Strongly Worded

!Hola!

I just got back from my ten-day Mexican vacation. And I didn't fight with my mom, I didn't get sick, I didn't get robbed, and I didn't eat grasshoppers (considered a tasty Oaxacan snack--they're flavored with salt, lime, and chili powder).

I did, however, consume iguana (smothered in a delicious sauce that rendered it very normal-tasting); climb the Teotihucan pyramid (248 steps, the equivalent of a 21-story building--this puppy weighs three million tons and is the third largest pyramid in the world); swim in mineral waters that rise up through the earth--and then 6,000 feet of mountain--to create a tranquil in oasis in the middle of absolutely nowhere (see photo); and "make" Mexican chocolate bread pudding, limes filled with cinnamon and coconut, and a potato dish that originated in the Isthmus of Tehuantepec.

My trip was amazing and enriching. I had fun, I pigged out, I relaxed, but I also had authentic interactions with people and learned about the contemporary and ancient history of Mexico (and if any of you are descendants of the Aztecs, Mixtecs, or Zapotecas; let me tell you I had no idea how incredibly smart your people are--what with discovering the number zero, performing brain surgery, and making all those astronomical observations).

The first part of the vacation was cooking school interspersed with culinary/cultural excursions. We visited remote villages and learned pre-Hispanic cooking techniques. Our teachers were indigenous women who make stone-ground tortillas using actual stones. They cook on wood-burning comals without the benefit of running water or electricity. And they don't do it for show--while these encounters may sound like some hateful touristy exploitation, the women were all personal friends of Susana (the chef/owner of the Seasons of My Heart Cooking School). They opened their homes to us with genuine hospitality. We felt like--and were treated like--guests, not tourists.

Our group was small. Me, my mom, a woman who can only be described as a Berkeley cliché (a very kind and earnest anthropologist/expert in Cuban lesbianism/promoter of cultural learning through food), and what the tour coordinator referred to as a "young couple". In addition to worrying about fighting with my mom, getting sick, and getting robbed, I worried that the young couple would be googly-eyed and have loud sex in an adjacent hotel room, thus filling me with shame and self-pity. In fact, the couple didn't even stay in our same hotel, and I doubt they had much sex (and if they did, it was probably rather quiet), because they had their two-year-old in tow. Plus, the wife (a brilliant think tank person) is pregnant. The husband is a hilarious writer. They went on cooking school vacations for their honeymoon, 5-year, and now 10-year anniversary. I want to be them.

When we were not at the homes of weavers, artisans or cooks; or at a market, bakery, paper factory, or archaeological site; we were at the cooking school. When I was not worrying about fighting with my mom, getting sick, getting robbed, or trying to tune out the lustful moans of fellow travelers, I worried about being a cooking school special ed student. I imagined a mean chef disparaging my (admittedly awful) knife skills in front of crazily critical gourmands. I imagined food spewing uncontrollably from scary equipment.

I could never have imagined such awesomeness. The school is lovely and cozy (see photo) and the kitchen is covered in blue tile, with a mosaic portraying the Virgin Mary over the stove. Before preparing each meal, our "class" sat around a big tile table while sipping fresh-squeezed juice and eating snacks. It was like coming home from the best day of school ever. After claiming desired menu items (I chose low-stress options, but Ms. Berkeley was wicked ambitious and made mole one day and a pork loin roulade the next), we commenced "cooking".

By which I mean assembling pre-measured, pre-chopped, pre-cleaned ingredients that had been beautifully laid out in baskets by the staff. (Note that there were five students, one teacher, and three staff members.) Jesus, Norma, and Lorenza did the vast majority of the prep work, and then coached us through the recipes. Most importantly, they whisked away (and washed) every pot, pan, and cooking implement the instant we were through with it. After we students were finished "cooking", we'd sit back down at the tile table (which had been set with flatware and flowers), and the staff would plate and serve the food we'd "prepared". After which they whisked away these dishes as well. Nightly, we complimented one another on our culinary "prowess", and then stumbled home in a self-congratulatory food coma.

I could go on and on. I probably will go on and on. And I will subject you to photos (My mom was worried about losing or breaking her digital camera, so we used a stone-age 35mm. I will scan in more images).

But I'll conclude with two big things. First: this trip taught me how I love to travel. I'm OK with museums and churches (although living in Spain for two years has kind of churched me out), and it's cool to climb towers and see ruins and do city tours and lie on beaches and all that. But what I love? What I really truly love? Is just what I did the last ten days. EAT. Have meaningful conversations. (I learned so much from our hosts and guides--fodder for another post.). Visit geological things. And observe the creation of local foods, crafts, and products.

The second thing is bigger and perhaps more obvious. If you look extremely closely, you might discern from my swimming photo that I look happy. I looked forward to each of the ten consecutive vacation days. I had fun. A lot of fun. And because this was so novel and so noteworthy, it has become clear to me that there are elements of my ordinary life that need to change, pronto.

Posted by Dori at 9:45 PM