I love romesco. It’s that simple. I’ve blabbed about this love once on this blog already, but I thought I’d expand on that slightly with some critical advice, not only how to make it, but how to make it via a backyard gas-free mini-Weber.

First, romesco is the meat. It has handfuls of nuts and coupled with so many veggies, this savory sauce really does the trick. Traditionally, this Spanish/Mediterranean sauce is served with fish or chicken, but again, if you’re trying to dodge animals on occasion, but don’t want to bulk up on rice or other gluten-like entrees, go with this. And when the weather’s awesome and you have the option to grill – take it.

Second, I’m the dishwasher of the house, which means I have a keen awareness regarding how many dishes things take to prepare. I also adore cooking; put these two things together and I am insanely frugal at using multiple pots and pans to create a meal. This meal is the gold standard of marrying everything great together: vegan, simple, low-energy, low-dish quota and delicious.

Now onto the steps:

1) Cut the peppers into quarters.

2) Prepare your additional veggies for the grill. Tonight, I did sweet onions, portobella mushrooms, summer squash and sweet corn. I’ve done corn on the grill a few times and can now say keeping the husks on is preferred. Epicurious instructs to do otherwise and to put the corn directly on the hot grate; however, my informal Twitter poll suggested keeping the husks on. It keeps the corn from drying out. Other grill-friendly veggies are: zucchini, fennel, leeks and eggplant.

3) Squeeze some lemon, drizzle olive oil, sprinkle salt over everything.

4) Head outside to the Weber.

5) Now for the grill talk. There are many ways to grill food, via a gas grill, charcoal grill, or charcoal grill with gas covered all over it. I definitely enjoy doing this without petroleum – ugh – the thought of using gas kind of grosses me out; however, it’s a lot more challenging. You have to get the briquettes super hot and doing that pretty much requires a chimney starter. Without that, man, good luck. Once you pile in the newspaper to the bottom chamber of the chimney, light it, you’re well on your way. A quick note on the amount of charcoal – use a lot. It shrinks down quickly. This little puppy gets your coals all nice and hot. This process takes a while – about 15 minutes – and if there’s nothing flammable near by, you can take this opportunity to continue on dinner prep indoors.

6) Load up your blender or processor with romesco ingredients. Regarding the nuts: I’ve used almonds, hazelnuts and cashews and all of those are great. Cashews are probably the house favorite. Almonds are more traditional and I’d imagine pecans would work alright too. Experiment to see which kind you prefer.

7) Gee is for grill. By now the coals are probably ready. You want them slightly gray on the top. Make sure the top grill rack is removed and pour them into the Weber. Make sure the bottom holes are open; the more air you can give them the better. Give them a minute or two to settle before putting the grate on top. Once you do, give that a moment to get hot. Now you’re ready to pile on the goods. Place the peppers skin side down – you really want the skin blackened. Now just hurry up and wait. It will take the peppers about 15 minutes, depending on how hot your coals are, to blacken.

Once the peppers are done, you’re really on the home stretch. All that is left is to blend up the sauce.

Enjoy!

See, I don’t even know how to really start this.

And actually, I barely did. After writing that pathetic first sentence, I closed the computer. That was last night. How do you wrap up years upon years of good and bad times – major struggles, some victories, your favorites, the memories…

Now is a day later, although, it’s 330p and I’ve barely felt like I’ve been awake. Time is beginning to become increasingly blurred, like this drug-induced montage of color. I’m not on drugs (of course – they’ve never really ‘agreed’ with me) I’m just on ‘moving.’ It’s a powerful blend of anxiety, hope, daydream and staring out the window.

Tomorrow, around 5am as long as the sleep Gods are on our side, we’ll hop in the Civic, leave the construction zone that has become our house and spend some quality time along I5 South until we hit the City.

There we will try to find a piece of the massive grid to call home.

Juiced

Cleanse day one: Let’s start with the ‘why.’ Why am I opting to make my life a lot more challenging by going on a three-day juice/smoothie cleanse? Let’s just review the past 24 hours: I ate a doughnut, orange puff, egg sandwich, double ice cream cone, lychee daiquiri and three whiskey ginger ales. And that was just a plain old Saturday.  Really, do I need to say more? Cue the cleanse naysayers: “Catherine, don’t be so extreme – just eat well and treat yourself occasionally.” That works most of the time, but after your body gets accustomed to those “occasions” happening, oh, every day around 10am, 3pm, and 8pm, then something has to change.

Plus, I want to. I need to be completely clear and honest that these three days of liquids only are solely my choice.

I remember when a bunch of girls at my work rode the detox train. They all boasted of lost pounds and clearer outlooks. My eating ways were similar then as they are now, consisting of a lot of lattes and cookie breaks. Wanting to break out of my impassioned addiction to all things sugar and butter, I jumped on. And, of course, got my girlfriend a ticket too. We drank the lemon, honey, cayenne tonic and bought boatloads of produce for the planned dinners.

Then I tried to go to work. I was a mess. I couldn’t finish my sentences – I felt as though I was slowly rising off the ground and through the sky into total lightheaded detox utopia, which is a place where things are nice and airy, and nothing has a deadline. Yah, that’s not a job. I dumped my date detoxing, ingested simple carbs, and got back to work.

What makes things different now? Well, I’ve got some time to hang out in the clouds so I’m going to give it my best shot. Plus, I absolutely hate to start something and not finish it, so in a way, I’m finally getting around to actually finish what I started six years ago.

So how’s it going? At this very moment my downstairs neighbor is baking muffins… yeah, that’s super. And my girlfriend’s sister just called inviting us out to PF Changs for  free appetizer specials.  I love PF Changs.

But enough of the carb dreaming, I need to celebrate the positive. I just drank a salad in a glass. Fistfuls of spinach, kale, beets, parsley, carrots, a little lemon and garlic went straight in the juicer and moments after I finished polishing it off, poof, my hangover was officially a thing of the past. It was almost scary how immediate the energy surged into my blood and lifted my eyelids open a few more millimeters.

Dinner’s on the way. Oh, I can’t wait.

Cleanse day two: One of the first things I said this morning was, “One day down, two to go.” My girlfriend chimed in, “What, you’re not enjoying this? You went crazy with food and drink the day before – and you probably will when this is over – why not just have balance?” Please view response to that above.

It’s not that I’m not enjoying it. So far, I feel pretty awesome. I have more energy than I thought I would; I’m not having communication difficulties like I did before; and my digestion system is thrilled.

I was just reading a report about how people enjoy the days prior to a vacation almost just as much as a vacation itself. Exactly. It’s the planning, the thinking ahead that’s half the fun. Such is the case with a sandwich and me.

Cleanse day three: I’m doing just fine today. Am I lusting after what I’m not allowing myself? No, not really. Am I high on purity? No, not really either. My mood is just pretty ordinary. Maybe it’s half-due to the rain clouds that have moved in. The gray sky can almost always kill a good life buzz.

But I was thinking more about this as I was sipping my lunch blend of beet greens, celery, cucumber, tomato, parsley, garlic and carrot… I’m proud of myself that I’ve done this – sure, I feel a lot healthier, but I love food so much and the fact that I’m intentionally removing it from my life is just kind of sad. It’s kind of sad, and also a little pathetic.

Everyone loves food, sure, but sometimes I feel as though it’s my entire cloth of life. I go through my week, thinking of where I’m going to eat this, when I’m going to make that, and how I hope to write about (insert hot foodie place here). When all of it is removed from my days – it’s a little boring and sad that I’ve built this kind of relationship. Well, so be it, I guess.

When I start on this introspective analysis, I often think of the Benjamin Franklin quote, “Eat to live – don’t live to eat,” and I think to myself, “Wow. I would not have gotten along with that guy.”

Sisters Coffee in, yes, Sisters, Oregon

Sisters Coffee
273 West Hood Ave.
Sisters, OR 97759
(800) 524-5282

This adventure kicks off with Sisters Coffee. Having a socially accepted addiction to something can make traveling extra special. It gives you routine when there is none. It gives you something to hunt. Not to mention an easy comparison guide. With that said, I’ll state the obvious: nowhere on this journey did we have coffee that even came close to being half as good as coffee we can get in Portland. Duh. But that doesn’t stop us from trying to find some anyway.

And here we were in Sisters, Oregon – three quarters of the way to Bend. We had successfully navigated through the snow-covered mountains of the Deschutes National Forest, which was a mission. I’ve driven in snow conditions a few times, sure, but not when you’re on the side of a mountain, and not when the car you’re driving starts to fishtail and almost do a 180. Luckily my partner Casey doesn’t freak out nearly as easily as I do, so when our car (aka. borrowed truck from her dad) started to spin, she calmly corrected it, slowed and pulled over. Whoa. I was shaking. We were fine but, dude, we almost weren’t! Thanks to girlfriend’s dad, I knew how to click on the four-wheel drive.

Almost falling off the side of a mountain surely does cue the coffee craving, so once we were cruising through Sisters, we opted to stop for some. Sisters Coffee was there on the side of the snowy road, shining like gem waiting to be clutched up tight. Boy oh boy, do they love the Lord up in there. Not only is their coffee strong as tar, their love for Christ our Savior is etched into various parts of their log-cabin walls. As my partner and I were waiting in line to order, our heads cocked to one side as we read the bumper sticker on their milk dispenser: “Jesus died for our sins.” We both looked at each other. “How about we start making out right now?” she asked. She read my mind.

Why have one beer when you can have six?

Deschutes Brewery
1044 Bond St.
Bend, OR 97701
(541) 382-9242

Our trip to Bend was pure Oregon tourism at its finest. We stayed in a B&B. We went snowshoeing. And the first place we ate dinner was at Bend’s flagship brewery, Deschutes.

It was standard in all the typical brew-pub ways – fries, burgers, kids making a total mess of their grill cheese sandwich and a Blazer game on 30 different TV screens. Ahh, bliss. The extra fun part were that you could get a little paddle of six beers on tap and of course we did that! Sadly, we’re both pretty pathetic when it comes to “knowing” beers, so we tried doing taste tests. Both of us failed miserably. We’d taste all of them, one by one, trying to learn what the red beer really tasted like in comparison to the amber, then we’d close our eyes and try to discern which were which. “Black Butte Porter!” I’d shout. “Umm, no. That’s the wheat one,” Casey’d say.

They also had major game all over the menu. Bison burgers, elk sandwiches… I imagined these majestic creatures roaming the epic mountain landscape then someone from the Deschutes kitchen hiding out in the trees waiting for the perfect moment to eliminate it from life, just to fill the burger quota. I got a chicken sandwich.

Needed the Fruit Coffee Combo

Top Notch Coffee
1722 Del Prado Blvrd S
Cape Coral, FL 33904
(239) 458-9485

Now the triple-city saga turns to Florida. Southwest Florida, Cape Coral to be precise. My partner’s mother lives there so we got to really know this little town during our two-week visit.

A few more details about Cape Coral. It’s small – about 167,000 total. It’s a town famous for its canals, which are waterways that many residents use for travel and leisure. It’s also, well, Florida, which means there’s a lot of retirees and the appropriate businesses to support them (I’ve never seen so many pharmacies in a four-block radius in my life). Cape Coral also has some hoppin’ bingo halls as well as some fine thrifting. Things it lacks that I appreciate coming from the Pacific Northwest are the usual contenders: bikes, sidewalks, organic food, independent coffee (you’re shocked, I know).

This was when my passion for Yelping kicked into high gear. I was determined to seek out any crumb of independent Cape Coral culture and leave my thoughts on it accordingly. You know, as a help for the next visiting lesbian girlfriend who’s in my same boat. Or anyone else who cares to use the user-review database. Scoping out the cafe/dining scene is something I don’t do lightly and Yelp was there to guide me every step of the way.

When I did a search for “coffee and tea” within a five-mile radius, Top Notch Coffee pulled up and sounded promising. Local coffee, salads, sandwiches, bam – done – it was our kind of place. And it was just a mere two miles away. No sweat; I needed to get my morning walk in anyway, so I strapped on my white canvas boat shoes and started on the trek. I diligently followed my iPhone compass, patiently watching the small blue GPS dot plot along the route.

Things were going fine for the first quarter mile or so. Then I turned on the main drag, aka Del Prado, a street Casey and I knew back and forward by the visit’s end. It was around 11am or so and the traffic was thick. The humid air hugged the exhaust and I felt as though I was bathing in it. I passed a man waving a Little Caesar’s Pizza sign, advertising a lunch special. I passed a drive-thru liquor store (yah). Then my cheap, mall boat shoes started to callus my left foot. Badly. I tried walking with the shoe half off my foot, but it was pointless. I’d never get there shuffling at that pace. I was discouraged but had to press on. Turning back would be just as painful and the thought of calling my partner to come get me definitely occurred to me, but I wasn’t able to actually be that much of a whiner – yet. I promised myself I’d ask her to come rescue me once I got there. And now I had to get there.

The blocks slowly passed. I walked on my tip toes. Cars without mufflers roared inches by me.

Finally the blue dot was about to overlap the red flag, indicating my painful journey was coming to an end. Only that I was now behind a tire outlet and in a residential neighborhood.

“Ugh. No!” I exclaimed out loud – as if someone would come to my pathetic rescue.

My beloved coffee destination had to be near. Maybe their mailing address was around this random corner. I shuffled back to the main street and walked another block, passing the tenth strip mall of the morning.

There. Like the angelic gold it promised, its simple plastic sign adhered to a stucco building.

I walked in and loved it. I was going to love it no matter how horrible the place was. My ankle was on fire. I sat down at one of the many open tables. Plastic tablecloths covered each two top. A nice, young brunette waitress was speaking to me immediately. I didn’t even look at the menu – I asked for exactly what I wanted: coffee, in a mug, cream, fresh cut fruit and band aids. She brought me all three. I was so happy.

A Beach BLT

Sanibel Deli & Coffee Factory
2330 Palm Ridge Rd
Sanibel Island, FL 33957
(239) 472-2555

You know that idea that goes something like, ‘Just stick to what you’re good at?’ I’d like Sanibel Island Deli & Coffee Factory to think about that in relation to what their business name advertises. They have coffee and sandwiches – really, isn’t that enough? Apparently not when you’re on a tiny island in Florida. And I get it. You really need to have whatever it is your customers could possibly want thereby pay for. For them that also means, burgers! pizza! pickled eggs! hot wings! Really? Hot wings?

So I tried their BLT which was perfect. Classic, simple, old fashioned – just as a tourist deli BLT should be.

The bonus-story behind the sandwich is that today was the all-things-crazy day. First, the car wouldn’t start. Then Casey stepped in a red ant hill. Then she totally wiped out on her bicycle – in front of a full line of stopped traffic. Then the grill exploded in her face while she was trying to light it (luckily she just lost a few hairs). Good thing lunch was a success.

Sauce for the Vaca

Romesco Sauce:

4 Roma tomatoes
1 lemon juiced
3 red peppers blackened
1 cup cashews
olive oil, salt, pepper to taste
Blend together

Romesco has had a great history with our travels. We met its deliciousness in Silver Lake, Los Angeles when we were there visiting our dear friend Nathan. We were going for a light dinner and shared Romesco with grilled asparagus. Ever since, we’ve been recreating this perfect entree-worthy sauce nonstop.

If you search around for recipes, they will vary a ton. Some get super fancy with pimentos, shelled hazelnuts etc., but really, you can’t get by without a nut, tomato and blacked red peppers. That’s the heart of the sauce.

The keys are 1) a grill and 2) a blender. Without those two pieces of essential equipment, sorry, this is a no-can do. While in Cape Coral, we definitely wanted to take advantage of the grillable weather, so we whipped up a batch for Casey’s mother and her husband. They totally were into it. Put it on pita bread, make a pizza with it, or just smear it all over grilled vegetables. You won’t be able to stop; I’m telling you.

Moretti's on the Waterfront

Moretti’s Seafood
4200 Pine Island Rd.
Matlacha, Fl, 33993
(239) 283-5825

This was one of those meals when you remember the server in minute detail more than anything else. Even when I’m staring at the salad and shrimp cocktail that she gave me, something about this woman has embedded itself in my brain. She didn’t even do anything particularly unique – I guess I just was touched by her in some way.

She was about 65 I’d imagine. She was a sturdy woman, wore those sneakers that were wedged for additional support. She did her makeup heavy which unfortunately highlighted the crinkles in her skin she was likely hoping it would mask. Her smile was wide – stained teeth, but perfectly straight nonetheless. She smoked, although I never saw her doing it.

She was great at her job. Announced the special with all the details the chef could ask for – used words like, “balsamic drizzle,” instead of vinaigrette. She took our drink orders and promptly returned with them a moment later, despite the crowded patio of diners she was tending to.

I think it was that I could tell she was proud of herself; which rubbed off and made me like her too.

The shrimp cocktail and Caesar salad were fine.

Lemons the size of softballs

Lemon Garlic Chicken

What to do with a whole tree of Meyer lemons? Make a major batch of lemon, garlic chicken of course.

Casey’s mom had the cutest, little lemon tree so we picked a few of the swollen fruits so big they were just begging to become a marinade. We hosted some of Casey’s mom’s neighbors that night and despite the warning of them only eating bland foods – I think they enjoyed our citrus chicken.

The recipe is as simple as it can get: chicken breasts, olive oil, lemon juice, salt, pepper, garlic – marinate – grill – done.

Cafe Matisse
2237 1st St

More coffee, more fruit, bored yet?

Fort Myers, FL 33901
(239) 362-1831

This was another independent coffee shop diamond, although technically in Fort Myers – the neighboring city to Cape Coral. It was great – had small cafe baguette sandwiches, quiche, fresh cut fruit, organic coffee and a lovely outdoor patio on the street.

It also passed the infamous family dining test. There were five of us there, all with different food preferences but everyone mentioned they liked it. A simple lunch, moderate prices with five people leaving fairly happy is a home run if you ask me.

Pie made from limes delivered from Mexico

Key lime pie

Considering we were a stone throw away from the Florida Keys, I thought it’d be a good idea to make a key lime pie. If memory serves me correctly, I made this the night before we left as a Thank You. But of course they didn’t actually s e l l key limes from Florida at the grocery store. No. Nope, they came in fresh from Mexico. Whatever. It was still awesome. How can you go wrong with condensed milk, egg yolks, sugar, butter and graham crackers? Right. You can’t. Top it off with whip cream and it’s sugar bomb bliss.

Five Guys Burgers and Fries
1860 Pine Island Road NE
Cape Coral, FL 33909
(239) 242-0384

There weren't five guys there then

Like the majority of Americans, I’m a sucker for food marketing. I’m especially a sucker for food marketing with a story. Five Guys Burgers and Fries was a part of a really good radio piece on NPR about successful companies amidst this crappy economy. The story took place during a conference of shopping mall executives, as in, high rollers who are apart of professional mall agencies. Shopping malls fascinate me all on there own, but then there’s a profile about a Five Guys executive coordinating deals with leasing agents from malls across America. Now I’m really interested. I have some pretty serious nostalgia with fast food, especially with In N Out Burger, a fantastic burger joint based in Southern California. So far it looks like Five Guys is trying to bite out a piece of the fresh-burger market (both burger outlets claim to never freezing anything), so I have to at least try ‘em to know what they’re like. All of that back story plus the fact that there isn’t a Five Guys near me, made me excited to go there in Cape Coral.

So we went and it was pretty disappointing. The burger just wasn’t that flavorful. In N Out still reigns supreme in my book. Although Five Guys’s fries are way better.

Another coffee "shop" stop

Espresso To Go
1518 Hancock Bridge Parkway
Cape Coral, FL 33990
(239) 458-5221

This was, undoubtedly, the best coffee “shop” experience. You can kayak there! And we did! Okay, so the coffee wasn’t really all that great, but again, I’m not complaining too much. The woman who owns this cute little shack on the canal was super nice (and a Pacific Northwester to boot).

Plus, she has a mean menu of ice cream shakes. And I had one.

Mrs. Wilkes’ Dining Room
107 W Jones St.
Savannah, GA 31401
(912) 232-5997

Southern Bounty

There’s almost no way to prepare yourself for the incredible experience of Mrs. Wilkes’ Dining Room. I ate like a mouse for breakfast (which is typical) and I told myself repeatedly as we waited in line, “be hungry be hungry…” but when the plates upon plates of mouth-watering Southern fare hit our table, I still wanted to cry. Everything looked so good – and I knew there was just going to be no way of enjoying it all.

Mrs. Wilkes’ is totally one of those places that travel food shows highlight. It’s classic; it’s been around since your grandma was in diapers; it’s family style and they have a cult following that line up and wait for communal tables outside – rain or shine. Trust me, I know, I waited in that very line in a downpour, huddled next to my girlfriend, despite my homophobia concerns of the quaint Southern town we were in.

The food? Bonkers good. Fried chicken so juicy, crunchy and savory… collared greens not too vinegary, simple cucumbers dressed in red wine vinegar, buttermilk biscuits, black-eyed peas, butter beans, sweet tea, the list goes on for eternity.

You’re forced to sit at tables amongst strangers, which the community-loving side of me usually appreciates, but this day, I really wished my girlfriend and I were left to ourselves. I just wasn’t in the mood to chit chat with Southern women in their 60s about how this wasn’t as good as her grandma’s recipes.

But nothing could damper my admiration for such Southern fare.  I’d go back in a second – after fasting for a day first.

It's Called the Garden Bar

Ruby Tuesday
Ste 1300, 14045 Abercorn St
Savannah, GA 31419
(912) 925-0193

Let me answer a semi-obvious question as to what the hell I’m doing at a Ruby Tuesday, nevertheless blogging about it. Well, as I said earlier, story comes with food and this is no exception.

We went here because we had to. An experience that often comes with travel – aka, the loss of choice.

And often what follows is the realization (especially with the assistance of hunger) that said chain restaurant isn’t really all that bad. And here we are at Ruby Tuesday in Savannah, Georgia. We missed our flight (don’t even get me started on that) and we were shaking up at the airport Country Inn and Suites, located oh so conveniently next door to Ruby Tuesday.

You know you’re at a place like Ruby Tuesday when, a) the menu is plastic b) there are photos of everything on it c) your server is required to call the salad bar, the “garden bar.” ‘Nuff said.

In closing I’d say that I came back with, once again, an undeniable appreciation for the local food scene here in Portland; however, I’m still a fan of those that do it differently, because, well, they’re doing it. Cheers.

Author note: I know I usually write about food topics, but as my tagline above reads “critical thoughts on here, now, eating and drinking,” well, I’ve allowed myself a little bit of wiggle room to stretch out my writing topics beyond the hottie foodie things. This here essay is an example of the “here and now” part. I wrote it this past Christmas and hope you enjoy it.

It’s Christmas. And I’m on a plane. I’m going home to San Diego with my partner of 10 years by my side. I’m approaching 30. I’m leaving my secure job of three years. It’s been a hellva year.

And all these swirling events are leading me to one solid conclusion: Lady Gaga has saved me from running to the woods.

Let me explain.

I’ve become increasingly ornery over this past year. Maybe it’s related to the severe lack of sun, maybe it’s related to some other personal issue, all I know is that my patience has been at it’s lowest in recent memory. I get irritated more and more by “the grid,” and frankly, this is very unusual. I’ve always been such a fan of density, people, traffic, busyness… cities have always meant action, excitement and opportunity in my book. But this year, it’s weird; I’ve become a total urban grump. The sound of the bus going by grates me, pollution of all kinds disgusts me, and to-go containers frustrate me beyond belief. When I’m not working, I have to spend at least a few hours outside, or else, forget it; I’m a total bitch.

What’s happening to me? Are the stars pushing me to the sticks? Should I try and turn these daydreams into reality and go work on an organic farm somewhere and completely abandon my iPhone, Twitter account, blog and ambition to create a career in writing and creative communications?

Then Lady Gaga comes around and makes me feel, well, like the old me again. And who is that exactly? A girl born and raised on pop music, with an endless appetite for creative culture and the ambition to write about it.

I saw her Bad Romance video after Perez Hilton Twittered about it, and I’ve been forcing anyone I can to watch it since. I had two friends in from out of town for New Year’s Eve, and since they weren’t familiar with her, I declared it, “Lady Gaga Awareness Day” and played her cd and videos on repeat.

She gets me excited about culture again, and all that comes along with it. It’s due to her brave theatrical fashion, her controversial sexuality, her addictive glossy songs, and her art-forward videos. NPR journalist, Shana Naomi Krochmal writes, “She’s not just selling sex; she’s selling art,” which in the landscape of mainstream culture, is a little unusual. And that got me cheering for her while reassuring me that modern capitalist civilization isn’t completely void of smart, new, creative ways to celebrate itself. She’s out there happy, having a good time, and I’m afraid it’s a little contagious.

Does that mean I’m patronizing the Wendy’s drive-thru on a regular basis? Well, no (Gawd no!) – and the bus exhaust still can bum me out, but it’s not sending me into a complete hermit shell like it used to. So when Lady Gaga sings, “Just dance – it’s gonna be okay,” I believe her.

True story

Yesterday was an anomaly. Here’s why: I was successful at something without having to try that hard. That can only lead me to believe that chanterelle mushroom picking is insanely easy.

My girlfriend had been talking up this field trip for a while and I was very hesitant for two reasons – 1) I was scared to death I would become poisoned and 2) I did not have nearly enough time to learn all that mushroom picking entails.

Typically my tales of success go something like this: Have the desire to accomplish something. Learn all about it over the course of weeks or even years. Try and fail – many, many times. Finally, after picking myself back up, I will taste a small piece of victory and feel as though life really isn’t so hard… If only my other efforts would always end up as magically successful as our forest fungus adventure.

He helped

We packed up the dog, the mushroom guide circa 1969, rain jackets and a water bottle. The weather was unusually perfect – the clouds were puffy and separated – the sun sang through the sky and created epic rainbows against the picturesque farmland outside of Portland. However, I barely noticed what condition the world was in because I was frantically going through the mushroom guide, trying to study what the differences were between “fake chanterelles” and the real thing. Fake chanterelles shouldn’t be confused for the real thing, said the guide – they are poisonous and cause digestion distress. Please see reason number one why I didn’t want to take this risk in the first place…

Once we got to the desired mile marker, we pulled off the road and started meandering down the trail. My girlfriend is almost as clueless as I am in regards to mushroom picking, but had tried going a few weeks ago at this same spot. She came back empty handed and got additional tips from a coworker to go off the hiking trails.

“So, like, when do we start turning off the trail?” I ask.

“Whenever, I guess,” she responded. We kept repeating that, if nothing else, we’d enjoy an afternoon hike. I couldn’t imagine actually finding a wild chanterelle, so I was barely even looking. But then a little white-top mushroom showed itself through the soggy leave-covered ground. That’s all the motivation I needed.

“Look! There! Mushroom!” I exclaimed. That was the sign. “Here, let’s just start walking here!” The white mushroom certainly wasn’t a chanterelle – I didn’t need the guide to cross reference that, but surely where there’s fungus there’s fungi, right?

We squished through the soft forest floor – eyes suddenly acute to every leaf, stick, and pine cone. All of three minutes later we find it, our very first wild chanterelle all scalloped orange and perfect. It could have easily been mistaken for an oak leaf, but when examined closely, it was dinner.

“Look, the gills, do you think it’s really it?” my girlfriend asks. I couldn’t believe it – we needed a second opinion. The description in the book said to look for “gills going down the stem with adjoining veins.” Uhh, sure, I guess it fit that… Once we found one, the rest practically jumped into our hands. Every few minutes, we were gently adding more pounds of precious fungus to our canvas bag. The air felt fresh, kind and lucky.  The dog was romping around the forest just as excited as we were. A few hours later the rain came and we took that as our exit sign. We walked back to the car in disbelief that we had approximately 10 pounds of wild chanterelles.

Yumm!

My girlfriend took some into her coworker the next day, just to make sure they were the real thing.

“Oh yeah, they’re chanterelles,” she told me after their conversation.

“Was he so excited?! We found so many!” I said.

“Well, no – I mean, he’s gotten four times that amount lately,” she recalled.

Great for him. I’m still riding my mushroom high.

Gum and I go way back, back to the days of my girlhood. “Pass me a piece of gum, will you honey?” my mother would ask while driving us around in our silver Chrysler. I’d dig deep in her purse, fishing out one of the many packs of Trident Original, passing her a piece after helping myself to one first.

She’d pop hers loudly while calmly driving in the afternoon sun. I’d stare in awe – perplexed by how she produced such sharp acute explosions with just a pinch of rubbery sugar. She’d patiently try and teach me how, mapping out the process with vague directions like, “Make a bubble and pop it.”

Like many things in life I’m predisposed to due to sharing my mother’s genes, my gum-popping success slipped into place with age. But I won’t do it now – even though I’d surely like to.

I’m on a crowded plane and my mother also bred me to be highly conscious of gum-etiquette. Gum popping with others around was always a no-go. Although, like a true addict, I admit sometimes I slip.

Like the one time I was closing out an empty coffee shop. I had indulged in copious amounts of caffeine and sugar – two ferocious triggers for chewing. No one will mind, I thought, as I went to town with my pops. It’s exceptionally satisfying to hear them bounce off the surfaces of hard furniture. Well, I was wrong about the no-one-caring part.

“Will you please stop smacking your gum?” the disgruntled barista snapped. She had to walk clear across the room to share her request.

But most of the time, I’m content to chew without the smack. Some people fidget, some people crack their knuckles; I chew. It releases the pressure built up from the day’s anxieties. I just heard a report that broken teeth are on the rise due to heightened nerves surrounding the economy. More people are grinding their teeth as a result. I don’t say this often, but I’m actually not worried to hear that news (and I like to worry about news). I consider myself orally protected by my little friend gum. I’ve been releasing my worries through gum chewing for years.

Take now, for example. I have been traveling in Panama for the past week with my partner’s family on vacation. The plan was to be in the hotel lobby at 6:45am, leave by 7am, to catch our international flight home. My partner’s Brother, his Girlfriend, my partner’s Sister, her Girlfriend, and I, all had the task of driving ourselves to the airport in a huge foreign Central American city. And return the rental car. All after a night of cocktails and running around the Panama City club circuit.

Seven o’clock comes and goes. Whoops; turns out checking out of hotels takes longer than saying “Later,” to the front desk while tossing your key on the counter. No big deal – it was a Sunday morning so traffic should be a snap. “It’s just one main road and then the highway. You’ll fly there,” the front desk attendant assured us.

Once in the car we quickly realized another delay: the marathon. It seemed harmless at first – just a few joggers trotting along the street. But that very street was our only known route. And it was completely closed to traffic. Shit.

“Maybe we should just try and follow a street that’s parallel to it and cross it somehow,” someone said. We were collectively trying to critically think through the challenge now posed to us. Adrenaline had begun to drip into my bloodstream, making me feel suddenly alert.

The entertaining-attention-loving Brother was behind the wheel. He’s also fairly fluent in Spanish and historically talented at getting out of some pretty ridiculous situations. Given these facts, I wasn’t all that worried; however, we were still quite far from the airport.

We tried turning around to cross the closed street and hit a dead end. Shit. We tried asking a cab driver to help us find an alternative route. Sister, also knowing Spanish, shouted out the window at the driver stopped on the side of the road. He shook his head, said something I couldn’t understand, and waved his hand. “He said he’s not working and not to pick him.” Shit.

We circled the block and were facing a more congested part of the city. We tried the cab-driver trick again. He followed us and pulled over. Sister jumped out of the car to talk to him and devise a plan.

Brother was shouting encouraging things like, “Wow, Cat. I can feel your worry from here.” Hearing someone articulate how you’re feeling always seems to do one of two things: make you feel that way, even if you weren’t already, or just makes you feel that way even more. Like when someone tells you you’re in a bad mood.

Brother raises his arm. “Cat, look. Here’s the arm on the clock. Tick, tick, tick.”

Oh, he thinks this is funny.

“This is hilarious,” he says while the rest of the car anxiously awaits assistance from the cabbie. Sister gets in the cab, they zoom past us and she’s smiling and pointing forward.

The car exhales as we’re now following someone who actually knows this city, along with a member of our team instructing him in clear Spanish to, GET US THE FUCK TO THE AIRPORT, NOW!

Then the cab tries turning down the main, very closed, street. WTF, MARATHON! Hello, closed street cabbie! We end up retracing our steps – running into the same dead end, and even turning down the wrong-way on a one-way street. Cars facing us honk as we try to avoid collisions.

“This is a shit storm,” Brother said.

Sister’s Girlfriend starts sharing a story of missing a flight. “It was because of a marathon, actually. In London. I couldn’t cross the street.” Oh, that’s just lovely.

“I’ve never missed a flight and I’m not planning on starting today,” I declare – trying to somehow turn that hope into reality.

The cab turns on a main street that’s going in the right direction. Finally, another step towards progress.

The cab puts on his right blinker. Both cars turn to find yellow barrels blocking the road. This happens for a few more miles. He’s trying to cross the marathon route, but each attempt failed. Shit, shit, shit.

Finally we navigate out of the city and onto the main highway. I’ve never been more excited to see signs pointing towards the airport.

Then we slow again, this time for the tollbooth. We hurriedly scrape for change. We pass through and there’s nothing but wide-open road ahead.

“STEP ON IT!” we all shout.

But we can’t.

The cabbie in front of us still has Sister. And is driving at a meek 30 mph.

Brother’s Girlfriend is starting to go crazy in the front seat. “Oh my God, why are we going so slow?!” She reaches over to the wheel and lays on the horn. The cab keeps a steady snail’s pace.

Brother is cracking up.

After a few minutes, we pull up alongside the cabbie. Windows are rolled down.

“MASS RAPIDO POR FAVORE!” Brother shouts.

The driver doesn’t change his stoic expression and motions his hand forward, as if to indicate we can pass him. Umm, you have one of us in your car dude. We’re not just going to leave her to catch the flight.

We approach another tollbooth. We slow to a stop and Sister jumps out of the cab and into our car. Victory! We’re free! Let’s go!!

We riddle her with questions.

“His car was breaking. I could hear it. He couldn’t go any faster,” she says.

We’re now going 85mph and seeing signs indicating we’re close.

We pull off the highway and into the airport’s main artery.

“Car return, car return. Alamo, where are you?” Brother asks aloud. We still need to return the car.

“Right there. That street you just missed,” says Sister.

Brother and Brother’s Girlfriend agree to let the rest of us out at the terminal with the bags and start checking in. Brother and Brother’s Girlfriend circle the airport and try to return the rental car.

Sister, Sister’s Girlfriend and I unload our tons of luggage and shuffle towards the ticket counter. A few minutes later we make it to the front and hand over our passports. Brother and Brother’s Girlfriend come barreling down the hallway. We’re cheering. Travelers are staring. We’re ecstatic. We made it.

I decide to celebrate the victory by going to the next available Travelmart and buy the biggest possible pack of gum.

The clerk holds it up and announces the cost. “It’s $6.30. Do you still want it?”

I stare at him blankly. Time stands still. I’m dumbfounded. He can’t possibly know just how much I want to shove the entire brick of gum between my molars.

I calmly respond, “Yes. Yes, I do.”

* * * * * * * * * *
one:

On plane

It’s interesting to follow the path of my beverage choices while flying. I’ve flown somewhere in the hundreds of times, and I definitely have my drink stages. The earliest plane-drinking memory goes back to the Bloody Mary mix. I was swigging those before I even knew what the mix was supposed to be mixed with. That stage lasted from my young adolescence into my late teens. Then I jumped to the courageous sparkling water with a twist. Sometimes I’d own up to what it really is, and just order it as the boring “club soda with lime.” I’m always amused by the enormous bubbles that hug the sides of the plastic cup. Plus, half the time I feel nauseous, and the simplicity of this airborne cocktail comforts me.

But today is different. Today’s plane experience is significant in so many ways, so I’m allowing my self-imposed rules to break. Yes… I am o n v a c a t i o n. Starting at 4:21am, my run-to-the-sun vacation began. I’m cashing in my vacation-hours, bought my own out-of-the-country plane ticket, and I’m going to Zihuatanejo, Mexico with my girlfriend. I’ve never done anything like this before. Plane always equals family on the other side — but not now.

Our stop in LAX offered caffeine at just the right time. We found the nearest Starbucks (20 feet from our gate) and dropped $20 on a mini latte, fruit cup and sandwich. I struggled with getting sucked into their promotional drinks — something called a London Fog filled with tea and foamy milk sounded romantic but the thick line of aggravated travelers and over-qualified employees behind the counter diluted the appeal. My girlfriend and I found a clearing on the carpet and I tried savoring my spiritual ritual. Coffee, for a lot of people, is such a valued element to the repertoire of routine. Coffee has spent a lot of time in my head. I cherish its place in society and absolutely fall into a blissful trance if I get the pleasure of having a really good cup of it. And coming from Portland, Ore., I’m spoiled. I drink a lot of organic, fairly-traded, single-origin coffee. So getting a cup of Starbucks comes with some baggage. It’s on these rare-traveling moments that I find myself magnetized to its machine.

Of course, I’m no Starbucks-pro so I wasn’t surprised to find out I ordered the wrong thing. Who makes 12 oz. lattes with a single shot of espresso?! Starbucks, apparently.

My latte, therefore, had half the caffeine than I was expecting, which brings me to the current airplane beverage: Seattle’s Best brew in my already used Starbucks paper cup. I think I’ve just met my next tradition.

….

We have yet to stay one night, and there’s already too much to tell. We landed — let’s be honest — in the middle of nowhere. The beach was a half mile away from the landing strip. The stairs wheeled up to the side of the plane.

“Where is everything?” Casey asked out loud. I was thinking the same thing.

We walked down the stairs and were enveloped in the thick heat. We entered the single-level airport and snaked through the line of customs. Two seconds after approaching the podium we were stamped and officially welcomed to enter Mexico.

Next stop: bathroom. The walls were bubble-gum pink. There was a teenage girl in the corner on a laptop wearing a blue and white uniform vest. She handed out the paper towels… Two things I’ve definitely never seen in the US.

Then we went to the baggage claim. After a brief moment of panic, we saw our bags come down the conveyor belt. Phew… that would’ve sucked.

We waited in line to declare the items we were bringing into the country. Casey got called first. I could see she didn’t have the correct form filled out — I think she was in the bathroom when they handed them out on the plane. She motioned toward me, and I presented the form to the Mexican official in uniform.

“You sisters?” he asked.

“Friends” we both respond. I mentally kicked myself.

“You bring food?”

“Yes. Granola bars.”

He smiled. “Just snacks? That’s okay.”

Apparently Luna Bars aren’t considered food in Mexico, but in hindsight I now know that no, they aren’t considered food by US Customs either.

We hunted down an ATM and pulled out $200 pesos. Bright pink plastic bills popped out. We weaved through the crowd to the taxi counter. The young woman didn’t even try Spanish and asked for $25 US, even though the sign clearly said $22 to Zihuatanejo.

“You want US and not pesos?” I asked.

She glared. “Yes.”

We handed over the bills and she gave us a ticket.

Ok, I thought… this looks official… we walked outside and I tried really hard not to freak out. It was a form of chaos, with a lot of Mexican men in white shirts and black pants. We were approached by many of them at once. English was not the language they were speaking. I felt conflicted feelings of guilt for not understanding their language, and fear of so much unknown. The cars parked along side the airport’s exit looked like beat-up sedans. Very few had any clear taxi-markings.

Alright, here we go… If we’re getting kidnapped it’s probably happening right here and now. A man took Casey’s luggage, ticket and guided us to the end of the row of cars. We tried telling him the name of our hotel. I pulled out my journal and showed him the address. He handed it to another guy.

“He knows where is,” he said, and opened the car’s backseat door. Casey and I looked at each other and got in.

The driver whipped us through the barren landscape. He commented, a few times, on how Zihuatanejo was “paradise.” I tried being optimistic and glad about the adventure we had gotten ourselves into but I was fighting a lot of judgment. As we drove into more and more developed parts of Zihua, I kept thinking, what are you talking about? This is the total ghetto. Half the buildings don’t have roofs. How the hell is this paradise?! Honestly, I was pretty friggin’ scared.

We turned the corner and headed up a small, steep, cobblestone hill. I saw a sign for our hotel. Here’s the: how much did the website lie, moment…

It didn’t. Just as the online reviews had said, Lucy Hernandez was there waiting for us (how did she know we were coming? I now realize there’s only one flight a day, and everyone gets into town at roughly the same time).

Lucy was older, had glasses, smiled sweetly, and had golden-reddish brown skin. She showed us our room. It was perfect… a little Mexican cottage for two. Red hibiscus flowers donned on the beds (yes, there were two). The multi-level outside patio doubled as our kitchen and dining room. A small table looked out onto the expansive bay. The ocean crashed below. A sink, two-range stove top, and refrigerator made up the kitchen. Blooming tropical flowers encased the porch.

There were three doors, three keys, and each door locked three times, “Just for safety,” said Lucy. “There’s also a guard from 7pm-7am,” she said. Oh really? A guard? But we’re paying just $80 US to stay here. The website surely didn’t mention that detail. His name is Pedro, and I liked him before we even met. I had to — he was the guard, and for whatever reason, we needed him.

Lucy left, and Casey and I admitted that we were a little out of our comfort zone. Okay, I was definitely out of that zone. Casey probably wasn’t as much, since she’s roamed the streets of Thailand alone. But I hadn’t ever traveled out of the country this alone before.

I wanted to call Casey’s sister right away, since we both knew she’d be worrying. But the room had no phone. So we locked up — all doors — and went to find Lucy. She was doing crosswords on the front porch. “Oh, you can go into town and buy a phone card and use a pay phone. My phone doesn’t make international calls.” Alright. Count that another first… being in a hotel without a phone. So mission: find a phone card and call Portland began.

We saw another white woman walking in our same direction. “Where are you from?” I asked her immediately. I didn’t think twice that I was introducing myself to a total stranger, just because she was my same race. I wanted to gain as much understanding into the place where Casey and I were living for the next week, and I made the assumption she would help me in this way. I reached out to her with hope of communicating flawlessly, and making another ally, should the need for one exist. Turns out she’s from a few towns over from where I had lived in Iowa. Her name was Peggy. She has been here six to ten times and loves it. “But some stuff’s happened recently, so you don’t really wanna be out past dark,” she said. A sigh of relief was met with a hint of warning. Note to self: don’t be out past dark.

On the journey into town my nerves began to settle dramatically. We were walking along a main street, which parelled the town’s large dry canal. The dusty roads, and weathered buildings turned romantic in this weird, blink of an eye, moment. It’s almost as if I officially put on my vacation-glasses, and took off my bitter-worker glasses. The judgement of what I knew was quickly melting away.

Town was fun. We found a phone card fairly easily, and my Spanglish was getting us by. We had the dictionary with us, but didn’t use it. The sun was setting and we knew we had a few more things on our list before heading back to our new home: Food and a phone.

I wanted to eat something light and had hopes of putting our kitchen to use. We weren’t sure which restaurants were good, and they all looked the same, ie. empty. Casey saw an old man with a plastic bag full of produce. She stopped him by getting in front of his path, and pointed to the bag. “Donde?!” I shouted. He smiled and turned around. Moments later he guided us into a dark cement building. We were inside a dimly lit produce market. Bunches of bananas hung from the ceiling and piles of peppers and tropical fruits were in rows on tables. We got right to work.

Peggy from Iowa mentioned she was looking for potatoes so we grabbed a few for her just in case. We knew we’d see her again. The fruit selections spelled fruit salad, so we got a bag of mangoes, bananas, passionfruit and lime. Now to find that phone.

There were a few on the street but the traffic was super loud. We remembered seeing one near our hotel so headed back. We walked over the canal, and passed a wooded shack with a sandwich board outside that read, “Rufo’s.” There were clean tables and many other gringos eating there. We were just steps away from our hotel and took a seat at an empty table.

“Ok,” I said. “The lesson tonight is learning some numbers.” We had to at least knew what people were saying to us when we asked how much something was.

“Yes,” Casey agreed.

But then I couldn’t find the dictionary.

“I thought I put it back,” Casey said defensively. The dictionary wasn’t in the backpack. Sure, we were getting by with my version of Spanglish, but how irresponsible would it be for us to be in a completely different country with zero back-up tools of the language?

“You’re mad at me aren’t you?” she said tersely.

I ordered a quesadilla with guacamole.

Then Peggy from Iowa walked by.

“Hi Peggy!” I said while waving from our table. She turned.

We offered her the potatoes we found, but she had found some too.

I tried letting go of the lost dictionary. Casey said sorry, and I half-hoped that we’d find one in town somehow.

Our quesadillas were awesome, and came with hand-made corn tortillas and an array of fresh salsas. We looked over at the table next to us full of older people drinking margaritas.

How can they be sure of the ice. I could tell Casey was thinking the same thing, and probably was going to ask if I wanted one. “One thing at a time,” I said.

After dinner we wandered up the little hill and found our phone. Adventure number two: actually getting the phone call through to Portland. You could barely hear what the automated voice was saying, let alone the fact that it was all in Spanish. The dingy electronic screen was totally blown out too, so translating the written instructions was pointless. After many many failed attempts we got through to Casey’s sister’s voicemail — yess! Success! I still don’t really know how we got it to work. The smallest of things brought such happiness.

There were some steps towards our right and we followed them down towards the breaking waves. We felt the sand for the first time. The moon was out in full, and the lights from the town glittered behind us. We exhaled, kissed, and felt vacation in the best of ways.

We walked back up to our hotel and saw a teenage boy sitting in a lawn chair under a street light.

“Te llamos Pedro?” I asked.

“Si.”

He was playing techno music off the speaker of his cell phone. I knew I’d like Pedro.

We got inside our room, and oh, look at that … there’s the Spanish-English dictionary. We fell asleep to the crashing waves below. The cab driver was right; this is paradise.

two:

Today’s lesson: there are a lot of gringos here, and yes, the part of town we’re staying in is definitely not the nice part. But whatever.

We ventured into La Playa Ropa, which is where los Americanos who have muy dinero stay and play. The resorts were palletial and had organic food on their menus. The white folk were everywhere, which was a contrast to our neighborhood in La Madera. But before we made the trek to the fancy beach, I went for a run on our beach. The locals looked at me like I was loco. Then Casey and I went to the coffee shop we’d been hearing about. (Organic coffee from a coffee shop started by an Oregonian couple? OMG, Of course we’d go!). But … uhh … not so awesome. The teenage girls who were our servers were super sweet, and assured us that the ice came from purified water. Moments later we were enjoying our first Mexican coffees, which, in all honesty, were fine. The stuff was enjoyable. The bathroom, however, was a different story. I’m still a little scared by the fact that you crap behind a curtain and throw away your toilet paper in a trash can. Oh yeah, and there wasn’t any running water so washing your hands wasn’t happening (eww! How could I not be grossed out?!). Needless to say, we didn’t go back.

We opted for a long walk to the neighboring beach town, instead of a cab or bus. We walked along the the windy road and met our first Americans under 60. They flew fresh in from Minnesota the same day we did and were checking out La Playa Ropa for the first time too. They had tatoos and hip sunglasses. We tried exchanging small talk, but it was too forced. They were walking behind us for 10 minutes and it was obvious we were all Americans, all going to the same place, and of — more or less — the same demographic. I finally broke the ice and asked where they were from, but when we stopped to enjoy the view, they plowed right past us with a brisk, “See ya later.”

When I have strong negative reactions quickly about something or somebody, I often pause and try to analyze why. Am I being too judgmental? Later that night, Casey and I spoke about this guy-girl couple. I wasn’t disappointed by the fact we didn’t talk to them more. I’m on vacation, and that means taking a vacation from forcing myself to do things I don’t want to do. It’s that simple. Coming to that conclusion made it easy to ignore these two kids the next 10 times we ran into them.

Once we made it down to the beach — the perfection just hit us over the head. It was, yes, once again paradise. Huge swaying palm trees bordered the white sandy beach where rows of reclining lawn chairs were set up outside of Mexican cafes. Children ran through the waves. Men with slicked back hair brought cocktails and tacos to the sides of families sitting under umbrellas. I seriously got myself here? God, this is just awesome.

We settled in front of a place called La Perla. We were walking around being clueless when an older, deeply oranged gentleman with a large stomach offered up his empty palapa (chair, table and umbrella). He explained how it worked: $40 pesos let you use the palapa for the day, and yes, you could use the bathrooms, which were the best ones on the beach.

Moments later we were enveloped in conversation with the couple sitting next to us, who were, who knew, from Minnesota too. They had been coming here for over a decade and filled our ears with tips. Her name was Lisa, his name was Scott and they were around 50. They were on the round side and had deep dark sunglasses. He had on khakis but let his belly free. She had a modest one piece swimsuit with a tropical pattern.

We broched the subject of saftey.

“Oh, you haven’t heard what happened?” Lisa asked.

I liked her, but no, of course we didn’t know what had happened! Why would we be asking her what happened, if we knew what happened?!

“There’s a lot of rumors going around,” she started.

“Yah, lots of rumors,” Scott chimed in.

She explained that the new Mexican government is combatting the Mexican drug cartels which results in a lot of friction. “The police just walked out on the job one day last week.” Apparently there was a grenade thrown at the police station and there were a few deaths. She also said we should only eat ice if it has holes in it. That way you can be assured it came from a purified source. (Genius! Love her!)

We ordered our first “coconut naturale” which is a freshly hacked coconut with a straw. Twenty pesos. That’s about $1.50. The sweet, clear, juice was second only to the fresh meat that I carved out of the sides with my straw.

We lesiurely went in and out of the waves and let the sun fall closer towards the horizon. Then we wandered back up to the main road back to La Madera. We had high hopes of finding this “Supermercato” we had heard so much about. Once we walked up the hill to the main road, there was a bus waiting there — and by bus, I mean a vehicle that’s a little bit bigger than a mini van. So sure, we got on, not knowing where or when we’d get off or how much it’d cost. Oh, it’s five pesos? Great. That’s like a dime in US.

Soon after the bus started driving forward an old woman started shouting something in Spanish and the bus stopped. Perfect, that’s how it stops — got it.

We got off in La Madera and started asking how to get to this Supermercado. Many long blocks later walking alongside the delapitated canal we found it: the WalMart of our little village. It was huge. They sold everything from matresses to mangos. I went a little crazy in the bakery department. Casey got her yogurt. But we couldn’t find one of the things we were sure they had: tortillas. I had walked up and down the aisles and checked their chilled section — where the hell did they keep them?

“Excuse, senorita?” I stopped the next uniformed employee I saw.

“Donde las tortillas?”

“Con maize?” She asked.

“Si.”

She led us to the gargantuan section in the back of the store under the giant sign that read: Tortillas. Whoops, how’d I miss that big clue? There were some women behind the counter working around a machine. They appeared to be making tortillas — but I didn’t see any. The counter had a festive cloth, but nope, no tortillas. Ok, whatever, I’ll just chill here until they make the next batch. They must be out or something. Shouldn’t they stock more tortillas? I guess we’re not in a hurry. That’s weird though.

“Just one package?” the woman asked.

“Yes.”

She lifts up the cloth the reveal rows upon rows of freshly made tortillas wrapped in paper. She hands us the closest package. My face breaks into a smile. “Oh my God, they’re so warm! Gracias!” Duh, Catherine.

After the woman walked away, I realized something else. Her uniform didn’t even match anyone elses who was working in the store. The fact that she was buying a Coke in front of us in the checkout line was another clue that she didn’t even work there. Wow; I’m truely a winner when it comes to shopping for tortillas in Mexico.

We left the Supermercado and journeyed home. The sun was setting and we flip-flopped through some of the roughest parts of town yet. The road was dirt with pockets of garbage every few feet. The dwellings were crumbling and few had windows or doors. Once we officially crossed the bridge back into La Madera the roads were paved and the buildings were more intact.

We were eager to sample our tortillas and the salsa fresca. We made it back to the room and I showered while Casey whipped up some guacamole. Dinner then consisted of tortillas filled with fresh guac., cotija cheese, charred Anahiem chilies and fresh squeezed lime. We tried tallying up how much money we were spending. We had gone to an ATM earlier and I pulled out the receipt.

I remembered the money-tips the guy behind us in line said.

“They get you for every fee they can,” a young, white guy with a straw hat said as we cluelessly looked at the ATM screen. “They’re asking you to donate to homeless; just say no.”

“Thanks!”

“Hey; you guys aren’t from Portland, are you?” for some totally crazy reason I can’t quite explain — I wasn’t all that surprised by that question. It was almost as if I knew he was going to ask us that.

“Yeah — that’s exactly where we’re from,” I said with a relaxed smile.

“I just had a feeling… so am I. Isn’t this paradise?”

“Totally.”

three:

Today we realized we needed a new room. The first night we didn’t sleep so well because there were noises outside, and we were amped up from being in a new place. Last night was awful because this horrid drain started draining right under our floor around 4:30am. It sounded as if we were sleeping in a draining bathtub. We both woke up saying we wanted a different room, so Casey ventured out around 10am to look around for available options. I stayed in bed trying to sleep, but no, not for long.

There was a knock at the door and it was a woman from the hotel wanting some information about us (name, address, duration of our stay). The front door was locked, and since Casey had the key, I couldn’t get it open to talk to this woman. I went out to the porch and pathetically tried to communicate with her. I told her we’d come up to the desk once Casey got back. Plus, I didn’t want to commit to staying longer than our three-day deposit, in case Casey found a better room.

And she did. She came back shortly and was excited about a few rooms she’d found down the street. Great; no more draining bathtub.

The plan for the day was to go back to La Perla, so as soon as she got back, we packed up and headed out. The first thing I realized when leaving our room was the monstrous cruise ship that had anchored in the middle of the bay. It looked like a horizontal skyscraper just layin’ down in kiddie pool. The first thought that came to our minds was: more gringos equals more palapa competition! This made Casey even more pissy since we were getting off to a later start than we’d planned.

I just stopped talking so we’d stop arguing about lame stuff. Plus, it was hot as hell, and how can you fight with your partner when it’s so hot? We got back to La Perla and got a palapa no problem. We were there for a long time. We didn’t chat up other vacationers. I just didn’t have it in me. The heat and lack of sleep made me want to keep my energy to myself. I had high hopes of going in the blissful ocean again, but the fact that you couldn’t walk two feet on the sand without squishing a dead jellyfish had me creeped. I saw two people get stung within minutes of each other. It didn’t help that I’ve been stung before, so my fear was warrented by painful experience.

I was in middle school and my best friend Taylor took me to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina to her family’s beach house. It was awful. Getting stung by a jellyfish can feel like someone is running a razor blade up your vein.

But I went in the ocean anyway, and bless my soul, I got out without getting stung again. As we walked up the beach a huddle of dark-skinned local boys asked if we wanted a jet ski ride. Our default, “No gracias,” came out, but then we paused. Wait, how much again?

Ten minutes later we were in life jackets and Casey was propelling us away from shore on a gas-guzzeling ocean motorcycle. It was so awesome. We bounced across the surface like a skipping rock. We circled the giant cruise ship, feeling like grains of sand next to its gradious steel sides. I held on to Casey’s vest and “Woohooed” for 30 minutes solid.

We pulled back up to shore and one of the locals helped us off. His name was Victor and his English was smooth. He wanted to know where we were from and when I said Portland, he smiled.

“Ya, I’ve lived up in Clackamas. I still have all my family up there.”

At this point I felt a bit stuck. Casey was waiting on our jet ski so we could take a photo together. I didn’t want to be rude, or ask the wrong questions, or assume anything about Victor and his situation. I responded by saying how gorgeous it is in Zihuatanejo and smiled.

Our day on La Playa came to an end, and we again hopped the bus back to La Madera. My head was beginning to kill. I needed to absorb massive amounts of water. We treked back to our room and I passed out. Casey showered. Not wanting to waste the day light, Casey wanted to check out the other side of town. Not wanting to be a wet blanket, I put back on my clothes and joined her. Plus, I wanted to call my mom.

While we were out, we found a stark-white modern bungalow hotel with a pool. Like moths to a flame, we walked up the steps and asked about availablity. It was $20 US more per night, but we didn’t want any more nights like the last two. We put down our deposit and said we’d come back in the morning.

four:

The day started early, and even though the midnight-plumbing project happened again, I still slept a bit better. We packed up, and said goodbye to our little room on the bay. We tromped down the hill, and instead of being greeted by a nice old Mexican woman, we were greeted by a nice old Mexican man. There are some people in this world that just make you happy to be around, and this guy is one of them. His name was Manuel and was a plump, timid, balding man with a nice button-down shirt tucked into his belted-khaki shorts. He helped us settle into our new room, then we were off to The Fat Mermaid for breakfast. A few other gringo-travelers recommended it (Manuel vouched for it too), and when are you going to have coconut-banana pancakes, if not on vacation? So that’s what I got. The coffee there was great too. I actually got some kind of cream instead of plain room-temperature milk, yess! We decided to come back again.

Today’s beach is Las Gatas. You can only get there via water taxi. We’d heard mixed reviews, so wanted to see how great or sucky it was. Twenty pesos later we were on a little boat headed across the bay. We got there and were immediately greeted by eager boat-helpers asking for tips. The privelage-guilt was definitely on high while we were at Las Gatas. It is a small half-mile beach with a dozen Mexican cafes that host their own bank of palapas. Unlike La Playa Ropa, the guys who work the palapas are only paid in tips. There weren’t as many tourists there, so the vendors and servers were extra aggressive at getting your business. I knew this would be an issue, but nevertheless, guilt is a huge hidden cost of traveling.

The guy that sold us our palapa for the day was named Scott. He was a gringo from Colorado. This was very unusual. Every single other server in all the other businesses were Mexican — not Scott. His short frame, tight buzz cut, and quick reactions had me imagining his past much different than his present. Again, like Victor, I couldn’t help but wonder what his story was, but I wasn’t about to ask.

We kept the conversation casual while we drifted in and out of the pool-clear water. He made us cocktails that were the size of small children. They were the best pina coladas on earth. Entire pineapples were gutted and filled with icey coconut rum puree. Fresh stalks of hydrangeas bloomed out the sides of the fruit for decoration.

Speaking of Scotts, oh look — we saw Lisa and Scott from Minnesota again. I love them. They keep referring to themselves as old geezers, but seriously, I hope I’m that happy and fun at their age. We also saw the hipster couple from Minniapolis, but we didn’t talk to them much. We met another nice couple named Erica and Aden from Seattle.

After we let the buzz come and go from our pina coladas, we hopped a water taxi to return to the other side of the bay. We shared the boat with a few young Mexican men, and an old American couple. Exhibit A: how I do not want to become… The old guy was nice and was chatting us up, but his wife? Awful. And I was only with her for 10 minutes.

A Mexican woman with her small child got on the boat after us and the elderly couple was already sitting in the two front seats. The Mexican woman was standing in front of the American woman.

“Well, is she going to sit down?!” the elderly woman huffed to her husband. As if the Mexican woman wasn’t even there.

“It’s fine,” he responded.

“Well, I don’t want to be looking at her the entire time — it’s annoying!” She got up and moved seats so she wasn’t as close to the woman in front of her.

Oh. My. Where to even start? Who are you to be so rude? And what on earth is SO annoying by having someone stand next to you on a crowded tiny boat?!

Moments later, the water taxi left the dock and coasted to another boat in the harbor. The Mexican woman and her child got off. I felt embarrased. I hoped the Mexican woman didn’t understand how rude my fellow American woman was.

The rest of the boat ride across the bay was realitively uneventful, except for one of the Mexican boys starring at me intenstly. Then we were were pulling up to the dock, drama with the woman struck again.

The typical routine for getting off these little boats is pretty basic: the driver lets the motor idle while we slide up to the platform. Helpers on the dock hold on to the boat while passengers step off, hoping for a tip. They offer a hand if needed. Well, one of those helping hands almost put the old lady in the water.

We were pulling up to the side of the dock, and three local boys were there waiting. Everyone in the boat knew this woman wanted to get off first, so we all stood up and waited for her. She started to reach out for the side of the dock and a boy’s hand. The boat inched away with the tide. The distance between the boat and the dock widened. The body of this woman was quickly stretching to become a bridge between the two. She couldn’t effectively lunge onto the dock and no one on the other side was grabbing her. She started to panic. So did I. I mentally saw her falling into the greasy waters of the harbor.

Fuck, do something!

I couldn’t figure out a solution to this problem that was quickly developing. I didn’t want to be that person that just stands there, watching an accident happen, but the seconds ticked passed.

“Move out of my way!” she shouted at the boys on the dock.

The boat swayed toward the dock, and she collapsed on its surface.

Thank. You. God. Oh my, that would have been so horrible.

That precarious moment was already in the past. Casey and I hopped out of the boat and meandered to our fancy room through the abandoned streets of town. It was a Sunday and not much was opened.

The fact that I’ve only ingested food wrapped in corn tortillas was kind of beginning to show, so I got to know our little square of grass outside our room’s patio. Then I went for a run along the short beach of La Madera. Again, the locales looked at me like a freak show.

I tried calling my mom again and finally got through. I was glad to talk to her but also had the predictable force of worry. She’s moving, again… it’s got to be the 60th time in her life. And she’s getting older. I pray she doesn’t lift some box of books and hurts herself. Again, the guilt kicks in.

“You’ll have to come visit,” she says.

I told her I loved her and the phone card ran out. I say to myself that the next plane I get on is to see her. I swim a few laps in the gorgeous pool and try not to worry.

five:

Today was a lot like yesterday. Get up, make a modest breakfast in our cocina and get on a boat to the beach. Except we went to even a more remote one today. It was almost a deserted island.

We trekked to Ixtapa via la autobus. Eight pesos took us on a 25 minute tour of the back country of Zihua, and through the resort-laden town of Ixtapa. The actual bus was much more like the American versions, big and sounded like a shaken bag of pots and pans. But this thing was fast. All the windows were down and the wind was blowing so fiercly, I couldn’t really breathe.

Thank goodness we weren’t staying in Ixtapa. The resorts were expansive. The manicured lawns were enormous. A little Mexican man swept the gutter. There was a mall there with a Senor Frogs.

We got off the bus and looked immediately into a bog filled with moss-covered crockadiles. There were more helpful men ready to point us to the water taxis. The one that was especially friendly was eager to share that he had caught a “big salmon in the Columbia River” when he found out that we were from Portland. He had spent time all over the Northwest.

We made it to the island of Ixtapa via water taxi and, what do you know, there are Lisa and Scott. They told us about their kids (they were our age) and we talked about how deserted everything was. After I had learned the art of shopping for the best price, I found a set of snorkels for $40 pesos (someother guy wanted $90? Uh, no). We glided through the warm waters and split up schools of fish with our bodies. They got me back by eating off the scab on my knee.

We actually broke our own rule and went out past dark. We ate an incredible dinner of shrimp and scallops in a creamy lemon sauce at La Casa Veija. We walked into town and caught the last half of the outdoor volleyball game. We were totally becoming used to this.

six:

There was a subtle mourning to today. Casey and I didn’t speak much. We knew the end was near. We went back to the Fat Mermaid after trying a different coffee shop that sucked. It’s so funny how you can get into a routine so fast. We sat at the same table and ordered the same drinks from the same waiter. We were their only customers for the majority of the afternoon. We wrote a pile of postcards and read the last of our magazines.

The afternoon was spent with more lesiurely activities in town. We didn’t have any traveling adventures since this was our last full day. We wanted to savour the relaxation as much as possible, so we scheduled light.

Dinner was our main mission of the day. We got out of our sweaty rags and into clean girly dresses. We had been hearing about Bandidos so walked around and around trying to find it. The dinner experience there was mediocore. We were rushed to a table and had a few different eager Mexican men waiting on us. The place was a huge wall-free dining room in the center of town with small drinks and a horrific cover band. We ate chili rellanos and fish tacos while watching older American women dance to Jimmy Buffet’s “Margaritaville.”

seven:

I wrote this in the airport while watching vacationers deplane the same machine that flew me home. They snaked through the ropes of customs. I was on the other side of the glass this time.

Today was spent mentally preparring for the return. We lugged our luggage outside our hotel to the curb and instantly was met by a taxi cab. We asked how much it was.

“Air conditioning?” he asked. It was always an extra fee.

“No way,” we said. We knew Portland hadn’t turned to summer during our seven-day absense.

The cab driver navigated through the busy streets of town and onto the highway. He got hot and clicked on the air conditioning free of charge.

“Good vacation?” he asked.

“You know what the locals say… Paradise.”

1) Boutique (adj)
Definition: Unique, exquisite, specialty, limited
Example: Hilton is now attempting to open their very own boutique hotels.
Analysis: I don’t think we’re done with this one yet. As the local, d.i.y. mentality ages and spreads, more and more elements of the mainstream will co-opt it until the thought of being different and special fades into one of homogeneity—I don’t anticipate this happening any time soon.

2) Bounce (verb)
Definition: to leave, exit, depart
Example: Let’s bounce; I’m over it here.
Analysis: How cute is it to think of you as a ball bouncing away from somewhere? The answer’s yes, and ever since I heard this used on “Project Runway” I’ve been stealing it.

3) Navel gazing (adj)
Definition: Introspective, simple
Example: Her blog is nothing but navel-gazing nonsense.
Analysis: This term is often applied to a lot of literary nonfiction journalism right now, and I do not think of it as an insult (although more often than not, it is). Why would it be considered wrong to turn inwards as a means of articulating the ways of the outside world?

4) Cougar (noun)
Definition: An older woman who enjoys the company of younger partners
Example: She’s dating a 20-year-old; such a cougar.
Analysis: Again, like navel gazing, this tends to be a total dis against women. I don’t think it should be – as relationships flex away from rigid antiquated standards, so will the age discrepancy discrimination. Don’t get me wrong, there’s still a static line of adult versus child that should never be crossed, but a 40-year-old dating a 27-year-old? Maybe a tinsy bit questionable depending on the two people, but really, who cares?

But this post is about voting. It’s about voting, without talking about politics. Even though we’ve been absolutely soiled to the gills in election coverage, I still wanted to make sure and make my Fly-on-the-Wall mark about it.

So I did. I voted at one of my favorite coffee shops during a busy Saturday morning, and even dressed up for the event.

Here is a short photo essay documenting the ever-so important duty.

Now we just hurry up and wait…

–Catherine