After a couple of weeks in the interior of the Yucatan, where everyone comes up to my shoulder, Cancun was a bit of a shock. Enormous people everywhere, strolling hand in hand, necking on the beach, clambering on and off buses. And so much pink skin. I holed up in my a/c beachfront hotel room, drank a very strong margarita, and called it a trip. One hour on the beach in the morning, and I was _out_.

So, from a cappucino on Day 2 that made me clench my jaw all day like a rave kid, to really tasty Chinese food on my next-to-last night, it was a pretty good food trip. Except for that one night when B. and I subsisted on green-chile-enchilada-flavored potato chips and faux (but better) Oreos, washed down with warm-ish beer, it was a pretty good food trip. I even ate the dangerous ‘queso relleno,’ which really is cheese stuffed with meat, not the other way around. And it’s covered in cream sauce. And I had a super old-school caesar salad (invented in Mexico, for the record) that reeked of anchovies–deeeelicious.

Oh, and I looked in some nature books, and I think the endangered hindquarters belonged to a plain old possum, judging by the toes. A flip through my Maya dictionary reveals nothing forest-dwelling under the ‘u’ section. But the word for possom is allegedly ‘ooch.’ It will have to remain a mystery meat.

Now I’m trying to relearn the US keyboard, and wading through a pile of paperwork, and all in all too distracted to eat, I mean write (see what I mean?) any more.

To compound the problem, Peter and I are going to Montreal for Thanksgiving, finally taking the train ride we’ve been talking about taking for _years_. Turkey dinner will be consumed in some form, even if Peter has to slip the bar guy a fiver to nuke our mashed potatoes.