Betting on the Ponies

I’ve only ever been to a race track twice before in my life and that was eons ago. I grew up within spitting distance of Golden Gate Fields but somehow managed to not become a horse racing enthusiast. Sure, I try to watch the Kentucky Derby every year when I am in the US, but never thought much about the track just down the road. One reason is that this tracks location can often be a rather chilly place.
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But then, just when I think that the non-summer we’ve had will turn into a freezing cold fall, we get hit with record temperatures. And for some reason I became aware of an ad announcing Dollar Sundays at the track; $1 parking, $1 entrance, $1 beer, and $1 hotdogs. Where else was I to go on such a beautiful day but down to the edge of the San Francisco Bay where I knew it would be perfect weather and a new experience.
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Getting my bearings was the first order of the afternoon upon entering the grounds. Even though there seemed to be a fair amount of people milling about, the place is so huge it felt deserted. I strolled around exploring the venue and the patrons. I had a preconceived notion that it would be filled with scruffy, die-hard gamblers, sipping beer and checking their racing forms. The only part of that that I got right was the racing forms.

I was surprised to see groups of college kids and families with strollers and just a regular crowd one would find anywhere. In fact I only saw a few people who could fill in as Hollywood extra racing-bums.

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A spectacular, manicured, green oasis covers the area inside the track; little lakes with fountains and ornamental flower beds. At one point I asked one of the women in the gift shop if the area was ever used. Apparently, it isn’t. A friend told me she thinks it is a bird sanctuary which would make sense considering that on the other side is a massive, dirty freeway.
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Finished with getting the lay of the land, I decided it was time to get down to the task of placing a few bets. Down in the paddock, (one of the many new racing vocabulary terms I picked up that day), horses were being led around while studious folks glanced back and forth between their racing forms and the horses. I wasn’t exactly sure the way this whole thing worked so I asked a man next to me. He also knew nothing about it. That was something I would find throughout the day; lots of newcomers like me who didn’t have a clue.
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At least I did know that I should pick a horse and place a bet. The last time I went to a track I was with a friend who would look at the parade of critters, point to one, place a bet, and win. And win almost every time. I studied the horses and decided that number two looked awfully cute so I scurried off to place a bet.

A whole line of self-service betting booths were available but I needed to talk to someone. I stood in line and was helped by a lovely gentleman who explained that the cheapest bet was $2. I was very proud that by the end of the day I could walk up to a window and, like a real pro, say $2 to win on number 7.
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The fist horse I bet on came in dead last, and in two other races I also didn’t fare very well. I soon realized that I should quite picking the pretty ponies and look for something a bit more significant, if only I could figure out what that was supposed to be.
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I paid close attention to whoever was leading the horses around the paddock and how they related to their animal. I loved the guy who whispered sweetly to his charge and the other guy who was massaging his horses tongue. I figured a good connection in the paddock just had to result in a winner. I was very impressed by the women who lead around her hose, simply because she was the only gal down there. I saw that the trainer for this horse was also a woman and then found out the jockey was a woman.
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Kayla, from what the ladies next to me said, is Australian and had been racing in the US for a few years. Obviously, the sisterhood thing meant I had to bet on her. She didn’t win, but did come in third.
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Realizing that I had already lost $10, I decided it was time to go up into the grandstands and check out the high dollar betting and dining areas further up. You have to pay $2 to get up there but the door person said she would refund the money since I was just going up for a quick look.
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The dining area is glassed in and each table has its own little TV so you don’t even have to look at the track. I wandered into another area and this is where the place really started to get bizarre. There are several rooms of varying sizes, filled with large and small screens and a bar. Inside each, where there is no view of the track, people placed their bets and sipped on martinis. I didn’t get it; it was such a glorious day and they wanted to stay inside and look at a TV?

One of the rooms had a view that was not of the track but yet quite sensational. You could see almost from one end of the bay to the other, the Golden Gate Bridge smack dab in the middle. (Which is why they call it Golden Gate Fields, I presume.) Having been out of the sunshine for too long I headed back down stairs, down an escalator, collected my $2, and went back to the track.
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I did like standing right at the edge next to the track even if it did scare the hootie-patooties out of me. I like horses from a distance and cannot imagine why anyone would want to ride one, let alone be aboard a ton of solid muscle running hell-bent, shoulder to shoulder, around a track. Being that close just confirmed my belief.
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It was also quite sobering to see that in every race, the riders are followed around the track by a speeding ambulance and pick-up truck. I learned that this is a race track law. Unfortunately, just a few weeks ago those emergency vehicles were needed. A young jockey, Michael Martinez was seriously injured in a spill. I was glad to see that donations were being collected at the track and that the whole racing community is supporting him.
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I kept discovering other parts to explore. It turned out you could walk right up to where the jockeys sit before their race begins, although there is a security guard to keep people out. I asked the guard if I could ask the jockeys if I could take their picture.
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One of the jockeys waved me over. He pointed to another rider and said, “Take his picture. He’s the famous one. He’s a model”. I said something about all of them looking good. He replied, “You should see me with my clothes off”. A magnificent day and a flirting jockey; what more could a gal ask for?

I’m already planning my next trip to the track. October 2nd is Secretariat Day with a free cap giveaway. Providing the weather holds, I’ll be there.

Kate

Mare Island Naval Shipyard

Mare Island sits on the east side of the San Francisco Bay. Growing up, it was the place my father spent occasional weekends as a reservist with the US Navy. Which is probably why no one I was acquainted with ever knew much about it; the general public doesn’t get entry to military bases. Up until recently, If someone had asked me about the Island I might have said that it was a naval base or maybe it had been closed. The Mare Island Naval Shipyard was officially closed in 1996.
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A few weeks ago when my friend asked if I wanted to take a trip to the island as she had a college class she was attending. Huh? A private college on a closed naval shipyard? I was up for it.
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Just driving through what had once been a guard station at the entrance to the island was a bit bizarre; but it was nothing compared to the rest of the experience. I’d entered a surreal world of abandoned buildings and roads. Sort of a military base ghost town.

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It was more than a bit freaky driving down long, palm tree lined, wide streets with barely a soul or car in sight. Brick buildings dating back to late 1800’s, empty deep water docks, scores of sprawling buildings whose past usage I could only guess about. It felt as though I were on a Hollywood back lot. And, it turns out, there have been films shot there.

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A few places, like the Officers Club, still had their original signs up and some had been converted to student housing for the previously mentioned college. Others only displayed their building numbers. If I hadn’t been by myself, I might have tried to gain entrance to a few; curiosity was at an all time high.

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One massive block long building, that was nearly as tall, clearly was some sort of assembly plant as the inside was an empty shell. I know this because I got out of the car to peer in the windows. (there may have been a sign or two warning to steer clear because of hazardous PCB’s or something along that line.) Just as I put my camera up to the glass fronted entry doors to get a few interior shots, a giant wind came up rattling what felt like the entire building. I was then sure that it was a ghost town.

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I drove on and on, no traffic and no people. I would stop in the middle of a street, get out, take a few pictures, and continue on my way. Somewhere along the way I realized what I was doing and took to pulling off the road before getting out. And the more I explored the more I wished my dad was still around so that he could tell me what everything had once been.

I didn’t have a map so relied on the few posted signs. One led up the hill to the golf course; once the exclusive turf of officers and now open to all. I don’t play the game, but the views of the San Francisco Bay may be a reason to take it up.

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Going back down the hill I noticed an area with massive eucalyptus trees and what seemed to be housing. I headed towards it.

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St Peter’s Chapel was the first stop. Built in 1901, it is filled with real Tiffany stained glass windows. Worth more than a small fortune, it is only open on certain days for tours. This looked like somewhere I would come back to but what really caught my eye was just around the bend.




I’d stumbled upon Officer’s Row; massive mansions lined a wide boulevard, each sitting on large lawn surrounded by giant trees. I froze. Never had I seen anything so magnificent. I’m a traveler; houses interest me but don’t compel me to move in. This time I was smitten. I wanted one of those babies and from the look of it, they were empty and just waiting for me.

Strolling up to the first one I saw a sign saying “available” and a number to call. I walked up the stairs to the large front porch and then to the glass windows. Inside was even more mouth-watering house; paneled walls, hardwood floors, built in window seats, and a splendid fireplace. I was literally drooling thinking about living here..

Looking down the street were at least another ten of these beauties. I later found out that the biggest one, the Captains House, is furnished and set up for tours. I still haven’t found out if the others are for sale, rent, or just a big tease.
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I eventually realized that as much as I loved the officer’s mansions, they would be just a taste too big for one person. I started to look for smaller houses. It seemed that many of the big ones had more properly sized out houses, some of which appeared to be occupied. On the street behind these were your basic 1950’s military housing. Not at all tasteful but possibly affordable and I was beginning to get quite attached to Mare Island.

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Eventually it was time to head back, off island surrealism and back into the here and now. The Mare Island Historic Park Foundation does tours and I plan to get there in the near future. http://www.mareislandhpf.org/
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Kate

Ghana x USA, San Leandro, CA

When I saw Robert Reid’s article listing Ricky’s Bar in San Leandro, CA as one of the Top Ten places to watch the World Cup my first reaction was huh? Ricky’s Bar is still around? But since I had yet to find much of anywhere to watch the Cup, and seeing as the US was playing in the second round, I decided to give it a go.
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When searching for places to get your groove on in the San Francisco Bay Area, the city of San Leandro is not at the top of anyone’s list. Possibly not even on any list at all. True, Ricky’s is not that far from where the Oakland Raiders play ball, and it did have a rep for the place players hung out, but I thought that was all in the past. The last time I had been in there was to apply for a bartending job at a time when very few bars, no matter the extent of your skills, were hiring women to mix cocktails and pull beer. I vaguely remember being laughed at and swearing I would never set foot in there again. I broke that vow today and stepped back in time.
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Ricky’s is your basic ‘70’s sports bar; dark wood paneling, dark lighting, framed/signed players shirts and pictures, neon signs, and not a window to be found. Since cigs have been outlawed in California bars, it did not have that familiar, homey, stench of tobacco mixed with beer, but otherwise you’d think it was 1975. That is were it not for the TV screens of which there were probably about one hundred, lining the walls, running along the sides of the three big screens, and sitting on the bar. Not to mention the 3D TV area.
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With thirty minutes before game time, the place was nearly filled to capacity. I found a little niche to sit in where I got a good view of one of the big screens and at least thirty TV’s. I wasn’t quite sure where to look.
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This was a different crowd than the last time I’d watched the US play and I wasn’t sure what the reaction would be to anything. For a minute there I was scared that they might all stand up when they played the Star Spangled Banner. They didn’t, but they did applaud at the end.
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With the game under way I began to notice that although everyone seemed to be watching, they didn’t seem to be involved. They kind of acted like people watching a tennis match. When Ghana scored at 5 minutes I was just about to jump out of my seat when I noticed that no one else in the entire place was moving and quickly reigned in my enthusiasm.
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Yes, I am American and yes, I was rooting for Ghana. I like it when these countries that have precious little prevail in sporting events, especially when their entire country is backing their team.
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The first half was enough for me at Ricky’s and I was off to another place just down the road, this one an English Pub. It was sheer heaven to get out into the hot, sunny mid-day weather. One does not take sunshine for granted in this part of the world. Just two days before it had been 50F/10C and the sun never did break through the fog.
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I was just pulling into the parking lot of The Englander Sports Pub when I heard an eruption of screams from patrons sitting in the outdoor areas. Team USA must have scored. When I got inside I saw that the score was still 1x0 Ghana, but that the fans here were hooting and hollering at every touch, pass, kick, and foul.
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People lined up five deep in front of the bar watching the line of TV screens above all those taps of beers and booze. Two rooms branched off either side with more rows of TV’s. It looked as if one room led into yet another, but about all I could see were bodies. There was no chance of finding a seat but I didn’t care; it was simply so wonderful to be amongst the football enlightened. The place virtually shook when the US scored.
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Being kind of short and starting to get a bit mashed by bodies, I went back to the entrance and peered into the two outer viewing areas. I turned my head when I thought I heard people chanting for Ghana and quickly made a beeline in the direction of the small group standing outside and at the back of another room with a big screen. I had found the Kenyan contingent who were rooting for the last African team still alive in the Cup. I was home.
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It has been said, called out one of the self-appointed leaders,
.It has been said, replied the group of about twenty,
It has been said,
.It has been said,
That David beat Goliath,
.That David beat Goliath
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As soon as one chant finished, another would start; There is a story…..
Or more simply a call and reply of Eh, eh, Ah, ah,……
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Someone arrived with a vuvuleza and immediately a chant started with
Vuvuleza, ah, Vuvuleza, oh….
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All this was accompanied by dance steps, shoulder shrugs, and laughter. Everyone was super friendly and was pleased I had joined their small band. When I told one woman I was from the area she asked “but from what country originally?” Said I was American but always pulled for the small countries. Three young women from Venezuela cheered and chanted like they were born in Ghana.
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Every now and then a USA,USA,USA chant would go up in friendly defiance of all the Ghana noise, and would always end with smiles. I was pleased to see that even the most ardent US fans were truly enjoying the rhythms and singing of the Ghanaian supporters.
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All of this continued throughout the entire second half, overtime, and after the match had finished. I didn’t really want to leave all the fun of my adopted friends, and told them I’d be back for the next match. They thanked me for supporting Ghana; I thanked them for letting me join in. We shook hands, hugged and the lady I had spoken to at the beginning said, “Thank you for supporting the small countries”.
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This is definitely the way the World Cup should be watched.
Kate

World Cup 2010, Berkeley, CA USA

Here’s the deal; if you are American and have never experienced the World Cup outside of the US, you just have no idea what you’re missing. Conversely, if you have watched the World Cup in any other place in the known universe, you simply cannot imagine how low-key it is here.
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I can’t say that I watch much football at all during a year, or even during three years. But every four years I turn into a football maniac and watch as many of the World Cup games as work schedule and time zone permits.
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I’ve reveled in World Cup fervor in South America, South East Asia, and in the Middle East. But this year, unfortunately, I’m in California and know darn well that I’m missing out on all the camaraderie and universal joy that is going on in every other corner of the world. So as not to get overly depressed I have made it my mission to seek out like-minded fans and take part in whatever bit of World Cup insanity that I can find.
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Growing up in the US at a time when the term soccer mom had yet to be invented, I knew very little about the game. It was all baseball and football and girls weren’t even allowed to play. But then I spent two years in Brazil as a Peace Corps Volunteer and I was turned. Never again was I much of an American football fan with its slow pace and constant stop of action.

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It was tough when I first returned to the US back in the day before cable, not that football/soccer had much of a following here. One could only watch the World Cup on the Spanish station, with its grainy picture and poor reception, and that was only if you lived in someplace like California. It has been a long hard road, but we have now arrived at the point where ESPN not only has full coverage and analysis but tons of promos for the 2010 Cup.

My viewing preference in the US, however, remains with Univision, the Spanish language network of choice. Their announcers call the play at a million words a minute, as compared to ESPN/US broadcasters who talk about the weather and their fishing trips rather than give play by play commentary. Even if you don’t understand Spanish, just hearing the excitement and enthusiasm of the announcer adds so much to the game. There are those who watch the game in English and then switch to Spanish when a goal is scored. No one can outdo a Latin American yelling Gooooooooooooool!!!!!!!!

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Now that the US has sorted the coverage problem, the next obstacle is to find those fans. Sure, I can watch in the comfort of my own home on a nice, big, HD TV, but it just doesn’t satisfy the soul. I watched the first hour of game one before I had to head off for work where I found that no one was even aware that the World Cup had begun. I felt so alone and disconnected.

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Today, I headed out to Brennan’s restaurant/bar to catch the 7am match between Argentina and Nigeria. This in itself, places opening early to show the games, would have been unheard of not that long ago. And after seeing the measly crowd of about six people who’d shown up, I’m wondering if they will continue this for the entire month. I knew the 11:30am game would be crowded as it was USA vs. England, but was off to another part of town to see what was on offer.

I’d found out about several restaurant/bars near the University that were going to be World Cup headquarters. The first one I walked into had no seats available, although it was not that crowded. I walked down the street to choice number two that lacked any type of fun atmosphere. I ended up in a place called Raleigh’s on Telegraph Ave., just a few blocks from UC Berkeley.

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The place was jumping; tons of mostly university students, two big screens, and lots of TV’s. It took a bit of doing, but I was able to snag a chair and park myself in good viewing distance of one of the TV’s.

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I was sitting with people who had grown up playing soccer, understood and loved the game. I had never before been with a group of Americans watching the World Cup and was thrilled at their screams and yells and boos. When team USA scored the place exploded; people jumped up sloping beer and high-fiving each other. An impromptu chant of USA!, USA!, USA!, ensued. It warmed my heart. I would never have believed it possible that a group of Americans could love the beautiful game as much as the rest of the world.

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California may not be my dream destination for watching the World Cup 2010, but it just may not be as dismal as I had expected.

Kate

No Free Lunch

Since arriving, I have been constantly bombarded by men who want me to buy a timeshare in Puerto Vallarta. They sit in little kiosks on the main drag and yell out things like Are you a tourist? Where are you from? I like your earrings. Lady come and talk to me. I smile, ignore them and keep walking. That’s when they get rude. What’s the matter, you can’t even say hello? Do you have something against Mexicans? And the latest; You must be from Arizona.

It seems to be much worse than when I was here in November. Maybe it is just that there are less tourists so I am more available to holler at. It does get on my nerves but, as I said, I just keep on walking. Unfortunately, they are now in the shops.
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In several of the big stores I’ve gone into on the Malecón, I’ve been offered free merchandise in exchange for going to a sales pitch breakfast. The first place I encountered this was in one of the big Huichol art stores. I was totally hounded by the sales gal who kept upping the amount of free gifts I would get, which included close to $100 worth of merchandise. All I had to do was go to a free breakfast at a resort and then listen to a 60 minute presentation. I kept telling her I wasn’t interested so she took me over to the manager who explained that the sales lady wouldn’t get any “points” if I didn’t agree. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I know darn well you don’t get something for nothing, so was not even interested in pursuing the possibility of this seemingly great offer.

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Last week I was in a store where I’ve bought things in the past. After I’d finished talking to the manager and discussing what I would buy, another of the smarmy timeshare guys approached me. I came to find out that the shops are working with these guys and that there is commission for all involved. This obnoxious punk, (who happened to be American), would not shut up going on and on about the dinner he would take me to, the $150 dollars of free merchandise, that he would even throw in a free massage; like I’d ever even want to eat a meal with this freak. I had to get out of the store. I could see that my manager buddy was clearly uncomfortable with the young kid’s sales tactics. I took him aside and said I would be back when said jerk was not there.

Yesterday I went back to make my purchases. I was having a nice chat with my friend and asked how could it be possible to get all this stuff for free. Apparently it was possible and he would even get a higher commission on his sales. I thought about it; an hour or two of horrible marketing crap for free goods. Maybe it was worth it. But I also knew that they would want personal details from me and I was not going to do that. My buddy told me that I did not have to give out any info. I only needed to show that I had a credit card, but to cover the name and number when showing it. I asked if they would require an address or email and he said no. What the hell, I signed up for the breakfast/presentation this morning.

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At 8:30 I was at the shop. Two young guys from the presentation company soon appeared and I was whisked away in a taxi. They were neat and clean but had a real air of used-car-salesman about them. All the while on the ride to the hotel where the presentation was to be, one guy could not stop talking about all the deals he could get me and all the tours he could arrange and probably some other “deals” but by then I’d shut out his banter. I knew at this point I’d made a mistake and I probably should have taken some valium before going off to the event.

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Before we got out of the cab, the guy grabbed a card from the driver and wrote down his phone number so that I could call him tomorrow for another free breakfast, free presentation, and more free money. I looked down at the business card onto which he had written his name. It was for some nightclub whose slogan was “Wanna come?” under which was “visit us and receive a free lap dance”. I glared at him and said, “Free lap dance?” He laughed nervously and said it wasn’t his card.

We got out and were approached by two more sleazy guys. I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what made my skin crawl. Maybe it was the salon styled hair with too much product, or more likely it was their bad auras. I was trying not to hyperventilate and cringe as I was forced to shake hands with another slimy salesman and the marketing manager. Since all of them spoke English quite well, and since they reverted to English every time I said something in Spanish, we spoke in English. But then they’d turn to each other and rattle off in Spanish about where they were taking me and other stuff. I spoke up in Spanish just to keep them on their toes in case they tried to pull a fast one and thought I wouldn’t understand.

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I was escorted up to a rented conference area and this is when I really wanted to cut and run. Everything abut it was geared towards intimidation and discomfort. Before we went into the outer office to talk to the receptionist, the marketing manager asked me the same questions that everyone else had asked me; was I over 30, was I single, was I American, did I have a credit card.

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Walking into the office I felt like a trapped rat. The first thing out of the young woman’s mouth was a request for ID with a printed address. I said no; they were not even getting my last name, let alone my address. For five minutes various people walked in and out and spoke on phones and tried to explain that it wasn’t anything other than to enter the info in their computer and my details would never again be used. Right. Finally the big boss, a snooty 30-something Brit walked in, looked down his nose at me and said that giving my address was a Mexican government regulation since, after all, they were “responsible” for me. Right.

I should have just walked out the minute they asked for an address, or at least told them what I thought of their hard-core tactics, but for some reason I am just too polite. They finally realized that no one was going to make a commission off of me today and someone had lost the taxi fare that had brought me there. I was escorted out by two pouty-faced, pissed off sales men, acting like two year olds who’d had a toy taken away. They left me at the front of the hotel, pointed out the bus stop across the street, and huffed off.

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All I wanted to do was get back to the hotel and take a shower. Nothing was really lost on this adventure except that they now know which hotel I am in, but they can’t really do anything with that.
How in the world can a group off people be so offensive, loathsome, and rude, yet get people to but their product? How can they possibly have any friends? What do they do at night; devil worship?

Oh well, another day, another experience and in three days I will be out of Vallarta so they can’t possibly hunt me down to hassle me.

Kate

Tortillas

I’ve never cared much for bread. Tortillas, however, (and make that corn tortillas), are a different story. Apparently, Mexicans agree with me as there is a tortillería, (tortilla bakery), on every other block throughout the city. Most I have passed are tiny, one room affairs. Others are fairly large factory things. Even the large supermarkets have a tortilla machine just like their American counterparts with an in-house bakery.

Tortillería La Gloria is the largest one I’ve seen in my wanderings around town. I went by at about 7:30 in the morning to get an idea of what the early shift was like and to take some pictures. The gentleman behind the counter told me that they start working at 4am, that they have been in business for 40 years, and that they either use 3000Kg of dough a day or make 3000Kg of tortillas a day. (I wasn’t quite clear on that bit). Wait a minute; that just doesn’t sound possible. I’m not going back to get clarification but all that matters is that they are open from the crack of dawn until the afternoon, cranking out the most wonderful tortillas.

From early in the morning people are lined up buying tortillas for the day, either for the home or for their restaurant/taco stand. Some people come with an ice chest to load up their supplies. I have also seen delivery pick-up trucks dropping off the day’s allotment.

And then there are the Tortillería La Gloria tortilla chips. They are the only deep-fried food product I have ever truly salivated over. Reason number one: made with fresh tortillas. Number two: no salt. I allow myself one bag, (it’s rather large), per trip. Just writing about it I may have to break that rule and get another; I still have about 5 days left in Vallarta.

I’ve tried to find comparable tortillas outside of Mexico but have never been successful. There simply is no comparison to the lightness and flavor of a tortilla fresh of the rack. There is none of that grittiness and chewy consistency that you’ll find in the brands at the local Safeway. Anything American is mass produced and packaged and no matter how Spanish–sounding the name of the manufacturer, it’s a poor imitation. US produced tortillas can sit for a few weeks in the icebox and still perform when needed. Mexican ones are pretty much compost material after a day, maybe two. Something about preservatives, I’d assume.

It would be so easy and cheap to buy a kilo of fresh tortillas to take back with me to California, but what’s the point? They’d be past their shelf date by the time I got home and unpacked.

Guess I'll just have to wait for another trip.

Kate

Fruit Markets

Every time I think I know this neighborhood, I am proven wrong. I was here for a month at the end of last year and had done the majority of my food shopping at the local, smallish supermarket. There are some huge places not too far away, but that would entail taking buses which is way more labor-intensive them I am ever willing to do for food. And if you really want to stock up, there is a Costco and Wal-Mart; again, too far away.

The produce at said supermarket was rather sad and I had asked the gals at the hotel reception if they knew of a fruit stand. They’d directed me to a few within a block or two from the hotel, but their stuff was also not quite up to what I thought I would find here.

The second week I was here I took a walk up a street I was sure I had walked up last time. Apparently not, as I ran into a real-life market. Granted, it was small, but it was a real Mexican Mercado.

Shops selling kitchenware, trinkets, and beauty supplies line the outer edges. Inside is a central open area around which are butcher shops. There are also some fruit stalls, but most are directly across the street.

The first time I was there I went into the largest one simply because it was easier to negotiate. I was told later that the prices next door in the tiny shop were considerably cheaper, so that’s where I have been going.

I am in heaven being able to buy a fresh papaya everyday. It is one of my favorite fruits. You can sometimes get them in California, but the price is high and they either taste nasty or are mashed. Papayas do not export very well.

And the bananas; what can I say? Unless you have eaten bananas in the country where they are grown, you just have no idea how they should really taste. Bananas for export are picked green and they don’t really ripen, just turn yellow, and most of the flavor is lost. I can buy all sorts of different types of nanners here, my favorite being the tiny, tangy ones. Take my word for it and don’t waste your money if you see these guys in the US; they simply do not travel at all and you’ll pay a fortune for fruit you will need to toss.

Cantaloupes have been my favorite melon since I was a wee child. Over the past several years, probably more like ten or more years, I just haven’t been able to get a tasty cantaloupe. Even when I ask the produce people to pick out a good one, they always suck. I’d actually forgotten why I loved them so much and how delicious they were until I chomped into a Mexican cantaloupe last week. Oh my gosh! Unbelievable! Again, everything is picked green in the US and that just screws with the flavor. Possibly I should be concerned about the water supply used on the farms here, but I am not even letting thoughts of contaminated irrigation systems enter my thoughts. I plan to enjoy the fruits of the earth.

Kate

Casa Kimberly Update

I need to set the record straight; Elizabeth Taylor’s house in Puerto Vallarta is no longer available for viewing. In fact it is no longer really there. Casa Kimberly, as her house is/was called, is in the midst of being turned into three condominiums.
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I did the treacherous, 100-step walk up the side of the hill to get a peek of her house last November. People had told me it was now a bed and breakfast and that you could have a cup of coffee in the restaurant. What I found was a gutted out building.
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I thought it might be done by now and maybe was a new B&B. No and no. It appears that all that will be left of Liz and Dick’s home will be the stories that surround the neighborhood, told by the decreasing number of locals who remember them. And even though her memory is fading as the years go by, I seem to constantly run into little reminders of the impact she had on the city.

There is the plaster statue of Elizabeth and Richard and an iguana at the entrance to a restaurant that sits just down the hill from their house, and right on the Rio Cuale.

And then there is the mystery that surrounds a place I found the other day.

It was in the late afternoon, while walking down a small side street that I noticed an entryway with a worn, tattered mat on which was written Sala Elizabeth Taylor. I stopped, looked up at the building and tried to figure out what it was. A tea house? A theater? I looked to the left and saw an ancient looking ticket window that was open. Inside sat a tired looking woman.

I asked here what exactly Sala Elizabeth Taylor was. “Cine”, she answered. I stepped back and looked for whatever it was that I had missed indicating that this was a movie theater. I glanced up at the signboard next to the ticket window, still confused. “Cine”? I asked her. She then said something about adult films and I looked more closely at the showings for today. I got it. Whatever Sala Elizabeth Taylor was in a past life I’ll never know. Circa 2010, it is a porn movie house.

Kate

Huichol Art

From what I gather, Puerto Vallarta doesn’t have its own special art form such as the ceramics of Tonalá, the carved wooden creatures of Oaxaca, or the silverwork of Taxco. What they do have here, and what I don’t ever remember seeing, is artwork from the Huichol indigenous people.
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The Huichol are from the Sierra Madre Mountains in the states of Nayarit and Jalisco. (Puerto Vallarta is located in Jalisco.) I know almost nothing about them so will not try to write anything anthropological or historical.
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Most of their artwork in the stores is either colorful embroidery or beaded animal sculptures. The designs are symbolic of various animals and plants, each having a specific connection to their beliefs and culture.

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I’ve seen their work in just about every tourist shop in town. There are also several high-end, fancy stores that have beautiful examples, set out in lovely displays. They are the places that have Huichol men set up at a little “display” table at the front of the store doing their artwork. I find it disturbing. The prices are not cheap, which I wouldn’t mind if it were going to the people who created these exquisite objects; but you know it isn’t.

I had tried to find some stalls in the market where there might be artisans to whom the proceeds of the sales would go, but I hadn’t been successful. But then last week, on my way to the supermarket, I noticed a little corner shop of Huichol art and in I went.

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Galeria de Arte Huichol is owned and operated by a man named Tzikiri. All the artwork is done by either himself or other people from his village. He told me how he used to work at the big stores demonstrating for the tourists. The store would also buy his work, for which he was paid very little. He opened his tiny corner shop a few months ago.

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In the past week I have been in several times and have bought a couple of beautiful iguanas. Tzikiri patiently explained the meanings of the designs and how he made them. He starts with either a ceramic or wood base, onto which a thick, sticky wax is applied. Then he carefully pushes each bead onto the wax creating the most amazing pieces.

I would have liked to have taken a picture of him at work but guessed that graven images probably were not acceptable in his culture. I asked him anyway. His hesitancy told me that I was correct in my assumption even though he told me it would be all right. What he minded, he said, were the tourists in the big stores who came in to take his picture while he worked and never bought anything and never left a tip.

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I am really hoping his shop makes it. I’m sure it would if only people knew about it. So here are the details for all of you who might be in Puerto Vallarta:

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Galeria de Arte Huichol - proprietor: Tzikiri

Constitución #116 (on the corner of 5 de Febrero) Col. Emilian Zapato, Puerto Vallarta

Tel: 322-222-5488 cell: 322-149-2005

It’s just past the Gutierrez Rizo supermarket on Constitición

Kate