Ka-BOOM! Happy New Year's to you all!

By John ...

In most countries, paying cash for a homemade bomb lands you in jail—or at the very least on a terrorist watch list.

In Merida, on New Year’s Eve, it earned me adoration, congratulations, back-slaps from passersby and an enthusiastic “two-thumbs-way-up” from the police.

You see, tradition here in the Yucatan holds that at midnight on New Year’s Eve you either eat twelve grapes quickly, one after another, making a wish for each grape, OR light off all the fireworks you purchased earlier that day.

I, of course, chose the latter.

By way of background, I co-produce an annual 4^th of July fireworks show at my in-laws' cottage in Door County. It’s a source of great pride for my brother-in-law and me — but I admit to liking the gunpowder and noise the best. The chaser of nighttime sparkle and “oohs and ahhs” from the crowd is also quite nice, but the simple facts remain: I like lighting fuses and loud noises.

As it turns out, Mexican fireworks are perfect for me.

Merida friends Randy and Hedy had told us that we had to see the spectacle of firework sales on New Year’s Eve Day at the market. Randy, like me, is a fireworks buff – the louder the better, and the more homemade-looking, the cooler. We made our way to the makeshift fireworks alley in the open-air market: hundreds of vendors lined the street selling all manners of explosives, as pinatas and streamers blew overhead. It was a sight to behold, and all perfectly legal, two days a year.

Randy and I got to work buying, as Nicolle and Hedy followed, interested in the hubbub of the market, but no-so-much in the cool (read dangerous) homemade explosives we were purchasing. We loaded up on several varieties of whistlers, exploding rockets, firecrackers, pretty lights, and something akin to grenades made from henequen (a rope made from fibers from the agave plant).

Understand this: most of the fireworks in the Merida are completely homemade … and many of them are made from simply wrapping varying quantities of gunpowder in tissue paper or henequen cords and attaching a fuse. (Obviously, the longer fuse the better, though many of the fireworks we saw had curiously short fuses.)

Common sense (read Nicolle and Hedy) got the better of us and we did without the biggest of the “grandiotas”— essentially a kilo of gunpowder wrapped in newspaper with a fuse attached. But we still managed to purchase a fair amount of fireworks, large and small, for our TBD show that evening.

The four of us (plus a larger group of friends) spent New Year's Eve at Rosas y Xocolate, a new, fancy boutique hotel in Merida. At 11:45, as the waiters passed around baggies of grapes and filled flutes of champagne, Randy and I headed outside for our main event.

Rosas y Xocolate is situated right on Paseo Montejo, one of Merida's busiest (and most beautiful) streets. We figured that it was as good of place as any to at least begin our fireworks display, as Montejo is wide and straight, with sporadic traffic lights all the way down. We'd wait for a lulls in traffic then hurriedly light off a few rounds – the grandiotas had thundering BOOMs that echoed between the grand houses that faced each other on Montejo. The homemade bottle rockets emitted high-pitched screams as they zigged and zagged overhead, typically getting tangled in the large trees overhanging the avenue. I admit it was a little Anderson-Cooper-in-Bagdad-esque. We couldn't believe we were lighting off these huge, homemade fireworks in the middle of a city, but we weren't stopping until we were done. (Or were forced to stop.)

And then the cops drove past.

Actually, they drove past several times, sometimes just as Randy launched a sizzling-fused grandiota as far as he could down the street. But instead of fining us, hauling us in for reckless endangerment, or even yelling at us, they'd tip their hats, happily holler “Feliz Ano Nuevo!” and give us the internationally-recognized symbol that they were impressed with our pyrotechnic prowess: two thumbs way, way up…

So yes, I missed out on my 12 grapes and 12 wishes for the New Year. However, I did confirm that my love of pyrotechnics will be appreciated here in Merida—at least on New Year’s Eve.

Happy belated New Year to all our family and friends from Merida, Mexico!

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