Watch out, New York. . .

Yes, I'm coming home. But the real news is that Mexico City rivals NYC as the most exciting and vibrant city in the world. Where else can you walk through the ruins of ancient civilizations to the soundtrack of the weekend vendors and their sonorous opera just outside its gates? Where else can you watch scantily clad indigenous men in colorful head dresses blessing matrons with their eyes closed? Where else can you collect dust just by sitting still for five minutes, watch a troup of cousins breakdancing and praising the lord, witness the church of the oppressors literally sinking into the ground it was built upon? And most importantly, where else can you get a bitchin' cafe con leche for less than two dollars? That's right -- Mexico City. . . or D.F. (Districto Federal), as its called by the Mexis.

Spring Cleaning

There are signs of spring: the jacarandas are ablaze with purple blossoms, the equinox has come and gone, Flower Day in Guanajuato is coming. . . Some of my Mexican homegirls and I heralded the spring by sharing in a temazcal ritual. Every culture seems to have its own bathing/sweating tradition, and temazcal is the tradition of Mesoamerica.

Some young boys came to meet us behind Cine Guanajuato and lead us through the winding callejones to the house where the temazcal was located. We sweat by the heat of volcanic rocks, meditated, were blessed with various plants and flowers, covered our bodies in almond olil, aromatic salts, clay and aloe vera, and emerged about three hours later -- reborn and ready for new life.

Tofu Picante, Love and Neurons

Last week, we had six women – two of them recent widows -- and one adorable 76 year-old Japanese man, also a widow, staying at the b+b. Sogo-san is a friend of Naomi, a lovely Japanese woman from Denver who goes to my language school.

Sogo-san was pretty much in heaven, being the only man among a bunch of adorable, artsy, culture-vulture-y over-50 women at the b+b. Hugo and I conspired to design some romantic architecture, sitting him next to one woman in particular who we felt Sogo-san would be well-matched with -- but to no avail.

There is actually a Mexican tea made from an herb called telohuache -- lovers are said to give it to their mates so their mates will never leave them, due to the neurons killed by this extra special herb. No telohuache was served. . . at least not that we know of.

Naomi joined us for breakfast in the mornings during the week that Sogo-san was visiting, and one morning made miso soup for everyone. Guicho and Beto had never experienced miso soup, or tofu in any form, so this was a new and exciting revelation for them both. . . multi-culturalism at its best.

Joaquin and the Maestro will be evaulating Guicho's miso soup in the coming weeks and months.

No Roads to Yelapa

After a day of some classic American cinema enjoyed on the Primera Plus buses, we spent one night in a dumpy hotel on the beach in Puerto Vallarta -- I should have trusted my New York instincts when taking advice from the taxi driver, who I later realized steered us away from what was probably a much nicer joint. But no matter. We saw the ocean, drank a few beers on the beach then went and played pool -- incidentally, I've developed a special talent for winning every game when my opponent scratches while shooting the eight ball. You see? Actual skill is not always required in order to win.

Yelapa can only be reached by boat, and was a welcome relief from the multi-national corporation vibe that has all but destroyed Puerto Vallarta. There are no Hooters or Chili's or Starbucks to be found in this small fishing village, about a 40-minute boat ride from the resort-saturated beaches we left behind. There is, however, a collection of aging gringo hippies from the era when Bob Dylan and Dennis Hopper apparently frequented these tranquil, coarse-sanded shores. It struck me as an excellent location for those running from the law, opening the doors of perception, or matting the dredlocks.

Mexican Breakdancing

How many of you have ever seen someone breakdancing and smoking a cigarette simultaneously? Come on, now -- be honest. . . I watched with awe and fascination on my way to the track on Sunday as a group of Mexi breakdancers worked it out in a little gazebo in the Parke de la Cantador. Contradictions are what make people interesting, I guess.

My birthday was last week. By some miracle of chronology, I am 25, and yet still lived during the '70s. It's strange. I baked two cakes and three dozen cookies and Clara made some delicious appetizers. We all drank margheritas and ate cake on the roof, then headed out into the night to see what Tuesday had to offer in the salsa department. . . as it turned out, not much. So we came back to the roof -- our own little private club -- and had our own dance party.