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.