Ajijic & Guadalajara, Mexico, February 2007

My highschool drama teacher, Sahni, and I have stayed in touch over the years. She and her husband Gary have enjoyed their retirement by remodeleing a house together in Ajijic, Mexico, a village community on Lake Chapala about an hour south of Guadalajara. Since 2005, Sahni has sent weekly email instalements about their house progress and the Mexican lifestyle. She told stories about tarantulas, scorpions, a chivalrous veterinarian, an unscrupulous bureaucrat, a kleptomaniac realtor, as well as the joys and beauty of their English-speaking enclave in Ajijic.

So, when Sahni invited me to visit, I couldn't refuse. This would be my first penetration into Mexico (other than Tijuana, which I somehow felt was more a touristy border town than a fully Mexican experience). When she asked me, "How's your Spanish?" I realized the adventure was starting. To my surprise, I accessed Spanish resources I didn't even realize I had. The four-day immersion, with assistance from Sahni & Gary, left me eager to speak more Spanish at home in San Diego.

The food in Mexico was a revelation. Nowhere did I experience the glop that Americans call Mexican food. Instead, sauces were subtly complex, and never overpowered the central food. At one point, on my last day in Guadalajara, my sore feet required a sit-down restaurant. I chose a mom-and-pop type venue and, not understanding the menu, simply ordered the house specialty, which I assumed would be the best item. To my surprise and delight, the dish that came was cubed brains in a spicy sauce. Again, the sauce complemented the brains but never dominated them. My fears about digesting brains were quickly assuaged—my body seemed to approve of the nutrients.

Guadalajara is a city of 8 million Aztecs. The people are beautiful, dark brown, and very much alive. Hand-made creativity abounds. There are no highrises, no financial corporate districts, only individuals peddling their unique trades. I got a shoe-shine in one pedestrian plaza from a true master. He charges 20 pesos (2 dollars). The Centro Historico, the old city, was the main interest for me. It blends 500-year-old architecture with small businesses akin to New York's Harlem. The sidewalks are lined with orange trees.

The Mercado Liberdad ("Free Market") in Gudalajara was a jarring culture shock for me. I thought that I had seen it all when I went to Korea, but Mexico was in fact the more profoundly foreign experience. It turns out that my American concept of Mexican culture was blindly deficient. Imagine a stadium-size market honeycombed with vendor stalls only 8 feet square. Now envision this to be repeated several stories tall. And add that the aisles between stalls are no wider than elbow width. I speculated that when the earthquake comes, no one will escape. Add to that a section of stalls 100 feet long with folded white bath towels. Wait, those aren't bath towels, they're folded pig fat and folded tripe, stacks of pigs feet, pig everywhere. It sinks in that Mexico is inexorably devoted to and dependent on the pig. A whole society living and breathing pig and pig fat. The lunch-goers at the market were passionately devouring their pig offerings. Viva la manteca!