Magical Mexican Mariscos
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“Everybody have their passport or birth certificate? Groovy, let’s rock!!”
In August, my sister Margarita, my husband Michael and I jumped into our green Toyota Corona with a couple of suitcases, three sleeping bags, a cooler with sandwiches, fruit, gorp and drinks, and a plan to “discover” Mexico. Language was no problem since we were all bilingual. Additionally, we were all in our twenties, eager to do something other than camp in Tahoe. Michael had three weeks of vacation due from his job, Margarita was on summer break and I had managed to convince my mother that it would be a wonderful opportunity to enjoy her three grandchildren for ten days in August. Of course, she gave me a look that seemed to say, “Sure, taking care of a six-year-old, an eight-year-old and a nine-year old for ten days is my idea of paradise.” Nevertheless, she agreed to the penance, and I savored the thought of a break away from the little monsters. With my dog-eared paperback copy of Mexico on $10 a Day, one thousand USD converted to Mexican pesos, and my trusty MasterCard, we left the City by the Bay at 5 a.m. with a San Diego destination in mind for our evening stop at my little sister’s studio apartment. KYA radio kept us awake with the Airplane, Bee Gees, Queen and The Jacksons as we toured down Interstate 5, stopping every now and then at the random “rest stops.” Other than unforgiving heat beating down on our car, the drive to San Diego was uneventful. Back then, crashing on a living room floor in sleeping bags was totally acceptable. Even more remarkable was the alacrity with which we would leap out of the bags come morning, roll up our “beds” and feel refreshed and ready to go for another ten or twelve hours. After a couple of wrong turns—reading a map was not my forte—we rolled into my sister’s place that evening, ate, talked, rolled into our sleeping bags and awoke at 5 a.m. to scrambled eggs and an itch to get back on the road. We stopped at the corner gas station, filled up the tank, and proceeded to drive for hours on highway 80 from San Diego to Yuma, Arizona, through the Desert Highway to Gila Bend, and turned south for the border crossing at Nogales. Margarita kept throwing wet towels over my head so my beet-red face would scale down to my normal olive color. I had never experienced summer in the desert, and the torrid dry heat that made you long for cool San Francisco fog. “Hermana, this is one helluva heat wave. Don’t open the car doors at the rest stop. I think it’s 120 in the shade.” “It’s not that bad,” Margarita replied. “You’re right, it’s worse!” |
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“Honey, I don’t think I have ever seen you look like such a hot pink mess,” laughed Mike.
I threw a crumpled paper towel at him and guzzled down some more water. The radio kept crackling static and the road stretched out into the distance. “I can’t believe it’s only 10 a.m. It’s so hot!” Two hours later, we rolled into Nogales, Arizona. By now, I had swept my long hair into a topknot and switched from jeans into shorts. You could tell that I was getting acclimated as the color of my face did not rival the vibrant red stop sign at the corner anymore. If you played your cards right, you did not have to pay the federales any extra dollars to enter Mexico. It was not required, but they always tried to make the gringos believe that it was mandatory. “Senorita, you still owe one dollar per person to cross into Mexico.” I pretended I was deaf and walked out, got into the car and we drove off with a smile and a wave. Luckily, there was a long line behind me, and the office was short on personnel. Once we crossed the border, Mike began his little refrain, “I’m going to splurge on the biggest plate of fish, scallops, and whatever else that lives in the ocean as soon as we hit Guaymas. I can’t wait! Seriously hon, I’m ordering the biggest marisco platter south of the border. ‘Smell those shrimp, they’re beginnin’ to boil, wastin’ away again in Margaritaville…’ Right, Margarita?” I listened to this little song until I just couldn’t bear to hear it anymore. “Mike, you do realize that may not be the best idea under the sun? I mean, everything you read about Mexico says to eat well-cooked food.” “Oh, can’t you let up just a little? Do you always have to be a spoilsport?” Five hours later, we rolled off the highway onto the quiet streets of Guaymas, not a soul available to ask directions to the inn that we had found in our Mexico “bible.” “Just keep driving west. The place is supposed to be located right on the coast. Wait! Stop! There’s a policia. Let’s see if he can direct us to Hotel Cortes.” “Disculpe, senor, me puede dirijir al Hotel Cortes?” He pointed to a building across the street and surprisingly, it had a placard with an arrow and lettering saying Hotel Cortes. We drove down the road and turned into a hotel which looked like it had been there forever—rustic, under “perpetual construction,” right on the beach, with a swimming pool and a restaurant on the premises. “I’m in heaven,” murmured Mike. |
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The bellboy led us to a junior suite where they had crammed two double beds, three nightstands, four chairs, a table, and a dresser into one room with sliding doors leading to the terrace and the playa. Before the bellboy left with his propina (tip), Mike had rubbed his hands together, dug into his suitcase for swimming trunks and run into the bathroom. Within seconds, he was outside flying down to the beach, issuing orders to a mozo on the terrace for a platter of mariscos. Margarita and I wandered out shortly afterwards to sit on the terrace and assure the waiter that the madman was serious about his request for a platter of seafood. Cognizant about the perils of nonchalantly eating anything in Mexico, and aware of the fact that we were not staying in a five-star hotel, I ordered tortillas, carne asada, rice, beans and bottled water. My sister just wanted something light, and planned to order a salad. I warned her about the possibilities of regretting her decision, and she relented and just ordered a turkey sandwich, no lettuce or tomatoes.
Mike timed his arrival perfectly. Swiftly changing into a pair of jeans and collared shirt, he sat down just as they were bringing his long-awaited seafood platter. Our orders were served simultaneously. “Oh, you two are crazy. Seriously Margarita, a turkey sandwich! And you, I can’t believe it! You eat that kind of food at your mother’s all the time.” Pointing at the platter of langostino, scallops, mussels, and other sea creatures, he said. “Now, this is worth driving two days to eat.” You know, Montezuma’s revenge is not just a figure of speech; it’s a real phenomenon. That evening, while we were watching television, Mike excused himself from the room and proceeded to hold court in the bathroom. He was sequestered in there for long intervals, sprinkled with a few minutes of absence, when we pounded on the door and demanded a minute or two to ready ourselves for bed. I made sure to purchase a few bottles of 7UP before we went to sleep, and secured a promise from Mike that he would NOT drink water from the tap. Next morning, I looked at Mike as he was lying in bed. His eyes were closed, but I could tell he was awake. “No joke, Mike. You look white as a sheet. Are you sure that you want to get out on the road again today? We could stick around another day.” “Did you bring the pink medicine?” “Pepto-Bismol? Nope. Didn’t you stock up on some?” “Would I be asking?” he moaned. “Our destination today is Guadalajara, and that’s where we’re going. Just get me some dry toast and more 7UP, please. Is Margarita in the bathroom right now?” “No, we were just going to the restaurant to get some breakfast. On second thought, maybe I’ll just get room service, and ask for bread and 7UP with our orders. Hey hermana, are you okay with room service? We can eat on the terrace right here. Afterwards, Margarita and I will ask at the front desk if there is a farmacia within walking distance.” |
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Mike raised his arm in acknowledgement of our conversation as he continued on his walk towards the bathroom. When he came out of the bathroom fifteen minutes later, sweat beading on his forehead, grimace substituting for a smile on his greenish-cast face, I reiterated, “Are you sure you’re up for a long drive?”
“Schedule says Guadalajara by midnight, and that’s what it’s going to be.” Guadalajara is about fifteen hours from Guaymas. We had reserved a room for our stay there and parking for our car for six days. We did not get on the road until 8 a.m., with washed-out Mike in the driver’s seat and no Pepto-Bismol. “Sorry, the nearest farmacia is three miles away and it doesn’t open until ten, and I knew we had to get on the road by eight, at the latest. I’m really, really sorry.” “We will have to get some in Guadalajara. No excuses! Stomach’s calmed down quite a bit, but I will need some on hand, just in case. Did you get extra 7UP?” “Yup. Water, too. Don’t forget that there are toll booths on the way down, and you better stop or you’ll get a rifle in your face.” “Now you tell me.” “I told you before. Don’t worry, I have Mexican pesos. The most important thing is that you stay well enough to drive because you’re the only one of us who has an international license and insurance.” “No pressure. How far is it to Guadalajara anyway?” “About fifteen hours.” “You’re kidding, right?” I turned my head and heard Margarita groan as she slid down in her seat, pulled the brim of her baseball cap further down, and went to sleep. I turned back, looked at Mike, and deadpanned, “Not kidding.” Right about midnight we pulled into the hotel up the block from Mercado Libertad. Exhaustion, dehydration, and regret had marked furrows into Mike’s face. “Remind me never to ever order a fish platter anywhere, but especially not in Mexico. Are we at the hotel now?” Yes, but I have to check us in. Margarita, please stay with Mike while I go and see if we have to park in a special place for long-term parking. Also, forget about Mexico City plans for tonight. We’ll leave tomorrow. Today, we will sleep in, check out the sights in Guadalajara in the afternoon and tomorrow during the day.” |
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“Thank God!” chorused Margarita and Mike in unison.
Mercado Libertad is a labyrinth filled with everything from pigs’ feet and traditional handicrafts to famous brand knockoffs. It has thousands of stands and stalls and has been in the same location since 1958. Although it has amazing Mexican food, Mike was not receptive to the tantalizing aromas, coupled with the smells of overripe fruit and teeming humanity. In fact, after walking down the avenida to the entrance, he decided to just sit down in front of the Mercado and hang out, while Margarita and I went shopping in the biggest, most incredible garage sale/flea market ever! Unfortunately, the Mercado did not have any Pepto-Bismol, or, if it did, I did not find it. However, we did find leather goods, pottery, masks, toys, clothing, tortas de puerco, birria (barbequed goat), carne, pollo, camarones, arroz, food everywhere. So, we bought and bought; I even remembered to get something for Mike—a tortilla, rice, bananas, and a bottle of water. Bags in one hand, torta locas in the other, Margarita and I trundled out to meet Mike, who had been baking outside for an hour-and-a-half at a table near the entrance. “Finally! Did you see everything?” he asked. “Nope, but we decided to stop and get some food. We got you rice, a tortilla and water. That should go down easy. After we eat, we should probably go back to the hotel and rest until tomorrow.” “Hey, that actually sounds good.” “Tomorrow morning, we will hit the Palacio del Gobierno. I’ve got to see the Orozco murals there. It’s super cool stuff.” “Whatever you want,” Mike replied. “That’s tomorrow.” “And tomorrow night, we get on the Tres Estrellas luxury bus to Mexico City at 10 p.m. We should arrive by 8 a.m. If all goes well, we should be able to sleep all the way and arrive ready to see the sights.” “Oh, I’m sure that’s going to be an experience. I can just imagine it now.” “Mike, are you being sarcastic?” “Oh no, not at all. So far, everything has been just perfect! By the way, did you get the Pepto-Bismol?” “Uh, no. I’ll ask at the hotel desk for the location of…” “…the nearest drugstore,” chimed in Mike. |
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Juanita Callejas has explored a variety of destinations as a universal traveler in both mind and body to get to her current “port” of creative writer. Her passport has been stamped as a Mexican-Nicaraguan first-generation native-born San Franciscan. She is a mother of three, an amazing visual artist, an alumna of San Francisco State University (BA in Spanish; BS in International Business and Accounting) and University of California, Berkeley (MBA), Finance and HR professional (banking, shipping and apparel industries), and a grandmother of one amazing grandson. She continues to add pages to her passport for trips to all continents and more visual art and creative writing projects!
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