Bloodthirsty people are much the rage these days.  I dare say, passé.  Just look at the explosion of pubescent pale lusting vampires and their beguiled, love-torn victims.  They, like the characters in Harry Potter, managed the unmanageable in our Twitter generation:  captivation in a book.  And not even a book:  a series.  The Twilight Series first came out in 2005 and quickly paved the way for fanged friends to enter our day-to-day vernacular.  Of course, it was instantly followed by a barrage of cheesy copycats and, inevitably, it arrived in a theatre near you.  On television the theme seems to have gone viral.  Enough already!  Aren’t we sick of vampires yet?

It would seem not.  Not even on a dusty, windy, forgotten road in Mexico, heading west from Zamora to Guadalajara. You can find them there.  The make-up may not be ...Read on]]>

Bloodthirsty people are much the rage these days.  I dare say, passé.  Just look at the explosion of pubescent pale lusting vampires and their beguiled, love-torn victims.  They, like the characters in Harry Potter, managed the unmanageable in our Twitter generation:  captivation in a book.  And not even a book:  a series.  The Twilight Series first came out in 2005 and quickly paved the way for fanged friends to enter our day-to-day vernacular.  Of course, it was instantly followed by a barrage of cheesy copycats and, inevitably, it arrived in a theatre near you.  On television the theme seems to have gone viral.  Enough already!  Aren’t we sick of vampires yet?

It would seem not.  Not even on a dusty, windy, forgotten road in Mexico, heading west from Zamora to Guadalajara. You can find them there.  The make-up may not be as good but the  special effects are even better.

We were first intrigued by the flaccid vampire look-alike blowing in the wind.

“Stop!” Our energetic kids demanded in naïve delight.  “There’s a vampire there, stop!”

Expecting nothing more than just another Kodak moment for the books, Husband and I pulled over, albeit a bit intrigued by the avid dedication to Halloween emanating from the tiny street stand in the middle of nowhere with a vampire.

The stand ended up being a make-shift bar, promising this local drink called “Vampiro” I had never heard of (and I am a proud graduate of the Columbia University Mixology class!)  Being the lightweight drinker that I am, my stiffest drink is usually compromised by a hearty Cabernet.  But this I had to try.

Ernesto, the dusty-road bartender, produced a gallon-sized plastic bag and swiftly filled it with a dizzying array of ingredients.

He poured precise measurements into my bag and then shook it fervishly, wrapping the whole bundle up with tape after deftly inserting a thick straw in a tiny aperture left on top.  My red I.V. was handed to me and I took a bloody gulp.

Sweet, salty, spicy and sour danced in my mouth at once, giving me enough chance to feel slightly giddy and yearn for more.  The bag felt chilled in my hand and wobbled deliriously as I slurped at my cocktail.  Slurping would turn out to be a mistake, making me grateful I wasn’t in charge of handling the acute curves our impending drive promised.

Husband looked at me with concern and jealousy.  He knew I was no more than a wine wimp and here I was coddling with Vampiro a bit too heavily.

“Hand it over,” he grumbled.  “Let me try it.”

My eyes shot out a possessive glance.  This vampire was mine.  Like the pages of hungry lust that kept all those teenagers enthralled, I clutched my bag tightly and refused to let it go.

“Sorry, buddy,” I managed to blubber out before returning to my unbridled sipping, “it wouldn’t be responsible for me to give you any of this right now.”

I thought pulling out the responsibility card might do the trick, but before I could finish, Husband had already approached me and snagged the baggie from my clumsy grasp.  One sip said it all.

“You’re drinking this?”  He laughed, knowing how much trouble I was already in.  “Enjoy, sweetie,” he coaxed, giving me back my vampire.  I was in for a visit with delight, followed by dizziness, and then a pounding headache, cursing myself for being led astray by a vampire, knowing I should just stick to wine.

Still, the dance of flavors remained a bright and happy memory, and as I reached for my emergency stash of Tylenol, I can only say what all the love-torn protagonist of vampire sagas say:  for that vampire, I’d do it all again…

Aziz must have been all of seventeen, a mere five years older than my daughter, but in his presence I felt safe, comforted and loved.

Was it his sly smile, tweaked by almond-colored eyes with rich long lashes the color of coal?  I couldn’t stop gazing into those eyes, they seemed perfectly made up, a subtle tease of light and dark, the epitome of contrasts that defines Aziz’s hometown of Marrakech.  Perhaps it was the gregariousness that shot out of him with each vigorous wave, hug, and pat on the back he graced my family and I with (and there were many).  It was infectious.  Here was a stranger we’d stopped to ask directions from (‘L’Mellach synagogue, s’il vous plais?’) and somehow, willingly, ended up visiting in his tiny shop crowded with smells, powders, and crystals.

“You look.  You no buy.  I ...Read on]]>

Aziz must have been all of seventeen, a mere five years older than my daughter, but in his presence I felt safe, comforted and loved.

Was it his sly smile, tweaked by almond-colored eyes with rich long lashes the color of coal?  I couldn’t stop gazing into those eyes, they seemed perfectly made up, a subtle tease of light and dark, the epitome of contrasts that defines Aziz’s hometown of Marrakech.  Perhaps it was the gregariousness that shot out of him with each vigorous wave, hug, and pat on the back he graced my family and I with (and there were many).  It was infectious.  Here was a stranger we’d stopped to ask directions from (‘L’Mellach synagogue, s’il vous plais?’) and somehow, willingly, ended up visiting in his tiny shop crowded with smells, powders, and crystals.

“You look.  You no buy.  I show. You no buy.  No buy nothing.  I teach you. Only teach you.”  He dangled that promise over my husband and proceeded to slather me in creams and powders, (“this one for smooth, young skin, this one for the cooking, this one to open sinus.”)  I had heard about the Moroccan herboristerie, or natural remedy shop, in my travel guide, but could have never imagined it to be such a friendly delight to the senses.

Whatever ailment, in whatever language, we threw Aziz’s way he had a remedy and a smile.

“Your son not breathe good?  Here.  Sniff. Good, yeah?”

Jonathan was a compliant volunteer, gently inhaling tar-colored pebbles packed into a burlap sack and shoved up against his nostril.  Within seconds his face lit up and his congestion improved.

“Y tu…bella,” Aziz motioned to my teenage daughter in a smooth mixture of Spanish and Italian, “ you use this on the skin, yeah?”  He tossed a small amber block towards her with one hand while rubbing a second block over his own shirt.  “Jasmin, para perfumar el cuerpo.”  Jasmine, perfume for the body, he promised and delivered.

With each trick he produced I grew happier, announcing loudly:

“We’ll take two of those, half a kilo of that, a bottle of this!”

My husband watched me nervously as he added the mounting durhams in his head, quickly translating them into euros. He stayed quiet to appease my new-found bond with my herb son.

“And you, madame?”  Aziz asked, confident he’d soon cure all my troubles.

“Stomach.”  I offered, quietly cursing my tragic predicament of food lover and stomach whimp.  “Something for the stomach.”

Aziz’s eyes sparkled extra bright for this one and he added an extra jump to his step, startling all of us (for the store was tiny and any extra jumping threatened to rattle a shelf or two).

“Well of course, I have the perfect remedy just for you!  Tea!”

Tea is a familiar pastime in Morocco.  Every stop in one’s day is measured by a glass loaded with fresh mint leaves, hot water, and a generous spike of sweetness.  But Aziz promised us a new experience:

“This isn’t mint tea:  different tea.”

And with that he ran wildly around his tiny shop, producing powders from jars, dried leaves from bags, and an unidentifiable petrified object or two.  He popped these all into his tiny metal kettle and waited with the same excitement a child awaits to open Christmas presents on Christmas day.  His energy was infectious and I noticed my entire family sat on the edge of our seats for this miraculous elixir to be ready to drink.

When the allotted brewing time was up, Aziz gave the honors of tea pouring (a Moroccan art and tradition that places emphasis on the kettle being as far away from the tiny glass as possible) to my eight-year old son, who mastered the job like a native.  We all clapped and grabbed a glass.  I wasn’t sure what was in the tea but that didn’t seem to matter.  A quick compliant glance at my husband and a silent prayer we’d not get deathly ill ingesting this and then, down the hatch it went!  The tea was smooth, with slight spice overtones and not sweet at all.  In a word:  delicious!

When we were done we said our goodbyes like old friends departing after a long visit.  More hugs and picture-taking followed as we piled out of the tiny shop holding our bags of powders and potions we no doubt would forget how to use by the time we got home.  As we headed down the crowded streets, slightly enchanted, fully disoriented, and not minding one bit, I heard my husband’s familiar chuckle.

“Here we are,” he proclaimed.  “The synagogue.”

Sure enough, we stood in front of the ancient structure, closed on that particular day.

We laughed together and agreed it had been the most expensive visit to a closed synagogue.  Then we quickly conceded it was well worth every penny.  With that, we continued down the street looking for one last thing:  it was time for another tea.

I gravitate towards the most crowded spot in the city, the Mercado de la Merced, the Saturday market, a labyrinth of tiny alleys and passageways leaking with cow guts and blood from pigs’ feet, where chickens dangle upside down in skinned nudity, waiting to be snatched and boiled ...Read on]]> If the sip of a crimson drink will take me there, I will go.  I will go freely and happily, just as this tart, crisp flower that stained my water to a delicious and refreshing memory lures me back, I will go willingly.  Because even though the traffic is horrendous, the likes of Bangkok’s gridlocks and Cairo’s chaos, and even though the news of crime and kidnap and danger ricochets from its warm and forgotten embrace terrorizing those outside its magic and charm, I will go, gladly,  I will go back to Mexico.

I gravitate towards the most crowded spot in the city, the Mercado de la Merced, the Saturday market, a labyrinth of tiny alleys and passageways leaking with cow guts and blood from pigs’ feet, where chickens dangle upside down in skinned nudity, waiting to be snatched and boiled into some tasty broth or mole or taco.

The spaces are small and dank and festering with people, some toting their goods precariously stacked on wheelbarrows which they deftly navigate through the city that is this market. Whistling serves as their horn to warn others of their passage.  And many would feel claustrophobic in this dimly lit chaos, nauseous perhaps: the smell of life and death are pungent; inescapable.  But I, I am invigorated here, shoved along this wave of food and people.  I feel embraced by the millions of stands overflowing with produce and meat, and even though I am the only fair-skinned, blue-eyed woman in the entire market, a guera, I am embraced by the Mexican’s characteristic courteousness:

“Bonita, guera, aqui, bonita, aqui.” ‘Here pretty blondie, here’, the vendors coax, offering up free samples of fresh cheese, a slice of a mango, a piece of tripe.  They are curious of me and my camera, each peering out from behind their stalls loaded with their life’s work, becoming bashful and hiding safely behind a bag of tacos or a mountain of fresh nopales when I turn to shoot their image.  But still they all call after me, wanting me, and we share a moment of laughter, a smile, and a taste; always there’s a taste.  I apologize that I can’t buy their goods: I have no kitchen of my own here in Mexico and it aches to leave empty-handed.  I am too weak with temptation.

An aged lady at a corner stand senses my eyes softening and draws me in, offering up dried flowers the color of rubies, placing a bunch delicately in my hand:

“Bueno para el corazon, bueno para la mente:  un pedazo de Mexico,” she promises and I reflect on her wisdom as it echoes my whole experience of this country:

“Good for the heart, good for the mind, a piece of Mexico.”

And so I buy a bagful of these beautiful flowers, called Flor de Jamaica.  They are dried Hibiscus.  I will cradle their delicacy amongst my lingerie, brushing away the image of a U.S. Customs dog attacking my suitcase to confiscate my goods.  I risk it all because they are lovely and when boiled with water and chilled they make the unmistakably Mexican drink of Agua de Jamaica, a little piece of my experience I refuse to let go.
I take the bag from my Mexican muse and hug it close to me.  I hear the bustle of life.  Something cold drips on my toe and I dare not look down.  I am in Mexico.  I am in the market. The waves of passer-byers behind me feel like a mammoth embrace.  A man carrying several sacks of jalapeños on his head brushes by.  A woman slices a lime and it explodes with juice, leaving a trail of citrus oil within smelling range. A row of pig feet salute me in the next stall.  I breathe in the flower’s fragrance and feel myself irrevocably drawn into this country.  In this culinary chaos I am home.

I was greeted by a dead 25-pound iguana when I opened my front door to get the New York Times yesterday morning. It was a learning opportunity having this prehistoric creature available at such close range, but even still, sad and gross. The poor thing had frozen to death; unable to withstand the uncharacteristic frigid evening that had blasted South Florida the night before. It lay there upside down, little claws sticking straight up to the sky with its tail whipped along my crocus plant like another lost weed.

“Wow! This would be awesome for my animal-obsessed seven-year old son to see,” I thought to myself. How fascinated would he be to have an up close look at this precursor to one of his all-time favorites, the dinosaur?

But once I spoke the thought out ...Read on]]>

I was greeted by a dead 25-pound iguana when I opened my front door to get the New York Times yesterday morning. It was a learning opportunity having this prehistoric creature available at such close range, but even still, sad and gross. The poor thing had frozen to death; unable to withstand the uncharacteristic frigid evening that had blasted South Florida the night before. It lay there upside down, little claws sticking straight up to the sky with its tail whipped along my crocus plant like another lost weed.

“Wow! This would be awesome for my animal-obsessed seven-year old son to see,” I thought to myself. How fascinated would he be to have an up close look at this precursor to one of his all-time favorites, the dinosaur?

But once I spoke the thought out loud I knew it to be a mistake. A mistake reconfirmed by my husband’s wiser shaking of the head.

How awful would it be? This child does, after all, fret over the fate of ants left to contend with water-spraying sprinklers, spiders cast away from their webs by menacing gusts of wind, and baby lizards separated from their mommies, (all these get “adopted” by him and named and he is always so sad and hurt when they ‘run away’.) No doubt this child’s fixation with all living creatures deems him a Buddhist, in his past, present, or future. Keeping that in mind, a dead iguana would deliver quick and irreparable trauma.

With that clarified, my husband did the kind and fatherly thing (bag it up and taking it to a trash far, far away) and I did the sensible and motherly thing (re-enter house with the New York Times, a smile, and act as if nothing happened.) And the day went on just like that. One little boy saved from sadness.

The only problem is that I had seen the iguana. And it was beautiful and bright green and glorious. And it was also dead. Frozen on my front lawn, you’ll remember. I’ve never really wondered about spiders or ants, or even those tiny lizards. There are so many of them sprawled outside (and inside) my house. But I couldn’t help think of the iguana. I know they run amock here and aren’t popular with Floridians. People take them in as pets then set them free in the Everglades and now they are all over the place, affecting the delicate eco-system there., But there was this frozen one, and, like I said: beautiful, bright green, and glorious and I couldn’t help but wonder what had been her last thoughts before the great freeze. There she’d be, Guani (yes, I’ve named her) snoozing on a tree, trying to survive the chill, wondering where she took the wrong left turn that led her north and not south and then, thump, dead on the ground the next morning. Was she wondering what bug she’d have for breakfast? Where to get the next sip of water? When Mr. Iguana was coming home so they could snuggle and keep warm? Would I?

Images of a rich vanilla milkshake filled me now. It made no sense really. Milkshakes are cold and if I was to slurp one up as an iguana I’d sooner freeze and drop from the branch. But milkshakes are also decadent and delightful and for that reason saved for only the most special occasions when they always make me feel better, no matter what. Even if what follows is a long, hard fall.

The first diploma I ever got hung proudly in the one place I felt people would truly contemplate it: my bathroom wall. I had worked hard to get it and wanted it fully appreciated. The space was small and with few distractions, so I imagined that as folks would go about their business they’d be happy to meet face to face with my diploma and indivertibly contemplate its scholarly script. Plus, the diploma always got a response from the bathroom-goer. Nine times out of ten, any newcomer to my bathroom would exit with a surprised look and say, ‘Really? Columbia University? Bartending?’ and I would slowly smile and gloat (each time) filling with pride and a sense of endless accomplishment because I had snagged a coveted Ivy League education, even if only in the unscholarly art of mixing the ...Read on]]>

The first diploma I ever got hung proudly in the one place I felt people would truly contemplate it: my bathroom wall. I had worked hard to get it and wanted it fully appreciated. The space was small and with few distractions, so I imagined that as folks would go about their business they’d be happy to meet face to face with my diploma and indivertibly contemplate its scholarly script. Plus, the diploma always got a response from the bathroom-goer. Nine times out of ten, any newcomer to my bathroom would exit with a surprised look and say, ‘Really? Columbia University? Bartending?’ and I would slowly smile and gloat (each time) filling with pride and a sense of endless accomplishment because I had snagged a coveted Ivy League education, even if only in the unscholarly art of mixing the perfect orgasm.

I didn’t have stories of all-nighters and brilliant professors to back up that piece of paper. No enlightening moments where the world was reshaped through relentless academic efforts. Here, there was nothing groundbreaking, just a lot of drinking.

It seemed too curious a juxtaposition to ignore: nestled among one of the most prestigious and rigorous universities was a formal class on the making of drinks, and this was before mixology was in vogue. There was even a syllabus. I am not sure what drove me to take the class more: the free drinks, the promise of making great money, or the coveted Columbia degree. It has been almost twenty years since then, but I recall fondly many nights of madras sunsets and ruptured ducks and sex on the beach. The lecture hall would be cramped with eager students watching and feverishly scribbling recipes and concoctions they would later try on all their frat brothers. I brought my own guinea pig with me when I snuck in my boyfriend, whom I ended up marrying several years later. “I’ll just act like I belong” he promised, insisting that attitude and appearance where all that mattered.

The teacher (a slightly drunk older graduate student) would prepare each drink and then offer it up to be tasted. Invariably (and I assume in his efforts to “belong”) my boyfriend’s hand went up every time and the instructor must have appreciated his enthusiasm because he got the drinks most of the time.

As he slurped toxic mixes of vodka, triple sec and lime juice I’d quiz him on his experience. Was it too strong? Too sweet? Refreshing? How many could one enjoy? Ice or no ice? I’d zealously jot down his answers on my yellow bartending notepad, absorbing the drink through his palate. Occasionally I would venture and take a sip of the hard liquor, but my taste buds where always angered by those attempts, craving much more the soft touch of a cool Friuli wine.

The class was a good three hours long and by the end of it my source of information, whose standard bar order was Diet Coke, was a complete waste of slurred speech and mixed messages. My biggest challenge was always balancing his 6’2″ 200-pound frame to get him out of the classroom and on to the subway for the ride home. To his credit he was a happy drunk, always compliant and did little more than fall into a heavy sleep and wake up with a bad headache. Still, he was always game for more: insisting I needed to know if a Mexican Mudslide was sweeter than a Blind Russian (it’s not), insisting I’d have to understand each drink to learn them well, and he, graciously enough, would be willing to comply. It’s all in the name of education, and an Ivy League one at that.

In the end it all came down to one recipe. In front of the entire class and a panel of five judges, I would have to pick one card with one drink and mix it properly. This was my ticket to a coveted Columbia degree. It had been weeks of flashcards and a very hung over boyfriend. I couldn’t falter now because I knew we both would not survive another ten weeks of this. When it was my turn, I walked up to the judges and valiantly waited for their order.  It was a Raging Bull. I smiled and couldn’t help but think of Robert De Niro’s beat up face as the young boxer he portrayed in the movie of that same name years ago. I didn’t share any of De Niro’s demons, though. I knew what I was doing and quickly assembled the drink as if I had made it every night: Kahlua, sambuca, and tequila layered in a shot glass in that order. Attitude and appearance is key, I learned that from my drunk boyfriend.