Please Don't Feed the Gringos

 

Thoughts on our trip to Baja...

Do You Speak My Language?

Here's a fact: I look Mexican.  

I do, and that's cool.  It's due to a mixture of my Portuguese, Native Hawaiian and Filipino heritage, and has made for many interesting interactions since I moved to California.  Once, for example, while in a gift shop at Discovery Kingdom, the cashier started speaking to me in Spanish.  When I apologized and said I didn't speak any Spanish (not even a little.  Not even the embarrassing amount of Spanish most normal people speak.), he started yelling at me for not knowing and respecting my Mexican culture.

That was fun.

So, last month when Nate suggested we take a trip to see his friend in San Diego, then head on down to Baja for a few days, I worried a little (Lie.  A lot.) about the language barrier.  While there, worry turned into a full-blown culture crisis.

Who was I to come to Mexico and not speak Spanish?  Does that make me one of those snotty American tourists who feel like the entire world over should speak English just because I do?  Does it show disrespect to Mexican people?  What do I do when someone addresses me and not Nate (who does speak Spanish, but doesn't look at all Mexican)?  Does this mean we have to stay in all-tourist areas -- where Americans are catered to -- rather than getting to know the "real" Baja?

So many questions!

And while it turns out that many/most people in Baja are bilingual (and therefore totally show me up), we were also lucky enough that our friends (one of which was from Tijuana) were able to field most questions directed at me -- like, What would you like to eat, Miss?  Can you please get out of the middle of the walkway?  No, that is not the way to the bathroom!  Still, not speaking the language and dealing with feelings of first world privilege and guilt ended up having a big impact on me.  I began avoiding eye contact with everyone.  I, who may just well be the most sickeningly polite person you know, began looking down at my feet instead of saying Thank you!, or This food is delicious!, or Yes, please hold the chiles!

My takeaway?  Learn a second language, dammit! 

Uno Mas Taco, Por Favor (see what I did there?)

My second takeaway from Baja is that the food is delicious and I thankfully have a stomach of steel.  Nate, unfortunately, did not fare as well and was sick for a week after we returned to the states.

Our plan, food-wise, was to sort of do Baja the way Anthony Bourdain did, and add in some extra stops along the way.  So here are some places to check out if you're heading down south:

• Mercado Hidalgo, Tijuana (right after you cross the border): Really cool market with lots of yummy fruits, veggies, tejuino (fermented corn drink), and household goodies.
• Dandy del Sur, Tijuana (near Revolucion Ave.): One of the bars Bourdain went to; a quiet, cool place to get a drink.
• Mariscos Chavez, Tijuana: A food cart that served me that delicious fish taco pictured above.
• Mariscos, Playas (on Avenida Del Pacifico, near The Wall): Get a seat on the balcony overlooking the beach and order a seafood coctel.  Die happy.
• Tacos de Frances, Playas: Good late-night al pastor taco spot.
• L.A. Cetto Winery, Valle de Guadalupe: Free wine tour.  Pretty setting.  In Baja's wine country.
• Hussong's Cantina, Ensenada: Do yourself a favor and don't go to Papas y Beer.  Go here instead.  There are peanut shells on the floor and live music.  There's also a Pink Floyd cover band on some nights.
• La Guerrerense, Ensenada: Famous and seemingly delicious to everyone who ate it.  I didn't partake because these seafood tostadas are SPICY.  Another Boudain stop.

We also had the best tortas I've even eaten, but I have no way of directing you to them other than to tell you the shop was in Tijuana, next to a liquor store.  I'm sorry.

So Close and Yet, So Far Away

Though I've lived in California for about six years now, this summer was the first time I'd ever visited Mexico.  While in college in Washington state (and still now when I visit), my friends and I regularly made the trek up to Vancouver, BC for shopping, that one time for the Olympics, and most often because we're craving all-you-can-eat sushi.  But going south of the border?  Nope.

I'd like to say it's because of the distance, but that's not it.  After all, you can stand on the outskirts of San Diego and actually see Tijuana.  It's that close.  And, okay, maybe it's eight hours from where I physically live in California, but that didn't really factor in either.  The truth is that the thought of going made me nervous.  The thought of crossing the border -- that border in particular -- gave me so much anxiety it's just stupid.  I don't know why.  I'm an American citizen.  I don't traffic drugs, weapons or women.  I really had nothing to be afraid of.  

So, maybe I was apprehensive because crossing the border, seeing how our nation has so completely barricaded ourselves in (lest the terrifying invasion of Mexican immigrants happen!  Gasp!), would force me to acknowledge my privileged place in the world, and my shame at the extents to which my country will go to keep that place.  Because let's face the facts here: That wall?  You know the one I'm talking about.  It's absolutely ridiculous.  It's racist and cruel and obvious and shortsighted.  And reading the things that people have written on the posts of that wall made me -- as an American -- feel like the biggest hypocritical asshole in the known world.

Or maybe I was apprehensive because being in Tijuana would point out to me how wrong I've been about the city itself.  Because in my head, Tijuana was a John Wayne western.  In my head, Tijuana was a gang fight on the cusp of getting really bad.  In my head, Tijuana was what they still show us on the news.  But in reality, it's just a city like any other.  It's one that's struggling to come back from years of narco-terrorism, drug wars and the American recession.  It's one that's reclaiming its identity and seems to be in a constant state of reconstruction.

I'm excited to see what it turns itself into.

There One Where I Picked Fruit, Ate Oysters, Swam in River Canyons and Saw Some Big-Ass Trees

When the summer began, Nate and I made a sort of unofficial vow to not spend it doing nothing.  There have just been too many summers already spent staying indoors, him playing video games, me reading a book in bed.  And while those are totally legit things to do when 1) you're on vacation (read: him), or 2) you're unemployed (read: me), we always ended those three months feeling like we'd let it pass us by.

So, our promise to each other and ourselves: Get the hell outside this summer.

And so we did.

Our first adventure of the summer was camping in the forests just north of Tahoe.  That was a blur of beautiful mountain lakes, star-gazing while floating in warm springs, and trying not to get eaten by a couple million vicious, vicious mosquitoes.  The best time.

Then we decided at some point to go fruit picking.  A few of our friends are foodies who work in restaurants, or for celebrity chefs, or who have awesome food blogs, so getting the best and freshest of whatever we're putting in our mouths is high on the priority list.  And I'm pretty sure there's nothing better than eating a peach cobbler three hours after you picked said peach off the branch.  Best part?  Most farms charge you by the pound (say, $1.50 for each pound of cherries you pick), but don't necessarily charge you for the amount of fruit you're wolfing down as you walk through the orchards.  And some farms have ducks that like to take pictures.

Our third stop was along the blustery Northern California coast where this ocean-side-camping-pro realized not all beaches are created equal.  Here's the thing about the coast up here in our neck of the woods: that shit is cold.  Like, face- and ass-numbing cold.  But there are also fresh mussels and oysters.  So you accept the trade off, grab a few beers, and rally.

Finally, a few weeks ago we decided we wanted to see some giants.  So of course we headed down to King's Canyon and Sequoia National Park for more camping (or glamping, which is what we call it when we're being honest with ourselves).  While this was sort of a live-and-learn trip (a bit of drama, some inclement weather, a few bears), there's still so little that beats being in the Sierra Nevada's.  There's this image I have in my mind -- and I feel so stupid for not having my camera on me at the time -- of sitting along the river, watching it bend a few yards down, the sky sort of boiling over with clouds and flashes of lightening, and these huge peaks that rim the canyon we're at the bottom of.  One of those breathtaking moments, you know?  And the trees...holy cow the trees are HUGE.

At this point, I'm fairly certain that if you asked me to plan a Northern California adventure for you, I could almost guarantee you'd have the time of your life.  Just sayin.

It's Friday, and Camping is Good for the Soul

True story, camping is good for the soul.

So this past weekend, Nate and I packed up our car and went with a bunch of friends on our first camping adventure of the summer.  We headed up into the mountains, just north of Tahoe, to an area called Plumas National Forest.

It's breathtaking country up there.

Yes, there were mosquitoes this early in the season (we're newbs), but there was also beautiful sunsets, warm springs under a blanket of stars, the milky way, late night fireside chats, off-roading and trout fishing, lake swimming and hiking, visiting cute little tucked away mountain towns like Downieville, and just getting out and breathing the fresh air that you don't even realize you miss when you're in the city.

The Sierra Nevada's are one of my favorite things about California.  I can't wait to go camping again.

Wanna come with us next time?