Greetings all!  I thought you might want to know that Travel & Lesiure magazine has just rated San Miguel in its top ten cities in the Americas.  You can read the full article, with lots of interesting stuff abot San miguel, here:

http://www.travelandleisure.com/articles/mexico-magico

Hope to see you there this summer!

J

You have faith that you will not forget to pack anything vital, and that the stores where you are going will carry the vital things you will undoubtedly forget to pack.

You have faith that the map to your hostel is correct. That you will know it when you see it.

You have faith that between broken Spanish, overpronounced Enlish, and a repertoire of hand gestures you will be able to order food, find the bathroom, return greetings, obtain correct change.

You have faith that your stomach will flourish in its new environment of chili peppers, salsas, frijoles, and mole sauce. When it doesn’t, you have faith that Mexican Pepto Bismol works as well as the American version.

You have faith that each step you take on the jagged colonial cobblestone streets will not result in you falling and breaking your weak gringa ankles.

You have faith that all destinations can be found by starting out in the jardin, the city square, and marching on bravely from there.

You have faith in your ability to hail a cab. Budget pesos. Taste a cold avocado and tequila soup and not gag – a delicacy.

You have faith that you are here for a purpose. That you have something to learn. That you are learning it. You wake up each day and eat a granola bar for breakfast and step past the bright blue door of your hostel and set your feet on the treacherous cobblestone in the chilly morning air and think to yourself, It is good for me to be here.

    On the three-hour ride back to San Miguel, the wind whips the rain into long tears as the bus speeds down the Mexican highway. Lights tease from a distance, and if you squint your eyes like this, and tilt your head like that, then you can almost believe you are home, tearing down the expressway, gazing upon the light of a city that some say care forgot. But you are not care.
It is only when a dark patch of trees blocks these lights that you snap back to your present tense, and you realize that you are passing a lake. Gripping the edge of your sweater sleeve, you clear the window’s condensation with one, quick sweep. You press your forehead to the glass and blink, your eyelashes brushing against the surface, and you force your eyes to search through the darkness and into the water, as though seeing is diving.

Like a Drum

The rainy season started two weeks into June.  The gutters shot water into the cobblestone streets at full force.  At times it could be like a river, water flooding down from the top of the hill and zigzagging its way from street to street.  It you were smart you gauged the curves in the road before you left the house and then skipped through the lesser of the puddles hoping that you hadn’t planned wrong.  This didn’t always work.  Sometimes the intersections were just impassable without stomping through a foot of water.  And on those days I was happy I’d bought waterproof shoes.
I hadn’t planned on the storms.  Mexico was a place of deserts and air that was thick and black.  It was a lesser India in my mind, a country where you went when you had trouble back home.  That’s why it was surprising that I had the waterproof shoes.  Most of my other belongings were cut for summer.  Bermuda shorts, Hawaiian t-shirts , flip-flops, the type of attire that openly calls attention to the fact that you’re a tourist.  Little did I know that it was unnecessary to wear a bright red shirt with palm trees on the back, the locals knew I was a gringo the minute I stepped off the plane.
Some of the writing program had come early and since I’d been in town for a couple of months already they’d asked me to take them out.  I tromped through the puddles towards the center.  We met in the Jardin, under the thick canopy of leaves that somehow worked as an umbrella.  The mariachi bands seemed to have taken the evening off and besides a couple of other tourists the place was vacant.  It felt odd speaking my native tongue after months of only conversing in Spanish.  I kept my voice low even thought there was no one around to hear.  English came out like a cough.
“You didn’t bring an umbrella?” I asked.
No, they hadn’t.  They’d expected it to be warm and tropical with cabana boys running around serving Coronas and Mai-Tais.
“What about your shoes?”
They both looked at me quizzically.  I decided against telling them that my hush puppies were waterproof.
“Where do you want to go?” I asked.
The first one, the one I’ll call Cat, had a sundress with pockets in the front.  She stood there with her hands shoved inside, silent.
The second one, the one I’ll call Missy, crossed her arms over her low cut top and shrugged.  “You’ve been here for months.  You choose.”
We traipsed through the fading light past burger stalls covered by pieces of tarp and turned down a side street.  There were a lot of places we could go.  There were the tourist joints with liters of beer and the high class restaurants that brought saucers of guacamole with two expensive corn chips sticking out the top.  But I was sick of those.  Instead I lead them to a dive.
They shivered in the entrance as a cockroach scurried across a table and into one of the holes in the wall.  The domino game immediately stopped.  Every single man in the place turned to stare.  If music had been coming from the jukebox it probably would have scratched to a halt.  But it was silent except for the groans of a woman coming through the TV speaker.  I waddled up to the bar leaving them to debate whether they wanted to come in or not.  A gust of wind eventually pushed the door closed behind them.  They stepped inside and studied the decaying walls as if we’d happened upon a strange art opening.
“Tres tequilas y sangrita—Three tequilas and bulls’ blood,” I demanded.  The bartender jumped off his stool and began rummaging around under the counter.  Soon three shot glasses appeared followed by three more.  The girls started to shake their heads.  Tequila with some sort of red concoction was not what they’d been expecting.  “Come on, it’s Mexico,” I told them.  Surprisingly this argument seemed to work.  Sure there were bottles of everything from Rum to Vodka on the shelves and sure you could get tequila back in New Orleans, but this was Mexico.
“How do you do this?” Cat held the shooter and the backer at eye level.
“Drink some of the tequila and chase it with the bulls’ blood,” I told her.
She sniffed the edges of the glass, and then set both back on the counter.  “I don’t like tomato juice.”
“It’s not tomato juice,” Missy said after taking a sip.  “It tastes like bloody mary mix.”
“Umm,” I said tasting the tequila and smiling over the rim.
“At least try it,” Missy said before gulping hers down.
Cat twitched her nose as if she was holding her breath, but eventually she followed suit.
I’d planned on savoring mine, but I did the same.
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” Cat said.  “It does taste like bloody mary mix.”
Missy nodded while motioning across the counter for three more shots.  The bartender grinned.
“To your first time out of New Orleans,” Missy said.  And our glasses clashed together and the liquor went down quick.
I can’t be sure who ordered the next round or the one after that, but for the next half-hour the bartender seemed to be constantly filling shot glasses for us.  The saloon began to take on a livelier tone.  Someone threw some pesos in the jukebox.  A group of art students staggered in and started trying to dance between the tables.  Cat and Missy swayed to the foreign singers, giggling and slapping the bar each time they finished a shot.
I told them about my shoes.  “They’re waterproof.”
“Really?” Cat asked.
“Yeah.”  I’d gotten them in Bombay.  The salesman said I could walk through a monsoon in them.
“No, you’re really going tell me about your waterproof shoes.”
“Hey, I’m not talking smack about your pockets.”  By now she was using her right pocket to hold a bottle of Victoria and the other one was filling up with stolen shot glasses.
“True.”
“They are nice pockets by the way.  If I was a girl I’d get some.”
“What’s your deal again?”  She raised an eyebrow.  “Why are you here?”
“I’m the tour guide.  I’m showing you the bars.”
“No, why have you been in Mexico this whole time?”
We strolled down the sidewalk.  The rain had stopped, but there were still a fair amount of puddles reflecting the street lights.  Fireworks exploded in the distance.  Church bells sounded.  I followed the scent of pork sizzling, leading them back towards the center.  Missy leaned against Cat as they zigzagged up the hill.  The stolen shot glasses chimed with each step.  I stomped through the puddles trying to soak my feet, but nothing would get inside.

If you can get out of town and walk through the desert somewhere in the environs of San Miguel, or even just up somewhere high in the city, at the ridge where the houses stop, I’d really recommend it. The quality of light, which apparently attracts a lot of the artists who like the area, is indeed special.

I also would like to recommend a couple of dishes to try while you are in San Miguel: pozole and chiles enogados, the first being a hominy soup and the second being poblano chiles stuffed with spiced ground beef and smothered with walnut sauce, then topped with pomegranate seeds. You can’t get this kind of food in most US cities, even in decent Mexican restaurants, and it’s standard fare here, which means good and reasonably priced. Don’t miss the Guanajuato excursion, and when you go, try the enchiladas mineras, which are topped with potatoes and carrots; they really stick to your ribs and if made well, which they usually are.

One thing I was a bit wary of was the reputation of San Miguel for being a place for US ex-patriots. Honestly, I feared that this would mean more ugly American presence than I found. Call me paranoid. In fact I did not sense this at all when I was there. I felt after the month we all spent in the city that the foreigners who had chosen San Miguel as a place of residence were respectful of the place and keen on learning its language, customs, and history. As an example, the owner of our hotel was an elderly American woman who had married a Mexican and had a family in Mexico – 3 generations! Obviously, if you stay in San Miguel and start a family there, there is a lot at stake in knowing and integrating with the local culture.

Pozole

One delicious rite-of-passage in San Miguel is eating pozole. I lost my pozole virginity at La Alborada, an unpretentious restaurant just a block from the jardin. Other food is available, but you want the pozole.

Pozole is a traditional soup made with red chiles and a hominy-like corn called nixtamal. The waitress will ask if you want pork, chicken, or beef (I had mine sin carne.) Before the soup comes, the waitress brings a basket of crispy dried corn tortillas and small bowls of diced onion, shredded lettuce, chopped radishes, oregano, ground hot peppers, and limes. My friend and I thought this was a strange version of chips and salsa one is served at American Mexican restaurants, so we dug in.

Then our soup came. It looked like tomato soup with chick peas and it tasted pretty good. Fortunately the couple at the next table recognized our ignorance and intervened. Those little bowls of vegetables and spices are for garnishing the soup! You load up the soup and then squeeze lime juice over it. The flavors and textures blend into a unique, wonderful taste experience, especially when you scoop up the soup with the dried tortillas. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

Other restaurants serve pozole, and other delicious soups, as well. But I highly recommend La Alborada. The pozole is great and inexpensive, and the restaurant is informal, friendly, and fun.

La Alborada
Sollano #11 (just south of Correo)
Monday-Saturday 1:00-10:30 PM (closed Sundays)

So many of you have contacted me, and I want to tell you all the story, but thought I would put it here for everyone to read. Information on UNO’s and New Orleans reopening is in red at the end. Let me know if you have any questions!!!

First, you may want to know that I was unable to leave until Sunday morning because my car broke down on Friday. I’d had no indication anything was wrong until Thursday evening on my way home from work. Afer calling around on Friday I finally founf a place that could take it. Every other place was 30-40 cars deep. I took it to a Midas on Canal. They tried to charge me $800 to replace my alternator and my battery. I finally talked them down to $606. I fully intend to report them for price gouging when I return. They knew it was my only means of evacuating, and that I virtually had no choice but to pay whatever price they asked. This is the bad side of what happens in an emergency. In any case, they didn’t finish my car until Saturday, so I simply could not leave before Sunday.

Saturday evening (having cleaned out almost all edible food from my refirgerator, a couple of us headed down to Frenchman Street for dnner. Driving around the city was eerie. There was nearly nothing open, and all shops and hosues were boarded up. There was a cop on almost every other street, and the streets were dark. There was a palpable sense of anxiety. It was as if it was an eletrical current in the air…. At dinner, though we tried to talk about other things, table talk was all Gustav, Katrina, and can we get another round please?

We made it an early night. We stll had cars to load, and short naps to get before we left our homes to weather who knew what….

I left New Orleans at 4 am on Sunday morning. I was caravanning with some friends, and my car was packed tight with what I was bringing to evacuate, my dog, my two cats, and the tiny two month old kitten that had come running out of an abandoned house next door. The kitten put its little paws on my foot and meowed and purred and I couldn’t leave it to potentially drown, so took it with me. I’m calling it karma, because I feel like it must have some very good karma.

I was trying to beat the contraflow, which had been scheduled to start at 6, but was moved up to 4, so got stuck right in the middle of it. Merging onto I-10 was scary to begin with. The cars were inching along, and it was nothing but break lights as far as the eye could see ine ither direction. Contraflow didn’t start till the other side of the lake, and it took us over two hours just to get to the lake. had WDSU on the car radio and listened to the reports non-stop. I was addicted to information and ouldn’t turn it off. People who’d already been driving for hours were stopped on either side of the road, walking dogs, stretching legs, and eyeing the marsh in the distance. Everything felt like a very dark dream, even after it got light. I joked that I felt like was in a David Lynch film. Especially as I was listening on the radio to reports of how SUCCESSFUL contra-flow and the evacuation was going. I must have been hearing those reports from an alternate universe.

“We’re very happy that we were able to get the citizens out in a timely and expeditious matter,” said New Orleans City Council member James Carter, District C.

It took me almost 8 hrs to make it to Hattiesburg, MS, which should be about an hour away from the city. The state police kept closing off exits, as each of the gas statons there ran out of gas. By the time we got to Hattiesburg it was about noon, and I had run out of snacks and yet to have a meal. It would still be a while. Myself and my friend travelling with me are vegetarian, so the few fast food places we encountered were almost all off-limits, and every Burger King we came to for much of the day was out of veggie burgers. I lived on penauts and sweet tea between then and the time we finally found food, around 3 pm that day.

To everyone that sent me text messages – thank you. If not for you I wouldn’t have been able to stay awake, and as it was almost impossible to get a call out, you are life-savers. Perhaps quite literally! This is one of the good things about people in an emergency….

After eighteen hours of driving I made it only as far as Tuscaloosa, AL.

By the time we made it to Tuscaloosa I couldn’t go any farther. I was exhausted, sore, and the animals were restless, hungry, and thirsty. I had been feeling as if I was driving drunk for a number of hours. I was so tired I’d lost depth perception, and the never ending stream of brake lights was merging into one funny looking red dot. I knew that we could go no further.

I was very upset and we got off the interstate and started going around begging for rooms. There were none to be had. had been trying to book something or days, so was not surprised. My phone was also dead at this point, and two women at one of the hotels took pity on us, let me charge the phone, and gave us some water and fruit. It was after 9 now, and the only meal we’d had since 3 am was the 3 pm one in Laurel, MS.

Eventually, they gave us a room (after I both broke down in tears on them, and then translated for them and a Spanish speaking guest). It was well after 11 pm at that point. It had become over a twenty hours saga at that point. We were at a Hilton Garden Inn and these women, Antesha and Brianne, were incredible. They are not only what Guest Service should be, they are good, kind people. I am writing to Hilton about them….

We came the rest of the way to Chattanooga, where I have friends, yesterday. And then had a pitcher of very strong margaritas.

Bill and Nancy are in Ponchatoula. They have no power, but do have a generator, and so far, so good there…. Everyone else I know is safe so far. If there is anyone in particular you want to inquire about, let me know.

In the meantime, the University of New Orleans has decided that classes and normal operatons will not resume until Monday, Septemeber 8th. Stay in touch, and check the website for more details. Also, if you are a NOLA evacuee reading this Nagin is urging people not to try to return until late Wed or Thursday at present, as power is out in over two-thirds of city and water and sewage sytems are not working properly. The city remains on curfew. And who wants to live under martial law – AGAIN? We all remember the troops of National Guardsmen filing past the Parkview Tavern with their machine guns in one hand their beer in another. It inspires such confidence….

Stay safe everyone. And thanks again for your many kind calls, emails, texts, and well-wishes.

Jeni

I’ve been fortunate enough to participate in three of the University of New Orleans Low-Res MFA Summer Programs – two in Madrid and the most recent in San Miguel de Allende.

There is so much good to say about the program and the workshops – but I’ll leave that to the students. (Hopefully, even a few of my students.) But I wanted to say a few words about living in a foreign city for the full month, which is a part of the experience that I truly value.

Most tourists are lucky to spend three days in a new city, or maybe a week if time allows, but the full month experience is a wonderful opportunity. Yes, as part of that month, you will see the tourist sites and eat at the usual restaurants that are listed in the usual guidebooks, but for me the simple pleasures of going grocery shopping in an unfamiliar culture, of cooking my own meals, of getting to know the people who sell you fruit, of trying unknown vegetables and cheeses and wines, of seeing the city wake up, go to bed, move through the day-to-day transitions of work and weekend and weather, of negotiating laundry and haircuts and other personal needs, is what becomes the most fascinating.

You don’t know a city until you live in that city, and though a month is not like moving abroad for a full year or two, it certainly shows you a lot more than you might see if you breezed through over three days. Because you live there – you don’t just take pictures.

I call it immersion, and it fascinates me each time.

Dinty W. Moore

Excerpt from Emily Lupita Plum’s blog she kept while in San Miguel: http://starmountainview.blogspot.com/

Last night I read for the first time from my recently completed childhood memoir, Growing Mexican Plums. And…I sang because one of the sections I read was called “Song” and is about the songs I used to listen to as a kid. I sang lines from Supertramp’s The Logical Song and had the audience join me in a few lines from Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2). I also sang a lullaby my mom used to sing when I was little, in Spanish.

It was the first time I’ve ever sang during a reading, and I found it powerful. The audience was wonderful…gracious and generous. I felt a surge of energy when I was reading & just afterward. It helped me to remember why I’ve “chosen” the life of a writer, anyhow.

We had two guest speakers at our writing group this week and they were both fantastic. They talked about their path to becoming successful writers and gave us suggestions…imparted wisdom.

Dinty W. Moore said that writers need to pay attention to three things: karma, responsibility, and opportunity. (For more…see Dinty’s journal, Brevity).

When asked what advice she would give to writers beginning their career, Amanda Boyden said, “If you can imagine yourself doing anything else with your life and being happy, don’t be a writer…do that other thing. But if you cannot imagine yourself doing anything else, then be writer.”

Good words from both. I am learning exponentially.

Don’t drink the tap water.  I repeat – DON’T DRINK THE TAP WATER.  Perhaps you thought this was a traveler’s myth.  Its is not.  You should not drink the tap water, nor should you brush your teeth in it, or use it to clean contacts, or anything else.  You can shower in it.  Period.  Bottled water is widely available.  Buy it.  Drink it often.  Some will be provided for you in your rooms as well at most housing locations.

As far as foods go, you should ask if fruits and vegetables have been washed with purified water.  You should also be wary of drinks with ice.  Ask if the ice is made from purified water.  If it isn’t, don’t drink it….  Thats aid, I have gone to Mexico a couple of times now, and have not suffered from any stomach upset yet.  So as long as you are careful, you should be fine!

For more info on the water in Mexico, and Montezuma’s Revenge, click here.