Mazatlan, Centro Historico ,Topolo

Yesterday was our last day here, so we spent it on the beach trying to soak up as much sun as we could before returning  to winter.  In the evening, we went back to Centro Historico. The main square came to life on Friday night.  The central part of the square was filled with jugglers, dancers, and clowns.  Music was pouring from every restaurant and people were eating in outdoor cafes.  We, however, went on one of the side streets to the  restaurant called Topolo.  Now, if you are in Mazatlan, you must go to Topolo!

We entered through an arched doorway framed with a lace of wrought iron, stepped under a beamed overhang and from there in an inner courtyard and into the movie “Frieda.”

The walls of the courtyard were painted crimson with ochre columns and upper beams.  The colors were deep and warm despite their brightness.  The walls were decorated with local crafts, paintings, and one colonial mirror.  The floor was a mix of tiles and gravel from which mighty trees rose up to the sky.  Between the trees stood tables covered with jacquard tablecloths, some flanked with wrought iron, other with colonial mahogany chairs.  Planters and driftwood were set between the tables and some of the trees and one wall were decked out in Christmas lights.  There were just enough decorations and the whole open-air atrium was finished in perfect taste with nothing extraneous, with every items perfectly in place, with all the colors of exactly the right shade, all unmistakably Mexican sans cheap trinkets you normally see everywhere.

It was an absolute visual delight!  To compete the pleasure,  a musician was playing Latin tunes on his acoustic guitar and softly crooning to it.

The total effect was absolutely perfect!

The food was good as far as Mexican food goes (I am not a big fan).  A waiter prepared salsa for us right by our table in one of those caldrons/mortars.  I had pork shank that was quite tender and served with a spicy sauce, and for desert, Kenny had Mexican coffee, which our waiter ignited several times and proceeded to perform a show of pyrotechnics.

Ok, so to sum it all up.  You know, I am not a beach person and the Caribbean is not my choice destination.  But this town has some spirit, the resort was free, and the dollar goes a long way here.  Yet nice as it was to get away from the cold, I am looking forward to April, when we’ll sail from Lisbon to Monte Carlo, and until then, goodbye ye’all!

Malipoca, Concordia, Copala

Yesterday, I decided to take a break from lounging on the beach and  tour the two colonial villages of Concordia and Copala, and one 90-year old village of Malipoca.  If you are ever in Mazatlan and offered to go to Malipoca and Concordia, politely decline.  And don’t lose any sleep if you never get to go to Copala.

First, remember that all tours here include an hour drive from hotel to hotel collecting fellow tour-goers.  That is just a warning, not a complaint – it’s  a necessary nuisance.  Then, all the collected tourists are gathered in yet another jewelry store in Zona Dorada and sorted out into their separate excursions.   Our first destination of Malipoca took an hour to reach.  We passed several residential neighborhoods, nondescript and covered with graffiti, then several industrial areas, nondescript and covered with graffiti, then rode through the countryside, nondescript but no graffiti, all the while listening to the guide cracking dull jokes (local guides probably find history way too heavy a subject for tourists), and finally arrived in the village of Malipoca.  This village’s claim to fame was that the same stucco houses you see in every poor Mexican neighborhood were painted here different colors.  The only other attraction was a bakery with an igloo-shaped adobe oven where we were given samples of freshly baked bread.  That had to be the first time in my life when, upon sampling some fresh bread in a bakery, I walked out buying nothing.  Mexican bread is a slight improvement over Wonder bread – soft crust, mushy inside, both flavor and texture are weak, with no personality.  To kill the 30 minutes allotted us to view the town, I visited the church and marveled at the little Jesus (the size of a 5-year old) snug in his glass case, all decked out in white lace, covered to his chin, with blood seeping out from his mouth (poor thing!)

In Concordia, we were deposited once again into the main square and given another half hour to kill.  I walked around the square several times and ended up in a church once again – with no other place to go.  This church was much large than the previous one and contained many more Jesuses of various sizes and ages in their glass cases.  Many were bleeding profusely.  The main Jesus to the right from the altar was dressed in a Middle Eastern-style caftan, but in his arms he was holding a little girl in a contemporary  frilly lace gown.  And the beard was neatly trimmed…

Upon the expiration of the obligatory 30 min., we set off to see Copala, a village in the mountains of Sierra Mandre.  This tiny village of 300 people does possess some rustic charm, mostly due to its hilly location.  It consists of several crooked streets and some stone houses.   We were brought yet again to a main square, where I skipped the church (could no longer bear witnessing the poor guy’s suffering!) , waved off the swarms of little boys trying to sell seemingly identical wooden carvings, and walked the couple blocks to the only restaurant in town where I had the worst and the most expensive Mexican lunch yet.

During an hour-long ride back, the guide ran out of jokes and was mercifully quiet.

The resort looks better and better after each outing.

Mazatlan, the Old City

We went on a city tour yesterday.   We boarded an old-fashioned-looking bus, probably, once a trolley, the type that Frieda Kahlo rode when it got into the accident that left her crippled for life.  After an obligatory stop in a jewelry shop and a drive through Zona Dorada (which in the day looked no better then it did at night), we drove out onto the promenade stretching along the ocean.  If you looked on your left, your eye met a colorful array of ugly hotels and shops.  On the right, if you let your eye glide over attempts-on-art on the boardwalk, it was rewarded with a sight of the ocean, several rocky islands in the distance, and the sun slowly sinking  into the horizon.

The water promenade called “Malecon” brought us to old Mazatlan built in the 19^th century.  This part of town presented some charm, not original, however, and typical to many Caribbean towns.  No traces of Aztec culture were to be found anywhere.   Either the only city the Aztecs built was Tenochtitlan (now Mexico-city), or the Spaniards razed them all to the ground (Tenochtitlan included).

The main square, where we had dinner on a patio of a restaurant, was pleasantly Mexican, but the highlight of the day was a taxi ride back to the hotel.  We climbed in a local taxi – a cross between a go-cart and a golf cart.  Ken – next to the driver, Jason and I in the backseat elevated over the front seat.  No doors, windows, seatbelts, needless to say.  The taxi coughed and hacked like an age-old smoker, but started, and we took off like the wind.   We didn’t go too far, the poor thing died in the middle of a deserted intersection where only a stray black dog was crossing the street in front of us.  But no worries.  Our valiant driver jumped out and finagled something in the back, after which the taxi went into a hacking spell again, but started nonetheless.  The driver jumped back in and took us on a wild and crazy ride back on the Malecon, through Zona Dorada to the affluent world of our resort.

On the other note, Jason beats me in scrabble mercilessly day after day!

Mazatlan, Pueblo Bonito, Zona Dorada

Yesterday, I decided to take a power walk around the property.  There is a beautiful spa and a gym here, but I resented the $10 fee charged for using the equipment, so a walk seemed to be a good alternative.  The resort is quite spread out and situated on several levels, so I walked up and down the stairs and in and out of buildings.  The architect/designer of this place had to have a soft spot for ancient Greeks.  Two stone lions guard the entrance, a row of Greek goddesses grace the colonnade, a winged Nike looks over the pool, and last but not least, a statute of Socrates looms over another pool.  Another ancient Greek sage, yet to be named, looks over the newly built section.  The underlying message of placing a statute of a Greek philosopher in a Mexican resort completely eluded me!

Last night we took a shuttle to Bonito’s sister hotel in town and from there, a local bus  (when is Maztlan, do as Mazatlanians do) to the restaurant called “Pancho’s.”  The part of the town we went to is called Zona Dorada or the Golden Zone.  The name might have been chosen to describe the beautiful new town to be built, but right now could only stand for the money extracted from tourists.  The town, or rather the strip, is trashy, teeming with cheap eateries, junky souvenir shops, ugly hotels, and flashy silver jewelry.   The restaurant, as recommended by Fodor’s and a fellow hot tub soaker, was a breath of fresh air.  Once we passed through a gaudy gallery of shops, we were seated by a pretty hostess (Crissy’s Mexican sister) by the waterfront.  Waves were literally licking the steps leading up to the restaurant floor.  The restaurant didn’t fight its Mexican nature but went along with it.  The guys ordered lobsters, served spread eagle on the plates, and exuded the aroma of freshly grilled seafood, and I ordered some Mexican dish of beef, cheese, and vegetables in hot sauce served in what could be a small stone cauldron or a large mortar – very primeval in appearance, and it kept the dish hot and sizzling until I finished it.

Halfway through the meal, a group of Mexican drummers dressed in African garb performed for us below, on the beach, with powerful African-style percussion, tribal dancing, and fire joggling.

Once out of the restaurant, the town looked even more seedy.  The resort, all of a sudden, looked bright and welcoming.

Mazatlan, Pueblo Bonito Emerald Bay

This is our third morning here.  The mornings are what I like the most.  I drink my coffee on the balcony while the guys are asleep, and gaze at the view in front of me.  From the third floor, the ground below is all palm trees and other tropicals with some water from the pools peeking through, and all the tasteless architecture and ridiculous sculptures are hidden in the flora.  The bay curve is beautiful and the few hotels on the other side don’t look offensive from this distance.

There are a lot of birds here.  Some little birdies and small crows keep landing on my balcony.  In fact, there are too many birds here.  Turkey vultures and seagulls circle around the beach constantly.  Yesterday, when Jason and I were playing scrabble on the beach, a bird pooped on the board.  I had been leading until then but cleaning the poop changed my luck and Jason ended up winning

It’s warm during the day and cools off at night.  I was downright cold at the sunset and had to warm up in a hot tub.

Yesterday, we went to a timeshare spiel with a pushy and dumb American surfer who put me and Jason into the worst mood (nothing phased Kenny).  That was a hard earned $200!  You don’t know how to react when a salesperson is an insult to your intelligence and treats you as if you were born yesterday.

Another salesguy on the beach begged us to come to the neighboring timeshare for a spiel for $250, but after yesterday’s experience that is totally a no-go.  We are thinking twice about taking the city tour the timeshare people offered – we are afraid of them now.

Haven’t been to town yet – this place is remotely located, which is great for having an almost private beach all to ourselves (not like in Costa Rica, but still…), but  getting into town is a bit of a shlepp.  So we have been eating here – it’s edible enough, they really try, but Caribbean food is never spectacular.

Mazatlan, Mexico, Musings on the Caribbean

Hello from Pueblo Bonito Emerald Bay.

I am sitting here on a balcony of our hotel/condo overlooking the Pacific Ocean and the gardens below.  The temperature is in the high 70’s.  Don’t hate me.

Much as I don’t go for resorts and the Caribbean at that, I must admit that the change in weather is welcomed.  Especially, when it comes with a price tag of $0.

We arrived here after a journey consisting of a 4-hour flight to Houston, one-hour layover, another 2.5-hr flight to Mazatlan, and about an hour ride on a bus to our resort.  The resort is ok, no Caribbean resort ever swept me off my feet.  The grounds are always nice but the architecture is never remarkable.  If architecture is frozen music, this is Neil Diamond.  Actually, so far it doesn’t look any different from the Dominican Republic or Jamaica – the islands much closer to the East Coast, so I am not yet convinced it is worthwhile the trouble to fly all the way here.

The view from my balcony is very refreshing considering what’s back home.  I see the greenery below on the ground and the other side of the bay curve, not overly built with hotels, which leaves a lot of eye-pleasing sandy beaches, green banks, and mountains on the background.  Having a one-track mind, I’ll say, this is no Amalfi coast for you, but neither is it the Jersey shore.  So I am not complaining.

We had dinner last night on a patio overlooking the water and the sun setting into the ocean.  As a perk for listening to a timeshare spiel, we got a free breakfast, welcome drinks, $200 towards food at the resort, and a tour of Mazatlan.  I hear, there is an old town here and am looking forward to seeing it.  Ever since I read Montezuma’s Daughter as a child, I developed a fascination with the Aztecs and Mexico as their home, so we’ll se if Mazatlan lives up to its Aztec name.

I don’t know if I am going to write again on this trip – this place does not inspire me, but check my blog in case I do.

Mostly in the Castro

Our destination this morning was the Castro, the gay capital of the world.  The neighborhood of Castro was once the center of gay life and struggle for acceptance; but now, having lost many gay-residents to the suburbs, it is inundated with invading straights.

I was hoping for some racy stuff: sex shops, half-naked buffed-up men, male strippers – something!  But instead found a prim and proper, even bourgeois, neighborhood with many gay and straight couples taking their babies on a Sunday stroll.

Once we stepped off the main street, the neighborhood became even less radical and more upscale.  Ornate houses lined up the hilly and crooked streets.  A full range of paints: periwinkle blue, magenta, lavender, violet, purple, yellow – every happy shade of the rainbow was represented on the  dolled up houses.  No antidepressants needed – just walk out and gaze at your fairytale home.   Gay people definitely carry a gene for the higher level of aesthetics.

As for the weirdos, the first prize today goes to a skinny older man clad in a white caftan with his blue jeans sticking from under it, a knitted hat pulled over his ears, and several crosses gracing his chest.  He approached our group and wished us all a very Merry Christmas, and some Happy Hanukkah to “our Jewish friends,” and “Happy Kwanza to our African American friends, and Happy Greek Orthodox Christmas to those who celebrate it, and Happy Other Holidays to all who celebrate them.”  If that is not true Christmas spirit, what is?

An honorable mention goes to a panhandler with a sign, “Why lie?  This is for beer.”

Murals and Food, Glorious Food

We took a public bus today to the Mission district, to the bakery/café Tartine as recommended by Lisa N. Toff.  I had a morning bun – a take on cinnamon bun- and warm brioche bread pudding with fresh cranberries, and also sampled Kenny’s gougere – all three the work of culinary genius.   The morning bun – sweet dough sprinkled with some cinnamon and rolled into a bun with soft middle and crusty outside.  The pudding was soaked in some kind of sweet milky sabstance and the sweetness of the main body was complemented by the tartness of the berries, while gougere was a ball of cheesy dough with moist and flaky inside.  All was washed down with an excellent cup of coffee.   Having eaten our fill, we headed for the walking tour of the neighborhood known for its murals.   The Mission is actually two neighborhoods in one: one is poor and Latin and the other is  poor but artsy and hip.  Architecturally, this poor cousin of SF fancy neighborhoods does not much differ from its upscale cousins.  Same Victorians, Art Deco, and ornate gingerbread houses, only in dire need of paint and cleaning.  Local stores cater to the poor which is reflected in the featured merchandise and pitiful window displays.  But what the area lacks in cleanliness and bright paint is partially compensated by the bright murals covering many houses and entire alleys.  They mostly feature African and Native American faces and themes and bright colors on the facades of the abundant Latin restaurants and grocery stores create a feeling of being on a Caribbean island.

On the bus back to Jason’s apartment we were wedged between a big African American man who was incessantly chanting in what I thought was an African tongue, until my ears caught some clearly native English words, and an elderly man with parchment-thin and yellowish skin sporting a wig of thick black hair askew on his head worn over huge ears.  This city is home to more weirdos than I have seen anywhere else!  They come off as either actors from a variety show, escapees from a freak show, or aged scruffy westerners hailing from the last century’s frontier towns.

People here don’t seem to care much about style and outward appearance but they take great care to eat well.  Yesterday, we dined at a fine Peruvian restaurant on the waterfront and today are headed to a restaurant featuring new American cuisine.  Tomorrow is Indian.

Polk Street, SF Google, Christmas Shopping

Polk Street is the main drag of San Francisco’s Russian Hill.  We walked almost the length of it this morning.   I am obsessed with Polk Street.   It could have been dull if it weren’t for the shops and cafes gracing the ground floors of its buildings.   Seemingly frozen in time, these funky businesses add a level of quirky sophistication to the would-be provincial street.   The shops range from fashion forward boutiques to old-fashioned gifts and home goods.  The single consignment shop boasts high -end designers from Chanel to Marc Jacobs.  The food shops are mostly organic, the bakeries put out homemade -ooking goodies, and the king of food shops is a seafood place right out of the fifties, doubling as a fish restaurant where patrons sit on chrome high stools by the tiled counter and put away yummy seafood dishes prepared by a bunch of guys on the other side of the counter.   Aside from the merchandise and food, the stores’ décor contributes to the street’s charm.  Most of the stores and restaurants are out of the fifties and the décor is authentic.   In accordance with the SF lax attitude, store owners never bothered to upgrade the décor, which first became outdated, then dated, then outright ancient, and then vintage and thoroughly cool.  And such it remains with their turquoise fake leather upholstery, rough wooden floors, chrome accents, and tiled walls.

What is also amazing is the sheer number of colorful local bums – very different from New York bums, unpolished, gruff, rough-looking bearded men who could easily be used as extras in a period movie featuring The Gold Rush.

We had lunch with Jason at the SF Google office where instead of stairs Jason and I slid on our backs through a multicolored slide in the shape of a giant tube.

We feasted on Moroccan soup, Indian second course, and crab legs by the window overlooking the Bay Bridge and Oakland across the bay.

We then walked past many art deco buildings to the Jewish Museum incorporating an old power station and a thoroughly modern design by Daniel Libeskind, and then off to the very busy and congested shopping district all bedecked in Christmas finery.  There, on the street, a female octogenarian sporting fluorescent turquoise sweat pants, an equally bright plaid jacket, and a mop of gray hair sticking out from a fancy hat, directed her walker towards us and, completely ignoring me, said to Kenny, “Hello darling, Merry Christmas to you.”  Such is the spirit of this Pacific town.

Inside the Flatiron, Union Square, Gramercy Park triangle

Sadly, dusk descends onto the city and congeals into darkness way too quickly at this latitude.  The tops of the buildings on Broadway leading up from Union Square fade into the dim light.  One moment – and magical light is gone as night shrouds the city – The City.

The triangle encompassing Union Square, Gramercy Park, and the Flatiron Building contains some of the best examples of New York Art Deco architecture.  New York does not boast the perfect architectural ensembles of the great Old World cities, but that is where its charm lies.  On a single block, your eye will glide over an Art Deco tower framed on either side by nondescript buildings accentuating its finesse.  Down the block, another building with ornate relieves and fine balconies is a neighbor to a quintessential downtown five-story walk up, set out by fire escapes.  A brick church with stained glass windows completes the block.  And on the street level are artfully decorated storefronts and chic but inviting restaurants

Perfect beauty is always appreciated but only an imperfect twist will drive one crazy.  In Paris, the same type of beauty is expected and delivered street after street, block after block.  Here, one doesn’t know what is around the corner or even down the block.  The unexpected is exhilarating and every new discovery is so much more rewarding.

And hey,  our New York girls can hold their own against Parisian girls!  They are as stylish and quirkily fashionable as ever!

Love you New York!