The French have landed!

The dreaded day came on Wednesday. The French arrived on the Paris flight, along with a few other Europeans’. 235 of them. We anticipated fighting for space on our already crowded SCUBA boat. The dive briefings would be done in French and English. They would plummet to the bottom, shoot to the top, and wait for the slow Americans to join them. Thankfully they separated us on two different catamarans.

Other than competing for the boat, we have thoroughly enjoyed the new faces. Everyone so far has been so polite. I just finished talking to a French businessman about the new French business climate. He is happy about the influx of foreigners in France . . . imagine that? And he was handsome, which is an added bonus to the conversation. I am sitting here at the beach bar taking a break from the sun while he and Joe chat. Reggae music overhead, a mojito beer (crushed lime with dark stout beer), accents, gentle waves rolling in, and crystal clear blue water. What a life!

It’s Friday, a melancholy day for most of the guests as they prepare to go home tomorrow. Not us. We are here for one more week. We might go to the airport to wave goodbye to them. The airport is one building split into two rooms. Incoming and outgoing. Checking in at the airport is done here at the resort . . . with the airline staff here. Cool huh? Then everyone gets on a Club Med bus or just walks over to the airport. Your luggage is waiting for you. The jumbo jet lands, the stairs get rolled across the tarmac, the pale-work weary newcomers come down, the bronze-vacation weary guests go up. This repeats itself three times a week.

The diving has been amazing! The reef sharks are out patrolling the coral. The nurse sharks are napping under a ledge while the invasive lion fish flounce around with their feathery fins. We were warned at one dive site that the tunnel we planned to explore was guarded by several sharks. As we approached the opening we were greeted (well, greeted makes it sound like we were welcome) by 3 sharks. When we didn’t heed their darting back-and-forth warning, they tried the charging technique. It is really intimidating to have that shark face coming straight at you. But we  entered their tunnel anyway. I like to think they looked defeated, but it was probably a look of anger . . . it’s hard to tell.

Now a French Canadian beauty is sitting with us sharing our French fries. She works here at the bar. Her name is Brooke. Her legs are so long they practically are the level of my armpits. Here’s a photo J  Her fiancé is in charge of water sports. Super nice couple.

Speaking of couples; there is a group of couples who brought their own blow-up water noodles, they congregate in the ocean drinking margaritas. One day Charles, the Chef de la Village, was walking down the beach with his staff handing out fresh fruit. The group out in the water yelled out “Hey we want some fruit too!” Charles promptly kicked off his shoes and walked into the ocean with a tray of fruit held overhead. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch this phenomenon. I ran out of the water and got my camera to film it. He walked out of the water straight up to me and offered me some melon. He looked kind of like James Bond.

I’m beginning to think the reason I like Club Med so much is the people. It’s a great opportunity to research and study characters for my books. The newlyweds, or the two couples who meet here every year, the deaf guy who talks so loud you can hear him from fifty yards, the sharp looking Miami couple, the athletic couple, the drinkers, the flirts and the talkers.

Oops, Joe just served into the net. He’s playing beach volleyball with 12 people. The ocean is like glass today. The boats look like they’re floating in the air. Here’s the view from my little perch.

I’ve opened two more bottles of wine, both from Hatcher, a Syrah and their Shake Ridge Zinfandel.

Lots of love, Heidi and Joe.

San Salvador, Club Med, Day One

Tragedy!

 

We saw the weather predictions and knew it would be stormy the first few days at least. But that’s the chance you take when you go to the Bahamas in October. That’s not the tragedy. As-a-matter-of-fact, a lovely ticket agent with Spirit Airlines was jealous. She is from Jamaica, and she loves nothing more than rain on a tropical island (except a massage on the beach in the rain on an island). By the time she was done checking us in, I couldn’t wait to get here and get my massage on the beach. It is raining and I checked on the massages; $110.00. I don’t know if I want one that bad.

The surf is intense. We played in it for half an hour. I came out with sand everywhere, even my ears. Then we fell asleep in the setting sun. The humidity is ridiculous, but that’s not a tragedy because the wind is strong and feels fabulous.

We didn’t get the room we requested . . . nope not a tragedy. They upgraded us to a second floor, ocean view. Here is a photo from our room. As we came over on the charter jet from Fort Lauderdale we discovered Columbus Isle Club Med had been closed for 6 weeks for hurricane season. This island only receives 3 commercial flights a week; Sat-USA, Tues-Canada (starting next month), Wed-France. So ours was the first flight. We have the whole club to ourselves, until Wednesday. That might explain why we got the upgrade J There are more employees than guests!

We may go SCUBA diving tomorrow, weather permitting. The dock in front of the club has been dismantled to protect it. Not a tragedy because they have a marina on the other side of the island, which is calmer. The water is warm.

sign in beach bar

I brought eight bottles of California wine with me. Now hold on a second . . . we’ll be here for 2 weeks. That’s about 2-3 glasses a day, between the two of us. I usually pack them in wine boxes with Styrofoam liners. This time Joe suggested we use regular wine boxes so they don’t take up so much room. We still had to bring a suitcase just for the wine. I put a child’s water-wing around each bottle (blown up of course). I didn’t have quit enough so I left two bottles in the center ‘wingless’. You guessed it! Tragedy. One of my precious bottles shattered. When Joe pulled my bag off the luggage belt he said “Uh-Oh, that’s not a good sign,” and pointed to the wine dripping on the airport floor. Oops. I took my bag to the bathroom and tenderly lay it upon the floor. I dabbed it dry, but decided to not dig through my bottles to find the culprits. All the way to the hotel I listed each bottle in my head. I knew the one which would upset me the most would be Dan’s wine. But it was a Dobra Zimla Syrah. I have another one at home . . . I will live.

Well I’m tired from eating, body surfing, dancing, drinking my wine (Rombuar Zinfandel), and talking over disco music, so off to bed we go. Its 11:30 p.m. here and 8:30 p.m. back home.

Wine Tribe Gathering

Friday night marked the second anniversary of the Wine Tribe. This is a small monthly gathering of three couples. We take turns hosting the event. The hosting couple goes all out, with amazing appetizers, dinner, and dessert. For some unspoken reason we always choose a theme.

My mouth waters over the memory of our creations. Usually the theme is national; Thailand, Italy (Chianti), France, Mexico, Spain, India, Napa. Some are thematic; comfort food, ranch food, my mom’s spaghetti, California barbeque, white trash food (but gourmet somehow). I’m forgetting many of them I’m sure.

The table is set to match the theme. This can get complicated, trust me, but we can’t seem to help ourselves. I remember at Mr. & Mrs. S’s house they used woven Mexican purses for placemats for the ladies settings, and we got to take them home with us. For comfort food night, Mr. & Mrs. W used all their oldest china and glassware . . . an impressive collection. When we did French Provencal, I used at least ten flowered napkins spread out to make a tablecloth. The cabin weekend gatherings are always spectacular, especially with Joe's barbequed ribs. 

The first night we gathered we each presented a bottle of wine for the long evening. Little did we know how it would evolve. A decision was made that first night (I think it was the first night?) to brown bag our wine at the next house and do a tasting party. Now we have a system. It’s a bit complicated, but we discovered we couldn’t be trusted to vote fairly if we knew whose wine belonged to whom. We always seemed to have very close scores . . . very diplomatic and hospitable. Now we have 3 carafes, 3 cloth wine bags, tags 1-2-3, and fancy wine-tasting score sheets. We even have a medal. It looks like it came out of a bubblegum machine, but we covet that medal! The hosting family chooses the varietals. Here’s how it works:

• One person from each couple separately enters a designated room, pours their wine into a decanter, and bags their bottle (completely covered). They place their bottle and decanter side-by-side and leave.

• One person who didn’t go into the room is chosen to go in and wrap a numbered tag around each decanter. They then place the corresponding tag on the corresponding bottle.

• Finally that person carries out the decanters, but leaves the bagged and tagged bottles in the other room.

• When the scoring is done, the bottles are brought out and revealed.

So this begins a long journey of sharing our Wine Tribe dinner events with our wine and foodie friends. I begin with the 2nd anniversary dinner party at the W’s.

We entered their home and were welcomed to Napa. In the center of their kitchen they’d rolled a real wine barrel for the cheese and crackers. The counter was loaded with sliced artisan bread and crackers, Smoked Trout Pate (caught the week before in Alaska by Mr. W) and Kahlua Baked Brie. The table had a runner of lightweight burlap, a large basket of fresh fruit, and each table setting had a menu with a fall leaf attached.

MENU

APPETIZERS

Smoked Salmon Trout Pate

Kahlua Pecan Baked Brie

Cheese Plate

SALAD

Great Bering Sea Ceviche (mouth watering)

ENTRÉE

Tagliata With Baby Spinach and Arugula

Wild Alaskan Salmon (with some sort of coffee-bourbon-molasses rub)

Gorgonzola Croquettes

Braised Green Beans with Portabella Mushrooms

DESSERT

Flourless Chocolate Cake and Carmel Sauce (decedent)

WINE

We were told to bring a “blend”, so we brought a bottle of Prisoner (Orin Swift), the S’s brought 2010 Berhold Crankcase. The W’s cheated and presented their own home-made wine, a blend of Syrah and Zinfandel. The S’s stole the medal from us for best food-pairing wine, but the W’s wine was savored ‘til the wee hours over nibbles of chocolate cake, and gazing at the stars.

All-in-all, another wonderful evening of fellowship. Next Wine tribe gathering . . . November.

By-the-way . . . we will be in the Bahamas for two weeks in October. For my Travel Buddies, be on the look out for new postings!

Heidi

Our time in Oaxaca has come to an end.



cross at the aqueducts



It has been a busy four weeks with our usual array of new friends and good memories. As always I find this last blog to be more fragmented as I try to organize unorganizable events. Cultural differences and similarities fascinate me. Some of it has do with how they interpret etiquette and responsiblity. Proper manners such as never coming to your restaurant table with the bill until you ask. Don't get up from the dinner table and leave without asking permission. Their desire to please is very Eastern, therefore if you ask for directions they will give them to you . . . even if its incorrect. Its better to see you smile with happiness than to see that lost frustrated look on your face. The solution is to use a map. 

Another strange thing wasn't so apparent at first (but now I finally get it), has to do with language. One day during class, the teacher corrected me because I wrote "I forgot to put gas in my car yesterday." Hugo said "No, your car forgot to put gas in itself." He laughed at our incredulous expressions. I asked my conversation partner (a Mexican lady who is an English teacher) how do you say "typo"? You know, like an error on a menu or something. She said "Error del dedo", which literally means "error of the finger". Hugo says this is common in suppressed cultures where being at fault could be painful. He pointed out that Americans tend to take credit for everything; "I broke my ankle." Really? Did your take a hammer and break it yourself? I guess all language has its idiosyncrasies

The street band during the day



I remember walking with Joe downtown on one of the pedestrian cobblestone streets. It was dark and somewhat crowded. We heard Santana’s ‘Black Magic Woman’ playing. A band had set up on the sidewalk, so of course we sat down on the opposite sidewalk and enjoyed the little concert.

A couple from our school, from Canada, have been traveling around the world for two years! Can you imagine that? Liz writes a travel blog that is very interesting. They started in Asia and worked their way to Mexico. They have two more months and they go home.

We discovered a hot dog cart by the cathedral. We staked it out for about a week. The guy always had a crowd lined up waiting for their dogs, so we finally mustered up the courage and got our dogs for 13 pesos apiece. They were fantastic! Loaded up with all the goodies like salsa, relish, mustard, and catsup. We ate there every chance we got.



cross at a hotel

 A major issue here is the lack of water. The region reminds me of Yreka, California. It is a high mountain valley, about three or four thousand feet. They have a reservoir, but they bring the water for human use to the houses by trucks for some reason. Apparently the amount the city is able to provide through the pipes isn’t enough, so people have to pay the trucks to top off their huge rooftop cisterns. The water for the house (remember, this is a very nice house), stinks to high heaven. No one drinks the water from the trucks or the pipes. They only drink bottled water. When we took showers we always put a bucket under the water as it warmed to save as much as possible for the garden. This morning, on our last day, the water just stopped. Not a drop came out, so to use the toilets we had to go outside, fill our buckets with dirty water from the garden barrel, and fill the toilet tank in order to flush. Ironically, it rained so hard two nights ago that the streets turned into flash flood rivers. We got completely drenched.



Our Mexican conversation students

 A frequent sight was the parking police walking around with license plates under one arm and a screwdriver in the other hand. We questioned this oddity at school. They said the police simply took your license plate if you parked illegally. So then what? They had to go down and buy new plates for about 150 bucks. The ticket for driving without plates was even higher. People were always trying different tricks to avoid this. Some welded their plates to their cars. Joe suggested making them magnetic so you could just remove them and take them with you. Devious mind.

Well I’m signing out until the next adventure. It’s been fun traveling with you as always, Heidi and Joe.

Que Chido!

I love the unique cultural stuff like que chido! Meaning how cool! The vocabulary for saying nice things is extensive here. In Costa Rica the style was all about the diminutive . . . everything was referred to as little; “Look at the cute little dog with the little lady walking down the little street.” Here it is “Please look at the sweet-pleasant dog with the amiable-kind lady politely walking down the enjoyable-lovely street.” You think I’m kidding? It’s true, this is the nicest city I’ve been to. During communion at the Cathedral, the Boy Scouts stand at the steps to assist all the ladies and the elderly. All meals finish with lavish praise to whoever cooked it or served it, followed by “Buen Provecho” (which basically translates to ‘It’s for your providence/good health’).

Most nights are pretty magical here. We often walk down to El Centro. One night, as we were walking, we came across a group of teens. About fifteen of them got up and came towards us. In the back of my mind I thought of all of the warnings about how dangerous Mexico is, even though I knew better. I was a bit embarrassed when they lined up facing each other and started dancing the traditional dances of Oaxaca. We sat and watched them practice for awhile. We saw this spontaneous dancing occur several times throughout our stay here. The traditions are so important to them. 16 distinct languages are spoken and they even have a huge fountain with statues of the 8 major old religions practiced here. It’s a surprisingly diverse place, but the Virgin Mary is everywhere. My favorite is the painting of her on a tree on a street corner.

But let’s go back further in time to about 500 years before Christ. A community of scientists and religious leaders began to form on the top of a mountain in the valley of Oaxaca. They became incredibly powerful, ruling from this complex city of 40,000 for 1,200 years. What drove them off their mountaintop remains a mystery. I’m guessing it was drought. Now it is called Monte Alban. As you approach the ruins the usual playing field is the first stop. From there the city is barely visible, but it beckons to you. As you step to the rim of this majestic man-made valley the history feels as though it is surging upward and wrapping itself around you. The archeologists did a good job of clearing the massive field where the market would have been. The palace and the bizarre boat-shaped astrology building are beautifully preserved. Joe and I sat under a thick tree in the shade and imagined the bustling community, the light glittering off the glossy walls of the palace, the pyramid-like steps leading up to the temples, and the ever present vendors set up on the grassy fields. After climbing to the other rim we could look down on the humbler dwellings of the surrounding city ruins.

Back at Oaxaca City we stayed at a small hotel with a pool and air conditioning. We stayed in the pool or the room for 24 hours! A large family from Puebla dominated one end of the pool, and we had the other end. That didn’t last long. The family ring leader, a 4 year old little girl, named Frida, came straight over to us and made the introductions. “That’s my cousin, and that’s my other cousin, well they are all my cousins except my parents and sisters.” She sat on Joe’s lap and petted his arm as she talked. Finally she told him he was going to be her pony and made him turn around so she could climb on. Her family was in hysterics. So after speaking Spanish to her for 30 minutes, she says “How come you don’t speak Spanish? Are you from China?” Ahh . . . out of the mouths of babes. By Sunday evening we were refreshed and ready to go again. Monday morning we were back to school to try to learn Spanish J