Ruminations of an Expatriate

I walked the couple of blocks to the Tavola Trattoria last evening to enjoy one of their excellent pizzas.   As is usually the case, since I generally eat earlier than do folks here, I was the only patron.   A fellow walked in, asked the waitress if the owner was available, and struck up a conversation with me while the waitress  went looking for the owner.  He explained that he was there to confirm arrangements for his musical performance at Tavola later this month.

The fellow, René Hernández, and his wife, Angélica Almanza, compose, arrange and perform original music as Radio Berenjena here in Xalapa.  You may read about them and listen to samples of their music at their My Space page.

I don’t think I’ve ever reported that here in Mexico, at least here in Xalapa, in Merida, and in Oaxaca, when folks enter a restaurant it is customary that they bid the other diners  a “buenos dias, buenas tardes, or buenas noches, as appropriate, and a buen provecho”.

Perhaps my readers who enjoyed the story of my 1977 freight train trip will enjoy the story of my 1974 break-neck, cross-country drive in a Super Beetle.

I had been working for a few years as a mechanic at an independent VW/Porsche garage in Falls Church, Virginia, when in 1974 I had decided to return to Washington State. A client of the shop, an airline stewardess, had mentioned that she wanted her Super Beetle driven to Los Angles, as she had transferred from D. C. to L. A. Having a week of paid vacation coming, which I didn’t want to lose, and always up for an adventure I jumped at the chance.

The stewardess provided me with gas money, a letter authorizing me to drive her car in case of an encounter with the police, and an airline ticket for the return trip from L. A.

I had been living in a home (a commune as we called back then) in Clarendon, Virginia with a group of folks, the number of which varied from three when I moved in to fifteen folks and nine dogs a year later. There was a dog fight everyday. There were all sorts of other exciting things that occurred there, but I will save those stories for another time.

I talked one of my roommates into accompanying me on the trip and we agreed to drive round-the-clock.

So on the appointed morning, a Saturday at 9:00 AM, we left Falls Church and off we went. That evening we had dinner in Nashville; the next morning we had breakfast in Oklahoma City; that evening we dined in Tucumcari, New Mexico; and early the next morning we arrived at Zion Canyon National Park in Utah, where we had decided to stop for a rest. So far the trip had consumed just short of 48 hours.

Rather than resting, we hiked around the hills during the day and joined a party at the next camp site that evening, consuming “white lightening”, amongst other substances, until rather late that night. Eventually we did manage to get a bit of sleep.

The next morning, early, we again hit the road and twelve hours later arrived in San Francisco, where we spent the next few days visiting with a couple of former roommates of the Clarendon comune. So, in terms of actual driving time, we had gone cross-country in about sixty hours.

The day before our scheduled departure from the L.A. airport for the return home, we cranked up the Super Beetle and off we went. By this point we had just about driven the tires off the poor Super Beetle.

Somewhere between San Francisco and L.A. we were pulled over by a California Highway Patrolman who had noticed the extreme shimmying of the from wheels of the car. I dug into my backpack in the backseat for the paperwork the stewardess had provided, exposing the pile of Coors beer cans behind the driver’s seat. Coors was at the time unavailable in the East, so we had consumed it with gusto; and, not being the littering types, we accumulated the empties behind the driver’s seat.

As it turned out, the Trooper said nothing of the beer cans, as we were at the time quite sober; looked over the paperwork; encouraged us to drive carefully; bid us adieu; and off we went.

The next morning we arrived at the L. A. airport, parked the Super Beetle at the appointed station, and checked in for the flight home. We did clean the car, but I’m sure it was never again the same after its cross-country tear.

Just a couple of weeks ago, in fact, I contacted the fellow with whom I shared the adventure and had a few laughs at the recollections.

This morning at 2:15 I departed the CAXA bus station here, aboard an ADO GL bus, for the five hour trip to Mexico City, where I visited the USA embassy to apply for a new passport.

I arrived in D. F. about 7:20 and caught a cab for the half hour trip across the city to the embassy, arriving just a few minutes before the passport office opening at 8:00 (it closes at 10:30 AM, by the way.)  I explained my business to a friendly member of the Mexican embassy protection police, who directed me where to wait.  It was considerably chillier there than here, owing, I suppose, to the higher altitude.

Within ten minutes the guard indicated I should enter the building.  The security was a hassle but everyone I dealt with,  except for two they were all Mexicans.

I had visited the State Dept. web site, downloaded and completed the applications, and confirmed which documents and photos I must submit with the application.

All was in good order and by 9:30 I was done.  Not wishing to do the D. F. tourist thing, I caught a taxi out front and was back at the TAPO bus station a bit before 10:00.  Being hungry I chose to buy a ticket for the 11:00 AM bus so I could have breakfast.

The TAPO station, through which I traveled on my way to Guanajuato, is constructed in a circle with the various ticket counters arrayed around the inside of the circle, corresponding to each line’s departure platforms along the outside of the circle.  At the center of the station is a circular array of food vendors with an internet cafe at the center.

I arrived back home by 3:30 and expect to receive my passport through a courier service within three weeks.   Mexico City is huge and there is lots of traffic.  Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage to visit for a couple of days.

Dan, in a comment to My Trip To Ayutla report, has asked for the story of my 1977 cross-country freight train adventure. Here you go Dan, this is for you.

The story actually begins in 1974 when in April, imbued with my back-to-the-land hippie dream, I left Washington D. C., where I had lived with my family since 1962, on a drive across the Northern USA and Southern Canada, with my female companion of the time, for my home state of Washington, where we would look for land to buy.

Arriving in Olympia in July, I was serendipitously introduced by my uncle to a realtor of his acquaintance, who, after showing us a few properties, took us to the acreage along the Satsop River, on the Southern Olympic Peninsula, which completely satisfied all of our criteria and which we ultimately bought.

Having purchased the property through a real estate contract with the owner, in October, we moved to Portland, Oregon where we both had previous connections, to work while we paid off the contract. I worked as a VW/Porsche mechanic, my companion worked as a carpenter, and on the weekends we would travel to the property to work at constructing, what I called, our hippie shack.

Two and a half years later, having fulfilled the contract by making double, sometimes triple, monthly payments, I had decided to move to the property. I resigned my job and made plans for a cross country trip before moving North. I had decided to make the trip by “hopping” freight trains, though there was very little of actually hopping on moving trains, which is quite dangerous. Ultimately three friends decided to accompany me for the first few days of the adventure.

Preparing for the departure I went on an intelligence gathering mission to the Portland rail yards to ask the yard workers when trains heading South leave. I was told that a “piggy back” train, with truck trailers lashed aboard the flat cars, left each evening about eight. I was also told that, other than passenger trains, the “piggy back” and container trains were given the highest priority, and, thus, were fastest.

Having set a departure date in mid-April, off we went on the appointed day with our backpacks. We located the piggy back train heading South, crawled up under the dual rear axles of the trailers, laid out a ground cloth, unrolled our pads and sleeping bags, secured our shoes to our backpacks, and crawled into our bags to await departure. Before long the train pulled out.

The next morning, not long after sunup, the train pulled into Klamath Falls, in Southern Oregon, and stopped. We disembarked and headed for a café at the edge of the rail yard. During my journey I found cafes to be fixtures in all of the rail yards I visited.

We finished are typical greasy spoon café breakfasts and shouldered our backpacks. Just as we left the café we saw an empty, double decked, automobile carrying train just pulling out. We ran to the train, each grabbed on to one of the ladders located at each end of each car, and pulled ourselves aboard. We spent the bright, warm day on the upper deck of the train enjoying the spectacular scenery as we snaked through the California mountains, often seeing the front of the train crawling along the other side of a switchback turn.

As darkness fell we again crawled into our sleeping bags, intending to depart in Sacramento, where we planned to head East through Roseville, and then to Reno. Unfortunately we slept through our intended stop and ended up in Oakland the next morning. Oakland, as it turned out, was a little used yard; and, after asking yard workers for departure information, we waited the morning lounging around the yard, experiencing a minor brush with railroad police while we awaited our train

I should explain the rail yard workers were without exception eager to help with directions, suggestions, and scheduling information.

When finally, at mid-day, a train was to depart for Roseville, a huge rail yard East of Sacramento, one of the rail yard fellows approached with our instructions. Once again we crawled up under the axles of the trailers on a piggy back and enjoyed the scenery, arriving in Roseville that evening. We had been told in Oakland that the train would continue from Roseville on into Reno, so we stayed aboard and waited as more engines were added to the train for the pull up the mountains to, and over, the infamous Donner Pass.

As the sun rose we crossed Donner Pass and began our winding descent to Reno, where we arrived during the late morning. The sun rise over the snow covered mountain scenery was stunning. We pulled into Reno, actually Sparks, about mid-morning and headed out in search of a motel for a bath, a meal, and, later, a bit of Reno fun. We found cheap rooms near the rail yards, cleaned up (riding the rails is a really grimy business), and off we headed for a night on the town. I had left Portland with about two hundred bucks, so when I lost twenty bucks playing blackjack I began looking for a building to jump from.

The next morning we headed out for the Sparks rail yard, were informed by a yard worker from where we could catch a train to Ogden, Utah and where to wait, and we settled into our appointed station for a short wait. Eventually our train arrived, again of the piggy back variety, and we mounted up and settled in, arriving in Ogden early the next morning. The trains we rode upon often would stop on a siding, sometimes for an extended period, to await the passage of another train.

Again, in Ogden we sought out the yard café for breakfast. We settled into a booth abutting a booth occupied by a rather grisly, one armed fellow who almost immediately struck up a conversation. He told us that if we are going to ride the rails that we should ride in one of the engines, only the front one of which is occupied by engineers.

Following breakfast I bid adieu to my companions who headed home to Portland, while I continued on to Denver. Again, I received instructions from a rail yard worker, waited for my train, and upon its arrival climbed up into the fourth engine, being the final engine from the front, and settled into the seat opposite the control panel.

About a half hour out of Ogden an alarm bell in the engine in which I was riding began to ring, and it rang, and rang, and rang. The ringing of the bell, in the control panel in front of which the engineer would normally sit, was irritating. Eventually I removed the back of the control panel and stuffed paper towels, from the handy bathroom dispenser, into the bell to mute the ringing.

Just as I had finished the muting operation, the door of the engine opened and in walked a rather portly, older fellow wearing typical railroad overalls. I was of course startled and thought “man, am I ever screwed”. The fellow pulled a switch to turn off the alarm and, while removing the paper towels from the bell and reinstalling the control panel cover, explained that they were having a bit of an over heating problem. The alarm extinguished, towels removed, and control panel back together, he departed without another word. Whew, I felt, while I wondered at the kindness shown by the old fellow to this young, dirty, long-haired hipped riding the rails.

I went back to my comfortable seat and continued reading “I Will Fight No More Forever: Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce War” and enjoying the desert scenery flying by the window next to which I sat. About twenty minutes later the door again opened and in walked the same fellow with a paper bag, which he handed me while remarking that perhaps I was hungry. I thanked the older fellow profusely as he left. The bag contained one of those small cartons of milk and a Hostess pie. Damned, I thought; here I should probably be prosecuted for illegally riding the train, not to mention tampering with the equipment, and this kindly gentleman is feeding me. This is the kind of weird travel experience I have very often experienced in my travels since, and for which I have no explanation.

The train pulled into Denver that night about 8:00. Bearing a two day accumulation of rail riding grime, since a bath in Reno, I struck out from the rail yard in search of a room. Across the street from the rail yards I found a tavern which I entered, ordered a beer, and asked where I might find an accommodation. The kindly bar tender asked about my travels, while I drank a couple of beers; and directed me to a flop house down the street.

I thanked the bar tender heartily for his help and friendliness and headed to the flop house. I knocked on the door of the manager and inquired as to the availability of a room, to which she kindly showed me. I paid the five dollar nightly fee, checked into my tidy room, went down the hall for a leisurely bath in the spotless bathroom, and headed down the street for a bite to eat. Sated, I returned to my room and settled in for the night.

Sometime later I answered a knock on my room door to encounter the manager. She explained that there was an unruly party down the hall and that I looked like I might be able to restore order. I politely declined the offer, explaining that I was only passing through and certainly was not looking for trouble.

The next morning I headed back to the nearby Denver rail yard, located the yard café, and settled in for a bit of breakfast. While eating, my inquiries as to the best way to find a train to Lincoln, Nebraska were eagerly satisfied by a number of other patrons. So, again, off I went.

Having located my train, another piggy back, I crawled up under the axles of a trailer on the first car behind the engines, planning to move into the engine as soon as prudent. Having just settled in, the door of the abutting engine swung open and a young fellow urged me to join him in the engine.

As it turned out the fellow was a Burlington Northern employee heading about sixty miles out of Denver where he would disembark and work another train back into Denver. The guy jumped rope almost the entire sixty miles, only interrupting his exercise to smoke an occasional cigarette, while talking non stop. I judged that he must have been under the influence of amphetamines. He gave me his copy of his union contract booklet which contained a complete Burlington Northern route map; and told me that if I was headed for D. C. that I would need to go through Lincoln to Chicago where I would need to change carriers. Eventually he departed, as I thanked him for his help. It was another of those serendipitous travel moments.

Eventually I arrived in Lincoln, disembarked, and had no trouble finding a yard worker to direct me to the next train to Chicago. Again I boarded an engine and away I went.

Being a major railroad hub, the train yards in Chicago are vast; but, none-the-less, again I had no trouble receiving directions on how I might transition from the Burlington Northern system to the Conrail system (at the time a USA government owned consortium of bankrupt carriers, including the Penn Central and others) which would carry me to D. C. Having received my directions I climbed up onto the cat walk of a tank car on a train that would carry me to the Conrail yard, adjoining the Burlington Northern yard into which I had arrived. Noticing the train was approaching a control building, I moved along the catwalk to the other side of the tank to avoid detection.

Once I arrived at the Conrail yard, and having learned which train would take me to D. C., I climbed up into a box car; secured the door in the open position with a piece of wire I carried for the purpose, though which I had theretofore had no need to use; and settled in.

In short order a rail yard worker approached the box car door and indicated that “you’d better get out of here, the gumshoe is after you”. I swear that he referred to the railroad cop as a gumshoe.

Having received the alert I departed the box car and headed out through a rather swampy area to the nearest street, down which I headed toward a restaurant I had spotted. When traveling and in need of information, I had learned sometime before, one should go to the nearest restaurant, café, or bar.

This particular café was a riot. The proprietors were two portly women, one a Caucasian and the other African-American, both of whom were preparing breakfast for a bunch of men, to whom they tended as if they were their children, even handing them brown bag launches as they headed off for work. The women very kindly inquired as to what the hell this grimy hippie, with a grimy backpack, was doing in their restaurant. I explained my situation and as how, having abandoned the rails, I needed a ride to D. C. They began surveying their customers about a ride to D. C. Finding none they directed me to the nearest interstate highway, a few blocks away.

Again, off I went. I hadn’t waited long before a rather nerdly fellow in a Chevy Chevette, outfitted with a CB radio, stopped and took me aboard. I explained that I was heading to D.C., so he got on the CB and began calling for truckers heading for D.C., explaining he had a passenger in need of a ride. Receiving no response to his pleas and approaching an intersecting interstate highway which I would need to take, he explained to me where I should head, and discharged me at the edge of the interstate.

Knowing it illegal to hitchhike on the interstate I was quite nervous as I sought a ride. Before very long a woman driving a Sunbeam Alpine pulled over. I explained where I was going. She looked over my backpack and expressed her doubt that I would be able to get it into her Alpine. Being anxious to get off the side of the interstate, I assured her that I would get it in. I did, and off we went.

The very fetching young woman explained to me that she lived in Oklahoma and was on her way to visit her family in Ohio, upon her husband’s suggestion. A ways down the road we pulled into a rest stop, a Howard Johnson’s I think, and bought a snack which we consumed while sitting at a picnic table and conversing. Being a bit shy and a bit short on funds, my thoughts of getting a motel room went unvocalized.

Alas, after a most pleasant encounter, we arrived near her destination, she discharged me at a Howard Johnson’s rest stop along the Ohio Turnpike, and went on her way.

I sat down on the curb at the parking area in front of the restaurant to repair my backpack strap with the wire I carried to secure box car doors. Completing the repair I looked up at the ’57 Chevy next to which I was sitting and noticed it carried Virginia plates. Heading for a Virginia suburb of D.C. I waited at the curb for the car’s driver, who eventually emerged from the restaurant.

I explained that I was in need of a ride to D.C. and that I would gladly contribute what little money I had remaining to pay for gas. He indicated that he was indeed heading for Virginia, invited me along, and took me all the way to the beltway which circumnavigates Washington D.C., discharging me, at about 1:00 am, at the exit nearest to my destination.

I thanked the fellow, shouldered my backpack, and began walking down the road which would eventually become Old Dominion Boulevard, and which would carry me to my destination of the family home in McLean, Virginia.

Not too many miles down the sparsely traveled road a patrolling sheriff’s deputy pulled over to inquiry just what the hell this grimy hippie was doing out walking so early in the morning. I gave him to whole story, boring him to tears I imagined; he wished me well; and along I went, arriving at the family home at about 4:00 AM. I scratched on the screen, announced my arrival, and enjoyed the ensuing reunion.

I spent about a week visiting, while scanning the want ads for a “drive away” opportunity. (For those who do not know, a “drive away” opportunity involves someone who wishes a car driven someplace.) I happened upon an ad for someone wanting their 1974 Turino driven to Seattle, made the necessary arrangements, and headed out on my return to the Northwest. Along the way I stopped for a tour of Wall Drugs in South Dakota; but otherwise pretty much drove straight through, stopping only for an occasional nap in the back seat. I stopped in Portland for a couple of days to rest and off load some stuff I had retrieved from the family home, delivered the car to Seattle, and returned to Portland on the bus.

It was indeed a grand adventure.

A couple of months later I moved to the hippie shack on the Satsop in which I resided for the next fifteen years until I had constructed more commodious accommodations into which I moved. I sold the place in 2005 and moved to Mexico.

You may remember that my report of my visit to La Casa de Mezcal included a report of my encounter with Christopher, 27, who plays trumpet in a “banda” and his buddy Marcos, 21, who is stationed with the Mexican military in Chihuahua. Both fellows are from the pueblo of San Pedro San Pablo Ayutla, about a four hour bus ride through the mountains, pretty much due East from Oaxaca, where they had invited me to visit.

So on the morning of Monday, January 21, I arose early; enjoyed a breakfast of a tamale Oaxaquenos, juice, coffee, and bread; and walked the eight or so blocks to, what the locals refer to, the “second class” bus station. And the place is a riot.

The station, from which locals depart for an amazing variety of destinations, is constructed in a huge semi-circle, with ticket booths arrayed along the outside of the arc corresponding to departure points arrayed along the inside of the arc. The bus yard, through which I walked to reach the station, is unpaved, quite rough, and dusty. There were a number of pretty rugged looking dogs foraging through the lot.

There are in the station a number of shops, food vendors, and even an internet cafe. There were a number of fellows at each gate hollering out the destinations served from their gate. Everyone was friendly and helpful.

Entering the station I made my way from ticket booth to ticket booth asking for directions to the one serving the Ayutla route, which I eventually encountered. I bought my ticket and went out onto the platform to await the bus to wait with others.

There was a very friendly fellow waiting next to me, with a new chainsaw, who was returning to his home pueblo, beyond Ayutla. He works in the forest and uses the chainsaw to cut boards from the log, he cuts, I discovered after striking up a conversation. There was also a fellow that drug a queen sized mattress onto the platform, which fortunately did not go into the bus which I eventually boarded. With the exception of one young fellow, none of the other waiting passengers reached my shoulder in their heights.

The bus arrived fifteen or so minutes late and within five minutes of frenzied action everyone had their bagged stowed and was seated in their assigned seats. Larger baggage items were loaded at the rear, through what you would probably know as the emergency exit of a school bus, with the largest items hoisted onto and lashed to a large luggage rack on top. It was a riot.

Those who know me, know that this is the type of authentic travel experience I particularly enjoy.

During the few minutes before the bus departed a fellow boarded to sell small plastic jars of cream he claimed would relieve pain and cure just about any other ailment. I asked if the cream would help chapped lips, to which he responded “claro” (of course). I bought a jar for $10 pesos and slathered a bit on my lips, chapped, I assumed, by the dry air. Only after the application did I read the list of ingredients, which included, amongst other constituents, coyote fat. The green hued cream was effective.

The bus traveled along the floor of the valley within which Oaxaca resides through Mitla and then began its winding climb into the mountains on a two lane, modern quite smooth roadway. The surrounding hillsides remained quite arid until perhaps a half hour out of Ayutla when Pine forest became increasingly dense. The hills surrounding Ayutla are entirely forested and the vistas from Ayutla are stunning.

A bit before Ayutla the bus pulled into a Pemex station and I saw my opportunity to use a bathroom. The driver and attendant assured me I had the time. While exiting the bathroom I heard the bus horn blast and saw the bus pulling out. I ran and jumped onto to the platform of the moving bus. When I arrived at my seat I encountered a very sweet looking girl, of about nine years I supposed, occupying my seat and looking up at me with a very sweet smile. I grabbed my bag, assured the girl’s father that there was no problem, and moved to the very back of the bus where there was an available seat next to the chainsaw owner.

To get there I had to climbed over five bags of something lined up in the aisle which had come aboard with an older gentlemen maybe twenty minutes earlier. I had been in the seat only a few minutes when the bus stopped again to disgorge a couple of passengers and to take on an older gentleman, and older woman and a younger woman. There being no seat for the older gentleman, I got up, crawled over the top of the bags in the aisle, gave up my seat to the older fellow, and spent the remaining fifteen of the trip standing in aisle.

Arriving in Ayutla the bus attendant and the chain saw fellow both informed me that I had arrived at my destination. I disembarked to encounter a couple fellows loading metal onto a pickup and asked where I might find a restaurant. They pointed to my immediate right to a bar. I ascended two stories to a bar with stunning views of the mountains, ordered a beer, and asked the young attendant where I might find accommodations. He directed me to “centro”.

I finished my beers and headed off toward “centro”, which consists of a few stores and a few cocinas, into one of which I stopped for three beef tacos and an orange soda. The friendly woman staffing the cocina directed me to the town’s three hotels, and that’s using the term “hotel” extremely loosely.

I rented a room at the hotel I judged had the nicest views. The room, with the bathrooms around the corner,was $80 pesos, which I can say is the cheapest room I’ve ever rented. I rented a room in a flop house in Denver in 1977, to take a break from my cross country freight train trip, for $5 USA, the story of which I will spare you; but adjusting for inflation I assume the price today would be equivalent to more than $80 pesos.

Later I walked back toward centro to a restaurant/bar I had seen on the way to the hotel. It was a wonderfully decorated place with very good food and great, friendly service. The menu included fresh, locally grown trout.

Unable to contact the fellows I’d met in Oaxaca, owing to a lack of cellular service in the area, I arose early the next morning, having learned the day before the “cooperativo” left for Oaxaca at 6:00 AM and 1:00 PM. I walked down the hill from the hotel and as soon as I hit the main road along came a cooperativo (a Dodge van). I hollered “Oaxaca”, the driver pulled over, confirmed that I wished to go to Oaxaca, loaded my bag in the back, and directed me to the one remaining seat in the very back. The van contained about ten sleeping folks. About four hours latter we arrived in Oaxaca.

Ayutla is a dusty little burg straddling the roadway snaking through the mountains; and other than the grand mountain vistas, and the great restaurant, and its friendly inhabitants, in my judgment, it has little to recommend itself. But traveling there and back was a grand adventure.

Yesterday morning I, rather sheepishly, visited the immigration office here to report the theft of my FM 3 visa and inquire as to what was necessary to obtain a new one. You may remember that just a bit more than two weeks ago I had renewed my visa. Consequently I was a bit embarrassed to return so soon.

I explained my situation to the woman who helped me and apologized for my carelessness. She told me “no te preocupes” (don’t worry) and asked if I had a police report relative to the theft in Oaxaca. I answered that I did not, as I assumed that my property would not be found. She told me that she must have such to reissue my visa. I asked if I must return to Oaxaca, the prospect of twelve hours on a bus just to retrieve a police report being not at all appealing. She directed me to the Agencia de Ministerio Público, in the San Jose area a few blocks from the immigration office.

So off I went to the Agencia, and upon my arrival I explained my situation to a very kind woman and asked with whom I must speak. She directed me to a young fellow who very kindly informed me that I must go to the Agencia Segunda off of Avenida 20 de Noviembre. I hailed a cab and for $20 pesos was dropped at the front door.

I again explained my situation and was told to return at 1:30 when the person who could provide me with the necessary document would arrive. Being a bit unsure if I understood correctly, I returned to the immigration office where a woman kindly wrote the name of the agency for me. Assured that the Agencia Segunda was the correct place I returned a bit before 1:30.

Soon the woman who would help me arrived and shortly I was asked to enter her office. I explained my situation and she assured me that she would help for a $100 peso fee; but to do so she would have to state in the required document that the theft had occurred in Xalapa, and assured me there would be no problem in doing so.

I thanked her profusely and within ten minutes she had prepared the document on her laptop. Midway through my wait she began speaking impeccable English. Curious as to what types of matters she and her compatriots tend to, I asked “what do you do here”. She responded “I work here”, and laughed heartily. I explained that I was using “you” in the sense of the agency and she explained what they do there.

Having the necessary document and very pleased that I needn’t return to Oaxaca for such, I began my walk back to Centro. I stopped for lunch at the La Capella Italian restaurant, which I had often passed but never entered. It was a very pleasant surprise.

The food was great, the service excellent, the decor beautiful, and the folks there very friendly. The walls of the restaurant are adorned with paintings of exaggeratedly fat, cartoonish subjects. I asked if I might take photos and was told of course. I also asked about the pantings and was informed that they are by a Columbian artist named Botero.  (Since my Dell has only a 10 gb hardrive there is not room to load the software necessary to download photos from my phone so I must wait until I have a new computer to post my La Capella report.)

On the walk home I stopped at a bank to pay the visa replacement fee and a photo studio for photos I knew the immigration office would need.

All and all it was a wonderful day.

This morning I returned to the immigration office, submitted the required documents and photos, again the woman helping me told me to not worry, completed the necessary paperwork, had me sign and apply my thumb print to a blank visa, and told me to return next Friday to pick my visa. I was in and out in twenty minutes.

I can also report that I have visited the USA State Dept. website where there are instructions as to how to report a stolen passport and the required form. I completed the form, printed it, scanned the printed form, and both express mailed it to the Wash. D. C. and emailed the scanned copy to the USA embassy in Mexico City, where I must present myself to apply for a new passport. This morning I received a very kind response from the passport consular at the embassy offering any help necessary. Once I receive my new credit card, which I am expecting within the next couple of days, I will bus to Mexico City to make the application.

It really has been all quite painless.

I was sitting in the lobby of the Hotel Virginia just finishing up the Casa de Mezcal post when a couple of husky young fellows entered and sat down on the couch adjacent to where I was sitting. I do not have wireless reception in my room so I hang out either the lobby or restaurant to take care of my internet business.

I noticed that the young fellows were speaking English really well and remarked on its quality. One of the fellows answered that he was born in Chicago and the other in American Lake Idaho.

The fellow from Chicago, Hector, indicated that he plays drums in a Duranguemse band, Autoridad de la Sierra; and the other fellow, Piko, indicated he worked security for the band. Either one of the fellows could work security anywhere, given there sizes.

Hector explained that Duranguemse, named for the Mexican state of Durango, is a genre developed in Chicago and consists of electronic keyboards, a tuba, other brass instruments, and an accordion. Hector also remarked that Chicago is a “magical” place for music.

The shot above is of the band’s logo on their tour bus.

Another interesting encounter on the road.

Being a committed reprobate, you know that when I happened upon La Casa de Mezcal, I had to enter. What ensued was one of those serendipitous travel experiences into which I often stumble when traveling without specific plans.

Actually there are quite a number of mescal stores here, as it is a product for which the area is apparently famous.

Upon my entrance, Jose greeted me warmly and described the six different mescal options from which I could choose. The choices differed in their ages and, thus, their colors, as the color, as well as various flavors, are imparted by the wooden barrel in which the liquor is aged. I opted for a shot of the “anejo” variety which has been aged for twelve years in Oak (Roble) barrels and is of a rich dark color and very smooth flavor. Jose explained that the younger mescal is harsher and is of a much lighter color.

La Casa de Mezcal is richly finished in wood, as you may see in the photos, with much of the wood intricately carved and with raised panels of Cedar surrounded by stiles and rails of lighter Pine. It is stunning.

I asked Jose if it would be alright if I took photos (always the polite thing to do, I think) and he, of course welcomed me to do so, and began showing me around. He took me into an adjoining room where a couple of young fellows were quaffing the youngest variety of mescal offered, blanco. I excused myself as I wished to take a photo of a particularly stunning carved door, and they asked me to join them, which I of course did.

Marcos, twenty one and stationed with the Mexican military in Chihuahua, and Christopher, a twenty seven year old musician who plays trumpet in a fifteen piece “banda” (which I understand is a genre) playing mostly Mexican music, had already had a few shots.

Both Marcos and Christopher live in San Pedro San Pablo Ayutla, a pueblo of about 300 folks a three or four hour bus ride pretty much due East of here. They told me that in the area of their pueblo gold ore is mined and that the area was never overrun by the Spanish conquerors.
Marcos was a bit inebriated, though not obnoxiously so, but persisted in tapping my arm when he wished to gain my attention and continuously repeated himself. Christopher, on the other hand, was very polite and very interesting.

Christopher told me that in the process of excavating for the foundation for a house he was building he unearthed a gold horse and a gold cup, which he says are of Aztecan vintage. He asked that I not mention the fact to anyone local and if I might be able to help him find a buyer. I told him I would look through the internet for buyers of Aztec antiquities and call him with contact information.

OK, I can hear you all now. And I admit, I am somewhat of a sucker for such things. But tomorrow I am taking a bus to the pueblo to visit, and to stay in what Christopher told me was his three room hotel. I have confirmed with the desk clerk at the Hotel Virginia, where I am staying here, that the pueblo (which does appear on my map) is quite nice and that there is a hotel there. Other than that I don’t know.

You may never hear from me again, but I’m up for the adventure. Meanwhile enjoy the photos of La Casa de Mezcal.

The police here, who are far fewer than in Xalapa it seems, carry only a “night stick” and handcuffs. None that I have seen carry a sidearm or rifle. All of the many police persons in Xalapa carry side arms, many carry rifles or shotguns and some carry six foot long metal truncheons, though I hasten to add that the police in Xalapa are not the least bit menacing.

There are very few buildings here of more than two stories, and few of even two stories. I was told by Jose, of the Casa de Mezcal (of which I will tell you), that Oaxaca is located in a seismic zone, thus the low rise nature of the buildings. Xalapa does not reside in a seismic zone, thus there are many multi-story buildings, particularly in Centro.

The streets and sidewalks in Centro Oaxaca are wider than their counterparts in Xalapa, thus, coupled with the fact of lower buildings, it is lighter and more airy at street level.

Damn there are a lot of churches here. It seems that every couple of blocks one encounters an opulent cathedral.

While I recommend that anyone visiting Oaxaca visit the Zocolo, and park oneself in a chair at one of the restaurants to experience the comings and goings and to make appropriate donations to vendors, I recommend a walk along Calle Las Casas for a tour of the local shopping district. Calles Independencia, Hidalgo, and Guerrero are the streets heavily traveled by tourists, but the other areas of town are quite loevely.

There are many folks in the Oaxaca area, so I’m told, who primarily speak Mixe, an indigenous Aztecan language, of which there are two dialects in the area. The woman making tortillas in the Restaurant Centro, where I had both breakfast and lunch today, told me that she doesn’t speak Spanish well, but speaks Mixe. Likewise, Marcos and Christopher, whom I met in the Case de Mezcal, told me that perhaps twenty percent of those in their home pueblo, near to here and where I will go tomorrow, don’t speak Spanish.

There is a beautiful building fronting on the Zocolo of which I asked Adan, the waiter at the restaurant on the Zocolo where I had a couple of beers yesterday, if it was a government building. He told me that is used to be the state government building; but the state government offices have since been dispersed to different buildings around town, as the Zocolo building had been the site of so many disruptive, often violent, demonstrations.

There is a Jardin de Entobotanico here, to which I walked this morning. Tough I was able to look through a couple of windows in the surrounding walls, it is closed on Sundays so I was not able to visit. Given that I will leave tomorrow at noon, a visit to the Jardin will have to wait. The pictures you see here are of the entrances to the jardin.

I enjoy nothing more than being on the road, encumbered with few plans, learning of new places and people, who are generally eager to answer my many questions, which I generally precede with a “disculpa, una pregunta por favor.” My entreaties are almost always answered with a “no te preocupea” and an answer is gladly proferred.

Also, traveling with no plans enables me to take advantage of such serendipitous opportunities of which I will next report to you.

The Templo de la Soledad bell tower.

Another Templo sculpture.

And yet another, and there are many more.

The church across the plaza from the Templo has also has some  very impressive sculpturing.

With that I’m off for more exploration of the City.

The side entrance to the Templo is also quite elegant.

Through another entrance may be seen a courtyard centered by a fountain.

And across the plaza is yet another elegant church.

The magnificent Templo de la Soledad (Solitude) lies midway between the Hotel Virginia and the Zocolo. The main entrance of the edifice, constructed of cantera stone, is surrounded by intricately carved figures of religious significance.

The templo is built upon the site of a 1543 apparition of the Virgin Mary, was completed in 1690, and declared a basilica in 1959.

The temple is flanked by sprawling plazas, one of which is framed on two sides by the stone amphitheater type seating seen in the photo below.

I arrived in Oaxaca this morning at 7:30, after an all night bus ride from Xalapa. The ADO GL bus line has very modern, very comfortable buses, complete with bathrooms. The fare to here from Xalapa is $390 pesos (the current exchange rate is $10.88 peso per $1.00 USA), about what it would cost to drive; but buses to here leave Xalapa only on Friday and Sunday nights, though one may first bus to Puebla for more frequent departures to here.

I had purchased a pair of Bluetooth wireless headphones, through which I may listen to the music stored in my phone/mp3, so passed the trip listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young, the Dixie Chicks, and to the Nutcracker, Swan Lake, and a variety of other classic music selections. The bus made three or four stops, but I’ll be damed if I can tell you where, as I was fading in and out.

About an hour and a half out of Oaxaca the sun had risen sufficiently for me to see the countryside. It is quite dry here and the rolling hills are sparsely covered with shrubby vegetation. I was told by a taxi driver that most rain falls here in June, July, and August, when it is usually quite humid; and that the hottest months are April and May. There are small cultivated patches along the arroyos amongst the hills where I think corn is grown, though none is currently planted.

Oaxaca, itself, resides in a broad valley amongst the hills, with mountains beyond. At the outskirts of the city are green patches of irrigated agricultural lands, though I was unable to identify the low-growing crops. A taxi driver told me that the surrounding farmers grow a wide variety of vegetables which they sell in the central market here.

Leaving the bus station I crossed the street to one of a number of cocina economicas and enjoyed a breakfast of freshly extracted orange juice, juevos rancheros, a slightly sweet roll, tortillas, and a totally unsatisfying cup of reconstituted Nescafe instant coffee. All for $40. pesos and served by a very pleasant young fellow.

Here, as in Xalapa and Merida, folks entering a restaurant customarily greet those eating with a buenos dias, tardes, or noche, as appropriate, and with a buen provecha.

I took a $40. peso taxi ride from the bus station to the Hotel Virginia, where I had made reservations a couple of days prior. The room is clean and the water is hot, my only two essential requirements for hotel accommodations. The room is $300 pesos per night and the hotel is about a six block walk from the Zocolo, to which the central plazas here in Mexico cities are referred. I recommend the place, which also provides free wireless internet service.

Having checked in, cleaned up and took a bit of rest, I headed for the Zocolo, following a tourist map provided by the Hotel. I looked around a bit and parked myself at a table of a restaurant which afforded a Zocolo side view of the comings and goings. Adan, my waiter, speaks wonderful English, which he says he learned waiting on tourists here; and was a great source of information, being quite patient with my many questions.

There are lots of tourists here, though I am told the numbers are significantly less then before the “problems”, as both the taxi driver and Adan put it, here in 2006.

Those who keep up with news of Mexico will remember that a 2006 teachers’ resulted in the occupation of Centro Oaxaca by the teachers and their supporters. Barricades were erected around, Adan told me, a forty two square block area. Buses and buildings were burned; and, ultimately, President Fox sent in federal troops which shot and killed a number of folks in the process of removing the protesters’ encampments.

Centro Oaxaca, Adan also told me, is called Verde Antequera owning to the fact that very many of the buildings are constructed of green cantera stone. Antequera, he told me, refers to the indigenous folks who once lived in the area. Most of the Centro buildings were defaced with graffiti during the 2006 protests and the pale green paint used to cover the graffiti can be seen on most Centro buildings today, including upon all of the columns of the building housing the restaurant.

The Zocolo here is quite lovely, centered by a striking gazebo constructed of carved, green cantera stone and intricate iron railings. There are large, spreading trees and raised garden beds, also constructed of cantera, planted with blazing red poinsettias.

The vendors of all manner of handicrafts plying the Zocolo, reminds me of the vendors hawking their wares along the beach in Cabo San Lucas.

There was, as I sat enjoying a couple Bohemias, an organ player in the restaurant, accompanied by canned percussions, playing elevator type arrangements of popular North American songs, such as “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Old Oak Tree” and “It’s Now or Never, Our Love Can’t Wait”. Mid-way down the Zocolo was a duo playing the pan flute and guitar and at the far end a marimba band.

It is all quite festive.

This morning I picked up my renewed visa.  I was in an out of the immigration office in five minutes, only to sign a certification that I had received the visa.

I have my bus ticket to Oaxaca, for where I will leave just before midnight Friday.   I don’t know where exactly I will be visiting after Oaxaca, other than the Pacific coast, or how long I will be gone.

Some may remember I posted a report of My Walk to Rancho Viejo, there weeks or so ago. I had headed out on a walk to explore Colonia San Bruno and ended up, after four kilometers of climbing up and over a couple of hills along a winding road, at Rancho Viejo. Quite sweaty and thinking of a beer, as I entered the pueblo I found myself at the gate of a wonderful restaurant specializing in fresh, locally grown trout. It was one of those serendipitous travel experience that seem to arrive when one sets out with no plan.

Like the space cadet I often am, I failed to remember the name of the restaurant.

This afternoon I drove to Los Paredones, the wonderful restaurant in Rancho Viejo, for another trout lunch and Indio beer. This time taking my pen and pad.

As it turns out there are a number of restaurants in Rancho Viejo serving fresh trout, none that I saw offering the amenities and ambiance of Los Paredones, though with lower prices, I suspect.

Rancho Viejo, as I learned from Maximino Salazar, a trout grower and owner, with his family, of the restaurant, is located in a valley transversed by two small rivers, Rio Pisquiac and Rio Xoco Yolapan, neither of which ask me to pronounce. The rivers names are Nahuatl, the indigenous language of the Aztecs still spoken in areas of Central Mexican. The tranquil and sunny valley consists of a patchwork of pastures and forests containing Oak, Cedar, other tress of which I am unfamiliar, and a fairly open shrubby under story. The area brings to mind the hill farms flanking the “hollers” in the Appalachian mountains. It provides a tranquil relief from the traffic and smog of Xalapa.

Maximino, who indicated I should call him Max as no one knows him as Maximino, informed me that Rancho Viejo resides upon the sight of a former hacienda owned by a Spaniard, of the name Rodriguez, to whom the land was granted by dictator Porfirio Díaz. Rodriguez lost the land during the land reform movement following the revolution that deposed Diaz.

Max indicated that most development in Ranch Viejo has occurred during the last four years. He also invited me back to visit him in his house for coffee and conversation.

I hope locals, and those visiting Xalapa, will pay a visit to Los Paredones. The very reasonably priced ($65. pesos for a trout platter of about 15 varieties) food is as fine as I’ve eaten; the family operating the place is very warm and friendly; the bathrooms are modern and spotless; the service is great; and the ambiance provided by the open air, wood frame structure surrounded by gardens is relaxed and pleasant. The restaurant is open only on Saturdays and Sundays and you should plan to get there by 2:30 or so, as by 4:00 the placed was packed, including the unroofed adjoining patio, upon which tables were set as the guest arrived. To get there take Sayago, pass through San Bruno, and take the left fork at the road to San Andres. Its over just a couple of hills from San Bruno. The restaurant is on the left just as you enter centro Rancho Viejo. You will not be disappointed.

After you meal take a drive through Rancho Viejo, (tkae a left when leaving the restaurant parking area) where you will not encounter a typical centro plaza. There is a gorgeous river stone and mortar church on the right not far from the restaurant and picturesque farms along the road.

I had Trucha (Trout) Rancho Viejo, grilled trout laid open on the plate, complete with head, and covered with a crumble concoction containing Macadamia nuts, a bit of sugar, and I don’t know what else. The fish was accompanied by rice with peas and carrot bits, traditional hereabouts; cucumbers slivers in a mayonnaise sauce; a cup of soup; and chips, salsa, and a somewhat spicy chip sauce of mayonnaise, ketchup, and I don’t know what else.

A few days ago I posted pictures of the work of constructing an addition to the apartment building in which I live.

The workers are now placing the reinforcement bar for the beams that will support the upper floors and placing the form work for the second floor slab itself.

Above is a shot of some of the construction workers after work on Saturday afternooon enjoying a few hands of cards. I have become quite familiar with the fellows, who, I think, consider it a bit odd that a gringo would take such an interest in their work.

The photo at right shows the form work for the second floor slab. The posts are slender tree trunks which support wooden boards laid on edge, over which are placed thinner boards upon which the second floor slab will be poured.

Again, every bit of concrete used in the construction is mixed by hand on a concrete slab, using shovels, and placed into or onto the forms using five gallon buckets.

And here you can see a typical rebar bundle for the beams that will span from column to column and which support the upper floor walls.

The rebar is laid up essentially in the same manner as it is in the USA, but here the bundles are put together on site using only hand tools and manual labor. Often in the USA the rebar bundles are assembled in specialized workshops and shipped to the site for placement.

In the USA workers use special twister type pliers to secure the tie wire that is used to connect the pieces of rebar together. Here the fellows use a piece of rebar that is bent at 90 degrees and sharpened at one end to twist the wires that connect the pieces.

I find it all quite fascinating.

As I mentioned a few days ago that I would , I spent new year eve at the Tavola Trattoria restaurant and stayed out later than I have since my thirtieth high school reunion ten years ago. I had spent my previous two new year eves here at home.

When I arrived at 9:30, no other customers had arrived and didn’t begin to arrive until after ten. Generally speaking folks here begin their partying or music events later and stay at it later, including the children, than that to which I am accustomed. (Many nightclub music performances don’t get underway until 9:30 or 10:00.) By 10:30 two of the three Tavola seating areas were full of celebrating families.

I spent the evening at a table with the restaurant owner, her mother and younger sister, a gringa from Chicago who teaches English here, and a friend of the owner and her ten year old daughter Nelany, a Hawaiian name meaning tranquil sky, as her mother informed me.

The was much dancing, which the young children seem to particularly enjoy; a delicious four course meal of appetizers, ravioli stuffed with four different cheeses and spinach, beef roast and mashed potatoes, and double chocolate cake; champagne; and sparklers for the strike of midnight. We were each also provided a glass with twelve grapes, one for each month. One makes a wish while eating each grape.

During the evening about a third of those present continually had their cell phones open, sending and receiving felicidades to and from their friends and families. At one point, Nelany asked her mother for her phones and her mother pulled three phones out of her purse, two of which were Nelany’s and only one hers, she assured me. She indicated that Nelany is familiar with all of the phone and her home computer functions while she, herself, was capable of only making calls and sending email.

At midnight the sparklers were lit and everyone in the restaurant got up and circulated to wish every other patron a happy new year, a wish accompanied by hugs, kisses, and hand shakes.

It was a wonderful evening.

There is apparently not the fondness for new year fireworks here, as I remember there is in Merida. There the explosions continued through the night. Here I heard only a couple of reports.

I should also note that the Chedraui store where I shop frequently put out racks of red and yellow bra/panty sets a week or so before new year eve.  I have since learned from reading “What I Do All Day” that the underwear is worn for luck, one color for luck in love and the other for money.

The owner of the apartment building where I live is adding more apartments. The construction site is what used to be a parking area where I was able to store my pickup. The work began in the Summer, and every day since there have been from two to more than ten fellows working on the project.

The work began with the demolition of the areas of the parking lot slab where footings would be poured and a small structure that existed on the site. Demolition was completed by a group of fellows with hammers and chisels. No machinery was used.

There is almost ubiquitous here during weekdays and Saturdays the clinking of hammers on chisels and the thump of sledge hammers colliding with masonry, as workers demolish or remodel existing structures.

Keep in mind that labor here is inexpensive so everything is done quite labor intensively. I believe the minimum wage for construction workers here is about 47 pesos per day, roughly the equivalent of $4.35 US.

These photos show typical construction in Mexico, which consists of concrete columns, spanned by concrete beams, and topped with a structural slab floor or roof. The columns you see here will support the load of two additional stories and a roof. You can also see that lumber supports have been placed against the columns, upon which the beam forms will be placed. The spaces between the columns will be filled with either brick or concrete blocks, which will be finished with a layer of stucco.

Every bit of concrete that you can see in the photos, and a substantial quantity which can not be seen, has been mixed by hand and poured into the forms from buckets. The concrete is mixed on the existing concrete slab, where gravel is placed in a bowl shape; sand, cement, and water are added; and workers with scoop type shovels do the mixing. Such is how concrete is typically mixed here. A couple of days ago there was a group of workers mixing concrete in Calle Calijero, one of the main drags through the Centro shopping district, with which to patch a relatively large portion of one side of the street which had been excavated.

Right after celebration of Revolution Day on November 20 Christmas decorations began appearing in Xalapa. Here are a few shots.

Here’s a rather obscure shot of the tree erected in the small plaza across Calle Enriquez from the state government building.