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Day Six: Sleepless in Rabat

Tuesday, June 14th, 2011

I am sitting in the courtyard of a converted villa in the swank Souissi district of Rabat, the capital of Morocco, where it is a perfectly pleasant 78 degrees. The courtyard villa is now a language center, and the group is currently taking an introductory language course wherein they are learning the Arabic alphabet. Good for them.

We arrived Sunday … Good grief, was that really just two days ago? … Into Casablanca. The airport was a little dumpier than I remembered it from my last visit three years ago. The customs agent was thrilled that I spoke Arabic and gave me my first language test of the trip:

“Where did you learn Arabic?”
“Egypt,” says I.
“Do you love Egypt?” he asked.
“I do,” says I, “bhebbha kteeran“
“Morocco,” he informed me, “is better than Egypt.”

We shall see.

Yesterday was our first full day in Rabat. For the first two weeks that we’re in country, we’ll be here in the capital, a pleasant seaside city of two million. Mornings are taken up with language classes, and afternoons involve lectures and site visits.

As one of the two people in the group with Arabic language training, I’m not in the intro class that was arranged. After a placement test that pretty much used every ounce of my jet lagged brain, I had a long discussion with the placement coordinator. Essentially, it boils down to this: my spoken Arabic is near perfect, but my written grammar is terrible – I flat out forgot how to construct active and passive participles. So, for the next couple of days I’m sitting in on one of the intermediate classes where they’re doing that stuff, and next week I’ll start a class on the Moroccan dialect, which is what I really wanted to do.

The dynamics of language are quite different here than in Egypt. I had been told that Arabic speaking foreigners are somewhat rare in Morocco, which seems odd given the number of foreigners who come here to study. The dining room staff doesn’t know what to do with me, and are more happy to seek discussion with the members of the group who speak French, especially the maitre’d who quite visibly sneered the first evening when I tried to ask him for something in Arabic.

The maids, on the other hand, think I am the best thing ever. They keep stopping me in the hallway to engage me in conversation and it generally takes me forever to dash the few feet from my room to the elevator.

I have photos – quite a few from last evening’s visit to the Chellah (an historic site not too far from the hotel), but I’m on my iPad at the moment and haven’t really had a chance to go through and sort out the good ones. So, stay tuned.

So far the group seems to be doing well. I still haven’t decided if one particular member is eccentric or crazy, but she is, at least, crazy in a non offensive way.

And that’s all for now. More dispatches later…

Tags: fulbright, hotels, middle-east, morocco, rabat, Travel
Posted in Morocco and Tunisia 2011 | Comments Off

Borricua

Wednesday, September 30th, 2009

“Horse,” Ray said.

We were driving down an expressway in the middle of San Juan on our last afternoon in Puerto Rico. Instinctively, I slammed on the brakes.

“Why are you stopping?” Ray asked.

“You said ‘horse,’” I said. “I thought you meant there was a horse in the road.”
“When have we ever seen … never mind, I withdraw the question.”
Frankly, by that point, a horse in the middle of an expressway in downtown San Juan wouldn’t have surprised me at all. Not one bit.

I went to Puerto Rico for a conference, held at one of the glitzy five star hotels near San Juan Aiport in the Isla Verde area. Puerto Rico is, officially, part of the United States of America. It’s a Free Associated State (Estado Libre Asociado), which is emblazoned on a number of license plates and bumper stickers.

Culturally, however, Puerto Rico is quite distinct from the US. To begin with, the primary language on the island is a weird language that kind of sounds like Spanish, except that they use interesting words for things that I’ve never heard before. A naranja (orange) is a china. A frijol (bean) is either a gandule or an habichuela. The letter j is pronounced as … well, as a kind of “zh” sound instead of the usual “h”, so the stickers on all of the doors say “hale” (pull) instead of “jale.” Anything good is “chevere.” (On the flip side, batteries are baterías, instead of pastillas, which is what they call them in Spain. Pastilla also means “pill.” I’m a little uncomfortable with the analogy.)

I’d heard that Caribbean Spanish is kind of the worst-case scenario for speakers of Spanish as a second language — now I know why.

I had a rental car. This may have been a mistake–it’s hard to tell. Taxis are expensive (one could literally walk from the airport to our hotel in about 30 minutes–a taxi is $12, flat rate), but free parking is both risky and hard to find.

The road signs are made to the American standard, but they’re all in Spanish. Given that Spanish is the primary language of the island, that’s understandable. What’s less understandable is this: speed limit signs are in miles per hour. (Apparently just as a suggestion: I tried to slow down in a school zone once and … well, when the sign says “15 mph,” it apparently really means “40 mph.”) However, distances are measured in kilometers, and gas is sold by the liter. I gave up trying to figure that one out, and am much happier for it.

Traffic lights are hard to figure out, so when the light turns green, all of the drivers waiting for the light start honking immediately, to helpfully let the driver in front of them know that the light has turned green in case he’s fallen asleep or decided to get out and walk or something.

Cars in Puerto Rico are equipped with an archane lighting system. There are four lights on the car: one at each corner. They are connected to a lever on the steering column. When you push the lever up, the two lights on the right side of the car light up and blink. When you push the lever down, the two lights on the left side of the car light up and blink. Archaeologists are uncertain as to the original purpose of this lighting system. Modern drivers simply ignore them.

The night we arrived, I woke up with a splitting headache at about 2 am. It was the kind of headache that has physical presence: it was a third body in bed with us. I tried to ignore it for a bit, but when I heard Ray stirring a little later on, I asked it he’d brought any aspirin with him.

“No,” he mumbled. “Go ask at the front desk.”
I threw on shorts and a T-shirt (and no contacts, having left my glasses at home, naturally), and trudged down to the empty lobby where “The Girl From Ipanema” was clinking over the speaker system (of course it was “The Girl From Ipanema.” Why wouldn’t it be?).

The concierge had no medical supplies, but I was helpfully informed of the existence of a Walgreens “5 minutes away.”

I’m supposed to walk to Walgreens at 3 am along a deserted street in San Juan? Does this sound like a good idea to anyone?

I went up to the room and tried to go to sleep, but now my head was throbbing on a level that had me quesitoning whether I could remove my eyes temporarily to reduce the pressure. Ray finally insisted that we go to Walgreens, and so, at 3:30 in the morning on our first night in San Juan, we strolled up the street filled only by us, the frequent passing by of the tourist police, and the bouncers at the clubs that never close.

Back to the horse comment.

On Friday morning, the day after my marathon four presentations at the conference, Ray and I decided to take a cue from the Lonely Planet guide I’d brought with me and drive to Loíza, the next town over. According to LP, one could not wander around the town square without stumbling over makers of the vejigante masks. We have a small collection of masks that we’ve bought on trips, and we’re always looking to add, so we got in the car and drove along the rambling road to Loíza.

There were, in fact, several horses along the way–although, to be fair, none of them were actually in the road.

To make a story that seemed longer at the time rather short, LP was an epic fail. The town square was not where the guidebook said it was. There were no mask makers. We found a (singular) establishment — Centro de Cultura, Inc. — that had some (pretty ugly) examples on display, but when I asked the nice lady if one could find the artisans, she shrugged. “Maybe on Sunday,” she said.

At some point, while driving around, we noticed that some of the expressways through San Juan were labeled with little icons. There was one of a tree, one of a parrot, one of a coquí frog, and one of a horse. We never found out what the icons stood for — they weren’t in the copious amounts of tourist literature in the hotel room (directed at the sort of tourist for whom money is not an issue, natch), nor was there ever any explanation in writing on the signs themselves. At one point–possibly on the drive back from the Bacardi distillery in Caguas–we got giddy and started calling out “parrot!” “Tree!”

And, the next afternoon, Ray called out, “Horse!”

As I said, by that time … the presence of a real horse in the road would have failed to surprise me on every level.

Would I go back to Puerto Rico? Sure. Just not sure I’d plan to drive there again …

Tags: art, bla, cars, china, class, conference, driving, Friday, Home, horses, hotels, ice, khowaga, literature, me, media, men, money, Photos, police, press, Ray, SHE, spain, taxis, tea, traffic, weird, words, writing
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Rambling Khowaga Travels: Hawaii

Sunday, April 13th, 2008

I’m trying to ignore the fact that I have to go to work tomorrow, and it’s not quite working. In recognition of the fact that if I don’t wrap up–at least in my own head–my trip to Hawaii now, I’ll never get around to it, I’m presenting the second edition of Rambling Khowaga Travels: Hawaii.

$Gettin\'$

Gettin’ there and gettin’ around

You’ll fly to the islands, of course, most likely to Honolulu. You’ll also fly whichever airline is cheapest, and hopefully not about to fold.

We visited O’ahu and Hawai’i (the big island), and we rented a car on both. Some thoughts.

Driving on O’ahu will drive you insane.
There’s really no two ways about it. O’ahu has some of the worst traffic I have ever seen in my life, especially for a city with a population of 500,000. It makes me thankful for traffic in Austin, and that’s just downright sad. The Interstate H-1, which runs west-to-east through Honolulu, and seems to be the logical airport-to-downtown/Waikiki thoroughfare jams up in the morning, evening, and any time there’s an accident, which seems to be rather frequent.

Most rental car companies suggest using Nimitz Highway (which turns into Ala Moana Blvd) through downtown to get to Waikiki – LISTEN TO THEM. They know what they’re talking about. Don’t do what I did and think, “There’s no way that the side streets are faster than the freeway.” They are, and it’s a much prettier drive, especially toward sunset.

In all honesty, just for the traffic alone, I would, in hindsight, have switched our itinerary around and started the trip on the big island and left O’ahu till the end. Driving on the big island is much more relaxing (except for Kona, where maps don’t include elevation), and you’ll be in that true “whatever, brah” spirit by the time you get back to the big city.

$Sleepin\'$

Sleepin’

One of the things I don’t get about places like Hawaii is why people insist on paying upwards of $200 a night for a hotel room that you’re barely going to be in. It’s Hawaii. Who goes to Hawaii and hangs out in their hotel room?

I can’t honestly recommend the place we stayed at in Honolulu. I won’t name it because the experience wasn’t bad, I just don’t recommend it for reasons I’ll explain here:

1. Waikiki is not the prettiest beach in O’ahu. It’s the most famous, the most crowded, and the only one where you’ll wind up paying through your nose to park. If your hotel isn’t beachfront — and a lot of the ones who claim they are are actually located across the street — ask yourself if you really need to be in that area. It’s the most expensive part of Honolulu. Even the prices at the local grocery store are higher in Waikiki than they are in other parts of the city. For the record, views of Diamond Head can be had just as easily in downtown Honolulu, as well as on the other side of Diamond Head itself.

2. Most hotels in the Waikiki area charge their guests for parking (and a lot of them have valet-only service). We stayed at a place in Waikiki, but not on the beach, that I thought was a bargain at $120 a night. Then they charged $18 for parking per day. For $140 a night, we could have stayed at a nicer place that had free parking. It might not have been within walking distance of Waikiki, but we could have driven just as easily to one of the multitudes of beaches on O’ahu that also have free parking, such as Sandy Beach:

On the big island of Hawai’i, we stayed at a place I recommend whole-heartedly: The Hale O’hia Cottages. It’s a bed-and-breakfast in Volcano Village, about a mile from the entrance to the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park. It’s a beautiful property, it feels secluded, and the innkeeper, Michael, is a font of knowledge about things to see and do on the big island. While the property is gay owned, it’s not a gay bed-and-breakfast per se — for that sort of thing, you’d need to go Kona side.

Sight-seein’

If you have the time, you should try to visit more than one island. Although Ray and I both think O’ahu is prettier than Hawai’i, I enjoyed myself on Hawai’i more. I really enjoyed being on the Hilo side of the big island. Although it’s not as developed as the Kona side, that’s better. Everything in Kona is more expensive (even gas was between 25 and 30 cents a gallon more expensive) than in Hilo. Hilo is the sort of blend of hippie/new age/gay/local/surfer/organic/anti-establishment that felt like Austin on the beach, and I really liked it. Although I’m not the kind of person who’s ever liked walking down the street holding hands with someone, I felt like we could have done in Hilo and no one would have given us a second glance.

On O’ahu, you have to make the usual rounds: the USS Arizona Memorial is a must-see, if just to say you’ve done it. You have to stroll on Waikiki at least once, again, just to say you’ve done it and ogle the muscle boys (or bikini girls if that’s your thing). You’ll find more surfing action on the east and north shores, and snorkeling in the bays that adjoin the eastern point of the island. If hiking is your thing, you have to go up Diamond Head – there are also a bunch of other hiking trails throughout O’ahu (see Na Ala Hele for more info). Tourist traps that are worth your time include the Dole Plantation–it pretends to be nothing other than what it is, and it’s fun to walk through the gardens. If you have the time to head up to the Waimea Valley Audubon preserve, it’s worth the admission fee. There are also hidden gems that are perfect for a rainy day, like the Byodo-In temple, a short drive over the mountains from Honolulu.

On the Big Island, the main attraction is the Hawaii Volcanoes National Park, which gets more visitors each year than any other site in Hawaii. Don’t miss the Hilo Farmer’s Market on Saturdays and Wednesdays, where you can buy most of the stuff you’ve seen in the souvenir shops for significantly less, and talk to actual locals in the process of doing so. In fact, the Downtown Hilo alliance has a Web site devoted to the historic area that’s worth a look if you’re going to be in the area. If you make it around Kona side, make sure to stop at a coffee farm (we visited the Kona Blue Sky Coffee plot) and Pu’uhonua O Honaunau National Historical Park. (It means “place of refuge” – make the rangers pronounce it for you).

The Big Island has a lot of stuff to see and do, and I won’t go into it all here — it wouldn’t even be possible to do so anyway! Get in your car and drive till you see something neat. It won’t take long.

Eatin’

You can spend a ridiculous amount of money eating in Hawaii, however, Ray and I both tend not to like to do so. It is possible to eat on a budget, if you know where to go.

First off, I have to point out The Tasty Island, a Hawaii food blog that I read through before heading out. He has lots of restaurant recommendations (and offers instructions on how to smoke your own pork if you like what you’ve had in the islands and want to try it at home). Also try ‘Ono Kine Grindz for even more restaurant recommendations.

You have to have breakfast at the Wailana Coffee House in Honolulu. It’s on Ala Moana, across the street from the Hilton Hawaiian Village. This is one of those “things” you must do in Honolulu – frankly, the food’s not all that, and the service leaves something to be desired, but that’s apparently part of the experience.

The Liliha Bakery is a local bakery and diner counter recommended to us by a local, and worth a detour (it’s not hard to find with a car, although you’ll wonder if you’re going the right way). The day we arrived, this local institution was sold to a Honolulu businessman who wants to open more branches up, so check when you arrive if that’s happened. You can have breakfast at the counter, and pick up a six-pack or a dozen coco puffs on your way out. (Trust me).

The Big City Diner in Ward Center. Apparently, this place is derided as a Chili’s knock-off, but after trying the pork ribs with guava sauce, I’m sold. We had a little misunderstanding over the kimchi fried rice however. I had this conversation with him:

Ray: What did she recommend? The Kimchi fried rice?
Me: Yeah.
Ray: What’s in it?
Me (looking at the menu): kimchi, spam, and egg.

However, because you don’t say punctuation, Ray was having this conversation instead:

Ray: What did she recommend? The kimchi fried rice?
Me: Yeah.
Ray (assuming that I know he knows what’s in fried rice and referring to kimchi): What’s in it?
Me: Kimchi? Spam and egg.

Hence, when the food arrived and he had a plate full of cabbage fried rice, he was a little surprised. Oops. Anyway, I’m told by people who know these things that the kimchi fried rice is ‘ono if you’re into that sort of thing.

We also ate at Mekong I, one of the lower end restaurants owned by a family that has several restaurants spanning the range from budget to extravagant. We drove past it twice before we found it, but it was quite good. BYOB.

Weirdly enough, Taco Bell was running a promotion with several Hawaiian pork (kalua) items on the menu that are reasonably priced and quite good (for Taco Bell). Something to consider if you’re looking for a quick bite.

On the Big Island:

Cafe 100 in Hilo claims to have invented the loco moco, a carb-loaded concoction that consists of a hamburger patty served on top of rice, covered in gravy, and topped with two eggs any style. It’s always busy, and, name to the contrary, actually a drive in rather than a cafe. Get it to go and eat at one of the tables in Lili’uokalani Gardens.

The Hilo Bay Cafe is a nice upscale place in a strip mall next to Wal-Mart. They claim to have the best burgers in the islands. I can’t say for sure – neither of us had the burger. This one has made the Honolulu Advertiser’s ‘Ilima list (best restaurant awards) several times — an impressive accomplishment for a restaurant that’s not on O’ahu.

Cafe Pesto is right on the harbor in the historic district. (Note: nothing is actually on the harbor in Hilo. After the town has been knocked down by tsunamis twice in the past 60 years, all that’s on the waterfront is a seawall, some roads, and a couple of parking lots to put elevation between the waterfront and the first businesses.) The pizza is pretty good — if a bit on the pricey side.

Ken’s House of Pancakes has the kind of cult following that the Wailana Coffee House wishes it had. The servers are no-nonsense, the food is fast, and they’re open 24 hours. They serve more than pancakes — the signature item is the sumo loco, which involves more carb loading than should reasonably be allowed, but it comes with a T-shirt if you finish it all. We didn’t try.

In Volcano village, Thai Thai is only open for dinner, but the food is remarkably good. The pickings are somewhat slim in Volcano – the only thing Lava Rock Cafe has going for it is its slightly cutesy name, but the food is pricey and not that good. Kiawe Kitchen was recommended by other guests at the bed and breakfast, but we never ate there.

And so, I wrap up my thoughts on Hawaii. I’m already thinking about how quickly we can get back. Maybe next time we’ll visit Maui. Or Kauai. Or …

Tags: coffee, driving, food, hawaii, hiking, hotels, maps, north shore, restaurants, surfing, traffic, Travel, uss arizona memorial, volcanoes
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Weekend in Monterrey, 1

Tuesday, October 16th, 2007

Having vented my frustration from the day at work, and having begun imbibing a particularly fine piña colada, it is now time to tell the tale of our weekend in Monterrey [GP:monterrey]. For the record, photos from the trip are in my gallery.

Let me start with some basic background. Monterrey is the capital of the state of Nuevo Leon, and is Mexico’s third-largest city. It’s been voted the “best city in Latin America” in which to do business by Fortune magazine three times or something like that.

Monterrey is only about 400 miles south of Austin – it’s roughly 235 miles from Austin straight down interstate 35 to the border at Laredo, and from there it’s another 200 kilometers to the outskirts of Monterrey. Despite this, and having been aware of how close Monterrey is since grad school, until last Friday I had never ventured past San Antonio. It even took me an embarrassingly long time just to make it across the border in Brownsville and have dinner at a ‘real’ Mexican restaurant (although Ray still swears you can get better Mexican food in Brownsville than in Matamoros. That’s another story).

So, when the idea was floated by Natalie’s co-worker Paola that a weekend at the Universal Forum on Cultures was in order, I wasn’t about to say no. Paola went into research overdrive and figured out that the easiest way to get down there was to take one of the many buses that benefit from NAFTA and go directly from various parts of Texas into the interior of Mexico. (Pre-NAFTA you had to take one bus to the border, walk all your stuff across, and then pick up another bus on the other side.)

The “how-we-did-it” is as follows: Turimex International, one of the divisions of Grupo Senda, a Mexican bus company, runs buses across the border from cities throughout Texas. They run to Austin as well, but the difference in cost between picking the bus up here vs. an hour and fifteen minutes down the road in San Antonio — coupled with a much more convenient schedule from there — was enough for us to make up our minds for us. The round-trip fare was 594 pesos, or $55 — the best deal out there, at least until/if the Mexican low-cost airline Viva Aerobus begins its long-awaited no-frills service from Austin.

And so, first thing Friday morning, Ray and I drove down to pick up Natalie and Ed, and then we drove down to the Turimex bus station in San Antonio.

For the record, you definitely want to take the Mexican buses – despite Ray’s original concern about the stereotype of chickens running up the aisle, the Mexicans know how to make bus travel as comfortable as possible. Greyhound this ain’t — the seats had more legroom than domestic first class on most airlines and reclined dramatically. The only quibble was the smell emanating from the bathroom on the return trip.

We were scheduled to leave San Antonio at 10 and arrive in Monterrey, traffic and customs permitting, at 4:30 in the afternoon. The ride was pretty comfortable as the bus was nearly empty, and so we all spread out and each of us had a group of seats to ourselves.

The bus drivers don’t mess around. We made it the 150 miles to Laredo in a little over two and a quarter hours, and after a brief stop to change drivers and let on a couple of more people, we went over the eloquently named International Bridge #2 and had the fun of going through Mexican customs. The six of us–plus Paola and Trey’s baby–were the only gringos on the bus and overwhelmed the poor guys in the Migración office who only had two pens for us to use while filling out our tourist cards, and seemed a little weirded out that we all wanted our passports stamped.

Then there was an ever-so-slight comedy of errors that came out of the merry-go-round of getting off the bus, collecting our bags, sending it through the x-ray machine, and then pushing the little button that runs the “do we get to open your bags or not” game that they run at customs in Mexico. It’s kind of funny. Anyway, we didn’t win and so we got back on the bus and plodded on through the sprawling slums of Nuevo Laredo to the national highway that leads to the toll road that runs to Monterrey through the green and cactus covered mountains. Had there been no construction in Monterrey, we would have arrived about 45 minutes earlier. The driver got impatient and started careening down side streets in a way that was a little surprising, not least to the surprised regiomontanos who looked up to see a large bus barreling by.

Monterrey’s Central de Autobuses is pretty much your standard bus station. It’s neither pretty nor inspires one to spend a lot of time there. And so we passed through quickly, stopping at the world’s slowest ATM to get pesos, and at the taxi ticket office to buy a prepaid ticket for our destination, a hotel that advertises itself as being near the Parque Fundidora (by being named the Fiesta Inn Monterrey Fundidora), but actually isn’t. In fact, we were all a little dumbstruck as the taxi pulled up near the hotel and we discovered that it was located behind the Honda dealership and the Burger King, next to the Chili’s and across the street from the Applebee’s and the Carl’s Jr, not because it’s not next to the park but because it looked like Houston.

The hotel is brand new, poorly named (we quickly learned to refer to it as the Fiesta Inn Churubusco), and still working out a lot of kinks. The décor is sleek and modern, but the tape stuck to the inside of the bathroom door informing the contractors to remove an extra nail and fill a hole was, presumably, not supposed to be part of it. Nor, presumably, was the door handle on the inside of the toilet closet that came off in Ray’s hands as he tried to exit.

None of the hotel staff seemed to be that familiar with the area, either, which is slightly excusable given that the place has only been open for a couple of months.

Faro de comercia

We gave ourselves an hour and then met up in the lobby to start exploring the town. Since we were only in Monterrey for a day and a bit, the general unspoken consensus seemed to be that we needed to get as much packed in to the time that we did have. I hadn’t slept on the bus and I was kind of out of it — not to mention that my dizzy virus was acting up (or maybe it wasn’t — it’s entirely possible that after the 6 hour bus ride and two hours in various autos that it was perfectly legitimate motion sickness), and I could have used a little extra time, but I wasn’t gonna push it. And so we climbed into cabs to go down to the MacroPlaza, which is the new urban reclamation they’ve done in the center of Monterrey, and it’s a beaut.

The plaza is anchored by the Beacon of Commerce, or the Faro de Comercia, which is a massively tall orange slab that shoots a green laser beam out at night for no particular reason. When we got into the taxi, Ed asked to the driver to drop us off near “La grande naranja,” which means “The big orange,” and had the driver rather startled.

Macro Plaza, Monterrey

We wandered around the Macro Plaza for a bit. It gets its name because it extends across several streets in the downtown area, forming a big S. There are sculptures and stages and fountains and not enough benches and a number of couples who always seemed to be making out and public restrooms that none of us wanted to pay the 3 pesos to use. It’s a pleasant area to stroll around and watch people and street performers and not be terribly bothered.

Monterrey Cathedral

One of the things that we wanted to see while in town was a Frida Kahlo retrospective at the Museo de Arte Contemporaneo (MARCO) which, it turned out, had closed a couple of weeks earlier. We took a quick look at the cathedral, and it was while standing in the courtyard that the first brave soul finally mentioned being hungry.

One of the issues with the non-stop bus rides — other than the bit where, when the bus is full the bathroom starts to emanate odors early and often — is that you have to remember to bring food with you. We’d all brought sandwiches and stuff to munch on, but by this time it was about 6:30 in the evening and the hunger set in fast. Paola had asked at the front desk at the hotel about places to eat and there was a restaurant in the Barrio Antiguo that they had recommended — a place called El Rey del Cabrito.

Street in the Barrio Antiguo

What followed was one of those comedies of errors that we could probably have foreseen had we, as a group a) remembered that we brought munchies with us and actually eaten some of them while looking for a place to have dinner; b) realized early on after sitting down at El Rey del Cabrito that the place wasn’t quite what we were looking for; c) not been so damned tired and hungry. We also had that “traveling with new people” thing going on where no one wanted to go against the grain of what the group seemed to be deciding to do, even though it turned out that we all would have readily followed the brave soul who stood up and said, “You know what? I don’t really want to eat here. I think we should find another place.”

You see, cabrito is a norteño speciality, and among places in Monterrey–the regional capital of the norte–that serve cabrito, El Rey del Cabrito is reputed to be one of the best.

Menu, El Rey del Cabrito

The problem for us weak stomached gringos is that cabrito also happens to be baby goat. I know that it’s specifically baby goat rather than just goat because it was on the menu early and often: “roast leg of baby goat,” “roast loin of baby goat,” and Ray’s favorite, “fried head of baby goat.” This last one is an appetizer. Yum-o!

After furtively looking at each other for a bit, Natalie, Ray, Trey (Paola’s husband) and I decided to share the mixed grilled beef bits for four. Paola went with sweetbreads, which she was excited about because this is apparently an Argentinian delicacy and she hadn’t had it since moving to the U.S. Ed, who doesn’t eat red meat, was in the worst situation because just about everything served at El Rey del Cabrito has red meat in it. Again, had we been less tired and a little more decisive … but as it was, Eddie got to eat a bowl of charro beans.

Cabrito

Here’s the kicker: we didn’t order the house specialty (the previously mentioned baby goat products), and the platter o’beef that the four of us shared left significant amounts to be desired. We left over half of it on the grill plan upon which it was served, and Natalie and I nearly fought over who got to eat the cold steamed broccoli that came with it as a side dish.

And thus, unsatisfied and poor (the bill came out to 300 pesos per couple — around $28), we wandered back out into the streets for a nighttime stroll through the plaza and into the Zona Rosa, the hopping pedestrian mall.

vista of monterrey

And that was Friday. I still have the (more interesting) Saturday wrap-up to do, but in the interest of getting this out of the draft folder, I shall publish it now and begin anew…

Tags: Friday, hotels, mexico, monterrey, Natalie, Photos, Ray, Travel, weekend
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Notes from the Road

Thursday, August 23rd, 2007

My motel room smells like feet.

I’m in a motor hotel on the I-20, in one of the Dallas suburbs. I have taken a note from Margaret Cho and have identified it as the place where white people go to complete the whitening process.

Where we are, in our cozy motor hotel, it’s all strip malls and chain restaurants. As we pull in, I spot the largest golfing store I’ve ever seen in my life. I can not, for the life of me, imagine who would actually need a golf store of such magnitude. I try not to laugh at the mental image of the final outing of the Whitening-Process Seminar, in which the top students get a free outing to the golf store for plaid shorts and golf shoes with little tassels affixed to the toes. As I said, there’s a reason why you get white people on the brain when you drive around up here.

Our first stop when we arrive, even before the featureless motor hotel next to the strip malls and the golf store, is at the high school. That’s why we’re here. Two presentations, two days apart. We start off with a new presentation that we’ve never done before, and we’re speaking to a crowd who are literally a captive audience. We’re the only social studies presentation in that slot. It’s this or the talk introducing the math textbooks. I’d rather several of them go not pay attention to the math speaker. We are prepared for 25 attendees. There are 50 people sitting there, several of whom are still eating lunch and chatting with each other as we try to talk over them.

We’re in the cafeteria. We have a microphone to boost our voices. The volume is up too high, but the room is too large not to use it, and no one can figure out how to turn the volume down. We’re not comfortable in this environment, and they’re not interested. When we leave, we feel ambivalent about the whole experience. This is not the biggest ego boost we’ve ever gotten from a presentation.

When we arrive at the motel, the young woman behind the counter — one of the few non-white people we will see during our stay — is on the phone. She does not acknowledge our presence. There are three of us, with our overnight bags slung over our shoulders, all tired because we left Austin early enough to be in place and set up to speak at one o’clock. She takes her time, occasionally brushing her frosted hair–and it is lovely frosted hair–out of place with her fingernail extensions, then typing on the keyboard with her fingerpads at an impossibly acute angle so as not to chip her nails. We stand there for ten minutes. The line grows longer. She does not look up or acknowledge our presence in any way. Finally she puts the phone down and acts like she’s seeing us for the first time. She probably is. She checks us in, one at a time. The process is excruciatingly slow.

Hence, when I slide the disposable plastic card into the door lock, and open the door to realize that the room smells musty — like feet, but the more likely cause is that the water in the air conditional drip tray has begun to mildew — I decide that I’ll get used to the smell and that no power on this earth will make me go back down to stand in line at the front desk again.

For dinner, we go to the local branch of a sushi restaurant we’ve been to in Fort Worth before. I’m willing to drive to downtown Fort Worth, but Natalie convinces me that downtown Fort Worth is too far, considering that everything in the Sundance Square area where it’s located closes early during the week. Besides, Rachel is hungry and we’re a good forty-five minutes from downtown Fort Worth.

The restaurant is in a strip mall. Everything in this town is in a strip mall. The hostess tells us that there’s a wait for a table, but asks if we want to sit at the bar. We think she means the drinks bar and say yes. She leads us into the dining room, where it becomes apparent that she is referring to the sushi bar. We stop and stare at each other. It’s been a long day, and none of us really want to be the one making waves. When we’re with Natalie’s friend LeAnn at the Fort Worth branch, where she’s dated half the sushi bar and buys them shots throughout the night, then we’ll sit at the sushi bar. But this sushi bar is in the corner, and the guys who are making the sushi aren’t cute, and we need to talk about today’s presentation.

Finally, we admit our misunderstanding and the waitress leads us back to the front, where she hands us a black beeper the size of a large coaster. I ask if there’s a drinks bar where we can wait, and she delivers the bad news. They only serve beer, wine, and sake. The Fort Worth branch has a lovely martini menu, and tasty drinks are on our mind.

She mentions that the martini bar two doors down is owned by the same people, and that the two venues share a kitchen. We can go there and order sushi, but we can’t stay here and order martinis. That makes sense. Rachel and I check it out, while Natalie stays with the oversized coaster. We like the menu at the martini place, and we can get a table right away. I go get Natalie, and hand the oversized coaster back to the hostess.

We get a table, martinis, veggie tempura. The ladies order miso soup. The sushi comes. I’m ambivalent about sushi normally, but this is the kind of place that makes you really enthusiastic about it, even if you sit on the fence. The atmosphere is pleasant, the food is as good as the main restaurant, and if you squint your eyes long enough you can pretend you’re not in the whitest town in the Metroplex.

Two tables over, there sits a young lady wearing interesting glasses who is eating dinner with her friends. We spend part of the evening trying to determine if they’re meant to help her recover from plastic surgery, and if so, what sort of plastic surgery.

And so, back to the musty hotel room. I’m reading Smilla’s Sense of Snow, which I’ve read before, but it’s a good book and rather well written. I fall asleep.

Breakfast is typical chain hotel buffet. Nothing hot, instant coffee. At least there’s a decent selection of jellies and marmalades. Natalie and I decide that we need better coffee and drive around in circles for forty five minutes before finding a place across the street with free internet and coffee that’s good enough to make it worth our while. Soon, we will go and find Rachel and head off to our next presentation, which will go significantly better than the previous day’s talks. It will restore our confidence in ourselves, and we will head off to a late lunch. The arm will fall off of my sunglasses, rendering them useless. I will purchase a replacement pair at a supermarket on the way to the highway, and I will have to wear them as I drive home with the tag still on them because no one has scissors to cut it off.

And so, another road trip comes to an end. Onward.

Tags: food, hotels, restaurants, Travel, work, workshops
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