First Hours in CDMX

San Jerónimo Street in Mexico City.

Just after 8 am we left our hotel on Calle San Jerónimo and entered the narrow old street. The morning sun glistened on the upper level of the brown brick buildings that seemed to bend with the contour of the street.

Most of the rolling security shutters on the shops were still down. I didn't know if that meant they were not yet open for the day or were closed permanently.

We walked along a busy road toward Mercado de La Merced, a bustling market in the center of Mexico City. Many were just now setting up shop while others pulled vending carts along the side of the road, still unassembled.

Across the street I noted the dome and bell towers of an old church. It was boxed in on both sides by so-called modern buildings, now tarnished and falling apart themselves.

Templo de San Pablo el Nuevo.

At the end of the street we arrived at the market and along the outer extremities crowds began to gather and vendors displayed their wares. On the corner a vendor had already prepared a line of taco meat that filled the air with aroma.

We entered inside the market, but to our disappointment, only a few vendors had set up shop. Looking for breakfast, we returned to the taco stand on the corner.

My mouth watered as I eyed the selection of stewed meats. I chose the alambre since I had never seen that option in the States.

He scooped the warm meat onto four corn tortillas and sprinkled them with onion and cilantro. Two tacos for me and two for Jordan. I drizzled a mystery red sauce over the meat, then we ate them standing up, using a nearby unused vending cart as a table.

The flavorful food hit the spot. The meat practically melted in my mouth. Tacos for breakfast in Mexico City. What else could we ask for ?!

Tacos de alambre.

We walked our way closer to the historic center. I was still amazed that since we had left the airport the night before, we had not seen another tourist. That still held true. Now as we ambled about the streets, they became more full and chaotic with locals on their way to work or wherever they might be going.

We passed by a plaza with yet more street vendors beginning their day. Most of them had large parasols above their booths to protect from sun and rain. They sat casually with their goods, like they had for the last thousand days, completely unaware of two gringo tourists infringing on their world.

I was amazed at how many old churches we saw dotted along the way. Most of them appeared to be from the earlier Colonial Period in the 15― or 1600's, built with gray bricks and rocks, perhaps looted from the old Aztec city.

Street market at Pino Suárez.

Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel. 

Detail on historic building in Mexico City.

I decided to take a closer look at one of these old churches. Like the others, it too was built with gray brick. I noticed the bell tower silhouetted against the blue sky.

Then I saw the plaque on the outer wall. We moved closer and it confirmed that this was the church I had studied about. The plaque read: “Here are the remains of Hernán Cortés.”

Inside the church was simple and unpretentious. Old dim paintings hung on the wall and two lines of pews ran to the front.

At the front, behind a red plaque, embedded in the wall, were the remains of the Spanish Conquistador.⸻I've been to the graves of both Christopher Columbus and Francisco Pizarro, and Hernán Cortés certainly wins the award for the least prestigious memorial.

We returned outside, walking down José María Pino Suárez Street. As we walked I noticed the streets became cleaner and the cafes on the side became more geared toward the tourist. Buildings, it seemed, became older and more grand.⸻Then we saw it. We came to a massive plaza with the cathedral on the far side and a large Mexican flag in the center. This was the Zócalo. ♠

Church with the tomb of Hernán Cortés.

Chinatown—Saigon

Sanshan Hokkien Temple, Ho Chi Minh City.

We did something we had never done before. The two of us piled onto the back of a moped, trusting our taxi driver to take us through the crazy streets of Saigon. Two-wheeled vehicles are the preferred means of transportation here and it is not uncommon to see three, and sometimes four people on a bike.

He drove us four miles, weaving in and out of traffic until he dropped us off at Bình Tây Market in the heart of Chinatown. 

The emergence of the Chinese in present-day Vietnam dates back to 1664 with the collapse of the Ming Dynasty. During subsequent years many Chinese fled the Motherland. In 1778 some of them took refuge near present-day Ho Chi Minh City due to a fear of retaliation for their support of the Nguyen Lords. In 1782, more than 10,000 of them were killed in what is known as the Tay Son Massacre. 

This Chinese community became its own village, known then and now as Cho Lon. Over the years it has been absorbed into Saigon, but retains much of the original Chinese flavor. It is now the largest Chinatown in Vietnam. 

Chaotic street just outside Binh Tay Market in Saigon.

Aromas come from all directions. 

Inside of Binh Tay Market.

Motorbikes are the principle means of transport in Saigon.

I don't even know how to begin describing Cho Lon. The smells are different. Maybe it's the herbs, the scent of fresh fish, the dank alleyways, the humidity, the incense. I don't know. 

There is the Chinese script that is everywhere, the lanterns, the different foods and Chinese temples. There is an older feel to it, as if you stepped back in time fifty years. 

Chinatown is not confined to a block, or any small space, but spreads in all directions, and there is no distinction as to where it begins or ends. The substance of Chinatown is a blend between Chinese and Vietnamese culture, making it difficult for the casual stranger such as myself to distinguish between the two. 

Fresh ingredients waiting to be used.

Taking a break at a park in Chinatown.

Food cart attached to a motorbike.

Our first stop was into the heart of Cho Lon: Bình Tây Market. This chaotic hub is arguably the best in Ho Chi Minh City. The market building itself had two stories, but vendors spilled out into the streets. The place was packed with fresh produce and food stalls. 

Compared with the other major market in Saigon, this one had no tourists and vendors were not at all pushy. Much of the space was devoted to practical items such as cookware, towels, blankets and the like. No souvenir items at all. 

The food section was sensory overload. There were so many smells and so many foreign foods that I couldn't comprehend them. I didn't even know most of what I was seeing. 

Pet rooster on the sidewalk.

A seller of headstones.

Chinatown felt like Saigon, but crazier and more chaotic. There seemed to be less room, more traffic, and more congestion. Sidewalks often had no room because they were filled with vendors and parked motorbikes, leaving the wary traveler at his own peril to walk along the edge of the street with traffic whizzing by just inches away. 

Of course, we had to eat Chinese food while in Chinatown. Not being too familiar with either Chinese or Vietnamese cuisine, it was difficult to distinguish between the two. We settled on a restaurant serving dim sum, a name referring to small Chinese dishes. I ordered dumplings filled with shrimp, which I ate with chopsticks and dipped in an unknown sauce.―Later in the afternoon we stopped at another restaurant and ordered wonton soup. 

It was while eating wonton soup that we experienced our first Vietnamese rainstorm. We stayed safely dry within the recess of the restaurant while fat drops of water fell from the smoggy Saigon sky. No one missed a beat. Pedestrians and motorists alike donned colorful rain ponchos and continued on their way. Within five minutes, it was over. This was a tease of what was later to come. It was monsoon season here in Southeast Asia. 

Dim sum.

Wonton soup.

No visit to Chinatown would be complete without a visit to one of the many temples. We visited three altogether, and all were similar, but unique in their own way. Common to all were the incense, the intricate sculptures, fine paintings, Chinese script and solemn atmosphere. 

The most iconic was Thien Hau Pagoda, built in 1760 by Chinese immigrants from Guangzhou. It was dedicated to the goddess, Lady Thien Hau, who gives blessings of prosperity and health on fisherman, sailors and others who travel on the sea. The new immigrants believed they had been helped by her during their travels to Vietnam, and thus built a house of worship in her honor. 

The main room was the Black Hall where there was a statue of Lady Thien Hau, as well as spiraled incense hanging above and sticks of incense in large pots. There were several red pillars with Chinese characters. As with all the temples, there were many intricate sculptures, both in the halls and outside on the grounds. 

The Black Hall of Thien Hau Pagoda with spiraled incense hanging above.

Courtyard of Ong Bon Temple.

Detail on Thien Hau Pagoda.

Pots of incense inside a Chinese temple.

One thing that amazed me about Saigon, but also Chinatown, was the innumerable amount of narrow side-streets that wound their way between buildings. They reminded me of the narrow slot canyons back home. But people live here. They park their motorbikes outside. If you peek inside, you can catch a glimpse of their humble living quarters. Although small, they keep them well decorated with plants.

One of the oldest alleyways in Chinatown is Hau Si Phuong, with two levels of colorful homes. When we visited, all was quiet. A man sat shirtless outside his door and a solitary scooter passed through. That was it. Wrought-iron railings surround the second-level balcony. Clothes were hung out to dry and plants decorated near the front door. Some had a rooster in a cage. This alley is over 100 years old and retains much of its original beauty. 

Hau Si Phuong Street, one of the oldest in Saigon's Chinatown.

Pharmacy of traditional Chinese medicine.

Along a street corner we found a pharmacy that sold traditional Chinese medicine. I stood and observed for a few minutes, watching many customers come and go. The shop was small—like almost every shop in Saigon—stacked with small boxes and bags of herbs. Some were behind a glass sliding door that a lady had to unlock. As I observed I became curious about this traditional art of healing, and wished I had known more. But, for now, a quick glimpse would have to suffice. 

Unlike our four-mile motorcycle taxi ride that brought us to Chinatown, we ended up walking the entire distance—and then some—back to our hotel. The Chinese script, the lanterns, the dim sum—they gradually faded out and were replaced with the usual din of Ho Chi Minh City. ♠ 

San Pedro Market

One of the craziest, most chaotic markets I have ever seen is the San Pedro Market in the high elevations of Cusco, Peru. 

The market sprawled into all the streets surrounding the actual building of San Pedro. There was barely enough room to walk around. Vendors with fruits, potatoes, herbs, and everything else were overflowing onto the sidewalk while traffic on a single-lane road tried to push through. Horns honked. Exhaust blew. Pedestrians pushed through. A young boy urinated wherever he found room on the cobble-stoned street. 

I wished I could have taken pictures with my eyes, but I had to do the second-best thing⸺with my camera, trying to be as stealthy as possible. It was the people and their goods I wanted to capture, especially the Inca ladies in traditional dress, or with their babies wrapped on their backs. 

I looked at the food and filth and concluded that it was no wonder so many foreign tourists caught a bug while traveling to Peru. This food would be purchased and brought to the eating establishments where they would be prepared on a plate. 

Still, I was fascinated. 

Then we passed the meat section. Piles of heart, liver, hooves, jugular veins. It smelled the same as when I gut a deer. Blood and rotting stomach. It was here we saw chicken legs, skinned guinea pigs⸺and live bugs. 

At one point we decided to take a break on the steps of San Pedro Church, a 320-year-old house of worship watching over the market. Jenna and I plotted our next move when a foul and drunken man with dark hair and pudgy hands made his way toward us. He nearly fell over the guy next to us, then turned our direction and mumbled something in Spanish. I grabbed Jenna's arm, ready to protect her, but when he began to sway toward us, we quickly stood up and walked away. He spewed a few curse words, but we only smiled. As we gained distance we turned around and noticed he was getting lectured by a policeman. 

From one adventure to the next, we continued through the market, now passing through food being cooked. Ladies stood in front of large kettles with a fire lit below and steam rising above. Patrons sat on little plastic stools around the kettle and ate bowls of appetizing food. A common dish appeared to be rice with a drumstick and fried egg on top; or caldo de gallina, a brothy soup with noodles and chunk of chicken.

Some ladies grilled meat and others made juice. Ice cream was also popular. At the far end were booths of flowers. 

Bathrooms were of interest to me in Peru, and those at San Pedro Market were no exception. I paid the man at the booth 50 soles to enter, and he in return gave me a piece of toilet paper. The room I entered was large and had no door to separate it from the outside. Men and women alike entered inside. The room reeked of urine and feces. Although lines of enclosed stalls filled most of the room, there was also a line of urinals for the men, which was not covered at all. In my stall there was no seat on the toilet.⸺Completely squalid conditions for a food market! 

We ended our tour by walking through the artisan section. Here they have any souvenir a tourist might want: beenies, scarfs, coin purses, alpaca sweaters, Inca figurines and much more. There were no prices listed, so with everything we had to ask, then haggle. 

Eventually the market fizzled out and the normal chaos of Cusco streets filtered in. The market of San Pedro was definitely an experience we won't forget! ♠

 

 

Culinary Crusade in Catalonia

The cuisine of Spain has been of particular interest to me over the last thirty years. I lived in the area of Catalonia, Valencia and Mallorca for two years. Since then I have traveled back a handful of times to those same areas and also Central Spain and Andalusia. 

I have discovered that the cuisine in this Mediterranean country is among the best—and overlooked—in the world. Health benefits of the Mediterranean Diet are widely touted, but they are usually associated with Greece and Italy. I ask, why not Spain? 

Life expectancy in this Iberian country is the seventh-highest in the world. I would attribute much of this to diet. 

The Spanish eat five meals a day. Common ingredients include vegetables, legumes, garlic, olive oil, chorizo and smoked paprika. Most meals begin with a first course of soup or salad. Dessert is less common, and usually not so rich as the American fare. Typical examples are fruit, yogurt, flan or Maria cookies with herbal tea. 

Typical shop selling Spanish cured ham.

I have learned that there is a difference between what is served at home verses what is served in restaurants. Of course, there is an overlap of the two, but restaurants are more likely to serve popular foods such as paella and tapas. Inside someone's home you're more likely to get a fideo soup, garbanzo stew, or something with chunks of blood sausage. 

Food in Spain is very regional. Although paella is the national dish, it hails from Valencia. Fabada is a distinctive bean stew with blood sausage from Asturias. The Basque are noted for their tapa-like pintxos. Gazpacho reigns in Andalusia. The coastal areas favor fish and seafood. 

Butifarra is a typical sausage of Catalonia.

Arroz a la Cubana is a popular dish in the Canary Islands and Catalonia.

On a recent trip to Spain I returned to the area of Catalonia with my daughter. As always, I set out to find as much local food as possible. With the exception of one meal, we would be eating in bars and restaurants. 

On our first evening in Barcelona we ate at a quaint restaurant near the Gothic Quarter. Since it was Kaitlyn's first meal in Spain, she went for the iconic dish of paella. I, however, ordered a more regional meal, one that is certainly difficult to make at home: arròs negre, or black rice. 

Arròs negre is a dish with a hint of sweetness and chunks of squid. It is blackened using liquid from the squid's ink sack. 

Black rice on the left and paella on the right.

Years ago I had a lady make this for me in her home. With a notebook I diligently copied down every ingredient and every action needed to complete the dish. When it came time to add the ink I asked, “Where can I find that?” 

She looked at me puzzled and responded, “At the store, of course!” 

Little did she know that most stores in the U.S. don't sell squid ink. [The one time at home I followed this recipe I had to special-order the squid and then order prepackaged squid ink from Spain. It was a lot of hassle.] 

Kaitlyn and I enjoyed our meal. It also came with a sampling of tapas, which included patatas bravas (bite-size baked potatoes with a spicy sauce), roasted padrón peppers, sauteed chicken, fried anchovies, and calamari rings. I noted that most of the tapas I saw in Catalonia did not come served on a slice of bread like those I had seen in other provinces. 

Sampling of tapas.

My culinary crusade consisted not only of eating food, but looking at it also. One of the great pleasures of Spain is found in visiting food markets. 

We walked through the Mercat de Santa Caterina, a market just east of the Gothic Quarter near Via Laietana. The journey was both visionary, as well as olfactory. We walked through a large warehouse-sized building past colorful stacks of fruits and vegetables. Hanging from the shops were legs of ham, with their unique scent of cured and salty meat. Entire bodies of fish and prawns sat atop tables of ice. Somewhere from another corner of the market wafted the aroma of freshly baked bread. 

We found a place here to sit and eat a bocadillo, or “little mouthful” as it is literally translated from Spanish. These sandwiches are typical in Spain, made using French baguettes. I ordered a jamón y queso—a ham and cheese sandwich. Although simple in contents, the sandwich offered a flavorful punch. The ham was a cured Spanish jamón, thinly sliced and similar to Italian prosciutto. They may have squeezed half a tomato onto the bread and added a drizzle of olive oil, but that was it. Pretty simple. 

Vegetable stand in the Mercat de Santa Caterina.

Seafood on a table of ice.

One of my favorite meals was consumed at an outdoor cafe in Tarragona, which is about an hour south of Barcelona. Tarragona is famous for its Roman ruins, in particular an amphitheater and aqueduct. It sits alongside the sea to create a picturesque setting. 

But for this midday meal we sat at a table in the Old Quarter atop a narrow cobblestone street. For our first course I had melon and jamón, a salty and sweet combination. Kaitlyn ordered calamares a la Romana, a staple at many restaurants that are basically fried squid rings. 

Calamares a la Romana with a salad.

A perfect combination of sweet melon and cured Spanish ham.

For my next course I chose morcilla con cebolla (or blood sausage with onion) with grilled asparagus and french fries. The blood sausage is definitely an acquired taste and has a soft texture that is unique. Usually in the preparation stage the sausages are made by mixing blood with either onions or rice.

Nearly every meal on this trip was served with french fries, which seemed to happen far more often than it did thirty years ago. I'm assuming they are catering to tourists. Fries in Spain don't come with ketchup. They are usually served plain or with mayo. 

Kaitlyn ate bacalao (cod) in tomato sauce. Afterward we drank a small cup of manzanilla (chamomile) tea. 

Kaitlyn eats cod in tomato sauce.

Morcilla, or blood sausage, served with fries and asparagus.

It is interesting to note the impact immigration has had on food in Catalonia. Like much of Europe, they have experienced a huge influx of people from the Middle East and North Africa. Not only do these people set up shops to sell their wares, but they open food establishments that sell items such as doner kebabs, something I had never encountered in the nineties. Sometimes a restaurant will sell authentic Spanish food, but it is owned and cooked by Muslims. 

As I stated earlier, we ate one of our meals with a family in their home. Teo, Enric and their daughter, Marta, are friends of mine from my stay in 1994. They live in Girona, a staunch Catalan city located an hour from the border with France. 

Horchata in Spain is made from the chufa nut and differs in taste from that in Mexico.

After a full day of driving us around to different sites in the area, we stopped at their apartment to cenar. In Spain the cena is the final meal of the day, usually being lighter than their heavy midday meal. Spain is also noted for staying up and eating late. Hence it was about 10 pm when we began to eat. 

Teo set out a wonderful array of food across the table. We found an arrangement of jamón, green olives, pork loin, tuna, roasted red peppers and cheese. She also made a French omelette. 

An array of food in the home of Teo and Enric.

We ate while carrying conversation, covering such topics as immigration in Spain and local eating and sleeping habits. It is interesting to note that although Spaniards eat five meals a day, they are lean and have very low obesity rates. I attribute this to their healthy ingredients, as well as the fact that they still attempt to eat together, making meals a social event rather than a stuff-yourself-full event. 

Fresh fish is common along the Mediterranean coast.

We spent our final day trying to take in as much as we could and enjoy our final hours. As far as eating was concerned, I had one last request. 

In the Raval District of Barcelona we found an obscure hole-in-the-wall style restaurant. I remember there being brick walls and tables set up along the window, with a one-foot gap at the bottom to allow air form outside to flow in. 

We came to eat churros y chocolate, a treat in Spain that should never be missed. The churros are usually curly, without as much cinnamon as the Mexican version. The chocolate is thick, nearly the consistency of mud. It is eaten by dipping churros into the chocolate. 

We savored every bite that evening. Although I have occasionally made these at home, there is something special about eating under humid Mediterranean air, late at night with conversation all around us in Castillian Spanish or Catalan. 

By the time we finished and returned to our room it was 2 am. ♠

 

Churros y chocolate.