Las Pirámides

This was pyramid day, and I had been looking forward to it for weeks. Our plan was to wake up reasonably early and make the trek to the Aztec pyramids of Teotihuacán, just outside of Mexico City. Thankfully, last night's mezcal was good to me (and we made sure to close our hotel room door), so getting out of bed was entirely manageable.

At 9am, most people were heading into the city as we were heading out of it. So the trains were only completely full, not hanging-out-the-windows full.

We reached the bus terminal without much trouble, but I'll cut the chit chat. I want to get to the first majestic sight of the day.

Donuts!!!

Not only do we jump at any chance to continue our culinary tour of the world's donuts (nom, nom, nom), but this was the type of true panaderia that we had been searching for all week. Just look at that grin.

The panaderia was located right in the middle of the bus terminal, and we intentionally missed the first bus to the pyramids to make sure that had enough time to stock up. So with a lighter step and a heavier backpack, we set out on our adventure.

Like the Frida museum, it was not hard to find the bus to pyramids. We just walked towards all the white people.

The bus to the pyramids was like every other we had taken in the country: clean, cheap, and comfortable. But there were two notable exceptions. The first was that we were filmed about 20 minutes into the journey. After reaching the edge of town, a man in his 40s or 50s boarded the bus with a camcorder, and walked up and down the aisle, focusing on each of the passengers. If we hadn't been warned about that by fellow travelers, it would have been pretty weird. Well, actually, it was still pretty weird.

The filmer wasn't wearing any type of uniform and didn't make any kind of announcement. But knowing that Mexico City is trying to make intercity bus travel safer, I'm thinking that this was some sort of crime prevention strategy. And it worked. Nobody stole our donuts.

The second eccentricity about this particular bus was the entertainment. Most of our previous busses showed movies, and one even had an in-seat entertainment tablet. But this one had a traveling minstrel. After we were filmed, the driver made one other stop to pick up a man with a guitar case and a tattered suit. (No, not that guy.) And while he was no Antonio Banderas, he was actually a pretty good singer. He played us four or five songs, and collected his tips as we pulled into the pyramid grounds.

Even though the pyramids are only an hour away from Mexico City, the environment is dramatically different. It was hot, sandy, and dotted with cactus. If it weren't for the rolling hills, we could have been in Southern Arizona.

The pyramid grounds themselves span miles, and the bus drops tourists off at what is actually more of a side entrance. So there were only a couple of street vendors vying for our attention.

As you can see, the pyramids are spread out over a long stretch called the Avenue of the Dead. That's Aztec for Main Street.

Even though the pyramids were unearthed about a hundred years ago, new discoveries are being made all the time. It has the exciting feel of an active archeological site, and was a lot of fun to explore.

And of course we climbed up.

We explored the park for hours. It's unquestionably a world heritage landmark. Looking back, pictures don't really do it justice. You should just go check it out yourself.

Exhausted from the climbing and the sun, we napped on the bus back to Mexico City. But about halfway through the journey, our bus again stopped and picked up some more traveling singers. These guys were far younger than the first one, and something about their request for us to follow them on El Face (Facebook) cracked me up.

That evening, we wandered the streets near our hotel. We were half-looking for stamps to mail postcards, but we mostly just wanted to draw our vacation out a little longer. Central Mexico is such a unique and interesting part of the world, and we had such a nice time exploring it. We'll definitely miss this place. 23 million people can't be wrong.

-M

Frida, Metro, and Mezcal

"Your door is open."

Huh?

"Your door is open."

That was the cryptic phone call we received sometime around 1am. We were already in a bit of a groggy stupor after spending much of the night listening to our neighbors bring the party home with them, and we couldn't quite make sense of what was going on. But while Aimee tried to get some more information out of the caller, I crawled out of bed and walked over to the front door of our hotel room. 

There was a bit of light peeking through the side, and although the latch was closed, it hadn't nested all the way shut. So I jiggled the door a bit, and felt the deadbolt side into place. I then heard a familiar voice on the other side of the door.

"Your door is open."

"No it's not."

(Pause) "That's because you just closed it."

"Ok. Gracias. Buenas Noches."

The next morning, Aimee and I played around with the door to see how it latched. It didn't quite close on its own, and it needed a bit of coaching to fall into place. The front desk staff had probably come to our floor to tell our neighbors to keep it down, and then noticed that our door hadn't latched completely.

This is the real side of travel in Mexico. No brazen scams to rob tourists. No unreasonable dangers. Just mildly defective hotel room doors and bellhops with limited English proficiency. And neighbors that like to party.

With that settled, it was time for breakfast. Our quaint little hotel had a quaint little breakfast bar, but we were in the mood for something more. Fresh Mexican pastries from a Panaderia sounded absolutely wonderful, so we set off on a walk through our downtown neighborhood to find some.

That quest turned out to be surprisingly tricky, since most of the locals either eat breakfast at home or grab a street taco. So we walked and walked, until the hangries and caffeine withdrawal kicked in. Our wistful pastry hunt needed to wrap up quickly. So we walked into the Mexican version of Starbucks and grabbed a deeply dissatisfying cinnamon roll. But at least we're still married.

Our plan for the day was to head over to the outlying neighborhood that contained Frida Kahlo's childhood home. So we hopped into a taxi and closed our eyes. But this was actually one of our saner Mexico City cab rides, and it ended next to a nice little cafe near Frida's house. The house (now a museum) wasn't open yet, so we popped into the cafe and had the breakfast that we should have had an hour ago. It was perfect.

Aimee and I both agreed that if we found ourselves living in Mexico City, this is the neighborhood that we would call home. It was still very much a city neighborhood, but far from the high rises and commotion of the city center.

This is what passes for a quiet neighborhood in Mexico City.

Renewed and recaffeinated, we walked over to Frida's house. Instead of buying a sign that said "Art Museum", the museum administrators just asked a group of white tourists with small, circular glasses and canvas tote bags to stand out in front of the building. It meant the same thing.

But the museum itself was outstanding. The house was an early 1900s stucco masterpiece. Frida's father was one of the few photographers in the country at the time, and took photos for the ruling Mexican political party. It appears that he was nicely rewarded for this work, because the house was very impressive.

The house is filled with the works and belongings of Frida and her on-again, off-again husband, Diego Rivera. It is both an art museum and a beautiful time machine back to mid-century Mexico. It was an absolute treat to walk through, and a clear highlight of the trip.

Frida and Diego lived in this house 1929-1954

Down the street from the Frida house was the Trotsky house. Frida and the Russian philosopher's lives were intricately linked in the 1940s and 50s. Diego Rivera had petitioned the Mexican government to bring Trotsky into the country as a political refugee, since his life was in danger if he stayed in Russia. Now, Latin America in the 1950s was the last place a communist philosopher would think of as a safe haven. But the fact that Mexico not only allowed him to enter, but also protected him as a refugee, speaks volumes to the respect and political power wielded by Frida and Diego.

But we really didn't feel like paying the 40 peso entrance fee to go into the museum. Trotsky wouldn't have wanted that.

We didn't have much of a structured plan for the rest of the day. We mostly just wanted to wander around the city. But first, we grabbed some lunch from the same cafe that we went to for breakfast. It was that good.

After a 30-45 minute walk, we arrived at our next Mexico City spectacle, the Metro. Words can't describe the bustle and commotion of the underground train. For starters, each train was huge. Most metros that I've seen a train with 5-10 cars arriving every 15-20 minutes. But each Mexico City train had at least 20 cars and another one comes by every three minutes. Three minutes! Nearly as soon as the last train pulls out, the next one comes screeching in, throws its doors open, throws its people out, blows its whistle, and speeds out of the station. Repeat, repeat, repeat. It was absolutely nuts. But somehow, Aimee and I both managed to get on and off the same train at the same station.

 We had decided to head over to the Zocalo, Mexico City's historic capital. It houses one of the biggest cathedrals in the Americas, several beautiful museums, and the only actual palace on the continent (Mexico briefly had a monarchy in the early 1800s).

One of the reasons that we wanted to walk around the Zocalo was because the palace walls are covered by giant murals by Diego Rivera. Now, you'd think that the front entrance of a palace would be easy to find, but we walked and walked around the Zocalo without finding it. Part of our difficulty navigating the area was because of the usual crazy bustle of one of the city's busiest neighborhoods. But in addition to that, most of the area had been blocked off for the impending arrival of Pope Francis.

But we did eventually find a big door that looked promising. I noticed a mural inside and we patted ourselves for finding the way in. I don't routinely think of myself of a high art connoisseur, but I have my moments. So I asked the graduate student sitting at the information desk where the rest of the Riveras are. She said, "Um, well, that's not a Rivera, it's an [unintelligible]. You're looking for the palace. It's two doors down on the left." Her tone seemed to imply, "It's not hard to miss. It's a fucking palace." And I was reminded why I don't think of myself as an art connoisseur.

After a bit more walking, we managed find the palace entrance, but it was closed in preparation for the Pope's arrival. Damnit. I'll just buy a Rivera post card.

We capped off the afternoon by walking back to our hotel for a nap and a shower. We then set out for an amazing dinner at Azul Historico. It was the kind of meal that would have required a down payment if it were in the US. I had some amazing mole after sampling from the impressive mezcal collection that the restaurant is known for.

Mezcal is liquor made from juice of the agave plant. If that sounds vaguely familiar, it's because Tequila is a type of mezcal made from a particular agave plant that only grows in a few regions of Mexico. But when done well, mezcal is incredibly smooth and doesn't have to taste like a bad decision from college.

We finished off the night with an enjoyable, if unsuccessful, search for live music. The tourist music venues were lame, and the local music venues didn't even open until 10pm. No gracias.

Our taxi ride back to the hotel was the only one that we were overcharged for during our entire trip. Maybe it was the mezcal, but I didn't feel like arguing over $3.

I love this place.

¡Viva Mexico City!

We woke up a bit sore from the previous day's hike and hobbled over to the patio for breakfast. We had been placed at a table with an older couple from Denver, and (after the coffee kicked in) enjoyed a nice conversation with them. We exchanged a bit of work-related pleasantries, but the conversation quickly migrated to trip advice. They had just come from Mexico City, so we gave them tips on how to find the butterflies while they told us how to navigate the city.

Aimee and I were in no rush to leave, especially since the ranch staff kept bringing out more food. But we eventually (if begrudgingly) packed our bags and checked out.

The bus back to Mexico City was almost as pleasant as the one that brought us to Zitácuaro. But the only available seats that were next to each other were in the back of the bus by the bathrooms. Aimee and I both agreed that if the alternative was cozying up to a rolling Porta John, we will be sitting apart on the next trip.

The bus terminal in Mexico City was charmingly chaotic, but easy to navigate. And catching a cab was equally simple. In an effort to make taxi travel safer for tourists, the city government has instituted several smart reforms. The most noticeable are the taxi cashiers at every major transit hub.

The cashiers sit at a glass window like a bank teller. You tell them where you are going, and they charge you a clearly-displayed flat rate based on the distance of travel. They print you a ticket that you take to a well-marked taxi stand out front. No haggling, no wondering if your driver is taking the "scenic route" to run up the meter, no worries about having the right change. There's a paper trail if there are any issues, and the driver only gets paid if you are happy with the ride. It's an ingenious system, and the transactions always felt safe. The taxi rides themselves were still as hair-raising as ever, but kudos to Mexico City for taking a step in the right direction.

Now, Mexico City is unrivaled on the driving aggression scale. In this town, the meanest, hardest New York City taxi driver would be run off the road by a grandma on her way to church. And I am very much not kidding about that. It's nuts.

But even according to that scale, our driver today was pretty damn aggressive. He was a crusty man in his 70s that looked (and smelled) like he had smoked a pack a day since puberty. If there was the tiniest gap between two semi-trucks, we would find ourselves between two semi-trucks. If there were pedestrians crossing the street, our driver would teach them to reconsider that next time. And I'm pretty sure he was colorblind to anything red. We looked forward to each traffic jam giving us a few moments to catch our breath, and the only thought that I had room for in my brain was a fixed look of disappointment from my mom.

But we finally made our way to the right neighborhood, and our driver asked me where we were staying.

Let me tell you, there are few words less reassuring to hear in that situation than, "Is that a hotel? I've never heard of it."

I'm not sure if I was more worried about the dump that Expedia had sent us to, or about spending the next ten minutes in this cab looking for it.

Our driver rolled down his window and asked a construction worker where our hotel was. Not a good sign. The construction worker then hollered the same question across the street to someone wandering by. This was not shaping up well.

But the pedestrian pointed us in the right direction, and I had never been so excited to step out of a car.

Our hotel actually turned out to be a pretty nice boutique inn. It just happened to be a small hotel on a small street, so no one had heard of it.

After unpacking our bags and updating our wills, we took a much less exciting taxi ride to Mexico City's version of Central Park. Our primary destination was the National Museum of Anthropology. We had heard that it housed a nice collection of Mesoamerican artifacts (think Mayans and Aztecs). It was very well done, and Aimee and I enjoyed the stroll.

We learned that the Mayans are rightfully celebrated for their advanced knowledge of mathematics and astronomy. They lived in the lush tropical coastline of Eastern Mexico, and bestowed with plenty to eat and drink, they could turn their attention to other pursuits. As early as 750 BC, they were displaying a complexity of thought far beyond where they should have been for the age of their civilization.

The Aztecs lived a little later (peaked around 1400 AD), but lived in the dry highlands of central Mexico. Limited resources led to a brutal civilization that existed at a time of near-constant war. Both civilizations are fascinating, and are probably under appreciated for the major advances that they brought to human development.

On our way out of the museum, we stumbled upon a pretty amazing sight. But I don't want to spoil the experience for you, so do what we did: take a look, and then read about it on Wikipedia.

Incredible.

Butterflies in the sky...

Today was the day we built the trip around. Aimee and I have both wanted to visit the Monarch Sanctuary since the day we first heard about it.

The sanctuary is in a protected forest in the central Mexican highlands. Every monarch butterfly east of the Rockies migrates here during the winter. In other words, every single North American monarch outside of California makes its way to this small patch of forest each year. Butterflies from Texas, Chicago, and Ontario all manage to make the 3,000 mile journey here every November.

But that's not the most amazing part. Every butterfly that makes the journey has never been here before. Neither had its parents. Or its grandparents. The lifespan of most monarchs is 4-5 weeks, so when the current generation is ready to fly north in March, it'll barely make it to the US-Mexico border before it lays its eggs and dies. Then the next generation will get to Texas. Then around August, the third generation will get to the upper Midwest and Canada. Then, come November, the 4th or 5th generation of monarchs will make its way back to the exact same spot that its great-great grandparents departed from six months earlier. It's absolutely incredible.

The migrating generation works its way back to this area every year because the conditions are absolutely perfect for hibernation. The butterflies need a certain amount of humidity, along with a cold-but-not-freezing average temperature to shut their bodies down for the winter. In these conditions, the migrating generation can actually live for up to 8 months (7-8 times longer than the average monarch).

Each February (hence the timing of our trip) the butterflies all wake up, eat, mate, and build up strength for the flight north. But in the ultimate irony, the plant that the butterfly larvae need to survive doesn't grow around here, so the females have to make another long flight back north before they can lay their eggs. It's one of the most delicate balancing acts of nature, and we couldn't be more excited to see it in person.

But of course, we need to get there. And this is still Mexico. Our hotel runs prearranged trips most days, but they are fairly overpriced, and Aimee and I wanted to meander around the region at our own pace. So we started our journey with another taxi ride. Our destination was Ocampo, a tiny farming community that also acts as base camp for the sanctuary.

The cab ride was relatively easy. That is to say we only had to come to a screeching halt once to avoid colliding with a car in front of us. And nothing says rural Latin America like unmarked speed bumps on the freeway, and lane lines that are really just a loose suggestion.

"Downtown" Ocampo

John Lennon Street is Ocampo's main drag

Stocking up for the hike

We had heard from other travelers that the best time to visit the park is around noon, when the air is warm enough for the butterflies to come down from the trees. So we spent the morning casually walking around Ocampo and eating some breakfast tacos. In Mexico, breakfast tacos are no different than regular tacos, you just eat them for breakfast.

On the advice of our taco chef, we found a colectivo, or shared van, to take us up to the sanctuary. Since most tourists come via organized trips, the colectivos are generally used by locals to get between the high elevation mountain farms and the low elevation homes and shops of Ocampo. Not exactly luxury travel, but they get the job done.

The road to the sanctuary was comprised of alternating sections of dirt, cobblestone, potholes, and, occasionally, the faintest hint of pavement. Bouncing around the back of a 1980 econoline van, I began to question our decision to eat the breakfast tacos.

But we made it up just fine, and the weather was perfect for our hike. This still being Mexico, the first half mile leading up to the park was lined with wood huts selling everything from bottled water to imported Disney blankets.

The shops seemed a little out of place, but they're probably actually a good thing. By giving the residents of Ocampo a piece of the tourism dollar, the shops provide jobs outside of the illegal deforestation industry, which had been providing most of the region's income before the sanctuary was developed.

It's hard to understand how people could devastate something so ecologically important, but semi-illegal farming is often the only means of survival in developing countries, particularly in the rural areas. Besides, we're equally complicit in the deforestation by expecting cheap produce year-round. But the good news is that major environmental protection agreements have been put in place to slow just this type of devastation. The deforested areas around the preserve are now regrowing, and the forest is recovering bit by bit every year.

Now back to the butterflies. After paying a very reasonable entry fee at the park entrance, we were assigned a local guide. Each group of visitors is accompanied by a guide who can point out interesting features of the park and discuss the butterfly lifecycle. But I suspect that their primary job is to make sure visitors kept to the trails. Either way, it was nice to have him along for the hike.

Our guide was a pleasant, leather skinned man of about 40 or 50 years old. He knew the park inside and out, and made the 80-flight stair climb to the top 3 or 4 times daily. He did so in jeans and worn leather shoes. But he was a young spry compared to the multiple women in their 70s or 80s that did the same job in sandals and traditional dresses. Looking at them, I felt ridiculously over-prepared with my Camelbak and hiking shoes.

Butterflies need to be relatively warm before they can fly. So the first stretch of our hike was relatively butterfly-free, although plenty beautiful in other regards.

After 30-45 minutes of climbing, we reached a small stream where Monarchs were congregating for a drink of water. The butterflies don't actually scoop up water from the stream, but rather soak it up from the wet ground on either side. So the ground was covered by a sea of orange and black wings. One wrong step would have been a disaster.

The stream was next to the drop off point for horseback riders. For a hundred pesos, visitors to the park could take a horse up to the river, skipping the steepest part of the trail. But the hike was actually something that we were looking forward to, so skipping the horses was an easy decision. Besides, I'll pay a hundred pesos any day not to ride a horse. See exhibit A, B, and (sort of) C.

By this point, the butterflies were starting to warm up enough to take to the air. It was nothing short of magical.

After the clearing, the trail continues on another hundred yards or so to the top. By that point, we were deep into the forest. Not only were there enough monarchs in the sky to shade the sun, the trees themselves were absolutely covered. What first looked like leaves densely covering each branch were actually sleeping Monarchs. The entire scene was indescribably beautiful.

Look closely. Those are butterflies, not leaves.

I don't think I've ever seen someone as excited as Aimee was in that park. Pure joy. I half expected her to twirl around with her arms out and break into song.

After about an hour at the top, we signaled to our very patient guide that we were finally ready to head back down. As with most hikes, the way back felt much faster, even if Aimee did stop every 10 feet to let a butterfly land on her.

Back at the bottom, we bought some cervezas and refrescos from the vendors at the trail head. Warm beer has never tasted so good.

We only had to wait about 15-20 minutes for a collectivo to take us back down to the village. And I don't know if it was the 45 degree slope of the road, the butter-slippery vinyl seats, or that particular driver's aggressive-even-for-Mexico driving style, but the way down was a particularly harrowing journey. Aimee and I didn't say much during the ride (holding on took most of our energy), but the look she gave me when we got out told me that Aimee was equally happy to be back in Ocampo.

After a relatively uneventful taxi drive back to Zitácuaro, we filled our bellies with another great meal at the ranch. We were headed back to Mexico City the next day, and couldn't have planned a more perfect send off.

Rancho San Cayetano

This is what we woke up to.

Rancho San Cayetano is essentially what we would call a bed and breakfast. It's a historic ranch property that has been run by the same family for generations. It has about a dozen rooms, a couple of cottages, and an organic farm on site. And good God, could they cook.

The first three (!) courses of breakfast were various homemade breads, jams, and honey. Then came the fresh fruit. Aimee and I were completely stuffed before they brought out the chiliquiles, our main course. But we did what we had to to get it down. When in Rome...

Our plan was to keep Sunday as a lazy day. We knew we'd be tired from travel, and we wanted to savor our first full day of vacation. We explored the property, and walked down to a small river that borders it. The place was paradise.

(By briefly petting the ranch dog when we walked in, Aimee made us a permanent party of three for the entire time we were there.)

We explored the surrounding city during the afternoon. Zitácuaro (especially the part we were staying in) was normally a sleepy agricultural town. And that was mostly what we saw.

Our destination for the walk was a 16th century church, and as we got closer, we noticed a surprising amount of spandex.

 Even in the church, itself.

Our lord, father in heaven, creator of tailwinds, protector from flats, hallowed be thy name.

We clearly had stumbled on a mountain bike race through the streets of historic Zitácuaro. Which is, quite possibly, the single coolest place to have a mountain bike race. Plus, Aimee and I both commented that we had never been to a mountain bike race where the food smelled so good!

The rest of the day was equally relaxing. Despite multiple previous episodes ending poorly, I grabbed lunch from a roadside fired chicken stand. I survived. Fragrantly.

Other hotel guests had turned on the Superbowl in the common area where we ate dinner. Aimee and I learned the Spanish words for linebacker, running back, first down, and touchdown, although I can't imagine a time where we'll need to use those again.

After dinner, the ranch owner played a video about the nearby Monarch Butterfly Sanctuary, which was our destination the following day. We couldn't have been more excited. More on that soon.

Just another evening in paradise.