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.