Reveling in Guadalajara

Don't Blame Mexico

When the family's traveling, within the United States or abroad, Mrs. M gives me a reluctant green light on all the trinkets?sourpusses would say junk?I buy from local artists, hucksters and cheesy souvenir stores. Inheriting this packrat gene from my mother, I can't help but collect old magazines, shot glasses, piggy banks, keychains, foreign currency, ticket stubs, posters of Zapata, Jesus, Castro and Coolidge, hand-blown glass, ceramic turtles and political campaign buttons. And that's just a sampling of my warehouse.

However, while in Mexico last week, when the four of us took a side trip from Guadalajara to Tlaquepaque?a bustling, picturesque village teeming with cafes, crafts stalls, banner upon banner celebrating the Catholic holy days, markets selling livestock plus a string of relatively upscale jewelry stores?luck took a powder. The boys and I were about to purchase a goat's foot, had already negotiated a price, when Mrs. M said, "No way, buster. I won't have that thing in the apartment." No protest was successful: I reasoned that it was just like a bigger rabbit's foot, her claim that customs wouldn't permit it was bogus, and offered 18 other perfectly logical rationalizations. Junior put it to a vote, which was 3-to-1 in favor of the goat's tootsie, but, not wanting to land in a Spanish doghouse, I gave up and insisted Mom held a pocket veto.

A crushing disappointment, topped only by the bad news that a bullfight we'd planned to attend on March 24 wasn't taking place because of Palm Sunday. Jeez, with all the controversy engulfing the Catholic Church these days, you'd think a few rules could slide. My Spanish isn't adequate enough to fully comprehend local newspaper articles, but with pedophilia finally exposed in Boston and New York, you know it has to be a worldwide problem. Nothing like two hours in an arena watching matadors have their way with ornery bulls while the crowd drinks beer and whoops it up when the animal's finally killed and his severed ear is presented to an honored guest in the first row.

It was a herky-jerky spring break vacation. We left for Los Angeles on St. Patrick's Day and were delighted by the almost-empty terminal at Newark Intl., which cut down on the security line. Loved seeing the National Guardsmen on duty, but I agree with Charles Krauthammer's March 18 Time essay about the necessity of profiling specific passengers. Junior and I were both subjected to a 10-minute inspection of bags, personal pat-down, removal of shoes and a wave of that electronic wand, as if we were running guns for the IRA.

Let's be clear: I have no objection to minor inconveniences in an attempt to increase safety, but while the laconic guards were riffling through my son's PlayStation magazines, a number of young, uh, swarthy males, scooted right by and onto the Delta jet. Same thing happened at LAX on the way to Mexico. Oh, and by the way, all this chatter about first-class passengers having to make do with plastic utensils is bunk. Not that I eat the awful food anyway, but metal forks and wine glasses, potential weapons, were just as much in evidence that day as on Sept. 10.

In any case, after an abnormal seven-hour ride?headwinds were blamed?we arrived at my mother-in-law's Malibu mountain home in time for a buoyant corned beef & cabbage dinner party and then, bushed, retreated to the nearby guest quarters and promptly fell asleep. Waking early the next morning, our NYC-born boys were startled by a sky full of stars, and when the sun rose they played soldier games with sticks and branches, climbing the hills and then commencing battle, as I explored the woods and stared at the Pacific Ocean 5000 feet below. In the distance I saw a coyote having a breakfast of birds; those varmints are a constant annoyance at the ranch, since semiannually they rip apart one of the family dogs. That's one of the perils of country living, along with having to drive an hour to pick up a copy of the dreadful Los Angeles Times.

As a rule, I think most of California sucks?the Bay Area in particular, with the exception of Oakland Mayor Jerry Brown, the visionary who's far too complex for the ordinary minds of ordinary journalists?but was heartened to hear while speaking to perhaps 20 or so people that Gov. Gray Davis doesn't have his reelection in the bag. It's no surprise that Davis will use his sacks of soft money to attack GOP opponent William Simon on the single issue of abortion, but if the neophyte challenger can focus the campaign on Davis' less-than-lackluster four years in office, an upset is possible. The incumbent, whose poll numbers are currently in the toilet, is spoiling for a dirty match: in Friday's L.A. Times, he said, "[Simon] is not ready for prime time. I'm not asking people to marry me. I'm asking them to make a decision as to who they want to govern this state."

And it's only April.

A Simon win would be even more shocking than Maryland's excellent Republican Rep. Bob Ehrlich defeating Kathleen Kennedy Townsend in that state's gubernatorial contest this fall. Lt. Gov. Townsend, who's never won an election on her own, is awful on the stump, only a notch above cousin Patrick in the brainpower department, and her association with the unpopular incumbent Parris Glendening gives the GOP ripe ammo, perhaps enough to counteract the Kennedy mafia's involvement in the race. Baltimore Sun columnist Michael Olesker, a reliable booster of Democrats, contrasted the backgrounds of Ehrlich and Townsend in a March 24 column. The Congressman, who grew up in working-class Arbutus, won scholarships to Gilman?Baltimore's most prestigious prep school?and then Princeton, where he captained the football team and held down a construction job as well.

Olesker wrote: "[W]e hear the name Kennedy, and it also evokes summers on a sailboat off the coast of Hyannis Port or pony rides across Virginia's Hickory Hill countryside, and not stickball games in the middle of Dolores Avenue in Arbutus... With a different maiden name, [Townsend] might still be a midlevel attorney for some government bureaucracy?and not Parris Glendening's former runningmate and campaign financier?and therefore not Ehrlich's possible opponent for governor of Maryland."

And speaking of Kennedys, wouldn't it be swell if Mitt Romney, after losing a '94 race to Uncle Ted, the grossly overrated senator who "saved" the country from the brilliant Robert Bork back in '87, extended the odd Republican domination of the Massachusetts statehouse for another four years? One can only hope that his Democratic opponent will be the self-aggrandizing Robert Reich, the former Bill Clinton buddy who, in his dreams, would like a mass redistribution of wealth, although I'm sure presidential candidate Sen. John Kerry and the Kennedys would somehow slip through the cracks and maintain their multimillionaire lifestyles.

Probably Rolling Stone proprietor Jann Wenner as well, who just published a promiscuous puff profile on Kerry in his April 11 "Cool issue," an article that must have North Carolina's Sen. John Edwards, the darling of corrupt trial lawyers (can you spell the name Peter Angelos), using language that's normally condoned only in a badass saloon.

Guadalajara, Mexico's second-largest city (seven million residents, some who left Mexico City after the devastating '85 earthquake), isn't a popular choice for Americans vacationing in this exhilarating country. There's no ocean nearby; no Club Med-like all-inclusive hotels that tequila-for-breakfast college students flock to each spring; little English is spoken; the traffic and smog are stifling; the native cuisine bears little resemblance to the Tex-Mex grub that's popular in the U.S.; American or British newspapers aren't sold at any kiosk or bookstore; and the slums on the way from the airport, as well as the cadre of beggars (mostly small children), don't mesh with more common destinations like Cancun, Baja or Puerto Vallarta. But for the wanderer with an interest in Mexico, skipping Guadalajara would be the equivalent of passing over old industrial cities like Chicago, New York and Boston in favor of Disney World, Arizona dude ranches or ski resorts in the Ben & Jerry's state of Vermont.

Mrs. M and the boys favor vacation spots on the water?Bermuda, Sardinia, Nevis and Barbados, for example?so their skepticism at Dad's choice of a congested city, albeit one with architectural gems, a central district that reminds you of Southern Italy and a rich historical legacy (you could spend a day alone just examining the scores of monuments), was quickly confirmed when we arrived at Quinta Real, a deluxe hotel in the sole tony section of Guadalajara. We stayed in the presidential suite?at a pittance, I might add, due to the favorable peso and lack of tourism since last fall?and it was quite grand.

The duplex lodgings included an enclosed courtyard, multiple minibars and tv's (although CNN was the lone channel in English, so while I rolled my eyes at the station's anti-Israel propaganda, the boys watched a few of their favorite Cartoon Network shows in Spanish, a plus in my book if not theirs), bathrooms the size of a Lower East Side apartment, courteous, if somewhat befuddled, room service and an elegant restaurant with exotic menu options and a gregarious staff. A dinner of tortillas bursting with ham and black olives, followed by salmon trout rolls with pine nuts and quesadillas stuffed with cheese, black corn mushrooms and zucchini blossoms was a bracing change-up from 2-pound burritos.

However, there were drawbacks: the one pool was dinky and dirty; there was no gift shop to buy film, aspirin, combs or other essentials; and since we were stationed at ground level the noise of honking cars at night was a distraction.

But there was plenty to explore in the sprawling city. My favorite outing was to the Mercado Libertad, one of Latin America's largest indoor/outdoor markets, a three-block complex that sold everything from straw hats and bags to live chickens, silver, toys, ragtag clothing, giant lollipops, preserved fruit, shoes, psychedelic spinning tops and a typical array of souvenirs. By far the most arresting part of the market was the vast food court, where you'd see tortillas rolling off a tiny conveyer, locals sitting down for lunch, choosing from menus with 50 options, the counters lined up with hot sauces and 10 kinds of beer in ice buckets. Mrs. M and I could've noshed there for a couple of hours if it weren't for the bees that were sampling the displays of fresh papaya and watermelon.

MUGGER III developed, seemingly overnight, an aversion to any location where even one bee was buzzing around. Probably my fault: one of his favorite stories is from my youth, some 42 years ago, when my father was giving his sons crewcuts in the den, and a hornet made its way down the chimney and promptly stung me. It hurt like heck, and even though baking powder was applied to the bite, I didn't stop crying for at least an hour. In subsequent years, I've been the victim of maybe 100 bees, mostly yellowjackets that feasted on rotting crabapples in the neighborhood, and except for that one darned hornet, never really put up much of a fuss. The pain is nothing worse than a shot at the doctor's office; but our seven-year-old is now petrified of the bothersome insects, even though I've repeatedly told him that they'll leave you alone without provocation.

As an enthusiastic proponent of outdoor billboards, a curiosity Junior's picked up, Guadalajara's a marketing exec's dream: advertisements for films, fast-food joints, cigarettes, tourist attractions, beer and sporting/music events dot the landscape, making for terrific rubbernecking. By the way, this is one city where Pepsi rules; the presence of Coke is dwarfed by my preferred cola. At one point, my son and I made a 50-peso wager about which brew was number one in Mexico, with him betting on Sol while Dad insisted it was Corona. A quick conversation with a cabbie proved me correct and I promptly pocketed the peso note.

We spent most of one afternoon at the Zoologico Guadalajara, a mobbed complex?including the amusement park Selva Magica?that was as sad for the pitiful condition of the lions, tigers and bears as it was uplifting to see so many deliriously happy kids. As is often the case in cash-strapped cities?actually, I remember the Bronx Zoo as a 10-year-old as one of the most depressing attractions of NYC, especially the prison-like quarters for elephants?the animals were having a rugged go of it, especially in the sunny climate. We saw a pair of leopards that looked as dead as bin Laden and Arafat ought to be, but then Mrs. M noticed them breathing, and our sons relaxed. The monkeys were spry but that was about it: the seals, hippos, polar bears and gorillas had all seen better days.

But the adjacent carnival was buoyant, with a Spider-Man impersonator greeting people by the ticket booth, and games of chance with long lines of participants willing to spend five pesos for the opportunity to snare a plastic duck with a fishing pole. MUGGER III, to his consternation, struck out on all attempts?I think we missed the exact rules in the translation?but the haunted house was another matter altogether. This was one scary, and claustrophobic, 1000 square feet of horror, far more daunting than the tame version at Coney Island.

It was pitch black as one of Sen. Robert Byrd's old lawn jockeys as we entered, and there was an immediate ear-splitting sound of some villain's head being chopped off. As we followed the twisting path, children hanging onto to each other, and my shirt, costumed employees jumped out from corners with menacing screams and actually grabbed at those in close proximity, an intimacy I could've done without. Near the end of the short tour it was impossible to see and I squeezed MUGGER III's hand tightly as the ringing crescendo of nightmare-inducing antics nearly caused a stampede for the exit.

My first-grader was sweating but exuberant when we emerged into the sunshine. As for myself, I'd have rather swatted away 20 hornets than repeat a jaunt into that potential firetrap.

Even 20 years ago a trip to Mexico called for extreme caution when taking a meal, lest you wanted to spend 24 hours in the john: the rules said no water (or ice), vegetables or fruit, and certainly not a morsel from a street vendor. Conditions have improved, and I didn't feel the slightest hesitation in sampling the aromatic foodstuffs from stalls in various markets, ignoring that the meat might be that of a cat and the likely woeful sanitary conditions of a makeshift kitchen.

In fact, the only time my gut got queasy was after a lunch at the American fast-food chain Chili's, located in the Centro Magno mall, where we spent a few hours as a sop to the boys, who tired of looking at churches and taking long cab rides to small villages outside the city. They had a ball: there was an arcade with games popular in the U.S. a decade ago; a Hard Rock Cafe; record stores; and a bookstore where they stocked up on Spanish comic books.

Anyway, they clamored for a lunch at Chili's, whose commercials are ubiquitous on tv, and I said what the hell. It was a pretty surreal 45 minutes: the place could've been in Times Square or St. Louis since the menu was the same, the waiters, although Mexicans, spoke fluent English, and the floor and tables were spotless. I ordered an appetizer of nachos, which were awful?the ice-cream scoop of sour cream just an indication of the prefab grub?and I felt the consequences of this rash decision later that night. Mrs. M, in her wisdom, passed on lunch altogether, but the boys raved about their ribs and burgers.

More to my liking was a splendid dinner we had at Santo Coyote, billed as Guadalajara's premier restaurant, and though there was an over-the-top display of theatrics?thatched roofs, murals of goddesses, a shrine to the Virgin of Guadalupe and flowing waterfalls?this occasion left everyone fairly overwhelmed. It was the first place I've ever seen a waiter prepare salsa tableside, a protracted procedure that involved mashing onions, fiery chili peppers, roasted tomatoes, cilantro, salt and lime juice. After we polished off one bowl, the fellow beamed, insisted we call him Ricardo and gave my wife instructions on how to prepare the concoction. In short order, our table was filled with wood-fired goat, ribs smothered with a tamarind and pepper sauce, marrow soup, a crock of bubbling cheese with chorizo on the side and baskets of chips.

Less thrilling was our trip home to New York, an unpleasant odyssey that began early in the morning?airport officials in Mexico are serious about requiring passengers to arrive three hours before an international flight?and concluded in frigid Manhattan at 10 p.m. We had a pitstop in Houston, with just an hour before a scheduled departure to La Guardia, raced through immigration and customs, sprinted to another terminal, all the while hearing announcements that the flight would leave 10 minutes early. With a minute to spare we boarded the plane; the official reason for the frenzy was air traffic, although in reality it was a storm on the East Coast. It was a turbulent and bumpy ride, with lightning visible as the plane bobbed up and down, stewards nervously pacing, but unlike passengers who left for New York just an hour later, at least we weren't diverted to another city.

I can't blame Continental for any of the above?traveling is tense these days anyway and the pilot can't control the weather?but the supposed beefed-up security that checks luggage is worse than last summer. Not only was one of our backpacks "lost," but some thief rifled through a bag of mine and pocketed about $20 in loose change. Incredibly, the perp ignored two cameras in favor of a bunch of quarters and pesos, which gives you a hint of the brainpower of airport personnel hired on the watch of administration lame-ducks Tom Ridge and Norman Mineta.

But never mind. This trip to Mexico equaled any of the previous visits I've made to the country, and it's a tragedy that one of the casualties of last September's Al Qaeda attacks was President Bush's plan to loosen immigration restrictions. Using the terrorism as cover, xenophobes like Pat Buchanan and, I'm sorry to say, the National Review advocate the United States' ditching its noble history of inviting people from overseas to our country. Take the blinders off, please: the disastrous policy you advocate will cripple not only the character of the nation, but its economy as well.

I'm writing on Sunday, and so I'll stop here about the current global political turmoil?by the time this column appears online and in print chances are 50 more Israelis will be murdered?so please refer to my April 1 "Billboard" piece at nypress.com for more commentary. In closing, let's just say that Bush has blown it by even mildly appeasing Arafat for two weeks, but is absolutely correct on the issue of immigration.

March 31

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