Another major hot spot we just didn’t manage to get to on our first trip was Plaza Garibaldi, where all the mariachis gather. The symbol on the signs for the metro stop is a guitar.
The plaza had a reputation for seediness, and it’s now being spruced up in that slightly heavy-handed way city planners use when they want to get rid of blight. Lots of LED lights and green glass, and a museum. Presto!
The actual open area was a bit too tidy and unfocused for our tastes, so we hightailed it to Bar Tenampa, which is famous as apparently the first bar on Plaza Garibaldi. Inside, it feels like the party has indeed been going nonstop for the better part of a century.
It’s a big barn of the place with high ceilings and huge murals of great singers, and bright lighting.
Those are jarocho guys, with the harp. Mariachis lurk in every other corner.
Mere words and photos can’t describe the atmosphere of the place. Let’s try a little multimedia experiment instead.
First, pour yourself a drink. We were fond of palomas–tequila and Squirt (say it ‘Esquirt’), with salt around the rim. I can also recommend a ponche de granada, which Tenampa seemed to specialize in, and of which I had never heard. It’s booze and pomegranate juice, aged for a bit, and served with crumbled pecans floating on top. Seriously, dangerously drinkable–good thing I only got around to ordering one on the last round.
What really makes it is the dainty glass!
Now, all settled in with your drink? Start this video playing.
That’s just for background, really. What we really care about is the next song. The lyrics are painted on the wall:
Que borracho!
Maybe best to click on that and open it in another tab, to see the words.
Got that? Now start this next video. Yes, at the same time as the other one.
WHAT?! YOU CAN’T HEAR ME? THAT’S OK. THAT’S NORMAL! JUST RAISE YOUR GLASS AND SING ALONG!!! THAT’S WHAT THE PEOPLE AT THE OTHER TABLES ARE DOING!
If you’re still not feeling the cacophonous, drunken magic, go stick your finger in a light socket.
Because, as an added attraction, in addition to the three separate mariachi groups in the bar, and the jarochos, there are guys walking around selling electric shocks. With, like, jumper cables. Apparently this is a thing in Tijuana and Juarez, and I guess wherever vast amounts of tequila are drunk; I never knew how sheltered I was.
Near the end of the night, one of our party said, “I’m exactly three shots away from doing that.” It seemed like a fair assessment. He’d already done quite a few.
My magic camera that captured the evening just as I saw it.
Hiring a band (M$120 per song; M$50 for the puny jarochos) was a way of coping, of creating a wall of sound that screened out the others. The bathroom attendant, for her part, wore noise-canceling headphones.
In a way, the noise was so solid that it made everything like a silent film. Far down the end of the room, I watched a small, brief melodrama unfold: two tall, jocky American bros guzzled shots, stood up and jumped around and posed for pictures and danced. I glanced away, then glanced back, and they were already back in their seats, bent over, heads on the table.
I would totally go again. I just want to learn some lyrics first.
Peter and I went to Mexico City two years ago. It happened to be the week before Easter, when the city runs at half-speed because everyone’s on vacation. We were too, so we just didn’t wind up doing very much sightseeing.
Oh, why am I making excuses? We never do much sightseeing. It’s just too tedious to make big plans and maps and timetables, and get your heart set on any one thing. (Precise opposite: friend of a friend who planned her family’s trip to Disney World with a spreadsheet, down to the minute.)
Awe-some. Like, really, awe.
The other problem with planning too much is it’s basically admitting you’re never going back to a place. If you have a big checklist, and you check off all the sights, well, then why would you come back?
I know, the world is a big place and we have a limited amount of time here, so I see why people are strategic (especially with only two weeks of vacation a year; the American workplace is savage). But let me dream, OK? I would much rather leave a place with a pang of regret–which may be strong enough to make me go back–than some kind of bucket-list satisfaction.
This is all a very roundabout justification for my own laziness and the fact that, on our first visit, we didn’t even manage to see the Diego Rivera murals in the Palacio Nacional. They were, what, five blocks from our hotel?
This time, we were three blocks closer. No excuse.
I could load you up with photos, but I’d seen the photos before, and I didn’t understand how powerful the murals are. While we were in Puebla, Peter and I were in awe of the buildings–like, how was it the Spanish were building such amazing things just 40 years after they discovered the place, and the English couldn’t even keep a colony of settlers alive?
The answer is in the last of the murals.
If you answered ‘slave labor,’ you win a prize.
After that, we cheered ourselves up with ice cream.
Colors of the Mexican flag, no coincidence.
And some tacos–grilled beef and cactus.
Gorgeous.
That were grilled in this contraption:
See that? Next trend in food trucks. Mark my words.
Not sightseeing rewarded us with those tacos, and several other neat things.
Crazy bottles of booze.The pinafore store–for all your street-vendor-uniform needs.The Mercado de Dulces…which really was the candy market.Funny fonts. It’s like they saw the ‘circ’ and thought ‘circus’.Shrimp ‘cocktel’.A perfectly nice art deco warehouse.
Wait, you’re saying, that’s just not interesting at all. No–look closer!
Hello, plaintains, ripening like hams in the Alpujarras!
The most trivial thing we did in our post-Palacio walk was stop for many long minutes to watch a street vendor make a perfectly round pancake, without the aid of a mold. While we were sitting, playing it cool, waiting for him to pour the batter, I realized why you can’t always travel like this, planless.
People! Other people! What a pain they are.
No, seriously, we love our friends we went to Mexico City with, and we would have happily spent all of our time with them. But they’d gone off to Trotsky’s house, which is amazing, but we weren’t sure we needed to see again.
Practically speaking, you can’t stop a group of four or six people and say, “Hey, guys, check out that pancake maker. Let’s watch him for a while.” At least not if you want to make it through the day alive.
Hell, you can’t even do this with one other person, if that other person isn’t totally on your travel wavelength.
I feel incredibly lucky that Peter is. Sure, sometimes I wish he’d wake up maybe a little earlier, but he’s totally open to the ‘Wait, stop, let’s…’ and ‘Take a pic of that weird thing’ (most of the photos here are his, at my prodding) and ‘[Chortling at some incredibly immature thing]’.
The fundamental similarity that makes it all possible, though, is that we don’t care if we miss some big sights. We get so many little ones instead.
I’m sorry that this post is long and has relatively few pictures. I know that other air-travel nerds will read it. The rest of you, I don’t blame you if you skip it and come back next week (more about Mexico!).
JetBlue–which I like to think of as my local airline, because its HQ is just a few subway stops down the tracks, at Queens Plaza–started direct service between JFK and Albuquerque on April 22. I booked tickets immediately upon hearing the announcement, in the winter. (Actually, I only booked them one way, because the return is a red-eye, and I am 40, and I cannot hack that any longer.)
It wasn’t until I was getting close to the day of departure that I realized I was going to be on the inaugural flight. One clue was that I had gotten a strangely solicitous and personal phone call from a JetBlue rep asking if it was OK if they changed the flight time to a few hours earlier. “Why, yes,” I magnanimously told them, “by all means.” I left out the part about how I don’t have a day job, so what do I care? They gave me a $50 travel credit for my suffering, and asked if that would be sufficient. I don’t think anyone has ever tried to placate me like that.
The morning of departure, I emailed my old roommate, who is more of an air-travel nerd than me, and asked if he’d ever taken an inaugural flight. What could I expect? I was imagining the back third of the plane taken up by mariachi bands, free-flowing margaritas, etc, etc. Aaron said no, he’d never done this himself, but he emailed me this link.
Well, I admit I was a little deflated. It didn’t look very glamorous–though airport lighting can suck the glamour out of anything. But there might be cake! I packed my bags and hiked it to JFK.
(Now, here is where I’d like to respectfully suggest that JetBlue change the flight to depart from LGA. Because that’s right by my house. JFK is a schlep. I mean, if they’re asking my opinion about the flight times and all…)
Anyway, I got to JFK, eyes peeled for special treatment and cakes. Au contraire: The Albuquerque flight wasn’t even on the board, and when I asked the security guy if I should be worried about that, he said, “Oh, what? Weren’t they calling that an hour ago?”
I had had that very personal convo with the JetBlue lady, so I did not panic. “Uhhh, wait, gate 15,” the security guy finally said. Which I guess is the gate for special occasions, because that’s where the party started.
That party was catered by a very well-meaning but clueless NYC operation. A buffet table was draped with those stripey Mexican blankets, and the guacamole was spiked with pineapple. There was orange-mango juice. And churros. And, horror of Tex-Mex horrors, chili con carne.
Sorry. Just awful photos. I was not as well dressed for the flight as the folks in these pics.
Enh, whatever. I’m used to people thinking New Mexico is Mexico, or Texas. And you go to Albuquerque with the caterers you have, not the caterers you wish you had. It was nice to see a cute buffet, surrounded by people in suits all congratulating each other. From the adjacent gate, passengers on a delayed Buffalo flight looked on with envy.
One excellent-ly Albuquerque detail was a poster someone had made of the Sandia Peak Tramway emblazoned with the JetBlue logo. That made up for any lack of green chile, which I couldn’t realistically have expected anyway.
Said poster in foreground. The tall guy in the background is the mayor of Albuquerque.
There was an American Girl doll making the rounds. Apparently the new one is from Albuquerque.
Around boarding time, the speeches began. Mayor Berry of Albuquerque was there to personally welcome us all. There was an awkward ribbon-cutting ceremony.
Awkward because those are big, kinda fake scissors, but they still have to really cut. That’s the American Girl doll, not a live baby, in range of the scissors.
And then we all got on and settled in. The captain made a speech about New Mexico history, which made me a little verklempt. So did the guy wearing a big turquoise bolo tie.
One nice thing about travel in New Mexico is you can always get a nice glass of bubbly, because the really good winery Gruet is based in Albuquerque. And lo–the head flight attendant let us know that they’d be passing out free glasses of Gruet sparkling wine. And there were beers from Marble Brewery in the back, free for the taking. Free booze–this officially trumped the DFW-BOS flight!
Because I had read that other post about the BOS-DFW flight, I was primed for games and prizes. I had made mental note when the captain said this was JetBlue’s 77th destination city, and I had a few other bits of B6 trivia up my sleeve.
But the big prize (a balloon ride and free nights at the excellent Andaluz hotel, and tix on JetBlue) was for a guessing game about how much fuel the flight was using. I am embarrassed to say that I was off by a factor of 7. The woman next to me, who spoke no English (‘Que es?’ she asked me; ‘Es un juego, sobre gasolina,’ I told her), guessed much better.
The rest of the prizes were given bingo-style, based on our seat numbers. This meant a lot of second tries, because JetBlue employees were in lots of seats. I’d guess the flight was about three-quarters full, with maybe a third of the people having some official reason to be there.
Mayor Berry had a custom apron with his name on it, and he passed out snacks. Let’s just say his main qualification for being a flight attendant is being tall enough to reach inside the overhead bins. The woman next to me went Terra Chips-less.
See? Pretty tall.
I had gotten to shake hands and even swap cards with the mayor, while we were waiting to board. He joked that he had “begged” the JetBlue CEO to start flights. It’s probably my own built-in insecurity I have about the relative importance of Albuquerque in this world, but I imagine this might be slightly true.
When we were close to Albuquerque, the captain let us know that we’d be welcomed by fire trucks that would spray the plane with water. It’s an industry tradition, apparently, for inaugural flights, called a “shower of affection. (“We’re trying to change that,” he said, sounding a little embarrassed. I’m not the only one who thinks this sounds vaguely dirty?).
Our approach was great–way up north, then circling back south and flying low over the Sandia foothills, right up against the mountains. If we hadn’t left NYC about 45 minutes late (mechanical issues; slightly embarrassing), we would’ve hit at prime watermelon-pink time. It was still beautiful. Definitely worth rescheduling the flight time for.
When we deplaned, we were greeted by the mayor, yet again (poor guy, dashing here and there to his marks!), and a group of Pueblo people in their full dance finery. A guy was playing a flute, and we all got colorful corn necklaces. (I’d been wondering what the NM equivalent of a lei would be! Of course–corn necklaces. I don’t think I’ve had one of those since elementary school.) The Sunport staff was all standing around in matching yellow polo shirts, waving and saying welcome.
Again, verklempt. I always get a surge of affection when I get off the plane in Albuquerque–there’s something good about the airport, even. And it was 10 times that on that night.
My mom had said, “Where do I meet you?” She didn’t know whether JetBlue had a labeled spot in the arrivals lane at the airport. She needn’t have worried.
Nice! Although note the inconsistent type style. Visual argh.
So, we never got any cake. But we did get goodie bags with some very silly goodies. (A giant plastic JetBlue cup–was that some kind of dig at Bloomberg?) I gave my brother the freeze-dried green chile stew, but I kept the Sunport luggage tag, and the mini version of the tramway poster. Whoever thought that up is a genius.
Thanks, JetBlue. Thanks, Mayor Berry. I hope this flight keeps running. It makes me proud to be from ‘Burque!
We were only in Puebla two and a half days, which really isn’t fair to Mexico’s fourth-largest city. (Did you know that? I did not. After DF, Guadalajara and Monterrey.)
We were pretty fried on Sunday, our first day out, and overwhelmed because it was Palm Sunday. The streets were packed with people.
Getcher palm doodads here!
We wandered around pretty aimlessly and happened across equally random treats, such as this hot dog situation:
I don’t know what that is in the foreground. We’re talking about the thing in the guy’s hand.
It was, as far as I could make out, a hot dog dipped in molten cheese then wrapped in an eggroll wrapper, and then wrapped in bacon, and then deep-fried.
Peter swore it was one of the best things he ate on our trip. And he wasn’t even high.
Please don’t extrapolate about Puebla cuisine from this; I think it’s a one-off invention of the guy who runs the stand.
Not far away was weirdness of another sort, a veritable garden of kiddie rides:
Photo by Peter. Actually, let’s just say all of these are.
We stopped at the railroad museum (doesn’t everyone make that their first stop in a new city?) and cried over the oh-so-recent death of Mexico’s passenger rail. (Our friend Jim took the train from Texas to San Miguel de Allende for a high school trip in the 80s! Argh!)
This is the style of travel to which I am accustomed, thankyouverymuch.
Later that day, we met up with some real live poblanos, who were kind enough to make sure we saw the Rosary Chapel, one of the city’s major attractions. Which we almost certainly would have missed otherwise, because it’s off the side in one of the churches that was mobbed with Palm-Sunday-enjoyers.
Click to enlarge. Really. It’s worth it.
We also went to the Museo Amparo, recently reopened after a big renovation. In fact, it’s still not totally finished. But the rooftop cafe was a great place to get up close and personal with all the church domes in the city.
Modern museum on the right; colonial city on the left.
Aaaand then, back to our regularly scheduled aimless wandering.
This park was so committed to its jacarandas that all the benches and trash cans and everything were painted purple.With all the heart-ripping-out imagery, are emos just updated Aztecs?Jesus loves neon, this we know.
Finally, to end this post on an educational note, did you know Chia Pets are, like, a real thing? Here, look:
An ‘altar of sorrows,’ commemorating the Virgin Mary’s loss of her son.This time I did the zooming for you. Check it!
As a display at the Museo Amparo helpfully explained, sprouts and wheatgrass are placed on the altar, to represent rebirth. And little hollow clay turtles and sheep, covered in chia seeds, are a way of doing that. It was hard to tell from the phrasing whether this is something that’s been going on for centuries, or if Mexicans just like Chia Pets, and incorporated them into the altar? Chia Pets were originally made in Mexico, says-Wikipedia-so-it-must-be-true, which suggests the former.
Cool, right? Who knows what I’ll learn on my next (hopefully longer!) visit to Puebla…
(Sorry, just had to get that out of my system. The whole time I was in Puebla, the home of mole poblano, I had that dumb joke running through my head. But really? The mole? Hot damn, it’s so good.)
Peter and I took a food tour with Eat Mexico, the same wonderful folks we did a street food tour with two years ago in Mexico City. Not only have they branched out to Puebla, but the guide is the woman behind the excellent All About Puebla blog.
Peter and I put on our stretchy pants and met Rebecca in the center of the zocalo. As usual, we thought we knew stuff (mole, cemitas), but we knew jack. She promptly marched us off to a place with molotes, jarochas, chanclas and pelonas, among other things.
Now, as I type, I could not tell you what molotes really are. The shape has evaporated, and I just remember the tastes: we had one filled with potatoes and cilantro, which tasted like a samosa, and one filled with brains, which were silky and surprisingly beef-flavored.
The pelona is clearer in my mind because it’s, get this, a deep-fried sandwich!!!!
Rebecca explained all this rationally, about Puebla’s long tradition of baking a variety of wheat breads and so on, as though it were perfectly normal to dunk the outside of a bread roll in hot oil till it gets shatteringly crunchy, and the fill the inside with something hot and cheesy and fabulous.
Peter and I were so busy gobbling that we forgot to take photos. Sorry.
Then we marched on to a place that called itself a taqueria oriental, which specializes in tacos arabes and tacos al pastor, on dueling vertical spits.
Foreground: “arabe” meat; background: “al pastor” meat. (Photo by Peter)
I don’t know why it delights me so to see Arab culture mashed into/absorbed into/flourishing in Mexico, but it does. Tacos arabes are basically shwarma in form, but still Mexican in flavor (the pork helps).
They look like shwarma too, with a flatbread-y wrap that’s halfway between a flour tortilla and a Syrian pita.
They were allegedly invented in Puebla, in the early 20th century. The skewer technology either enabled or improved the taco al pastor (not sure which–any food historians know?), and wow, the ones we had were some of the best ever.
A thing of beauty, right?
If I continued with this blow-by-blow account, we’d never get anywhere. Suffice to say, we also stopped for strange and wonderful cookies and candies I’d never heard of, detoured for mysterious candy apples, and, best of all, walked for a while, out of the historic center and into a part of the city we hadn’t yet gotten to see. On the way we passed a peaceful protest.
Power–and parasols–to the people.
By the time we got to the market we were bound for, our appetites had been magically restored. We strolled around ogling all kinds of things, and asking people pesky questions. We bought a kilo of homemade mole. We saw huitlacoche in situ!
Mmmm, corn fungus! (Photo by Peter)
And then we ate cemitas. Just as Rebecca promised, every component of this amazing sandwich was perfect.
I love the man chomping in the background. (Photo by Peter)
You can’t see all the gorgeousness in the photo, but the string cheese was unstrung into fine threads, the milanesa was hot and crispy, the chipotle was homemade, all smoky and brown-sugar-sweet. (Ohhh, so that’s what chipotles en adobo are supposed to taste like!) A man came along and sang a sad song on a guitar, and a woman rolled up and sold us a big plastic bag full of fresh pineapple juice. It was one of those crystalline this-is-why-I-love-Mexico moments.
Then, as if that weren’t enough, we went and drank sweet-and-boozy drinks on a tiny balcony in a pretty arcade.
Anyone who has been reading my stuff or following me on Twitter knows that I’m fond of Mexican wrestling. It hits the sweet spot between kitsch and real, folkloric, theatrical performance. I mean, I even loved Nacho Libre.*
The gods of travel scheduling were smiling upon Peter and me, because we happened to be in the city of Puebla on a Monday night, when the weekly lucha action goes down. And it was easy walking distance from our hotel.
Still, we almost didn’t go. We had eaten a very large dinner (surprise, surprise) and were feeling vaguely sunburnt and jet-lagged. Plus, Puebla is 7,217 feet above sea level. I tweeted this pitiful thing:
Fortunately, Rebecca of All About Puebla saw my public near-wimp-out and urged me to go. “It’s so bad, it’s good,” she advised. She didn’t need to explain the appeal to me.
Start time is 9pm, and we rolled up to the Puebla Arena about 9.30–there was a big mob of people, because we were in line for the cheap seats. It was a huge all-ages crowd: families with tiny kids (one baby freaked when her dad put on a wrestling mask; hadn’t learned object permanence yet, obviously), old folks, couples on dates.
That’s me in the pink shirt. (Photo by Peter)
Inside, the arena was medium-size, and slanted very steeply–even four rows from the back, we still had a great view, without the risk of a wrestler actually landing on us. Food and beer vendors threaded through the crowd. One was carrying a huge basket of steamed shrimp, which seems like the most unlikely coliseum snack ever. But people were buying.
I briefly tried to see where we were in the program, and deduce which luchadores we were dealing with.
Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!! Er, I mean, Monday, Monday, Monday!
That was silly. It didn’t matter. Every match was pure mayhem. There was an old-fashioned bad guy, a man with a huge belly and skinny legs and the old-style skinny-strap unitard, and some new-fangled baddies, all with gnarly-looking black-and-red costumes. Several wrestlers’ masks had mohawks on top. The biggest crowd-pleaser was campy-sweet Maximo, who didn’t wear a mask but did wear pink spangly pants and a blond fauxhawk. He disarmed one opponent by kissing him. Maximo even signed autographs for kids in between matches, which the bad guys didn’t.
Here’s a typical move:
(My first animated GIF! I’m so proud.)
After about an hour or so, the show was over, rather suddenly. We were caught a little off guard. We all filed out, past the detritus of the evening.
Man, it’s like a Spanish tapas bar in here…
Peter said he liked the one we saw in Queens better. Which was, admittedly, more dramatic, and had midget wrestlers and child wrestlers, and a bad guy called La Migra. It lasted for hours.
But here in Puebla, this goes down every week. I realized we’d walked in to one episode of an ongoing soap opera–a tag-team telenovela, I suppose. We left on a cliffhanger. Maximo was up…for now.
Tune in next Monday at the Puebla Arena for more thrilling adventures…
*In Mexico, Nacho Libre totally “counts” as a real Mexican wrestler. You can buy Nacho Libre masks!
Ah, the year-end recap. Some silly things, some momentous things–and not just a rehash of old blog posts. Genuine new material here.
1. We got a pet.
Well, not really. But we did get Sugar Duck, a very easily anthropomorphized sugar canister from Turkey. He speaks with a lisp, and sounds sweet, but sometimes he can be a bit snippy. Peter and I are rapidly progressing toward being one of those awful couples who only talk to each other via hand puppets.
After a couple of months, Sugar Duck also got a friend from the homeland, Mr. Turkish Teapots!
3. I got a cover story in a magazine, and I won an award.
Please indulge my career brags briefly. I was moving too fast this year to fully appreciate these things at the time. Typing it now, I feel kinda bad-ass.
Both were via New Mexico magazine, where I’m always honored to be published. The cover story was this roundup of cool hotels in my home state, in the October ’12 issue.
The best awards are the ones you didn’t even know you were up for. A Macarthur is next, right?
4. I traveled alone throughout the Middle East, and I did not die.
Back in February, I was quoted in a story about how Americans were still traveling to the Middle East.
A reader felt compelled to warn me of my foolhardiness:
Hi,
I know you feel travel to the Arab nations is safe, but you need to appreciate is how fast the situation over there can change and as an American you are a symbol of hate at the moment.
We had the student hiker’s capture, when the USA has plenty of Mountains to climb.
We have the Aid workers freed by the Navy Seals in Somalia; BTW I think 10 Somalia’s were killed. So sad considering the Aid workers could be doing aid work in plenty of places right here in the USA.
Please don’t promote the middle east until women in Saudi Arabia can drive and vote. Or until women can choose their own husband.
[redacted]
Er.
Anyway, “the Arab nations” (I can’t vouch for Iran or Somalia) I visited this year are safe. I even picked up hitchhikers in Abu Dhabi.
Actually, everywhere is. I don’t think [redacted] appreciates this, and I feel sad for him.
5. I took up a sport.
If you consider hula hooping a sport. It’s certainly more of a workout than I usually get, a bit of a break from my couch-and-bonbons schedule. And, remarkably, it is the only physical activity I have ever been reasonably good at on first attempt.
6. I made friends in Arabic.
For all my years studying Arabic, I have never actually gotten to know someone in the Mid East purely by speaking in that language. That has a lot to do with studying at fancier schools in Egypt, where most people speak English as a second language.
This year, I went to more French-as-backup countries, and my French sucks. And those countries also happen to have some charming and outgoing–and patient–women I’m honored to have met.
7. I went back to Morocco with my parents.
They spent a lot of time there in the late ’60s, which is why I have the name I have. I also finally figured out what my name is really supposed to be in Arabic.
My dad sat down here and said sardonically, “Ah, mint tea again at Cafe Central in Tangier. I can die a happy man.” Then the waiter told me he loved the delicious ladies. Just another typical travel day.
(Oh, sh*t! The book! Why am I writing this blog post when I should be writing the book?!)
8. I turned 40.
And I feel pretty good about it. Even though I almost immediately had to have my wisdom teeth pulled. Life is so much easier at 40 than at 20. And so is traveling.
9. I might have just hit my limit with traveling.
I hope this isn’t related to the previous point. But it was a long year. As I’m writing this, I should have been on a plane to Kuala Lumpur. But general tiredness and a creeping sense of responsibility made me stay home. What’s happening?!
I do have a book to write (ack, sh*t!), and that requires sitting still. I’m a little behind schedule. After this post, you might not hear from me for another month or so.
(The book, in case you’re new here, has a lot to do with “the Arab nations”–and how they’re a great place to travel.)
******
I dedicate 2012 to all the wonderful people I met on my adventures: Maala, Btissam, Said, Alaa, Mido and family (oh, that was late 2011–but still!), Agnes, Holly, Arva, the women behind Qatar Swalif, Habooba, the Asrani family, and many, many more.
May your 2013 be filled with nourishing food and kind strangers.
I don’t think I’ve ever owned a first-generation anything. But even though it was new and had no reviews, I jumped at the new Polaroid Z2300 digital camera because I was headed for Morocco just two weeks after its release in late August.
It promised to solve a particular travel dilemma.
The Polaroid Z2300: the answer to all of life's problems?
You know how you take a photo of some nice kids, or a particularly sweet family, and say, “I’ll send you photos!”? You totally mean it at the time, and dutifully copy down their address. And yet, when you get home, somehow the motivation leaves you, and then five years after the fact, you’re still feeling periodic guilt about those nice people in the beehive village in Syria? I mean, for example.
So. I’d considered buying a Polaroid, the old clunky kind—but then you give away your only copy. Really, I wanted a camera where I could give the pic to the person, and keep a copy for myself.
Which is what the Zink Z2300 does! Miraculous! You take a digital photo, then, if you like the pic, you press a couple of buttons, and presto, the camera spits out a teeny-weeny print from a slot in its side.
...and you can hand that print over and say, Thank you, sir, for the best fried-fish sandwich in Rabat!
Well, not spits. More like sloooowly extends its tongue.
Anyway, I’ve road-tested the Z2300 (terrible name, by the way—why the numbers? It’s the very first one!) in Morocco, and I can tell what’s good and bad about it.
The good: it works. People are pretty impressed by it. And something I thought was a drawback—the small size of the photos—was a plus for one photo recipient. “If it were a normal size, I’d be like, enh. But it’s so cute and small!” said my friend Btissam. (Translating freely from Arabic.)
The bad: the quality of the camera is relatively basic. It boasts of 10 megapixels, but the sensor is probably only as big as a bedbug. My digital photos from it aren’t anything I want to print or use for anything substantial.
The display screen is so lo-res that it makes every photo look crappier than it is (though not as bad as I first thought–when I realized it had a protective film on it that could be peeled off).
It’s also pretty boxy, to hold the printing apparatus–though when you consider what it does, it’s impressive it’s as small as it is.
In practice, this meant I was carrying around the chunky Polaroid along with my regular, fancier camera (a Canon G12, also new on this trip). And my iPhone.
On the other (good) hand, the simplicity means it’s easy to hand to someone else and say, “Just press the big red button.” To judge from the packaging, covered in snaps of people doing zany things, it was designed for drunks in mind. This means children can also use it.
But I need to get better at taking photos myself... And that's Btissam, who loved the small format prints. Cute, like her!
In fact, it looks so simplistic that it’s misleading. This is another bad thing. I’m normally an avid manual-reader, but I was lulled into thinking this camera didn’t even call for it. For about two weeks, I thought the only thing I could adjust was flash on or off. Then one day I accidentally pressed a button, and a whole menu of shooting modes (portrait, night shot, etc) came up. Der.
The other not-immediately-logical thing is the macro-lens option: it’s a little slider on the side of the camera. I jostled it once without realizing, and then for two days couldn’t figure out why all my photos were coming out blurry.
But another good: It wasn’t too expensive. If it had cost any more, I’d have serious buyer’s remorse.
But like printers and razors, the pricey part comes from the supplies. I wasn’t using the camera left and right because I didn’t want to run through the paper—I lived in fear of being discovered by a mob of kids, all demanding their own print.
First he said I couldn't take his picture, but then he struck a pose...
Am I totally sold? Did it revolutionize my travel experience? I was going to say, Not really. But looking over just the handful of photos I took, it was well worth it–normally I don’t have any pictures of people.
I’m not a natural, outgoing, interact-with-people-to-get-the-best-shot photographer. But the Z2300 gave me a little bit of an excuse–even if there was an awkward calculus of when to use the camera, and how clumsy it would be to get it out, explain what was going on, waiting around for the photo to spit out, etc.
Near the end of my trip, I just took a random photo with it, though, rather than a portrait–and I realized I should’ve been doing more of this. It looked nice enough onscreen that I went up to the shop-owner and gave him a photo. He grinned and gave me a huge bag of olives. Aw.
Olive shop in the main market of the Tangier medina
Would I recommend it? Yes. It’s just plain fun, and I like the idea that I’ve left souvenir photos with a whole range of people.
But you shouldn’t buy the white version. Mine is already covered with schmutz. Black is much better for travel.
And, if you don’t have a trip or a wild-n-crazy party coming up, you might want to wait. The next iteration of the Zink Z2300 (will they call it the 2301? Or the 2400? The 4600? Seriously, what? It sounds like a 70s sports car) will almost certainly be smaller and lighter, and have a better screen.
And it will even cost less. Then I’ll have buyer’s remorse.
Our best souvenir of Turkey was not a rug, a set of tea cups or some blue evil-eye charm.
It was the newest member of our happy household, this sweet little guy:
Well, hello there!
We’ve named him Sugar Duck.
This is why:
Hellllooooo!
See, we had dinner at a cheapie restaurant in Edirne where they had the red chili in these nifty flip-top caddies on the table: glass bottom, bright-green flip-top dome.
A couple days later, in Istanbul, we nipped (I was going to say ‘ducked’) into a restaurant-supply place just as it was closing, and they had the exact same form as the Edirne model, but in three colors…and with adorable eyes!
And labeled, in Turkish and English, sugar duck.
As Peter points out, we probably wouldn’t love him half as much if we didn’t know this adorable name. Heck, we probably wouldn’t even have put sugar in him.
Best of all, he’s made in Turkey.
Peter’s first thought was, Oh, we’ll use a better spoon. But then he appreciated just how flawlessly designed the Sugar Duck was. The spoon is his tongue, you see.
Yeth, it ith my tongue. Why are you laughing?
The only down side of our new Turkish pet: We definitely use more sugar than we used to.
