The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

Lesley Tellez

Mercado San Juan de Dios, and other cool places to visit in Guadalajara

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I know I’m getting to my Guadalajara wrap-up kinda late, but better late than never, I guess. First off: If you’re ever in Guadalajara, you absolutely must visit the Mercado San Juan de Dios. It’s three stories (!) of food stalls, produce, meat, jewelry, leather, boots, pottery, kitchen items.

A few other spots I’d recommend if you’re ever in GDL:

1. Casa Vilasanta: A small, clean hotel with free high-speed Internet, gorgeous patios and a communal kitchen. It’s also really cheap. I paid the equivalent of $30 USD a night.

2. Casa Bariachi: A group of new friends and I were looking for a place to catch live mariachi music on Tuesday night, and our taxi driver referred us here. I’d feared it would be touristy, but it wasn’t — it was actually pretty awesome. A mariachi band played partially on stage, and then amongst the crowd. Everyone else there was Mexican, and they sang along when they knew the words. We each had a bandera or two of tequila and split a few desserts. (Highly recommend the coconut ice cream.) Prices aren’t super cheap, but they’re reasonable.

3. Loncherita: A cute, Mexican-kitsch place with mini tortas smothered in salsa (they’re called “loncheritas” here), and Guadalajaran microbrews. We ordered tostadas de marlin and pata, one loncherita a piece, and a burrito stuffed with panela. Everything was good — above average but not insanely fantastic. That’s fine with me. I’d go back again for the drinks and ambience.

4. Zapópan: A suburb about 8km north of Guadalajara with a quaint plaza (that’s it in the picture above), a cool little museum — where I caught the fantastic “Phantom Sightings” exhibit, showcasing Chicano artists — and narrow, colonial-type streets. I ate some tacos de carnaza at the market there, and wanted to explore more, but I didn’t have time. Next time.

More pictures below!

Mercado San Juan de Dios from the outside -- it sits next to a big plaza

Puya chiles are similar to guajillo chiles, but hotter

These arbol chiles were grown in nearby Yahualica. Interestingly, the other arbol chiles for sale came from China.

Among the many strands of Christmas lights for sale in the back market area

More Guadalajara pictures, if you’re not too tired of looking at them, after the link…

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A Mexican YouTube Classic: “Edgar Se Cae”

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[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b89CnP0Iq30&hl=en_US&fs=1&]

Edgar Se Cae, a video about a chubby Mexican boy who falls into a creek while shrieking, “No guey!”, is a Mexican YouTube phenomenon. Nearly 17 million people have watched the original video since it debuted in 2006. This month Chilango magazine included the video on its list of most memorable moments of the decade.

Edgar spoofs abound on YouTube. There’s a Donkey Kong version, a Super Mario Brothers version and a Mortal Kombat version. There are Edgar Se Cae cartoons. My favorite one ends with Edgar waddling out of the creek, little blue pools beneath his eyes. “Pobre niño gordo,” a caption reads. (“Poor little fat boy.”)

My friend Jesica showed the original video to us a couple of months ago. I thought it was funny, but not 17-million-views funny. Then I looked at it several times this morning, and found myself giggling. Edgar’s friend coaxes him across the creek, and then forces Edgar to fall. SPLASH! Oh god, watch it again.

Seriously, it’s a story of the underdog. Mexican’s aren’t just laughing at Edgar — well, they are, especially when his “no guey!” and “ya guey!” shrieks get progressively louder — they’re laughing at how sometimes, the skinnier, stronger guy gets the leg up, and there’s nothing they can do about it.

Also, sometimes kids are just plain mean.

Wrap-up of the FIL in Guadalajara

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I’ve got a post over at The Dallas Morning News’ books blog with a few highlights of my time at the FIL. Missing it there already. Although, you know, it’s good to finally not feel exhausted.

I have a few more pictures to share of Guadalajara, but I’m too tired to do anything today, so I’ll get to it next week. You’ve got to see Mercado San Juan de Dios, which is three stories tall and has everything you’ve ever wanted, and things you never even knew you wanted. (Like paper lanterns printed with poinsettas!)

The bravery of an American woman

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Another Guadalajara cabbie and I struck up a conversation yesterday, while I was on my way to the book fair from an art musuem in Zapopan.

He’d asked where I was from — “Espana?” he guessed — and we chit-chatted about the differences between Guadalajara and Mexico City. I mentioned that I’d moved to Mexico for my husband’s job, and the cabbie, who looked no older than 30, asked how my husband was enjoying Guadalajara.

“Oh, he’s not here,” I said. “I came by myself.”

He looked surprised.

“Why didn’t he come?”

“Because he had to work.”

“So you’re here completely by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

(Me, wondering whether I should continue further, lest he pull off the road and rob me): “Yes, really.”

He eyed me through the rearview mirror.

“Orale!” he finally said. “You’re brave.”

“I’m an American woman,” I said. “We’re very independent.”

That made him laugh.

Am I a real Spanish-speaker now?

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When I first got to Mexico 10 months ago, I felt jumpy and anxious almost every time I tried to speak Spanish. A fearful voice would pipe up in my head: What if no one understands me? What if I sound like an idiot? I look Mexican, but my accent blows. They’re going to think I’m a pocha. Maybe… I really am a pocha.

The more I talked, the more that feeling lessened. I dealt with the gas company when our meter broke. I ordered dozens of taxis, and requested an ATM card over the phone, and went to the dentist and the doctor. I bought chicken and beef from various mercados, and instructed them on whether I wanted it in filets, ground, deboned. I began to ask the people in the grocery stores for help when I couldn’t find an item, like the elusive cilantro.

A few days ago I was chatting with my Venezuelan-born friend Daniela. She mentioned how, despite living in the U.S. for years, she still doesn’t feel fluent in English, but she no longer cares about messing up. I realized: That’s me, too. I throw out words with abandon, sometimes without really knowing whether I’m correct or not. Maybe I’ll phrase the iffy word as a question — “Éstas pantalones parecen demasiado… apretadas…?” — or maybe not. The point is, I’m confident. I know I’ll eventually get understood. And if someone looks at me strange, I smile and start over. I know, in my heart, that not one bit of me is a pocha. I hate that word.

It’s funny, because this week at the FIL in Guadalajara, I’ve been hanging out with a bunch of American writers who don’t speak much Spanish at all. Yesterday we went to dinner and I was the translator. The translator! Not just for the food, but for cultural issues, such as how much to tip a taxi, why the check was taking so long, etc.

“So how did you learn Spanish?” a few people asked me. The question struck me as odd, because I thought it was obvious that I was still learning. But then I realized that I knew way more than them, and actually, maybe I knew quite a lot.

It’s weird, because part of me doesn’t even want to accept that this is happening. I’m in disbelief. Are my Spanish skills really good? Is it really true? The deeper issue here, for those of you who don’t know me very well, is my complicated history with Spanish. I never cared much about it until I got to college, and then suddenly I felt guilty and angry and sad that I never tried to learn.

The rational side of me is over the moon that my Spanish has improved so much. But emotionally I still can’t admit it to myself. Maybe I’m just being a perfectionist. Or maybe I’m still clinging to this fear that I’m never going to speak Spanish well, because I’m not Mexican.

Truly, I still have a lot to learn. I can’t think quickly on my feet in Spanish, or express every sentiment I’d like to. But I am happy with how much I’ve accomplished so far. I have carved out a normal, fulfilling life for myself here, based almost entirely on my language abilities.

I can at least admit that to myself.

Tacos in Guadalajara, 11 p.m. last night

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They were as good as they looked. Interestingly, the process was a lot more orderly than I’m used to. We ordered from one person, who gave us a ticket, which we then handed to the taquero.

Most people also drove up in cars or SUVs. Some even ate inside their vehicles, which I personally think is blasphemy. Everyone knows that street tacos should be eaten while standing up, or sitting on a plastic stool.

First impressions of Guadalajara — pretty women and cleanliness

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In a cab on the way to the FIL yesterday, the cabbie asked where I was from. I said I lived in Mexico City, but I was originally from the United States.

“How’d you guess?” I asked him. “My accent?”

“No,” he said. “You’re too pretty. The women from Mexico City generally aren’t that pretty.”

Of course it was a line. I know plenty of beautiful women in Mexico City. But then I realized… wait, the women I’d seen on the street in Guadalajara really were attractive and stylish. In fact, if we were in Mexico City, I would have placed them as Condesa residents. But these Guadalajarans stretched across all barrios — from the Centro down to the Expo Center. This cabbie was right. Pretty, hip Jaliscienses seemed to be everywhere. Was it something in the water? Or the tortas ahogadas?

Guadalajara also seems very clean, probably because it’s so much smaller than Mexico City. I don’t see as much trash in the gutters or smell as many foul sewer-type smells. The guesthouse where I’m staying, Casa Vilasanta, is full of plants and spotless. Here’s the view from my window.

First day at the FIL: Ray Bradbury, L.A. surrealists and Mexico City Noir

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*Ray Bradbury, right, sits with his biographer Sam Weller, via videoconference at the Feria Internacional del Libro in Guadalajara

Before I get into Ray Bradbury, I must tell you how freaking kick-ass this event is. Thousands of people, hungry for books and literature, spend hours buying books, and discussing writing and literature. And this year they’re talking about L.A., a city close to my heart. It’s truly heaven.

Yesterday, in between browsing books about Chicano culture in L.A. (a subject I’m so intrigued by, I’d love to have my own Chicano-L.A. library someday, possibly as an ethnic companion to the Man Room) — I caught Ray Bradbury via videoconference in one of the event’s salon rooms. Maybe 200 people were there, and about a third of the crowd looked like young students, maybe late high school or early-college age. The girl behind me squealed when Bradbury’s face appeared on the screen.

I haven’t read a lot of Bradbury’s work, but I do respect the man as a legend. He’s 89 now and slightly hard of hearing, but he conveyed warmth and personality. He joked with the crowd, telling us he wished he could tango with everyone after the panel ended. He somehow managed to sounded humble and matter-of-fact when he mentioned that he pounded out the first version of Fahrenheit 451 in nine days, on a rented typewriter inside a library. A classic — nine days!

When asked about the secret to his longevity, Bradbury said he surrounds himself with love. Anyone who doesn’t believe in you, he warned the crowd, should be dismissed from your life.

“Tell them, Ray Bradbury told me to fire you,” he said, jutting a plump finger at the screen. “Get outta my life.”

I loved him. He also drank wine and ate crackers during the Q&A portion with the audience.

There’s really so much to see and do here, it’s hard to pick just one event. It’s like trying to choose a band at the ACL festival. Yesterday, after Ray Bradbury, I checked out a panel on surrealist writers of L.A., most of whom said they hated the title “surrealist.” (They’re loosely defined as writers who reject the traditional forms of writing, either by including fantastical sequences, playing with fonts and graphic design, etc.)

After that I browsed some more books, and headed to a discussion of a new book called “Mexico City Noir,” a series of short stories about crime and violence in el D.F. Bought a copy and can’t wait to read it, especially because one story focuses on the most dangerous street corner in Mexico, as deemed by local police. (It’s in Doctores.)

Today I’m headed to a Q&A with Cheech Marin, a discussion with award-winning LA Weekly food critic Jonathan Gold, and possibly a panel entitled “Los Angeles in a Tequila Shot.” Should be fun. Will be back later with more!

Off to Guadalajara!

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Yes, I’m a traveling fool. I’m off to Guadalajara today for the Feria Internacional de Libros. It’s among the largest book fairs in the world — last year more than 600,000 people attended its various readings, events and panel discussions, spread out over eight days.

Los Angeles is this year’s invited city, so a bunch of interesting Latino writers with L.A. ties are scheduled to be there.

I’ll be posting updates, so stay tuned!

Lazing by the beach in Pie de la Cuesta

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Joy and I had planned to stay at an upscale Acapulco hotel this past weekend, but at the last minute we ditched it in favor of staying in Pie de la Cuesta, a quiet, rustic stretch of beach about six miles northwest of Acapulco proper. The surf there is too strong to swim in, but you can sit under a palapa, drink a beer and gaze at the ocean. Plus the rooms pretty cheap. It’s pretty popular with Mexico City residents.

There is one road from Acapulco to Pie de la Cuesta, and it’s only two lanes wide. Consequently, the cab ride takes anywhere from 40 minutes to an hour. (To go six miles!) True to friends’ tales about Acapulco, the drive wasn’t exactly pretty, except for the occasional flashes of the sea in the distance. Buses and taxis crowded the roads and belched exhaust. Car mechanics and tire-repair shops lined the streets.

One thing I absolutely loved, though, were the tricked-out pesero buses. I was so obsessed I kept taking pictures of them. (The photos below represent maybe half of my tricked-out pesero-bus collection.)

We stayed at Villa Roxana, a clean, simple place with a pool, a small restaurant and air conditioning. We paid 600 pesos a night for two double beds, the equivalent of about $46 USD. I thought it was worth it: We had air conditioning, a ceiling fan. While the water wasn’t hot, it was warmish. The beach was about a two-minute walk away — we had to cut through the neighboring Villa Nirvana, a pretty place owned by two Americans.

We spent Thursday night watching the sun set into the water. Can’t ask for a better setting to ponder what you’ve been grateful for.

On Friday, we took a boat ride around the Laguna Coyuca, a large, lake-sized body of water nearby. It was absolutely beautiful — serene, quiet, full of wildlife. We saw pelicans and baby wildcats, and we stopped at a small wildlife preserve and saw iguanas, crocodiles, a javelina and a deer. Plus we trolled through a mangrove forest, which had eerie, thick roots that grew downward and sideways.

One of the boats docked at the Laguna Coyuca

Some of the odd-looking mangrove trees we saw on our nature walk

It really was a short visit, and I’d love to go back with a group of friends. Next time, though, I’d want to find out a little more about where to get fresh seafood, and fresh fruit. I was a little disappointed with the options near Pie de la Cuesta — canned-tasting ceviche at Tres Marias, overcooked fish at Coyuca 2000, and even canned mushrooms on our pizza at Vaymas, supposedly an upscale resort. Maybe my standards are too high. I was reading “My Life in France” the whole weekend, and salivating over Julia Child’s visits to the French countryside.