Happy, Merry to you all!

Hope you are all having a wonderful holiday season!

We certainly have been here in Merida. We’ve done (most) everything that we would normally do back in Minnesota around this time of year. (Except for shovel snow, of course.)

We bought a Noble pine and decorated it Mexican style: shiny multi-colored ornaments in hot pinks, aqua blues, red, oranges and greens; lots and lots of glittery branches and pine cones; plus various strings of assorted (non-matching) multi-colored lights. All in all, it was a perfect study in Christmas gaudy-chic.

And of course Caro visited Santa at the Plaza Mayor this year. Sitting on a public park bench accompanied by a guy with a digital camera and a portable HP photo printer, Santa spoke Spanish instead of English and had a darker complexion than we normally see, but he was jolly, gave us a "ho, ho, ho!" and promised Caro her “Princess Dress Up Treasure Chest” if she was good right up till Christmas morning. Right on, Santa!

We even fought the holiday crowds at Costco in Merida. (Interesting note? The racks of lamb are the very same we buy at home, but instead of costing $12/rack they cost $40/rack ... needless to say we don't eat a lot of lamb here.)

And, as tradition holds, we left Santa a midnight snack. Tres Leches Cake and tequila, of course!

Hope you all have a very Happy New Year!

Exercise in trust

Last year, upon leaving, we donated all the toys we bought for Carolina here in Merida to local kids. Our donation ended up being a bit like the Island of Misfit toys: English and Spanish books; crayons, colored pencils and hardly used coloring books; a grocery cart filled with plastic food; and a horse-on-a-stick that “neighed” when you squeezed its nose.

The one thing Carolina was hesitant to give up was her horsey (Like most little girls, Carolina loves horses. We haven't been asked for the real thing yet, but we know its imminent.)

Since leaving her horse here last year, she has regularly inquired about its whereabouts. Especially since our return to Merida. Because they sell for 120-150 pesos (about $10-12), we decided to buy her another one as part of her Christmas loot. (And I do not use the word "loot" lightly ... she has a LOT of gifts under our tree!)

So we went looking for a new horse at the same place that we bought ours last year: at a stoplight. Stoplight shopping in Mexico truly brings the idea of "convenience shopping" to the next level—way beyond mail-order catalogs, QVC, or even the internet. And, in fact, many items are sold at stoplights in Merida, including phone cards (all cell phones are pre-paid here in Merida), juices, bouquets of flowers, peeled or cut fruit, pork rinds, nuts, and all kinds of toys ... especially around this time of year. We've seen it all: puppets, work bench/tool sets, kids' clothes hampers, and dolls, but we also randomly managed to track down a horse-on-a-stick. (And luckily, when CeCe wasn't in the car!)

Our problem? We only had 100 pesos, and the horse cost 150 pesos. (Which we surely could have gotten down to 120, if we only had the extra 20 pesos!) We did not, though, and 100 wasn't going to cut it. But our wandering salesman wasn't going to take "no" for an answer. He told us to take the horse for 100 pesos, and we could give him the additional 50 pesos the next time we saw him. (We were so impressed in his level of trust in us that we didn't even try to negotiate further...)

That was a week ago yesterday, and so far we haven't seen him. But we have a feeling he isn't worried. We told him we'd be here till May, and we must have honest faces, because he really didn't seem worried about getting paid. Plus, our car is pretty easy to spot on the streets -- it's the one with the Minnesota plates.

2009's Return to Merida

Returning to Merida is a little like reconnecting with an old friend. A friend who you hope hasn't changed too much while you were gone.

For the past two years we've been lucky enough to come back to a couple constants.

First and foremost, the Gonzalez family. Mama Gonzalez, Margarita, is Carolina's nanny. She took care of Carolina for the first 6 weeks we spent here, when Carolina was only 14 months old, and again last year—five days a week—for 5 months, when Carolina was 2 1/2 years old.

She is with us again, through the month of December, so we have daycare while we look for a preschool for Carolina here. Margarita is definitely Carolina's Mexican grandmother, and she is also our Mexican mother. She takes care of all of us, but keeps a special eye out for Carolina.

Last year, when the three of us were suffering terribly from a horrible (possibly Swine) flu, we told Margarita to please stay home, as we didn't want her to catch what we had, then infect the rest of her family. She pretty much laughed that idea off immediately, and was there the next morning, bright and early, taking care of Carolina when John and I could hardly pull ourselves up from bed. She's the first person we ask when something goes wrong: if Carolina doesn't feel well, the water goes out at the house, or the internet isn’t working. She always keeps her eye out for us, and helps us whenever she can, however she can.

And make no mistake, as incredibly nice as Margarita is (and she is one of the sweetest people we have ever met) she also can get Carolina to nap when we cannot, and who can get her to eat her lunch when we cannot. You see, Margarita has raised three children of her own; we are lucky enough to know all of them, as well, but have a special relationship with her eldest and youngest. Cristina, her eldest, is a real estate agent here in Merida. We actually met Cristina first three years ago when we were looking for a place to rent, and she hooked us up with her mom. She often comes with her mom to babysit Carolina when we go out at night, and sometimes during the day, too. Cristina is Carolina's best friend here in Merida.

Peter, Margarita's youngest, takes care of Fidel for us when we go out of town. Fidel loves Peter, who gives him not two—but three walks a day. Incidentally, Carolina also has a bit of a crush on Peter.

We are very grateful to know the Gonzalez family. They are like our family away from home.

Another important constant are the friends that we've met over the three years we've been here. Some are Mexicans, some Americans, some Canadians, and some Europeans. Some are older and retired. Some are older and working. Some are younger and retired. Some are younger and working. Some have kids. Some do not. What amazes us constantly is not our differences but our similarities, not the least of which is what brought us to Merida—and why we enjoy it.

One thing we all agree upon is that life's pace is a bit different than what we are accustomed to back home; sometimes that's good, sometimes it's frustrating, but the pros always outweigh the cons. People walk slower. (They stroll; they never rush.) Lines are longer. (People have patience in truckloads here.) Businesses close for siestas. (Nearly everyone, including school children, go home to eat a late lunch with their family.) Almost everyone you pass on the street has a smile and greeting for you.

And work still gets done. (Arguably at a faster rate than back home, or at least for us, where we rush through life and multitask three, four things at a time.)

Another nice constant that we have once again returned to are the people who assist us in our lives here. Grisela, our cleaning lady, comes once a week. We met her three years ago and she is always right on time, very hardworking and mysteriously able to wrangle (almost!) all of Fidel's hair out of our house once a week.

Our handy man and friend, Eduardo, is a godsend whether he is dealing with CableMas (our Cable company), the water, the electricity, the plumber ... you name it, he does it. Sometimes he even brings a little something extra for Carolina. Last time it was a little pillow that now she sleeps with every night.

And lastly, our laundry lady, who truly embodies the people of Merida and why we love this place so much. Last year, upon leaving in May, we forgot to pick up a bag of our clothing: a couple pairs of NIcolle's favorite pajamas, among other well worn favorites. When we arrived this year, six months later, she took one look at us, smiled, and brought our laundered, folded and ironed clothes back out to us.

She knew we'd come back. She, and our laundry, were waiting for us.

Everybody loves Mango!

It's getting to be that time in Merida.

The heat of the pre-rainy season months of June and July is building; the sun shines brightly every day; and mangoes ripen and fall from trees all over Merida.

Merida hosts multitudes of two-to-three-story mango trees ... all of them literally dripping with ripe fruit these days. In some cases a tree is confined to a colonial courtyard or yard, which affords the owners hundreds of tree-ripened mangoes every year, some large, some small, but all perfectly ripe by the time they fall and hit the ground with a heavy, juicy thud.

One of our neighbors has a tree that shades her driveway. She lines up the ripe mangoes that fall on her retaining wall adjacent to her driveway, so she doesn't run them over with her car. She has 30 ripe mangoes on her wall at any given time, flaunting her mango fortune to the rest of us, just out of reach behind an iron gate.

We've dubbed Calle 57, which we often take on our walks to the main Plaza,"mango alley," as it is home to two huge mango trees that overhang the sidewalk and street. We are always on the lookout for freshly dropped mangoes ... you can claim them as your own if if you are lucky enough to get to them first. But competition is stiff.

The streets below the mango trees are lined with half eaten mangoes, mango pits, and mangoes that have been squashed by traffic: tropical road kill.

The street dogs love finding a fresh mango -- they'll rip right into them and are surprisingly able to strip them pretty clean. (Which sometimes I have a hard time doing with a sharp kitchen knife and two thumbs!) Also, people -- it seems nobody can resist a fresh mango. Just the other day, about a half a block away, we saw the perfect mango that had dropped from its tree. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a little old Mayan woman in traditional dress darted around the corner and scooped it up before we got to it. She examined it for about a second, and then took a large satisfying (and quite juicy!) bite from it, skin and everything.

There is nothing better than a completely tree ripened mango. They are delicious!

"It's a dog eat dog world, and I'm wearing Milkbone underwear" -- Norm Peterson, Cheers

Hello everybody: today we have a guest blogger.  It took some doing to actually get John to write this entry, ergo last week's missed deadline. (Like every good editor I hounded him till he cried... but I think you'll enjoy hearing about his daily adventures with Fidel.)

Walking Fidel in the States is a solitary experience.

Walking Fidel in Merida, on the other hand, is an exercise in PDA – Public Display of Attention.

First, let me explain the general dog situation in Merida.

The majority of Mexicans don’t own dogs. Those who do, however, tend to have small, “yippie” dogs who rarely leave the house and spend all their time barking at every person, animal, bicycle, motorcycle, car or bus that passes their perch, which is typically at the front screened door.

The majority of dogs in Mexico are stray street dogs who fend for themselves. They are almost all scrawny, unkempt, flee-infested, mangey, pathetic, timid and jumpy. Many also have a limp, punctuating their plight. They roam the streets, solo or in small groups, eeking out a subsistence lifestyle: ducking cars, sleeping in the borrowed shade of a doorway, and scrounging for food. They mostly eat scraps found on the street or dug out of the garbage, and, in a rare case of charity, someone might throw them a bone. (Literally.) It is a rough life for Mexican street dogs, and because their lives are so difficult, their bark is much worse than their bite.  (Typically they just scamper nervously away from anybody and anything.)

But all the barking in Mexico (and there is LOTS of barking here) has brought out the Alpha-Male in our Fidelito.

In the United States, Fidel has always been a big lug of a pushover. Though he looks intimidating, he has a temperament like Santa Claus, except Fidel doesn’t even care if you’ve been naughty or nice. He is much the same way with other dogs. Big or small, old or young, mean, sweet, slobbery or hyper -- Fidel loves them all. And will play second fiddle to any of them -- even a 10-lb Yorkie.

The second we entered Mexico, however, that beta-may-care attitude that Fidel had acquired in the States went, well, to the dogs. Fidel is now is a bona fide bad ass Alpha Male. The kind of dog that you see at the dog park and think, “Who are those crazy people with that aggressive dog?” At the very sight of another dog here he starts growling, very low and very loud. If that doesn’t scare the dog away -- it does about 7 times out of 10 -- he’ll actually snarl at them. And if that doesn’t work and the dog actually approaches? Well, just watch out. Fidel has snapped at a couple dogs here, and it is very ferocious. Needless to say, he has never had any takers, fight-wise. As soon as he unleashes his fury, they quickly turn tail and run, and Fidel continues along his merry way. Dum dee dum dum. Pant pant. Sniff sniff.

But our walks, at least two times a day, every day, are interesting. The sight of a blue-eyed, blonde-haired gringo walking a pure-bred, all black, 100+ pound Labrador Retriever frequently stops locals in their tracks. Their varied reactions makes each of our walks little interactive adventures.

Here are some of my favorite moments:

AWE AND ADORATION
Upon seeing Fidel approaching, the majority of Meridians stop and stare at Fidel. Like stop in their tracks and stare at him coming and going. They also utter compliments to/at/about him, which I can easily translate now.

These compliments, mostly said in breathless, unbelieving voices all punctuated with either an exclamation point or ellipse, include: enormous, gigantic, incredible, regal, beautiful, amazing, noble, huge, pretty, gorgeous, lovely, and “the best looking dog I’ve seen in years!” It’s all pretty over the top, but Fidel, or his breed, is absolutely, unequivocally revered in Mexico. Perhaps it is simply because he has an actual breed, where as most dogs here are mutts.

(So far Fidel hasn’t let all of the random compliments go to his big block head; we try to keep him grounded at home, often mentioning how much he sheds and how we wish he would stop his incessant panting.)

SHOCK AND AWE
When approached by Fidel, some people here get extremely distressed, cowering in doorways (not their own), quickly crossing the street, turning around abruptly -- one guy even literally ran from us. Some people do whatever they can to avoid crossing his path, which is pretty funny if you know how vicious Fidel is. (He is still loves all humans.)

Just today, when walking Fidel to the grocery store, we passed a construction worker taking a mid-morning siesta. Unfortunately, he happened to wake up just as Fidel and I were passing, about three feet away. I think he might’ve soiled himself as he jumped to his feet, exclaiming, “Muerde?” (“Does he bite?”) I think we shaved a year off his life in those two minutes flat, but it kind of serves him right. Everyone knows siesta doesn’t start until after lunch.

By the way, “Does he bite?” is a pretty common question -- we get it at least four times weekly.

AGILITY COURSE MANEUVERS
When heading out the door each day, we face a variety of obstacles. On one corner, we have the four “Junk Yard Dogs,” who guard a repair shop. They are quick to snarl and bark and approach Fidel, but even four of them are are no match for Alpha-Fidel.

Another corner hosts a dog-hating, man-hating Mexican lesbian (not that there is anything wrong with that) who constantly berates Fidel about peeing anywhere within her line of sight. She’s even had the gall to tell me that nobody else’s dog pees in the streets of Merida. Needless to say, I silenced her with my question about where the hundreds of street dogs pee. (Note: arguing on a street corner is not an ideal venue for practicing one’s Spanish but it is very effective for learning curse words, compliments of our neighborhood Mexican lesbian.)

Another corner has a house with a dozen dogs in the gated garage that ERUPT every time Fidel comes within 100 yards. We try not to pass by this house on our occasional late-night walks as the barking would wake the neighborhood.

Then there are the countless buses and cars that Fidel seemingly throws himself in front of while lunging in the street for a rotting mango or empty plastic bottle. Our walks are anything but boring!

IT’S NOT YOU, IT’S ME
Perhaps one of the most peculiar aspects of having the added element of Fidel in Merida isn’t how others react to him, but how they react to me. It seems most people here just can’t fathom picking up your dog’s ‘business’ with a tiny plastic bag. And I have to admit they are right: picking up poop in a baggie is a little strange, and a lot disgusting, when you really think about it.

Pib-tastic!

Our good friends Sherry and Jay Rosenberg came to Merida for a short visit last week ... one of the reasons last week’s blog update didn’t happen. (That’s right, I'll even throw two of our closest friends under the bus to eradicate my blog guilt!)

They were here Wednesday through Sunday – walking the sidewalks of Merida, hanging out with John, Ce and I, checking out local handicrafts, and generally getting to know the city a bit. Plus, as Jay is obsessed with beer, we managed to try most every brand Mexico has to offer. My favorite is still the light-bodied Sol.  John's is Superior.  Jay's is Bohemia.  Sherry's typically is Negra Modelo, though she also enjoyed Sol for Merida's warm evenings.

One of the trip highlights for all of us was a cooking school we attended on Thursday, their first full day here. It was a day-long affair, starting at 9 am, lasting till 4. (Our nanny gladly agreed to stay longer so we could experience Yucatecan cuisine; she loves it when we learn about the culture here and she is very proud of her Mayan heritage.)  We actually learned quite a bit about Yucatecan food, and Yucatecan history as well. It was a truly delicious day, both food and experience-wise.

Here are a couple of the more interesting things we gleaned from our day in David's beautiful talavera-covered kitchen.

Don't Call it "Mexican Food!"
First off, our chef/instructor/tour-guide, a charming and knowledgeable ex-pat named David Sterling, was very adamant about the difference between Mexican food and Yucatecan food. For starters, they are NOT the same thing. In fact, Yucatecans go out for Mexican food much like we do in the States ... just once every so often, and it certainly isn’t what they eat on a daily basis. They eat strictly “Yucatecan” here, a cuisine which is very regional to the peninsula and often difficult, if not impossible, to find in other Mexican cities. Yucatecan food has a history and flavor to it that is irresistibly delicious, and in fact, is now my very favorite food from Mexico. (But whatever you do, do NOT call it Mexican food!)

Pib-Cooking
Yucatecan food is very traditional and has been cooked the same way for centuries. Pork, turkey and chicken are very popular meats here -- and a lot of the actual cooking is done, still today, in “pibs” (pronounced "peebs"). Pibs are large pits dug in the ground containing hot coals and even hotter rocks, which are covered up after the meat is lowered in. The meat, typically wrapped in banana leaves, ends up simultaneously steamed and smoked; the juices that leak from the banana leaves hit the hot rocks to create the steam, and the smoldering mesquite embers create the smoke. The smoky, flavorful, and tender meats that results from this process are absolutely to-die-for, and go very well nestled inside corn tortillas, or soaking in a soft baguette.

Hot, Hotter, Hottest
Habaneros (the hottest pepper in the world) are the Yucatecan version of salt and pepper.  The Yucatan is also the largest producer and exporter of habaneros in the world. On every table in every restaurant in the Yucatan there exists some form of habanero salsa. Sometimes, the habaneros are blended into a fiery paste. Other times, habaneros are simply sliced sliver thin and put in lime juice. But they are always at the table, and they are always used liberally. Jay was a huge fan of the habanero salsas and added a healthy dollop to every bite of food he put in his mouth, causing him to sweat substantially during every meal. (At one point in our cooking class, one of our fellow students looked at him very concerned and said, “Are you OK?! Are you sure you are OK?!”)

On the tip of your fingers
Handmade tortillas taste completely different from machine-made tortillas, even if the exact same “masa” (tortilla dough) is used. We went to the market in Merida, and bought a kilo of tortillas, hot off the tortilla press machine, for a buck. We also bought a big chunk of masa from the same booth, the very same dough that was used to make the tortillas. We took the glob of masa back to David’s kitchen, and formed our own tortillas by hand, then grilled them on a hot cast iron skillet. Of course, the handmade tortillas were thicker than their machine-made counterparts, but they also tasted completely different. The reason? The slight imprints from our fingers on the handmade tortillas created ridges and lower spots in the tortilla, causing it to cook unevenly, charring and caramelizing in some places. The machine-pressed tortillas all cook completely, utterly and boringly uniformly. No more store bought tortillas for this family, by the way. After you've tasted handmade tortillas, going to the refrigerated section to pick up tortillas seems criminal!

The cooking class was truly a great way to spend the day, and a perfect way for Sherry and Jay to start their Merida adventure, as David imparted vast amounts of knowledge about the Yucatan and its people, the proud Mayans, to us all. Often times, a culture's food can give you a lot of insight into the people who comprise it, and this was certainly the case for us. Yucatecan food is very distinctive, unique and proud -- and the many different flavors are bold, never apologetic. But it is also good natured and traditional. Just like the Yucatecans themselves. If you visit Merida and enjoy cooking, the Los-Dos Cooking School is a must.

My goal is delve a bit deeper into Yucatecan food and learn more about the cuisine and the culture and history that created it.

John's goal?  Since learning about "pib-cooking," John is trying to talk Sherry and Jay into digging a “pib” at their house in Golden Valley. (They have a very large yard, you see, and they both really liked the smoky, tender meat we cooked that day.) So, if you happen to live in Golden Valley and just can’t put your finger on that utterly delicious smoky smell permeating the air? Try swinging by the Rosenberg house. It could very well be John and Jay, cooking meat in their Golden Valley “pib.” And if you bring them a couple Mexican beers, I’m sure they'll share a taco or two with you ... especially if the beer happens to be a Bohemia or Superior.

www.los-dos.com

Question answered!

OK, everybody, this will be a very short (and belated!) blog post.  Here’s why:

When we mention our circumstances to many people, that we are living and working in Mexico for 4 months, a common question is, “So, have you gotten sick yet?”

The answer is, as of this past week, a very definitive yes. But only after a long weekend in Arizona, where CeCe (then subsequently John and I) caught a flu bug from my grandma. (We were in Arizona, a little less than 20 miles from the Mexican border, actually, celebrating her 90th birthday last weekend.)

The three of us got hit badly, and have spent the better part of the week trying to recuperate. (Even Fidel threw up in the midst of it, but we think he was just trying to get some much needed attention.)  As of today, Friday the 13th, John and Nicolle are definitely on the mend; CeCe, though in great spirits, has had lingering effects. (Think dirty diapers.  And dirty sheets. And dirty blankets.  Did I mention dirty diapers?)

We are hoping that in the next couple of days, things will take a marked turn for the better, and we are all eating tacos once again. 

Good ol’ Merida tacos ... they don’t make you sick.  But we would advise against the water in Tucson!

A Day in the Lives ...

We’ve been in Merida for a little more than a month, and so far, we really have been enjoying our time here. One of the questions we get a lot is “what exactly do you do in Merida?” So while some days are more mundane than other, we’ve decide to clue you in on what the four of us (John, Nicolle, CeCe and Fidel) do, on an hourly basis in a typical day.

6 AM: The birds in the courtyard start chirping; the air is warm as the sun comes up. John’s alarm goes off and he is up making coffee: whole bean Mexican Organic, purchased at Costco in Merida. From there he migrates to the tiny office John and Nicolle share, powers up his computer, and starts his day.

8 AM: More birds are singing and CeCe stirs; John gets her up and they both make the barefoot trek across the courtyard to wake Mommy. (You all know by now that Mommy likes her sleep ...)

8:30 AM: CeCe’s breakfast is prepared and our wonderful nanny Margarita arrives. Margarita and CeCe eat a scrumptious breakfast while John continues, and Nicolle starts, the work day.

9 AM: John takes Fidel on his morning walk. Curiously, Fidel has morphed from overwhelmingly Beta dog in the United States (very passive) to complete Alpha dog (growly and kind of aggressive) since arriving in Mexico. When he's not chasing a street dog away, or peeing on someone's front door, he'll latch on to an appetizing scent which leads to a chicken bone or bit of edible garbage on the street. He's thrilled.

During Fidel’s morning walk, Nicolle tries to do her morning calls to family/friends. (In a shared office of about 100 square feet, its important to be as polite as possible.)

9:45 AM: Someone on a bicycle, scooter, or horse carriage comes past our house selling something: “carbon!” means charcoal, a ringing bell means bread, a long whistle means eggs, then there are also sounds for brooms, topsoil, tamales -- countless items, really. We always check to see what is passing by because you never know what it could be, and, you actually might need it!

By this time, Fidel has drank an entire bowl of water and has just stopped panting from his walk. He's thinking about settling into a prolonged nap on the cool tile floors.

10 AM: CeCe is dressed and sun screened and off to either Parque Centenario or the adjacent Merida Zoo with Margarita. Parque Centenario is a big wooded park with lots of fun playground equipment that you just don’t see in the parks in the US anymore. Metal seesaws, anyone? The park also has a train that you can ride for 1 peso. (A little less than a nickel.) And the Merida zoo has monkeys, giraffes, hippopotamuses and ducks ... pretty much everything. Do you know how to say hippopotamus in Spanish? CeCe does!

Noon: Nicolle and John break for lunch, right as CeCe and Margarita are returning home. We have very few barriers to getting our work done here as compared to home, simply because it is a much simpler life -- no commute, no meetings, very few weekly errands, no laundry or cleaning. So we indulge ourselves with a 90-minutes of walking and lunching, exploring the city and eating together every day. This is also a good opportunity to check out all the various houses for sale and run any errands.

Fidel? By noon he’s sound asleep on the cool tile floors, typically right in the stream of the cold air from one of the air conditioners.

12:30 PM: John and Nicolle are pounding the hot pavement of Merida, seeing what they can see, or doing an errand on the way to lunch. To give you some examples of what we do during lunch, one day we had to find a notary service. Another day, we went to look at a house that was on the market (always fun to peek behind the grand, austere exteriors of Merida’s colonial houses to see what style and/or whimsy lies within). Yet another day, we went to the market to pick up some fresh vegetables for the week. Lunchtime is always our favorite time of the day, and not just because of the delicious Mexican or Yucatecan food we enjoy ... no matter how mundane our lunchtime errand is, it’s always an adventure!

At home, Ce and Margarita have just finished a cooling bath, and are sitting down to eat something for lunch. Most of the time, it’s leftovers from the night before.

1:30: John and Nicolle run back to the office (we are always in a hurry as things seem to take a bit longer here than they would in the States) and Margarita leaves. CeCe is typically just down for her nap.

Fidel? Still sleeping, dreaming of his evening walk and the chance that he will find more chicken bones on the street ... or perhaps even a half-eaten tamale.

1:30 to 4 PM: More work for John and Nicolle. More vendors pass by our windows, which are always open. Sometimes if we are on business calls we have to explain the loud bicycle horn, the odd honking noise, or the annoying whistle as it passes by our house.

4 PM: CeCe awakes from her nap, ready to do some swimming. John is typically her swimming buddy. By now, it is at least 90 degrees outside and John is ready for a dip. And like most kids, CeCe is always ready for a dip! After about 15 minutes in the pool, John is back at his desk and CeCe is dry, eating an afternoon snack and playing with Mommy. Nicolle’s work day is finished when Ce wakes up from her nap.

5:30 PM: The family sets out for a walk in Merida, Ce in the stroller. Sometimes we go to the Main Plaza, where young couples walk, hands entwined, pigeons stroll in flocks waiting for handouts, and multitudes of hammock vendors try to sell their wares. Sometimes we go to our local park, Santiago, to see friends with a toddler who also live in the neighborhood. And sometimes we just walk.

6:45: We return home. Fidel leaves for his second long walk of the day. Typically it is on this walk that he almost gets run over by a local bus -- even with his leash on. (Fidel wouldn’t last more than five minutes in this city without a leash!)

7 PM: We eat dinner as a family. We’ve found that recently, if we go out to dinner, CeCe finds herself much too immersed in the goings-ons of other tables to concentrate on eating her own food.

8 PM: Bedtime for CeCe, and either blog time, more work, reading books, or chilling in the courtyard with a couple of cervezas for John and Nicolle.

11 PM: Bedtime for Nic+John.

Our day-to-day life here in Merida is nothing spectacular. In fact, Monday through Friday it is downright routine. However, even our routine days brings sights, sounds (and yes, smells) that we’ve never experienced before in our lives. It can be as unbelievable as a man riding down the road on a motorcycle with a 3-foot-by-4-foot piece of plywood balancing on his head holding up a pyramid of bread. Or it can be as dangerous as a man on a motorbike riding with his toddler in front of him and wife in back of him, all three sans helmets. Or as silly as the scooter selling cold milk that “moos” when the horn is activated. Or as annoying as the multitudes of dogs on roofs that look down at you and bark like mad as you pass. Or as resounding as the chirping of thousands of ka’u birds in the trees in the Plaza Mayor at dusk.

The truth of the matter is that regardless of how routine our day-to-day life actually is here, just by being here it is anything but. And we love that.

I Love It When a Plan Comes Together

John’s sister Robin and brother-in-law Curt came to Merida this week for a visit, and we hit the road running on Saturday morning. Being from Minnesota, we figured they might want a little beach action on the mostly deserted stretch of the beach around the Progreso-Chelem area, about a 30 minute drive from Merida. We were right. It was a lovely day, which included chips, fresh salsa and guacamole on the beach, as well as a deliciously light meal of shrimp and lobster carpaccio, lobster ravioli and seafood linguine at a quaint beachside Italian restaurant. It was a relaxing afternoon, cut a bit short due to the fact that we wanted to get back to Merida to take advantage of Carnaval.

Carnaval is a huge weeklong celebration in myriad cities throughout Latin America. Most people probably think of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, when the word “carnaval” is mentioned, but it is celebrated to a lesser degree all throughout Latin America. What you probably didn’t know is that Merida’s Carnaval celebration is the 12th largest in all the Americas. We went to an afternoon parade last year with CeCe and had a blast, so of course wanted to go to the nighttime version with Robin and Curt.

Our babysitter arrived at 7:15 p.m., and we met Robin and Curt at their place by 7:30. As the parade is so large and snakes around such a huge part of the historic center of the city, driving (and parking) weren’t really options so we decided to walk to the restaurant I wanted to try. The only problem? The restaurant happened to be located on the other side of the parade barricades from where we were.

We started walking, and soon were turned back by policia and parade route barricades. So we walked in the opposite direction. And again we were turned back. We shuttled back and forth down side streets in flip flops, only to be turned back time and time again. We discussed the street-crossing issue with the police manning every barricade, and they all came up with the same problem-solving measure: why not just find a restaurant on this side of the barrier?

Oh no, that would have been too easy. Plus, we (I) really wanted to try this restaurant, which had come highly recommended by friends.

So on we walked until one of the side streets streets finally had a thoroughfare, available for crossing up until the floats came into view. In all fairness, we only walked about 40 minutes total. But in flips flops it felt like an eternity.

On the parade route, masses were crowding up against the barricades on the street, the crowd was growing and momentum gaining. Glitter rained down from second story colonial balconies. Thousands of people, men, women, teenagers, toddlers and babies waited. The air was electric and the mood happy. We pushed ourselves through the open gate with streams of others, crossed the street, and made it to the correct side. The restaurant was literally within eyesight ... about 25 yards away. We dejectedly realized, though, that we couldn’t walk down the road, nor could we get into the restaurant from the street. The streets were ALL barricaded by temporary fences, so people didn’t spill into the route of the parade from the sidewalks. The sidewalks themselves were stacked with chairs, table and bleachers as well. Short of a miracle, there was no way we were getting to the restaurant.

As we were about to settle on option number two, we were approached (in a crowd of thousands) by a European man who tapped me on the shoulder and said, “ I am the owner of Piedras de Agua and have one table for four left on the parade route. Do you want it?”

I was flabbergasted. It was the very same restaurant we had been trying to reach for the past hour. I quickly said yes and he simply unlocked the barricade, walked us down the 25 yards, unlocked the barricade in front of his restaurant, and promptly sat us in one of the best tables in the house -- literally inches away form the parade floats, dancers and general mayhem.

We watched from our ringside table as 90-plus minutes of cray-papered, bedazzled floats wheeled past, music thumped from speakers and Corona girls (and boys!) shook their money makers. There was a Star Wars float, a parade of Elvis’s in big lapeled leisure suits, bell bottoms, sequins and sideburns, and a dance line of older ladies (in their 70s and 80s) in bikinis tops and hot pants. Plus so much more. It was one of the finest parades I’ve ever witnessed, and one of the best spent 90 minutes of my lifetime.

Afterwards, we were whisked into a quiet courtyard to enjoy a late, delicious (and very inexpensive) dinner, complete with stars in the sky above us, Merida’s beautifully lit cathedral peeking over the manicured shrubbery, and glitter from the parade still in our hair and on our shoulders.

One of the best things about Mexico is just how some things work out, completely unplanned, perfectly. As some newly acquainted friends of ours here say, “there is magic here, you just have to let it happen.”

Winna Winna Chicken Dinna

During our numerous trips to Mexico, John and I have always been able to find a bit of delicious solace in something quite simple: grilled chicken.

We discovered its delicacy 13 or so years ago, when we were coming up through Mexico after a year on the road in Latin America. There’d always be a simple grill set up by the bus stations, selling grilled chicken, cut up, in bags with tortillas, hot sauce and limes -- a very cheap and deliciously satisfying meal. Since we’ve been living here in Merida, we’ve found the exact same chicken meals throughout the city as well. Always cheap. Always delicious.

Let me further explain “delicious.” The chicken meat is tender, smoky, and moist, and the skin has just the perfect amount of char. The flavor permeates every bit of the meat, seeping from the surface all the way down to the bone. And the flavor itself is something we’ve always pondered, as it is unique to the country of Mexico and to every grilled chicken we’ve ever had here. We’ve wondered for years where the mild yet defining flavor comes from: “Is it a marinade? A rub? A blend of spices thrown on after grilling? What is the secret recipe and how can we replicate it at home? Maybe it has something to do with how chickens are raised here. Or maybe the spices used are only available in Mexico?”

Seriously, people, the flavor is THAT complex.

But I’m very happy to report that since arriving in Merida, we’ve finally cracked our 13-year question. Here was our process. First, we bought a barbecue grill and bag of charcoal -- or “carbon” as it is known here. (The grill cost $7 at the market, and is made from half of a small metal barrel and welded simply and somewhat unevenly to four crude metal legs made of re-bar).

Then, we readied our grill. John piled a bunch of carbon in the grill basin and, after copious amounts of matches and fanning (carbon is more difficult to start than our charcoal), eventually he was rewarded with a smoldering pile of coals.

Then we simply salted, peppered and lime spritzed our bone-in chicken breasts (that we got at Costco, a slice of heaven right here in Merida, by the way) and in about 25 minutes, we had our own version of the ever-delicious grilled Mexican chicken. We created the very same delicious flavor that we’ve always wondered about.

The answer, like the grilled chicken itself, is alarmingly simple: It’s the charcoal!

So the BIG question is: what is the difference between carbon (in Mexico) and the charcoal briquettes we use? Here’s what we found online, which is kind of interesting.

The mesquite tree is harvested for carbon (charcoal) in Mexico. Mexican carbon is made by putting mesquite into a pit, lighting it on fire, and then covering it in soil or earth. The wood continues to burn and turns into carbon -- literally, lumps of burned wood.

American charcoal briquettes are made by compressing sawdust and other wood by-products, with a binder, usually starch, as well as other additives. Briquettes may also include brown coal (a heat source), mineral carbon (a heat source), borax, sodium nitrate (an ignition aid), limestone (an ash-whitening agent), raw sawdust (an ignition aid), and other additives like paraffin and petroleum solvents to aid in ignition as well.

The lo-o-o-ng drive down

Hola everyone. We have now just gotten settled here in Merida, after a (very) long road trip down. We figured that we went nearly 2,000 miles in Mexico, down through Texas, to Monterrey, then on to San Luis Potosi, to San Miguel de Allende, to Puebla, to Campeche, and finally to Merida. As many of you know, we drove down with our Black Labrador Fidel and two-year-old daughter Carolina. Before setting out, we had been pretty excited at the thought of a prolonged road trip through Mexico, but by the time we got to Merida, we were really happy to be out of the car. We've come up with a few highlights, low lights, and general observations about a road trip in Mexico, in case any of you ever find yourself behind the wheel of a car for an extended driving trip south of the border.

Cops in Mexico

They are not all as crooked as you might think. But they certainly are not all boy scouts, either. Our batting average was even Steven: 50-50. We were pulled over twice during our road trip -- both within the first 24 hours on the road, right before we got to Monterrey, and as we were trying to leave Monterrey about 17 hours later. (It was a difficult first day, to say the least.)

The first officer said we were speeding; technically, he was right. (We were speeding, but we weren't going as fast as the other cars on the road.) The difference was that our car had a bike and a Yakima box on top, and MN plates. He knew we were easy money. He went through all the motions ... checked the passports, checked our driver's permit, made some small talk about the drive ... and then hit us with the speeding charge. We told him "we'd be happy to pay our fine now rather than wait for a court date," which is the acceptable way of initiating a bribe. He started the bidding at 1,200 pesos -- about $85. We countered at 200 pesos -- about $13. He looked at his partner, they nodded, grabbed our 200-peso note, ran off to the squad car and peeled out.

The next day in Monterrey, we had a bear of a time getting out of the city. Our hotel was in the middle of the city, and at nearly 4 million people, the city is very difficult to navigate. Of course we got lost following the signs out of the city (I think we followed them too literally ... more on that later), and took an (illegal) left turn to try and get turned in the right direction. The next thing we knew, there were sirens sounding and light flashing behind us. We couldn't believe it.

Officer #2 came up to our window and asked for all the same info: passports, driver permit info, but skipped the small talk. All he wanted to discuss was our illegal left turn, and seemed genuinely concerned for our safety, explaining that there are so many accidents in Monterrey, most of them caused by people from other cities (or countries). He then explained to us exactly what we had done wrong, even using a paper and pencil to diagram the nuances of Mexican stoplights. He then suggested we be very careful, as the majority of Mexican policemen are crooked and will, at best, ask for a bribe and, at worst, haul you in. He then asked if we wanted to return to the scene of the crime and watch a few rounds of the stoplight, just to make sure we understood traffic lights. We nodded and agreed up till his final request ... we just couldn’t go back to the scene of our crime if we wanted to make it to our destination, San Luis Potosi, before dark. We pointed to CeCe in her car seat and explained our circumstances.  It was, after all, nap time for CeCe, and we had miles to get under our belts.

He agreed; he hadn’t realized we were traveling with an infant. He then did the unfathomable: he offered us a police escort out of town. He told us to follow his flashing lights; he'd bring us to the freeway entrance. We were psyched. A police escort. We’d FOR SURE get to the correct highway.  And we did, quickly and without incident. Before we got on the highway, we pulled over and he came up to our car to wish us the best, and to warn us to be careful on the roads. He shook both of our hands, we thanked him profusely, and we were off. No bribe, not even a payment for our police escort out of town ... just one of the best guys in uniform we'd ever met.

Traffic and Roads

When driving in Mexico, you typically have a few options as far as roads are concerned. First, there are the local roads that go town to town, connecting all of the tiny dots of Mexican towns to one another. Mostly these roads are paved and in “fine” condition, but they comprise an insane amount of speed bumps. We quickly learned that speed bumps are the ONLY way to get Mexican drivers to slow down -- otherwise they go as fast as they possibly can. (In the case of a 1960 VW Beetle, that's 50 mph. In the case of a 2009 Porsche, that's 150 mph.) So, if you don't want to stop on average once every 200 meters, you have to pay to drive the swanky toll roads that link all of Mexico's larger cities.

On our trip, we did the majority of our driving on toll roads. They are great quality roads, and most of them are divided highways. What we didn't realize is how much we would spend on them. For example, the toll road to Cancun from Merida costs $320 pesos, or about $23 for a 200-mile road. Another toll road outside of Ciudad de Carmen on the coast costs about $15 for about 30 miles, but it allowed passage over two enormously long bridges over an ocean inlet -- one was five kilometers long, the other was four. The only nice thing about the steep price is that it keeps the majority of local, slow-moving traffic (say, a horse-drawn carriage or a 1940s beater whose top speed is 35 mph) off the road.

The majority of people who take the toll roads are cross-country truckers and Mexicans with money. Both of these groups of people, we realized quickly, like to drive fast. Really fast. And pass on blind, uphill curves. And ride your bumper within inches, literally inches. But the scariest thing for us were the semi trucks. You see, the majority of trucks in Mexico are double and triple semis. You always end up getting stuck behind them as they can't go very fast up the mountainous roads. But it’s when they get up to normal highway speeds that they are the most dangerous.  At any speed over 45 mph, their multiple trailers sway back and forth in opposite directions -- taking up almost both lanes of the two-lane divided highways. Having to drive behind them for any amount of time makes you get religion quick. I probably wondered a thousand times during our road trip what would happen if one of the trailers were to break free and come careening towards us. It's pretty obvious what would've happened; I just kept hoping that John would be able to miss it, somehow.

Traveling with a toddler

A couple of insights here when you go on a really long trip:

1. Get the built-in DVD player. As maddening as listening to Dora songs are, your alternative is a screaming baby for hours. All of a sudden, "Turn the Wheel, Isa" isn't such an annoying song.

2. Junk food, especially when eaten instead of lunch, can actually appease a toddler.

3. Drive over nap times. Like, duh.

4. Threats work, and they don't even have to be legit.  For instance, you can say "If you don't stop crying, you will not be able to go swimming when we get to the hotel" even if a) you don't know where you will be staying, and b) if that nameless, faceless hotel even HAS a pool.

5. Don’t underestimate the power of “yes.” As in “yes” you can have that cookie; “yes” you can listen to your CD; “yes” I’ll read you a book; and “yes” I’ll do just about anything to avoid a screaming baby.

Signage in Mexico

1. The signage in Mexico is fairly nonexistent. Especially, say, if you are in the middle of a city of four million, with hundreds of cars honking and roaring past you, and the street you are on suddenly breaks into six offshoots in different directions. In that case, my friend, you are completely on your own. None of those offshoots will have signage. And god help you if you are on that road in the dark. Better just to pull over on the shoulder and sleep there for the night.

2. If a sign in the aforementioned huge city (or any city for that matter) says to go "straight" you might actually need to navigate multiple turns, some hard turns, as part of that "straight" route.

3. Many times, distance signs are wrong. For example, you'll see a kilometer distance sign, and drive for 15, 20, even 30 minutes. You’ll come up upon another kilometer distance marker, but strangely, it says there are MORE kilometers to your destination than the previous sign. By the way, this phenomenon might bring you to tears after a 7-hour day in the car.

4. Painted lane markers mean nothing. Two theories behind their existence: they are merely a way to use up extra paint in Mexico, or to provide jobs to people who need work. And if you were wondering, painted shoulder lines don't mean anything either.

5. Signs tend to fade out in Mexico ... and they never are replaced. Especially the signs that fade out at the juncture of three major highways in the middle of a very busy city.

6. If there is a "No Bicycle" sign on the highway you will see a bicycle once every couple of minutes.

Our conclusion after doing this road trip?

Fly. Do not take a 2,000-mile road trip in Mexico with a two-year-old and a dog.