Huh. I wrote this in a frenzy last week, and never posted it. Sad how the glory of pit-roasting wears off after just a few days back at the city grind. But right now I’m working at the building down at the WTC site, which is so beautiful, and the people in the office are so friendly, and the kitchen is so stocked with free cans of seltzer, that I’m getting a little giddy all over again…

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Last night, while sitting at the prime table on the balcony at the restaurant at a super-prime resort in the prime tourist zone of the Riviera Maya, about to enjoy a seven-course tasting dinner, I began to experience a strange and novel feeling.

I’m pretty sure it was a sense of cheer brought on by loving my job.

And I’m not just saying that because I was being comped at this particular resort–though that certainly didn’t hurt–and not because I happened to be wallowing in luxury at that moment.

In fact, I wasn’t pleased precisely with that moment, though it was beautiful, but because I was wallowing in the afterglow of a kick-ass afternoon.

I’m drawing this out because even as I’m typing this, I’m having a hard time keeping my feet on the ground, keeping myself from jumping up in the middle of the Miami airport and clapping my hands together with glee.

Dude: Yesterday I got to cook something in a pib–a genuine Maya-style barbecue pit, with the freakin’ hot lava rocks and everything!!!!!

I should be more jaded–I mean, I started this blog back in 2004 with a post about roasting a whole lamb and a pig on Tamara’s balcony in Queens.

But there is something amazingly kick-ass about being led through a grove of palm trees to a little Maya-style hut, and then being led into the hut to find that it is 400 degrees inside, and there is a fire going in there, and it’s been burning since 8.30am, and pretty soon, we’re going to put something in there ourselves!

Never mind that this was on the grounds of a crazy-swanky resort, so it’s hard to call this an “authentic” experience.

Never mind that all we’d be putting in that giant pit was a wee little fish, because I was the only one in the cooking class.

Somehow, the fact that I was put directly to work chopping things on a wobbly table, under the bright midday sun, cut through the pampered setting. My knife was a little dull, and the handle–it was one of those all-metal Globals–was scorching from the sun. Behind me was a portable burner set in a bamboo rigging and fueled with a bottle of propane. This was rigged-up outdoor cooking in a way I could get behind.

So we prepped the fish–well, Chef Cupertino did, with that awesome take-the-bones-out-while-leaving-the-tail-intact fancy move–and covered it with crazy-red achiote sauce (magic ingredient: cloves! I had no idea) and my chopped-up vegetables. Then we stuck the whole thing in the ground! I’m about to jump up with glee again.

I cannot tell you how delighted this made me–I mean, hilarious that there was enormous fire and elaborate setup for…a teensy little sea bream. I can only imagine I would’ve fainted if we’d been sticking actual whole pigs in the ground.

The fish was crazy delicious, I got schooled on the difference between a lima and a limon (which I knew, but somehow never made the connection with sopa de lima–duh) and I got to talk shop with Chef Cupertino over lunch and yummy Mexican wine, all while sitting outdoors in what felt like the middle of nowhere. And then we tramped around in his herb garden and looked at the habanero plant that seemed to have gotten all eaten up–I never want to meet the bug that’s strong enough to eat a habanero , even if it’s just the leaves.

If I were a more helpful blogger, I’d tell you the specifics of what I learned–maybe I’ll get to that–but for now I’m still just basking in the idea that for once, on one of my research trips, I really got to do something. Usually I’m just racing around with my notebook, saying, “That looks fun–how much does it cost? And how many people in the boat? kthxbye, maybe next time…” And since I’m very familiar with my various turfs now, I rarely get to learn something new.

But throwing a fish in a roasting pit–that makes up for years of stagnation! And it was simply great to talk shop with someone about things I really cared about: cooking, what the Yucatan is like compared with the rest of Mexico, more cooking. Usually, I spend most of my days in the Riviera Maya hearing gossip about the latest condo developments.

Basically, I got a glimpse of what it would be like to write about only the things I’m really, really interested in. And then get served some amazing food on the side. Thanks, Chef Cupertino!

Driving through Chiapas I fully realized how dull traveling by car is. Here, where you can rent a car for about US$15 a day and gas is about 70 cents a liter, and that car gets 40 miles to the gallon, it’s hard to argue for taking the bus, especially when you’re more than one person.

But driving takes all the sense of accomplishment out of your day. I was envious of the guy who rolled up at Frontera Corazal and wound up sharing a boat with us to to the ruins of Yaxchilan. He’d planned all the previous day, to get on the combi at the right time, and then to negotiate with the cabbie who drove him the 15km down from the highway. All along, the jungle got denser, the road got worse, the animals along the side of the road got bolder. He got to sit back and soak it all in. More important, though, by taking public transport, he gave up control, which makes it an actual adventure.

By car–ho hum. The road got worse–I chose to drive a little more slowly, whereas the combi driver probably didn’t. It got hot–I gave up my aspirations of keeping it real and turned on the a/c. I arrived cool yet stultified.

But single backpacker dude probably spent the morning dozing on and off, waking up occasionally to see the jungle suddenly thick (whereas I just saw it get gradually denser–not so remarkable). Or maybe he spent the morning having random, stilted conversations with the other people in the combi–tiring, but memorable. He’s been thinking, This is how people really get around in this country.

I was just staring at the road ahead of me, and occasionally checking the map. I was keenly aware that people do not normally get around in an air-conditioned PT Cruiser.

It all just confirms my suspicion that cars suck, and suck the life out of you. I would really love to come back here and actually have time to travel on buses and combis, and wait randomly by the side of the road for hours, and just give up all the responsibility that driving entails.

You’re probably thinking, Silly girl–two minutes of public transport and she’ll be totally eating her words. But no–I have done this, for a week, the one research trip I fucked up and forgot to get my driver’s license renewed. I still think fondly of my weird series of buses and taxis, of the combi I got on where everyone carried a machete, and driver was goggle-eyed to see me. Of bouncing around in the back of taxis, on my way to ruins that no one ever visits. Of popping off the bus at a transfer point and eating incredible snacks from the vendors there.

Next time, next time…

So, my phone now speaks better Spanish than I do: I popped in a Mexican SIM card, and all the menus switched over: mensajes, adreses, you name it. Why can’t I do that with my brain?

I contemplate this from my little beachfront prison where I’m not speaking Spanish at all: I’ve been in writing lockdown here in Cancun for these last few days. I’ve always imagined doing this–a little beach time, a lot of writing–but it never works out. I’ve told this plan to people I know in Puerto Morelos so many times–and not followed through–that it’s a little embarrassing. Oh well–if I were in PM, I’d be eating my fool head off all day long and never getting anything done. Through the miracle of Hotwire, I am staying in a relatively posh hotel that is populated with so many large, sunburnt Americans that I really am not tempted to spend all day by the pool. And if I want to eat, I have to walk at least a kilometer. (Mmm–good tortas yesterday, though, overlooking the lagoon! Spongy lunchmeat never tasted so good, slathered with mayo and habanero salsa!)

Yesterday I did venture out for a morning swim (all you Cancun haters: you clearly have never been in the water–it’s unreal, and shark-free!), then retreated to my shady hotel room for the rest of the day. The maids must think I’m violently ill or on a drug binge, as I don’t even let them in to tidy up or replace the towels.

I went out at night to see a movie–the first time I’ve gone to the movies in Mexico, I realized, because I usually don’t have the time. I like to go to movies everywhere, just to see what you can get at the snack bar–here, nothing special, but at least popcorn is called palomitas (“little doves”). I saw a film called Stellet Licht, made by a Mexican director but set in a Mennonite community in north Mexico, in Chihuahua. After I got over the idea that maybe I could understand the Plautdietsch, which sounds enough like Dutch to fool me, I managed with just the Spanish subtitles OK. It helped that those Mennonites are a terse bunch. There were 10-minute stretches where no one said anything, so I had plenty of time mull over the incredibly basic sentence I’d just read at the bottom of the screen, and finally go “Ohhhh.” There were only about 12 people in the theatre: me and a huge whole family, including great-aunts and grandmas. When they left, they were all laughing because most of them had just fallen asleep.

What else has happened? I’ve fully recovered from my little “moment” in Merida. B got off OK and is home in ABQ now. I’ve seen a few more clowns. They’re just a regular part of the street fabric here, like the raving drunk guy and the impossibly small 90-year-old woman and the guy walking by with mangos on a tray balanced on his head. No one bats an eye. The buses are still filled with roving accordion and guitar players.

My last night in Merida, I ran out to check a few last-minute things. I was hightailing it back to the hotel when a guy in a doorway said hello to me. Then he asked if I spoke English. I slowed down my walk and reluctantly said yes. Next thing I know, he’s asking me to translate a poem he’s trying to read, about a Japanese guy giving an anti-nuclear speech in 1957. I have to explain that yes, it says the flowers are smiling, and that’s weird, but it’s poetry, right? After 10 excruciating moments, and me gesticulating more than talking, he lets me go. I think I believe him about only needing help with the first two stanzas.

This morning I walked up the beach to this little coffee place attached to a mall (everything’s attached to a mall here). I vaguely remembered having a nice breakfast there in November. Halfway into my latte and my obligatory cream-cheese-filled pan dulce, my waiter says, “You were here before, weren’t you?” Either they get no customers, or I was much chattier then than I recall. He remembered my whole story–guidebook-writing, etc. Extremely sweet. Especially since he didn’t charge me for my pastries in the end. Aw. Later, walking down the beach and replaying the conversation we’d had in Spanish, I realized I’d answered half his comments/questions wrong. Oh, _he_ would like to speak more languages! Whaddya know–it’s not all about me.

So I’ll be sad to leave, especially as this marks the beginning of a long lull in the update cycle for the Mexico books. I won’t have reason to come back here until late 2009, and by then my cookbook project with Tamara (which is a go, I have not mentioned!) will be out, and who knows what that will bring?

That thing I said about never being sick in Mexico? Whoa.

Try instead eating a lovely meal at someone’s house (home-cooked food: what a relief, after two weeks on the road). Then you get to the last bite and realize something is Terribly Wrong. You make a break for the bathroom (“Cairo, I’d love to tell you about Cairo! But first, I really, really have to use the bathroom!” I said with all seriousness and calm). But instead you start to black out just about the time you get halfway there–the fridge is the last thing you see, and you put in an extra sprint toward the bathroom door in hopes of getting there on auto-pilot.

You come to, after what feels like the most restful dream-filled full-night’s sleep but was really about 20 seconds, slumped in the bathroom doorway and covered in your dinner, in many forms.

That hasn’t happened to me since I was a kid.

Anyway, to be fair, the kind of sick I got was really not Mexico’s fault. It was completely mine, for stomping around in the noonday sun, with no lunch and only the merest suggestion of Gatorade. I hadn’t been eating because my gut had not been flawless (OK, that’s sort of Mexico’s fault), and I just didn’t want to eat another taco. I was holding out for this delicious homey meal that night. And ooh, baby–I got to enjoy it coming and going!

I have gotten this same kind of sick once before, not in the third world, but in NYC, after tromping around in the noonday sun in the summer, stupidly wearing corduroy pants and drinking nothing but beer. By sundown, after arriving at another long-awaited home-cooked dinner, I had a sip of a gin-and-tonic and promptly yakked. I spent the rest of the night in a darkened bedroom, moaning, occasionally dragging myself out to vomit as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the dinner party that continued on without me.

Some people might think this last point is demented, but I think it’s essential. The Dinner Party Must Go On! The last thing a sick person wants is for everything to grind to a halt while everyone crowds around and looks on in shock and pity, and then quickly says their goodbyes.

And to my impeccable hosts’ credit last night, they did carry on. Presto, my utterly soiled clothes were in the laundry (what luck! I’d spilled eggplant on my skirt earlier in the night–no need to worry about those oil stains!). I was led to the shower, and given a whole new, cute outfit to wear and an open invitation to all the assorted lotions and products. Then I came downstairs and drank some tea. I went on to vomit a couple more times (demented again, but I actually don’t mind this at all–good thing I like my body, or I would be a class A bulimic), while the lovely lady of the house served my mother dessert.

I got driven home in an air-conditioned car, the non-bumpy route, with bags of assorted things to get me through the night and assurances that a doctor could be summoned if need be. This morning I feel fantastic, and I even ate a teeny bit of the cake from last night.

Now that is true hospitality, and that is why these flawless hosts also run one of the finest B&Bs in Merida.

I’m sorry I had to get so violently ill just to test them, but hey, I’m just doing my job, you know?

I just ate the heftiest lunch ever, at this taco place in Playa del Carmen called El Fogon. About three years ago, I dragged a hapless guy I met in a bar over to the other El Fogon branch, off in the then-wilds of Av 30 and C 28–I remembered it being very tasty, and the random guy being a little out of his depth. So I was looking forward to lunch, by myself, without the responsibility of a co-eater (hey, that’s what you get for striking up a conversation with me in a bar, dude).

Except I couldn’t find the place. But I could smell it. I wandered around two square blocks, navigating purely by the smell of grilled meat. When I got there, I was ravenous, and promptly ordered the “Taco Loco,” which looked giant and had a lot of meats and cheese in it.

It arrived, a hulking thing in a flour tortilla. Improbably, it was garnished with a bit of pork chop and a wiggly, chewy piece of barely grilled bacon. When I saw the all-meat garnish, I actually thought, “Ha, that’s crazy!” And only then remembered precisely what I’d ordered. I guess they warned me, right?

After that, I stopped in to look at a hotel. I explained what I was doing, and asked to see a room. The guy just could not get his head around it. I wasn’t selling anything. He didn’t have to pay anything. Somehow I made enough money to do this job… He’d never heard of Rough Guides, or Lonely Planet, or Frommer’s or Fodor’s or any of the other names I pulled out. It just didn’t make any sense to him. Every time I thought we were making a breakthrough, he’d end up saying something like, “So it’s like the Yellow Pages?”

Finally, he kind of gave up, and we talked about my job a little more, how I got paid, and so on. Then he said, “Your job…it’s kind of like making a movie.”

I laughed, and said, “Oh yeah–I wish my life were that glamorous!”

No, he explained–he meant, really making a movie. He’d lived in California for a long time, and he’d seen up close just how boring and awful the process of making a movie can be, all the waiting around and redoing things, all for a tiny bit of film. My job, it sounded like, was a lot like that.

He got it.

Separately, a few comments on dining:

I cannot stop myself from ordering wine when I’m eating food (such as lasagne) that calls for it. But I know the wine is going to be terrible (due to the heat), and expensive (due to weird tariffs). I think tonight’s ‘mer-LOT’ (with a final ‘t’) may have trained me, finally. Or maybe the lasagne was to blame. I wound up kvetching about it to a nice Chinese-American guy who runs a Chinese-Filipino-Thai restaurant here. He told me where I should’ve eaten lasagne, and also that his restaurant has all Hong Kong chefs, plus a Filipino guy. So two places I could’ve eaten instead. (The Filipino angle is due to the huge number of Filipinos on the cruise-ship crews, incidentally.)

Before that, I happened to meet a man (whose name was Marco Polo, incidentally) who deals in fish (he was wearing a shirt covered in a fish pattern, which is more relevant). He’s based in Merida, and sells frozen fish from Progreso, on the north Gulf coast, to Cozumel. This is interesting, because I’m sure most diners here imagine they’re eating fish fresh-plucked from the sea out front. I never put much thought into it, but I guess I thought something at least halfway like that. Not frozen, at least. Right now, said Marco Polo, the seas are bad and no one on the Caribbean is doing any fishing–so all the fish happens to be frozen. I left him starting to read a National Geographic all-fish issue from 1995. And I didn’t order fish for dinner…but that’s how I wound up with nasty lasagne.

On a nicer note, I have noticed that people passing by my table on their way out of restaurants say “Buen provecho” to me. Is this because they feel sorry for me, eating alone (like, someone has to say it to her, the poor thing)? I haven’t really noticed it happening to other people. In any case, it’s a gallant gesture, to wish a good meal upon a stranger.

(This post was brought to you by the parenthesis.)