Bad beds and Bagles

Why can’t Mexicans care about bedding?  Everywhere you go in this crazy country all they have for linens is crap, super polyester blends…in horrible patterns and colors.  Not only that, Mexicans like flat pillows.  Trying to find decent pillows is just as hard as finding quality sheets, you know, that high thread count stuff. Forget it.  If you are gonna sleep here, bank on discomfort and sheets that feel like plastic canopies. It’s gross.

Actual photo of horrid flat pillows and sheet/blanket combination; gross

We are on a fact finding mission in central Mexico.  According to the Canadian guy we sat and chatted with the other night, this is the Hamptons of Mexico!  Tonya had read a recent article which made the point; if this place has so much money and such a large expat community, why can’t the food be better than average?  Even the Canadian guy Sam (a restaurant owner) says that the people here just can’t get it right.  “Like bagels!” he says in complete frustration.  Personally, I would never expect a Mexican to do proper bagels, but I still am interested in what he has to say.  “That famous bagel place doesn’t serve bagels-they’re biscuits!” He asks me if I know this certain café in town, I shake my head left to right, accentuating the negative. “Well…they do an OK bagel, but I can’t stand the place.  Look, they have a horrible bathroom where the window opens right up onto the sidewalk. I go there and get my morning cup of coffee and a bagel, but I can’t do my morning dump man, because any noise I make is broadcast right out onto the sidewalk.  Who wants to take a dump where everyone can hear you…?”  He says quite excitedly.  He realizes Tonya is standing there and politely apologizes for talking about pooh and breakfast in the same breath, “I’m sorry.  Look, I don’t go there anymore because they don’t have good bagels and I can’t pooh.  I gave up” he says.

Sam wanted to start a microbrew, but somehow ended up opening an exotic restaurant instead.  We had no idea that Sam was the owner when we first walked in to his restaurant.  We were standing amid the dining area waiting for someone to take notice.  Sam comes down the stairs and says hello in English.  As he walks closer it is obvious Sam has been upstairs relieving some ‘pressure’ as he smells like he could be a member of The Wailers. He was shrouded in a dope haze.  He pointed to a small table literally in the corner with two chairs askew.  I declined the invitation and moved to another dining room instead.  We sat down and looked at the menu and I said, ‘Well.  He seems like an interesting guy” and we both start laughing.  I wonder why he is smoking pot upstairs, and when he comes back by the table and hands us our menu I ask, “You having a hard day?”  That caught him off guard. He gave me a strange look then followed up by saying, “No, just tired.  I moved 5 tons of sand today, so I am worn out”.

We ate our meal and mused over the food. It was OK, but not great.  We finish up and ask for the ticket.  The waiter acknowledges and disappears.  He returns back with a platter with some crazy desert on it.  He sits it down in front of us and says, “Compliments of the chef”.  I have no idea what it was…but it was filled with fruit, I noticed kiwi.  It was like an eggroll which has been dipped in chocolate and fried.  Cut it in half and put a piece on each side of a big scoop of caramel ice cream-that was the desert.  “Do you think it really was sent out from the ‘chef’, or was it a mistake and rather than have it sit around the kitchen, they said, “Give it to those two sitting alone over there’? I ask Tonya.  She simply replies, “No!  I think it was actually sent out”

As we are heading out of the restaurant I see the dope smoker sitting at the small bar off to the side.  I tell Tonya I want a word with him.  I walk in and ask if I can have a moment of his time, that I would like to ask some questions about this place.  He obliges, and thus, we meet Sam who complains about bagels and poohing in public.  We spend about half an hour talking about life here and what people do and don’t do.  He gives us a brief lowdown.  He says he tried to do Montreal styled smoked meats here, but it didn’t work.  He complained about the fact that he could not fit a band into his restaurant too.  We talk music and he tells me I should go to Montreal, that it is a record lovers dream.  I don’t know about that one.  He tells of his racket selling albums on Ebay and how he loved it.  ‘I would work an hour and make as much money as my girlfriend who would work all day.  I sat home, got high and sold records.” He laughs, and tells of how he would go to Jamaica to buy records and sell them online. “Man, reggae is truly world music. Everyone loves reggae, it sells like crazy” he says.  I think to myself there are other reasons why he loved his Jamaican trips too.

“Hey man, I am here all the time.  If you need anything, let me know” he says as we say goodbye.  Needless to say we had plenty to talk over as we walked back home.

Indeed, this place is strange.  Retirees everywhere you look.  The locals tell you that people come here to escape, the big city and also reality.  It doesn’t take long to watch and see some sort of freak who decided this is the place to drop out and reinvent themselves into whatever shape or form they desire.  All the straw hats walking around are not the freaks; they are just the old folks.  You know they are the old folks form Michigan or wherever when you see hat on head, fanny pack and hiking sandals. Those, are the real gringos.  Sit in the main square and watch the flow of the straw hats going back and forth, intersected by costumed mariachis wandering the same plot of land, approaching bench after bench in hopes of getting a nod so they can serenade.  Look below and the little dirty kids are scurrying all around with small boxes of Chiclets. Why do they think every white person wants to buy Chiclets?  

Freaks. Gringos. Grey hair. Corn. Ice Cream. People dressed in Indian costumes, banging drums doing supposed ceremonial dances for all those who happen to come here for sightseeing and to spend the weekend.  The lady walking around the square, yelling at a guy in front of the guy who is selling papers laid out on the walkway.  Everyone diverts their gaze as to not get sucked into the ranting, cussing crazy woman’s world. We’re no different, we get up and decide to go explore a bit.  Twist, turn and take a stroll up this street and see what lies ahead.  Believe me, when we rounded the corner, we had no idea we’d encounter donkeys!

“OH!” Tonya exclaimed and stomped her feet, “I can’t stand it! Do you see them?  They are sooo cute”  Up ahead is a group of three donkeys pulled over out of the street.  One guy goes into a shop to buy something and the other decides its time to take a smoke break.  He lets his guard down when he pulls out his lighter and fires up.  As he inhales and leaves this plain of reality, one of the donkeys sees his chance.  We are walking on the opposite side of the street.  The renegade donkey is looking at us, he has a funny look on his face and his eyes are saying ‘don’t say a word’.  I am amused at the little guy, and he starts taking a few subtle steps away from the corner.  Realizing that his owner is enjoying his cigarette too much to keep him secure, the donkey decides it is time to move on.  He gets away from the others and starts heading down the street.  The smoker realizes his donkey is making a break for it.  He throws the cigarette down and runs after the donkey yelling for him to stop and come back.  He turns back to make sure the two donkeys he left behind don’t get any bright ideas either.  He waves to the cars coming down the street to stop.  I get a good laugh out of the site of this.  The donkey doesn’t get too far before the owner has gotten in front of him, turned him around and slapped him on his…ass.  He motions to the donkey to go back to the others and traffic and pedestrians alike are smiling at the slight inconvenience.  They don’t do that in the Hamptons!