Sorry for radio silence. What I’d envisioned as three days of lounging around the lovely garden of Genesis in the village of Ek-Balam while tapping into the Web through the miracle of wi-fi turned out to be a hell of a lot of driving and zero Internetting, thanks to my cranky computer, which I think has a piece of lint stuck in the part connecting the wireless antenna to the rest of it.
On one of my long-driving days, I stopped in at the wonderful Tres Reyes restaurant in Tizimin (where I had the Best. Avocado. Ever. last year). This time it was the Best. Beans. Ever. and the Best. Tortillas. Ever. and the Best. Owner. Ever.
Beans: inky black, exuding lard, incredibly rich. Tortillas: now I see why people might see Jesus or the Virgin Mary on a tortilla. These were small, thick, chewy and flecked with ash from the wood fire they were cooked over. Halfway through my meal, a waiter whisked away the half-full basket and replaced it with a batch of new, hot ones.
Owner: the estimable Willy Canto, whom I’ve never met before, but I know his name from his giant business cards stuck on all the tables. I usually just gush about how great everything was to my waiter, a groovy man with a wire-rim glasses and a little gray ponytail. But I guess my gushing was loud enough this time that Don Willy overheard me. Clad in a dapper white guayabera, he waltzed over to my table to hold my hand, stare deep into my eyes and lay on the charm like only a Mexican man in his 70s can. He looked suitably crushed, but then dismissive, when I mentioned my husband. He believes in our love. Sorry, Peter. Willy also won my heart with a souvenir hand fan, on which the name and phone number of the restaurant have been painstakingly printed in felt-tip pen.
What else? At the Ek-Balam garden paradise, I met a couple who had arrived there after reading the review in the Rough Guide. Ridiculously gratifying! And they were just like what I always imagine Rough Guide readers to be–that is, just like me, conveniently. I tend to just ignore the Rough Guides readers who aren’t like me–the early-20s British blondes giggling in the Tulum Internet cafe, for instance. I suppose I should be swooping in and saying, “Ladies! You’re in the presence of a minor celebrity here–how can I help?” But I found my own email more interesting than their querulous readings-aloud of hotel reviews in Palenque. I didn’t write that section anyway–I really wouldn’t have been any help.
Last night I took a minor break from the guidebook work–did a super-quick drop-in in Merida, which isn’t really on my schedule for this trip, so I could drive down the street without hyperventilating about all the changes. I also had the pleasure again of dining with the brains behind Yucatan Living (on a giant Segovia-style pork leg, no less), as well as touring their house-in-progress, then lounging around someone else’s (finished) living room after. It was great just to be in a real, live house, instead of a hotel.
Then first thing this morning, I turned right around and drove all the way back to Cancun. It would’ve been super-boring, except I spent the first 100km worried that I’d run out of gas before I got to the first station on the toll highway. With Pemex stations now popping up in even tiny towns, it took me by surprise that there aren’t stations at the ends of the toll road. Near the end of the drive, I whizzed right by some guy trying to flag me down. They had a big jug of gasoline, and looked tired. About 10km later, I came across what must’ve been their abandoned colectivo van, with some also-tired-looking passengers hanging around it. I can feel the bad karma piling up because I didn’t stop to give them a ride.
Oh, I just remembered that I seem to have gotten fleeced for about M$100 (US$10) worth of gas when I finally did stop. Allegedly my tank had been filled–and I’d paid about what a full tank would’ve cost–but my gauge registered only three-quarters of a tank. The Yucatan is so un-scammy, and I’m so baffled by this scam (it happened to me once before, on my first trip), that I just can’t wrap my brain around arguing with the guy. I guess he was distracting me while he filled some other container up with gas for a bit? But why? Later, I realized: that’s probably how all the random bootleg gas operations–the little roadside shacks with scrawled ‘Se Vende Gasolina’ signs–get their gas. And good thing, too–as it helped those tired dudes with the gas can that I blew past on the highway. So maybe my karmic debt was prepaid.
Tomorrow I head to Cozumel–back to the land of sun and fun. I’ve already covered so much ground, I feel like the trip should be over.