, came home, watched some TV, took Dingo’s sedatives and went to sleep.

We reversed the cat smuggling maneuver the next morning to get Dingo back into the CRV to avoid incurring any wrath/fines from the hotel desk clerk, and were back on the road around 6:50 am. We were back on the road going in the right direction around 7:15 am.

Just 9 more hours until our final destination. (Insert sound of Mexican Highway 85 gods laughing here.)

The morning drive was relatively uneventful, save for Dingo’s occasional conniption. A couple of hours in, Miranda – growing tired of her baby’s fits – decided to test the aforementioned sedative out on Dingo. It was supposed to take only 45 minutes to an hour to take effect, but even two hours later Dingo was still conscious and crabby.

We arrived in Ciudad Victoria around 11 am and stopped to have an early lunch. While ordering our food, we asked a woman how far it was to Puebla. “Doce horas, mas o menos” (“12 hours, more or less”) was her reply, which, of course, prompted me to ask her how she had managed to obtain crack so far down in Mexico. She’d obviously been hitting the pipe hard, since by my calculations we were a mere 5 maybe 6 hours – not 12 – from Puebla.

Long story less long, there were a couple of little things I hadn’t factored in (and no Internet site had revealed) when calculating the length of our drive from Austin to Puebla: 1) A change from 2 or3 lanes to a single lane on Highway 85 (the only “major” road to Puebla) halfway into the trip; and 2) 122 miles of crazy steep and winding mountain road through the Sierra Madre Oriental range, the beginning of which, we learned, we wouldn’t even reach until about 5 pm that evening.

We spent the remainder of the day swearing at and attempting to pass –sometimes successfully – the numerous big rigs and slow pokes we caught up to on the single lane “highway”. Around 2 pm, we realized that we’d be lucky to make it to Tamazunchale before dark, which would put us about 6-7 hours outside of Puebla – thus requiring another overnight stay.

But then the impatience ceased. About an hour and a half outside of Tamazunchale, our sighs of frustration and exhaustion were replaced by loud oohs and ahhs over the startling scenery surrounding us on all sides. The passive plains gave way to rugged foothills, which soon gave way to dense mountain jungle (Miranda likened it to Maui). The road continually rose and spiraled, the ever-inspiring views rendering us speechless (yes, even me) for most of the remaining ride into Tamazunchale, where we arrived suddenly refreshed just as the sun was setting and Dingo was becoming dormant.

Though not thrilled to have to add another day of travel to our trip, we were quite excited to be staying in such a charming little town nestled in the mountains. We drove up the main avenue and picked out the best looking hotel we could find – a rather modern yellow stucco structure about 5-6 stories high. Unlike the chain hotel the night before in Monterrey, this place had no side entrance, so while I was checking in, Miranda slipped in with Dingo’s carrying case covered by a pillow; and I coughed to mask any meowing that might occur.

The dark and dingy room did not deliver on what the bright, clean lobby had promised, but we couldn’t be bothered; it had a double bed and a bathroom – all we really needed to propel us into the final day of driving. After a little Dingo play time, we left the room and took a walk through the town that, sadly, had its earlier mountain views erased by the night. We chose a restaurant that didn’t have food poisoning on the menu, dined, then hurried back to the room to spoil Dingo a bit before bedtime.

When we arrived, Dingo popped his head out of the bathroom and started to walk toward us, but his front legs kept crossing, causing him to stumble several times. He looked more like Charles Bukowski after a bender than a cat, and our first terrified thought was that he had ingested rat poisoning or some other caustic chemical he had found in the room while we were out. I picked him up and saw that his eyes were completely glazed over, and just as the panic started to set in, I remembered the sedative we had force fed him 8 hours earlier.

A delayed effect if I ever saw one. Miranda was still not fully convinced it was the sedative that was causing Dingo’s disorientation; nevertheless, our panic soon switched to pointing and laughing at our plastered cat. He slept with us all night, more or less immobile, then, upon waking in the morning still groggy and goofy-footed, Dingo swore he would never take drugs again.

Miranda and I couldn’t wait to get back on the road. We quickly dressed, though were confronted with the same underwear issue as the day before. Commando was certainly an option, but considering the treachery of the winding highway that awaited us – and the 40%-50% chance of getting into a serious accident after which the paramedics would find us underwear-less, thus embarrassing our mothers – we opted to go for three days in a row in the same skivvies. Only this time, Miranda wore mine and I wore hers, just to mix things up a bit.

It was 6:30 am. Barring any major wrong turns or skids off one of the guardrail-less cliffs, we were set to arrive in Puebla around 2:30 or 3:30 pm. The cliff risk was a real concern. You’ve never seen a mountain highway like this. The driving danger is doubled or tripled by the stunning scenery – colossal peaks, impossible crags, and fog-flooded valleys that steal your attention from a road that requires every last bit of it if you hope to avoid pulling a Jackson Pollack off a precipice. We were at once astonished and terrified by what unfolded outside our windshield for five straight hours; this inconceivable corner of Mexico, this fierce display of nature that could make even the most devout atheist experience an identity crisis.

We finally emerged from the mountains around 11:30 am. We could practically taste Puebla, and were thrilled to be able to press the throttle and shoot down straight-ways for the first time that morning. We grabbed some lunch about an hour later, and then headed down the home stretch – relatively on schedule for the first time all trip.

Armed with detailed directions provided by our rental agent, Olga, we cruised into Puebla, took all the right exits (more or less) and pulled up to our apartment building at 3:30 pm, transformed by an unforgettable journey and eager to take our place among the Poblano populace, as well as to put on some clean underwear.

Note from El Gringo: Fear not, fair readers; I am quite aware that you all have busy lives that preclude you from reading such lengthy posts on a regular basis. Now that we’re here in Puebla (ok, we got here a week ago), the extended descriptions of a long journey have come to an end. Going forward, I’ll try to keep each post tied to the present and relatively brief – short enough not to rob you of your nights and weekends, but long enough to satisfy my inflated sense of self-importance.

Passport to Puebla -- Part 1

A three-hour delay at the border due to a paperwork problem. Hundreds of sinister speed bumps that tried yet thankfully failed to obliterate our shocks and alignment. Five consecutive hours of precarious S-curves through the Mexican mountains. An inaccessible suitcase containing all our clean underwear. And one angry orange tabby that, throughout the three-day journey, masticated and slashed at the mesh walls of his cramped carrying case while repeatedly meowing “motherfuckers!” at his road-weary mom and dad.

Despite all these obstacles and annoyances, Miranda and I arrived at our destination – Puebla, Mexico – still enthusiastic about our 5-6-month adventure, still friends with our feline, and still married.

Now, I’ve never been one to dwell on the negative, unless I’m awake. However, some of the misadventures – humorous in hindsight – that marked our journey are odd and entertaining enough to warrant elaboration.

First, a little build-up.

Those of you who know me well know that, while I have my shining moments of spontaneity and free spiritedness, I’m a fan of planning and preparedness when it comes to the big things. Weeks prior to our departure, I contacted just about every organization and agency one could contact to obtain information on trouble-free Mexican border-crossing with a cat and a car. I spoke to three people from the Mexican consulate in Austin, several Mexican car insurance agencies, AAA, the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles, CarMax Auto Financial (the folks who actually own our Honda CRV and from whom we needed a letter of permission to drive over the border), and our veterinarian (from whom we needed a certificate stating that our cat, Dingo, was unlikely to infect or eat anybody in Mexico).

I checked and double-checked what documents Miranda and I needed to present to the border bouncers in order to gain easy access to their motherland, as well as what fees we could expect to pay upon arrival in Nuevo Laredo. Prior to packing up and exiting Austin, I boasted to Miranda that I had gained enough knowledge to write an e-book on "Moving to Mexico".

Only, as it turns out, had I written said e-book, it would have been missing one vital page – the one that clearly explains that you must have an original copy (isn’t that an oxymoron?) of your vehicle registration if you hope to gain access to the big fiesta below our border. We did not have said document in our glove compartment because my wife, who shall remain nameless, unwittingly threw it out when it came in the mail with the registration sticker for the vehicle months back.

Fortunately, my fluency in Spanish enables me to beg and plead quite proficiently with Mexican public officials. Unfortunately, the Mexican public officials with whom I begged and pleaded in the Nuevo Laredo vehicle permit department didn’t give two tacos about our plight, and callously sent us back to the Obama side of the border to obtain a temporary vehicle registration. Lucky for us, the Laredo DMV was located just a few blocks from the border. (Don’t think I’m not aware of how absurd it is to combine “lucky for us” and “DMV” in the same sentence.)

So Miranda and I joined the line of Mexicans who were heading north en masse. We stood out in the crowd not only because we were the only Americans crossing the U.S. border by foot (no hung-over college kids were to be seen), but also because I was the only person in line carrying a cat. In addition, since it was drizzling lightly, I had popped the hood of my black hoodie over my head, causing many a Mexican to watch and wonder why Eminem would be crossing the border as a cat-carrying pedestrian.

Of course, the U.S. border patrol folks wondered the same thing when it came time for us to flash our passports. But the woman who eyed our little blue booklets must have been either too tired to bother to make full sense of our story, or must have been a big rap fan, as she gave us the green light to pass through, cat and all.

We quickly learned that carrying a cat into a DMV will generally elicit even more raised eyebrows than carrying one over the U.S./Mexico border. First there are the suspicious looks of the guards working the security checkpoint, then those of the always jovial DMV employees. Nevertheless, we got the document we needed in exchange for a mere $10, let out a huge collective sigh of relief, left the DMV and got on line to cross back over to the Mexican border. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Half an hour later we had our vehicle permit and our tourist visas, jumped back into the Honda and continued on our journey down to Puebla, which we – quite mistakenly – estimated to be roughly 12-13 hours away.

(Part 2 of our journey down to Puebla will be coming soon -- I just wanted to give readers something to chew on while we are busy unpacking and bribing members of the Puebla police department. More on the latter in a later installment.)