Rebeca la Exploradora

Soaking it all in

I dedicate this entry to my dad and his iPhone.

Isn’t it true that weather reports never fail? That is that they never fail to be wrong. (Oh snap! Need some scattered showers for that burn, weather.com?)* The forecast for Ixtapa had promised me thunderstorms, yet in the weeks that I’ve been here there have been only two days when the sun didn’t show up to work. But I don’t blame the guy. Like moths to an ultraviolet flame, visitors are drawn to Ixtapa/Zihuatanejo’s unbeatable (and inescapable) sunny climate, which means that the star of our solar system** hardly ever gets a day off.

With so much sunshine, it’s easy to lose track of time, and it’s hard to believe that I’ve been here almost a month. So aside from getting the most out of my melanin and saving a nest of baby sea turtles (Truth!), what else has my Vitamin D-infused Jacque Cousteau self been up to?

Cue photomontage.

Eating. It’s what I do. Said the girl who will probably eat her words as soon as her metabolism says, “That’s it, gluttonchops. I’ve had enough!”

At the "mercado" putting those "tacos de carnitas" where they belong. You’re welcome, stomach.

  

A culinary experiment that would make Ferrán Adria blush.  

 

 

"Del mar" (From the sea)

 

 

 "A tu paladar" (To your palate) with no stops on the way.

  

Surfing. I’ve mastered the art of wiping out.

Heading to my first surf lesson at Playa Linda.

  

A souvenir from surfing at Saladita. Those rocks were in fact as hard as they looked.

  

Earning brownie points. This past week I volunteered as an interpreter for the Mission of Healing Eyes, a non-profit that provides free eye care for people in Guerrero.*** Each morning the waiting room was filled with patients, and the day wasn’t over until each patient had been seen. By the end of the week, over a thousand eye exams had been given and more than 200 cataract surgeries had been performed. I even spent time in the operating room, which confirmed that 1) I hope I never need cataract surgery, but 2) if I do I’m asking for Dr. Jim Conahan. The man put a stitch in an eyeball for crying out loud! And that’s just one example of how all of the Healing Eyes members were scrub-wearing superheroes. 

 

(Healing Eyes photos by Margaret Reid)

*Yes, you should be embarrassed for me. 

**See above comment.

***Check them out: www.healingeyes.webs.com

 

Being my shadow ain't so bad.

Not only does it get to go everywhere I go (fo' free!), it also never has to worry about tan lines.

Ixtapa with the padre. I know what you're thinking, and yes, those are my real guns.

 Keep up, shadow!

Rolling two deep at Deep Eddy in Austin.

Taking it to the streets in Barcelona.

Shadow puppets in Santorini.

 Santorini Take 2.

 

Fighting the Big C one shadow pic at a time. (Race for the Cure)

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly*

The Good

For the first time in my life, I had a chile en nogada. Not for the first time in my life, I fell in love with food. Though its appearance may be slightly off-putting at first (What? A chile covered in herpes! Ahem, I mean, pomegranate seeds!), any doubts are overwhelmingly dismissed as soon as the initial bite hits your tongue. Hit is in fact too strong a word for, though the flavors are rich, it is a delicate, harmonious combination. (Oh my Pablo Neruda! I’m starting to get poetic.) On the outside, the poblano pepper is bathed in a creamy walnut sauce and sprinkled with tart pomegranate seeds, adding dimension to the overall tender texture. Cut into the pepper, and you uncover a mix of ground meat and fruit all heavily seasoned. Now, pair the sweet with the savory and the end result is a plate with no remaining evidence.

Also, the green, white and red combo? Intentional. Mexicans are so clever. Since I’m only half-Mexican, I am only half as clever and must thank Wikipedia for pointing out that I was in fact eating the Mexican flag. If there had been a nopal with an eagle on top of the poblano, I’m sure I would’ve figured it out on my own.

 

The Bad

Today I leave for Ixtapa, a beach town on the Pacific, where sand, surf, and sun form the Ixtapa trinity. Which is why I found it blasphemous when this 10-day forecast dared to contradict my faith in the place. On the bright side, I might get to witness a tropical storm!

I’m just kidding; there is no bright side. Not even metaphorically speaking.

 

The Ugly

The picture says it best, but let me explain. A few days before the 15^th of September, I went downtown to admire the nighttime illuminations in the zócalo (the main plaza). Vendors selling patriotic paraphernalia stood at every corner. It just so happened that I stumbled across the corner that was selling glitter-covered green, white and red cowboy hats. As a born and raised Texan with no deep sentimental ties to the state as well as a half-Mexican, who only owns a US passport, I obviously had no choice but to buy the afore described and depicted sparkle-slathered ten-gallon Mexican flag, which, it should be stressed, looked much better in the dark. And now I have no clue on how to bring this "work of art" home with me. Actually, that’s a lie because I know the answer is to wear the elephant on my head. I’m just not ready to face that fact.

*Though I have never seen The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, I bet Clint Eastwood wears a hat just like this in it!

Testing the waters but not drinking them*

Time for a product review. One worthy of Yelp since that’s what my mouthwash made me do the first time I tried it. I couldn’t even endure 10 seconds before desperately trying to get it as far away from me as my spit trajectory would allow. Unfortunately, that’s the opposite of what happened. The ladylike composure that I am oh-so famous for failed me, and I successfully covered half of my chin in Astringosol. (Even the name sounds violent!) 

**

Now, that’s when the real tingling sensation kicked in as my skin started to sting, and I worried about a possible chemical peel.

The food is spicier. The same must apply to dental products.

Yep, that was my logical reasoning.

Not until a week of searing mouth abuse later did I think to read the back of the bottle. There it was under Use of Instruction—dilute with water. I don’t know what hurt more--my lips from the bit of undiluted mouthwash I had just spewed or the slap I gave my forehead for realizing that I’m a dumbastringosol.

Moral of the story? Stick to American products.

No, that’s obviously not true at all. In fact, this unnecessarily painful experience represents my slow learning curve as I grow accustomed to life in Mexico City.

I can only hope that my adjustment period is nowhere as sluggish as Mexico City traffic. Holy bible! Not even Moses could part this sea of cars. Even with government laws restricting which license plates can circulate on certain days, streets still end up looking like parking lots. When a week had passed, and I had yet to see my cousins, I began to entertain the idea that they were avoiding me.*** Turns out they were just avoiding traffic.

To meet my cousins in the northern part of town, I can expect to spend a solid hour and a half in transit from Tlalpan, where I live in the south of the city. (And I used to think driving from Dallas to Plano was a lengthy commute.)

Adding to the chaos of rush hour is the fact that traffic rules are ruled out. Though most news stories about Mexico report on the sadistic attacks from the drug war, I’m more afraid of being hit by a car. I’ve started a collection of unexpected traffic sightings. So far I’ve seen cars drive the opposite way down one-way streets and a bus make a left-hand turn... from the far right lane.

Public transit is often the way to go, assuming you know which way to go. I feel fairly confident riding the Metrobus. It’s the actual metro in the center of the city that I have yet to decipher. It also doesn’t help that my grandmother keeps filling my ears with exaggerated tales of what happens to girls who travel the metro alone. (Spoiler alert: It never ends well for the girl.)

These are words that I’m determined to ignore**** because the downtown, with its abundant cultural attractions of palaces, museums and shows, is very much worth exploring. The cobblestone streets and ornate buildings are evidence of the influence Europe once had on the country. With such historic architecture, it’s hard to believe that Mexico and the US share the same continent when Mexico makes the US look like a prepubescent child. 

Speaking of prepubescent children, that’s exactly how I/my liver felt as I celebrated the 15 de septiembre (El Grito  or the night before Mexico’s Independence Day) with my cousins. Four years of college and I still was not prepared for the night. But that’s another story for a less public medium.

 

*I keep forgetting that you're not supposed to drink the tap water here. Fortunately, Nonna is always there to smack the ice tray out of my hands right after I've filled it from the faucet. 

**Thumbs up to the most distorted thumbs down in the history of my hand.

***If I knew someone who was unable to use mouthwash correctly, I too wouldn’t actively seek her company. 

****Not ignore as I did the back of the Astringosol bottle, but rather not obsess over, as is my approach towards nutritional labels.

Pick your poison

Done.

For that is in fact chocolate in a Ziploc labeled “biohazard specimen.” When I first spotted the plastic bag on a shelf in my mother’s pantry, my eyes immediately registered the contents and then the outside warning. Which means I had already plopped a few chocolate chips into my mouth before noticing its uncharacteristic packaging. If this has been an attempt to dissuade me from eating so much chocolate, then I am proud to say that it has failed, Dr. Mom! (The bag was see-through after all!) If you’re going to make me feel guilty for eating what I love, then just know that you and dad created this Frankenstein-meets-Cookie Monster when you woke me up with a plate of chocolate chip cookies for breakfast every morning* and tucked me in with a Carlos V chocolate bar every night.

Actually, to say that I love chocolate would be like telling a 4 year-old kid that Santa doesn’t exist. It would be wrong. And a boldfaced lie. (Everyone knows Ol’ Nick is just lazy. Which is why he invented parents to help him on Christmas. And then on the seventh day he rested because, like I said, he’s lazy. All those years of Catholic schooling...is what my parents are thinking.)

The point of this pointless tale is that I am addicted to chocolate. So addicted that I have followed the Carlos V wrappers back to where they and all chocolate products owe their origin—

Hello, Mexico!

Warning: The following paragraphs may contain material that is inappropriate for vegetarians. Vegan discretion is advised.

So it might be surprising to hear that I have yet to savor the smallest bit of cacao since I arrived. Granted, I flew in Saturday, and today is Monday, but for someone who downs more chocolate than glasses of water daily, that’s a pretty big—dilemma!  I can feel the cold sweats starting! I can also feel this entry taking another unforeseen turn into tangent territory so back to the part where I haven’t touched the dark stuff because I have been too preoccupied devouring cuisine that would put hair on Andrew Zimmern’s baldhead.

My first meal in Mexico was prepared by my adoring grandmother Irene (aka Nonna). On the menu—chicarron en salsa verde, tacos de barbacoa y frijoles. English translation? Good and gone.**

Yesterday, I awoke to my uncle making pancakes. Yes, I am in Mexico, and I can prove it because they were served in a tortilla warmer.

After a visit to the Museo Dolores Olmedo (one of Diego Rivera’s lovers), we went to Xochimilco to grab a bite. Our server took it upon himself to give each quesadilla a personal touch as he fondled nearly every ingredient with his barehand before sprinkling it on the homemade tortilla. Hey, if Nonna, whose name is a not-too-distant synonym for hypochondriac, wasn’t going to complain then neither was I. Besides, we’re all Mexican. (Isn’t that how immune systems work?) So bring on the quesadillas! And I’m not referring to a tortilla and cheese combo. The first one I inhaled was with huitlacoche (corn fungus). Delicioso. I was still hungry so I ordered another, this one with sesos. Because nothing cures hunger quite like a brain quesadilla. Something to recommend to Chipotle when I return.

 

*Okay, not every morning. Every other morning. Until I was 18. Curse you, college, for severing my chocolate coated umbilical cord!

** Fried pigskin in green salsa, shredded sheep tacos and beans.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

No thanks, Bill. Not if you’re comparing me to a summer day in Texas. Simon Cowell has shown more sympathy than the Texas heat. In the three weeks spent in Oregon, I had easily erased the infernal Texas weather from my memory only to be brutally greeted with a heat wave as soon as I returned to the heart of the state. 

Though the state of my own heart may not be at its healthiest—my Oregon “diet” consisted of oyster po’ boys and an entire jar of Nutella*—the trip was salubrious in other ways. Oregon, specifically my grandmother’s beach house, is a refreshingly calm place. It had been about six years since I visited, and it felt as if nothing had changed. With the exception that this time my sister and I were finally able to dethrone my grandmother as the ruler of the Scrabble board!

I say that with absolutely no sarcasm, people. If you’ve never played my grandmother in Scrabble, then you don’t know the things I’ve seen. (She’s the only woman I know who has earned the title great-grandmother without having any great-grandchildren. What can I say? The lady has some mean Scrabble skills.)

Once, when I was sure the game was mine for the taking, my calculating opponent turned things around completely. And I wish I were simply referring to the action of spinning the Lazy Susan on which the board rested. Instead I must divulge that this matriarch surpassed my sure-to-win score by laying down three wooden tiles.

Now, my single reader,** you must be wondering exactly what word she played. Well, if you can believe it, the winning word was pee.  Not urinate (7 points) or tinkle (10 points) or, if you had a blank tile, wizz (15 points), but pee. Yep, only my savvy granny could turn a 5-point word into nearly 50. (Placement is everything.) So with a word that is more commonly associated with breaking the seal, my fate had been sealed and my victory had gone down the drain. (Okay, that’s the end of the roll in regards to bathroom humor.)

But as I said, this story has a happy ending. The MendizABLE sisters eventually succeed in winning against the Scrabble goliath. We came; we saw; and we concurred that the secret to Scrabble success is to never go first, which is why we had no qualms about giving our dearest “Ita” seniority. (Unfortunately, she insisted we abide by the rules so we always drew a tile to see who started. Like Russian roulette with letters.)

We played so much Scrabble during my visit that I can no longer look at a word without mentally calculating how many points it would be worth. If it is lower than 10, I try not to use utilize it.***

Holy guacamole! I have talked so much about the game that I’m actually at a loss for words. I fear my cool thermometer  will soon shoot through the roof! (And the real estate market is already bad enough.) I had intended to write about my most recent trip to Austin and my upcoming trip to Mexico (which is this Saturday), but I'll save that gem for later. ***

 

*Once again, I single handedly/spoonfully managed to deplete a full jar of Nutella of all of its contents in about a week’s time. Please, hold your applause.

**I am indeed referring to thee, Mikay!

***use = 3 points, utilize = 16 points. Plus 50 for using all 7 letters. So 66 points. Cha-ching!

**** Translation: You’re bored, and I’m bored from talking about game boards; and now this is just overboard.

 

If you give a shark a cookie...

Make sure it’s with your non-dominant arm.

 

As of today, I’ll be Oregone for three weeks. I'll say hello to the double-digit temperatures for y'all Texas folk. Maybe I can bring them back as a souvenir.  

 

Happy Shark Week.

 

“Qué” means what?

One question: What?

What happened to the summer? What am I going to do once it’s over? And most pressingly, what will I be eating for dinner?

Scratch that last question. For once, food is not claiming the top spot among my thoughts. (But I’m so loyal to it that I still felt the need to mention it.)

I just looked at a calendar and realized that it is already the 21^st of the month. After doing some basic arithmetic (which I couldn’t have done without the help of ten extremities. Well technically, 9.5 since one is badly bruised from losing an unfairly matched thumb war with the car door), I had to swallow the unnerving truth: only 12 more days until I leave for Oregon.

That means 12 days to move, pack, and say, “That’ll do, pig”* to the place that I’ve grown more attached to in four years than the previous 18 spent in Dallas. (No offense Dallas, but you’re the scissors and Austin is the rock.)

Most people don’t know this about me, but I’m not an exceptionally serious person. I tend to avoid any degree of gravity (unless we’re talking about roller-skating. See "Time flies" entry for reference.) like I avoid counting calories. That’s right, I eat without thinking about any repercussions in both scenarios.

So to follow in the footsteps of a man who personified solemnity, I will now acknowledge the importance of being earnest. When I tell people that I’m going to Mexico, they usually ask, “Why? What are you going to do there?” To which I reply, “Well, I don’t really know, but hopefully…” and then fill in some productive-sounding verb.  But I have finally, by borrowing the words of Oscar Wilde, reached a definitive answer. I will be doing “the rarest thing in the world.” (Sounds important, right? Fake drum roll, please!) Basically, I will be living.** Or to paraphrase a compadre of mine, I will be doing whatever I want, while practicing my non-native tongue.

I might have to seriously consider rewording that for my résumé later… See! I can be serious.

 

*I’m terrible with any type of goodbye, much like Woody Harrelson’s character in Zombieland.

**“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” – Oscar Wilde

 

Time flies when...

You’re taking care of other people’s children.  This past week was all about me acting between the ages of 3 and 11. In other words, it was just an ordinary week in the life of the soon-to-be, Mrs. Andy Samberg. (If you’re surprised by that title, imagine how Andy feels!) Yet, unlike most other weeks, I spent a good part of this one realizing that, though mentally I still feel that young, my body has started to break character. The first indication of this came after playing two rounds of blazer tag (a fancy name for laser tag with a three-story course) with the twin 11 year-old boys I babysit. Not only did I tower over my competitors by about two feet, but I also seemed to be the only one out of breath at the end of each game. Where, it should be noted, you’re not even allowed to run. 

The second rub in the face was at the roller rink. As my Valencian witnesses can confirm, I’m no natural-born skater. In fact, whenever I put wheels on my feet, gravity (as well as the twin boys) always has the last laugh. So it shouldn’t have come as any surprise that I would end up falling a total of three times. Twice I landed so hard on my bum that my glasses were knocked off of me and the wind knocked out of me. But really I’m just grateful that I wasn’t given a restraining order from the skating rink, especially since I took down a couple pre-adults* with my fall. Of course, when people ask me how I got my beautiful bruises, I alter the story just a little. “Well I was roller skating and…you know how tough those roller-derby girls can be.”

Now I know what some of you (mom) might be thinking, “Becky, this is all fascinating, but you can’t act like a kid forever.” To which I say, “Well I don’t exactly plan on living forever do I? So there!” (As I stomp my feet and stick out my tongue.)  In all seriousness, I have been doing some adult appropriate activities. (Like constructing that perfect example of assonance right there!) Fine, fine, I’ll stop acting like an assonance and tell you about my interview for a search engine marketing company. Everything was going well (harmless small talk, mild laughter) until I accidentally confused the part-time position for an internship and then proceeded to ask, with my foot firmly in my mouth, how they felt about employees working from home. After the two interviewers exchanged unsure glances, they said they would call me. I’m sure they’ve just misplaced my number.

Which brings me to the grand conclusion of this entry. After these physically and emotionally painful experiences, I’d like to coin the term “gawkward”** to refer to moments that are so excruciatingly awkward, people can’t help but stare in discomfort (like in the frequently used car crash example, which is what I felt like as numerous pre-adults skated by me, the oversized-child splayed across the floor.)

More gawkward moments to come. Unfortunately.

 

*I use the term “pre-adults” here in order to soften the fact that they were in fact 5 year-olds. 

**I’d also like to thank Urban Dictionary for stealing my thunder and already owning the word "gawkward." I guess I'll use the more literal interpretation of copywriter to defend myself.