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Silver Mines of Guanajuato~Mexico

Guanajuato a Colonial Silver City — Guanajuato -Colorful houses climbing up the ravine

I recently returned from Guanajuato Mexico. Guanajuato is in the colonial heartland and is one of Mexico’s most beautiful silver cities. It is built in a rugged ravine and the colorful house climb up along the hillsides. The twisted streets are home to beautiful churches, shaded plazas, ornate colonial architecture and the fabulous Jaurez Theater.

Tree shaded park - Guanajuato Mexico — Tree shaded park – Guanajuato Mexico

Three miles outside of Guanajuato is La Valenciana, where in 1549 silver and gold were discovered. Naturally, I wanted to visit the silver mine and we spent an interesting two hours visiting the mine shaft and the museum. Art and I climbed 60 meters down the irregular stone steps which is what is accessible to tourists. The mine is 100 meters in depth and where miners hauled loads of ore-rich rock back up on their backs. Many of the miners were indigenous Indians and their lives were grueling and they were paid with company store script. Accidents and lung disease took many lives.

Descending into the mine - Bocamina de San Ramon Silver Mine — Descending into the mine – Bocamina de San Ramon Silver Mine

A tableau of a miner – Bocamina San Ramon Silver Mine

Mentally, I still feel like I’m in my thirties but what was I thinking? The steps down were harder to maneuver than climbing back up but naturally, what goes down must come up and I have been limping around for the past 3 days. It’s incredulous to me that men dug the mine shaft and hauled the rock out on their backs.

Magic Carpets and Genie Bottles!

June 7th, Cappadocia

Rick Steve tours are not intended to be shopping tours but rather a peek into the local cultural and history. Even with the best intentions, there are grey areas. The next two excursions are optional but the majority of our tour want to visit both the Turkish carpet factory and the Aladdin’s Pottery studio. As a craftsperson and a seasoned traveler, I have seen many such places before and I know that there is always the sales pitch and a showroom visit at the end but I want to go to see process as well as the beautiful goods. Yesterday, Taylan told us that if anyone was interested in buying a carpet to know what size and color they wanted before hand. He also tells us that we should snap photos tomorrow of any we like because the choice will be confusing and overwhelming. I called John and have him measure the floor space in my office. If I were to succumb, I need a 5’ x 7’ carpet. The color is not much of a factor for me.

It’s a short drive between our hotel and the carpet factory. We arrive at the carpet weaving factory just before 11:00 A.M. As obedient students, we sit and listen to our Magic Carpet host as he explains the various materials that can be used and the relative time and expense between cotton on cotton or wool on cotton or silk on silk etc. Two women sit before two looms, meticulously tying and cutting knots as they painstakingly weave their rugs. We move to the silk worm demonstration table and watch another man unwind the silk from a hundred unfortunate silk worm cocoons that have recently been boiled alive to prevent them from hatching and breaking their valuable silk threads. These filaments of silk are twisted together to make thread and yarn. From there the silk is dyed and eventually woven into a carpet.

The educational part of the tour complete we are let to an immense room with stacks and rolls of carpet. We all sit around the room and they offer us Turkish tea, coffee, wine or Raki, a traditional Turkish anise flavored liqueur. It’s not yet noon so Art and I order tea but a few brave souls, Taylan included ask for Raki. The carpet show unfurls. Dozens of carpets are dramatically unrolled upon the floor and our host describes each one carefully but no prices are mentioned. A few of the first ones are kilims, flat woven rugs, not knotted rugs. The floor becomes a vibrant patchwork of color and when I see one carpet I particularly like, I take its photo and do a quick heel to toe measurement. My actions are not unnoticed by the attentive sales crew waiting by the sidelines. The show ends and it’s time for them to get down to business.

I’ve been in sales all my life and imagine the unspoken assignments between each of the sales team. “You Ahmet, take the woman who just took a photo of that carpet, I’ll take that couple in the corner, etc. etc.” It’s a game and a gamble about reading people but this showroom has a lot invested and they need to land a few big fish before our bus departs forever. I show my carpet pusher the photo on my phone and he unearths it from the layers of carpets spread on the floor. It is 5’ x 7’ with an intricate center medallion the colors of brick and blue with a cream background. It’s lovely and I am informed it is silk on cotton. I believe I am prepared to pay up to $1500 + the ambulance bill for Art to be rushed to the nearest hospital with a heart attack. I am subtly relieved when he tells me it is $22,000. It is so far beyond our budget that I laugh and think that I can step out of the game but ‘Ahmet’ is not one to give up easily. “What will you pay Madam? He offers it to me for $17,000. I chuckle again but he counters “Wait, let me show you some other carpets that are similar but less money?” I am simply not interested in playing this game but before I can return to the side lines to stand beside Art, Ahmet has already unfurled a few others. I finally escape to stand beside my husband but Ahmet’s eyes bore into me, following my every move. I avoid eye contact. Several other members of our group are engaged in potentially buying a carpet. I am fascinated and make the grave mistake to walk over to admire the various carpets Paul and Yu-Lin are considering. Ahmet must be a shape changer because every time I turn he is there proffering another carpet. I surrender to the sidelines again and soon enough Art and I spot an escape route and we slink out of the showroom to the safety of the parking lot. Back on the bus we learn that Paul and Yu-Lin purchased a carpet and Allie, purchased several as gifts for her children. We do not ask the prices.

Back on the bus we drive and have an hour to eat a touristy river lunch on our own before our afternoon visit to Aladdin’s Ceramic Workshop.

Explaining the painting and glazing process

Our tour begins with a detailed explanation of the process and I watch two artisans at their work stations meticulously painting the ceramics. Before I became a jeweler, I was a ceramic major at University of Redlands and I understand the process and enjoy the simplified demonstrations of the craft. A woman meticulously paints a medusa head on a platter and a man paint detail onto a wine decanter styled from the ancient Hittites. Next, we are ushered into another room where we sit on benches along the wall and shown a kick wheel throwing demonstration. Drink orders are taken and it is now afternoon so many in our group accept wine or Raki. The young man demonstrates the process and expertly throws several pots and then asks if any of us wish to try? I want desperately to get my hands on a spinning lump of clay but I could never overcome my shyness and do this in front of a group of people. Garth, a member of our tour volunteers to try and with some help throws a decent if off kilter vase. He has fun and we all enjoy his showmanship and congratulate him on a pot well thrown. We find out later that his hobby is turning wood on a lathe.

Next it’s the showroom sales pitch which I am dreading. I want to look at all the displays but to be left alone to admire. As we enter, I see the sales crew size us up and divide to catch as many rich tourist fish as possible. I make the mistake of looking too closely at something and a young sales man wearing a green shirt circles in for his kill. It is pointless to try to outmaneuver him but just as at the carpet factory, prices are exorbitant and none of us have any reference as to the actual value of a piece. Art and I tend to collect special shot glasses from our travels and the Turkish shot glass is hour glass in shape. Art picks one up and a split second later has his unshakable shadow of a sales man. The lurking shadows ruin the experience for both of us. I simply want to escape and I try to find my way back to the entrance and I make a wrong turn in the labyrinth of rooms. I manage to slip from the grasp of the green shirted man. For a delicious minute, I am alone in a gorgeous show room but a sales woman soon discovers me and just like in a museum heist movie, I feign ignorance and I ask for directions to the restroom? She points me to the correct corridor and I find myself back in the first room where the craft woman continues to paint her medusa head. She speaks English and without pressure I ask her about the piece? She tells me she has worked a week on the plate and that it is a custom order to the U.S.A. She works from an image on her I-phone. It often takes me days or even weeks to sculpt and original and I work from a variety of photos. I do not work for 8 hours a day but I would feel accomplished to complete her meticulous project in a week. I thank her and exit while I still have the chance. I sit in the showroom garden and wait for the rest of our group to exit. I’m not sure if anyone succumbed to a piece of pottery but we board the bus and return to our hillside cave hotel.

We have this late afternoon and evening to ourselves. Art and I rest for an hour and then decide to walk into the village. Several from our group are gathered in the courtyard enjoying glasses of wine from the hotel bar. We tell our friends that we are going to look for a bottle of wine in the village and Kathy enthusiastically calls to us and asks for us to buy a bottle for them too! We walk the few short blocks to the village center. There are several cafes with a scattering of occupied tables spilling onto the sidewalks. We walk past a few tourist souvenirs shops and disappoint the merchants by passing quickly by leaving only a smile. Finding a market or liquor shop is more challenging but then we spot a tiny market with a soda case outside and I spy several wine bottles sitting in the dusty window. The shop is tiny and therefore crowded. A man is buying cigarettes and a few kids beg their parents for sweet and salty snacks. When our turn comes, we point to the dusty window display and to an upper shelf where we spot a few other dusty bottles. Art, in his best Turkish, conveys that we want a cold bottle of white wine. The merchant sets several bottles on the counter and we shop by label and price. Naturally, the bottle with the hot air balloon label wins our vote and it’s the same price as the others with less attractive labels. Miraculously, the man has two of these chilled and we pass our 1200 lire over (about $32) and leave the tiny shop triumphant.

Back in our hotel courtyard we hand our prize over to Kathy and then Art and I sit contentedly alone on chairs outside our room and sip our wine before walking back into the village to find dinner. By the time we walk into town the restaurant where we hoped to eat, it is full so we choose an upstairs restaurant next door. We sit with several others from our tour and enjoy a reasonably good lamb stew cooked in a sealed clay pot. The waiter cracks the pot open and divides the contents between Art and me. We meander slowly back to our luxurious cave hotel and fall into bed exhausted.

Hot Air Balloon Float – Cappadocia

Almost all of our tour group has signed up for the optional hot air ballon ride for 210 Euros each. Only a few acrophobic or claustrophobic people have opted out. Two vans pick us up and we drive 30 minutes in the darkness to a hilly site outside of the village. We are deposited on empty spot on a rocky grass field. Even more than the ride itself, I am excited about the process of launching a balloon. It’s still dark but as my eyes adjust I see other groups of tourists gathered in the field and each group seems to have a limp balloon reclined on the ground nearby. Within minutes, many of these balloons begin to inflate and I hear the exciting whoosh of air as huge propane burners pump hot air into the balloons. Dozens of spots of fiery light dot the field and balloons glow in the dark, their colorful company logos becoming visible. Our trailer with our balloon is no where to be seen and I begin to worry. Where is our promised balloon? I am anxious more for the ballon company than myself. I relate all this to setting up a Marty Magic booth in the dark and think that “I would never be late to set up a show!” Minutes later our pickup truck and trailer arrive and I watch with fascination as the 4 man crew quickly unload, tether and inflate our balloon. Flames whoosh, our balloon grows quickly and we are not late for our launch. The balloon carries 24 people and is divided into 6 egg carton type sections, each accommodating 4 passengers. Our balloon is soon tugging at its tethers and we are told to get inside. Art and many of our group easily climb aboard. Someone brings a step ladder over, I climb up and am hoisted from behind and Art pulls me from within. I am suddenly standing securely within our egg carton section for 4, the rim of the basket around armpit height. The grey morning light creeps over the fields and we are airborne along with a hundred other colorful balloons. Below is an alien landscape of eroded cliffs sculpted by wind and water over centuries. Many of the tufa cliffs are perforated with caves that I know we will get to explore later today. The landscape is grey and tan with rivulets of green and patchworks of cultivated farm land. I see the impossible fairy chimneys with boulders precariously balanced at the tops of their eroded pinnacles. Colorful balloons like ours drift with the wind and we watch the sunrise. The sunrise fades into a grey dawn and we float in limbo watching the landscape below and the doing our best to absorb and lock this magical experience into our memories.

We drift lower and I’m aware that we are nearing our landing site as we drift within a few feet of roof tops. Some of the balloons have already landed and they look like soft pillows as they slowly deflate and lie on the ground. I spot our trailer below and am amazed and delighted when our ground crew manages to catch our tether to land our egg carton balloon basket upon the trailer. A few agile guests climb out. A stepladder is raised to those of us less athletic and I climb up and swing a leg over the edge of my basket and a pair of hands grab my waist and lift me down onto the field. I watch the crew secure the basket to the trailer, deflate our huge balloon and tuck everything into a van. Several champagne bottles pop, plastic glasses are passed around and the pitch for tips begins with a suggested tip of $5 each. Most of us dig into our pockets and awkwardly place paper lire into the proffered empty glasses.

Our transport vans are waiting and we are soon back at our cave hotel in time for breakfast. We are all exhilarated and we chat excitedly over a delicious buffet breakfast similar to other’s we have enjoyed but somehow tasting better due to the magic of the morning.

I could use a nap but we gather at 10:00 A.M. for a village walk of Mustafapasa. Our hotel is in a small hilly town with cobblestone streets and many of the houses are literally built into the hillside. Its spring and bougainvillea climb ancient walls and trellises. Jasmine and wild roses perfume the air. We pause to take photos of picturesque wooden doors with peeling paint and tilting fences. Dinner tonight and tomorrow will be on our own so Taylan is orienting us to our village and he points out a few local cafes and restaurants where we might want to dine.

After our 45 minute walk of Mustafapasa Village we board the bus for the short drive to the Open Air Museum in the Monastery Valley of Goreme. By 11:30 A.M. we are hiking towards the entrance. It’s hot already and I look with dismay at the long uphill path we have to walk. There are multiple early Christian monasteries and churches carved into the tufa rock walls. Many of the interiors have detailed fresco paintings on the walls and ceilings. We climb many staircases to access the various cave churches and monasteries. Two other caves that we enter have long tables with benches carved into the rock floor. I think of the complexities of feeding everyone. It is obvious that this is and was a fertile valley so the area was a thriving village of farmers, cooks and every possible trade needed to support the chain of supply. Incredible effort and manpower would have been needed to supply water, provide sanitation and to feed those who feasted at these in-ground banquet tables. We have several hours to explore the area. I am surprised when I see a Cafe sign outside one of the lower cave entrances. It’s cool and dark inside and I rather want to sink onto one of the worn pillows and pay the inflated tourist price for a cup of coffee. Art demurs and we explore more of the caves before returning to our bus.

If anyone is wondering why Art is continually carrying a large green tape measure or film reel in many photos, it’s neither of those. During the entire trip, my kind husband packed a green telescoping stool for me to sit on. Although my adventuring spirit is still bright, I’m an old gal now and my back is bad. Whenever our tour group would stop to listen to our guide, Art would inconspicuously unfurl the stool so I could sit. At Monastery Valley a woman in our group asked him what the green thing was and Art who had just visited the restroom flashed “Oh Sh*t” and ran back into the restroom to retrieve it from the hook on the stall door.

It’s nearly 2:00 P.M. before we arrive at the private home of a wrinkled old woman for a simple but flavorful lunch of beans, bulgur and salad. Our group of 28 crowd into a sunroom off her simple terraced house and she and her son serve us as Taylan translates for her as she talks about her life. Many of the members of our group, myself included, are as crinkly and smiley as she is. After lunch she pulls out some of her crochet work and offers it for sale. Several of the women in our tour buy a crocheted edged scarf or a babies sweater. I consider a sweater for our future grandson but come to my senses realizing how truly unsuitable it is and that I have little or no extra room in my suitcase. I do not want our son or his girlfriend questioning our sanity or taste. Our sanity is already in question.

There is no rest for the curious on a Rick Steve’s tour. Don’t sign up for one if you want a laid back day! We bid goodby to our lunch time host and hostess and drive the short distance to the underground city of Kaymakli. Predating back to the second millennium BC when invading armies were common, locals built warrens of underground cave cities where a thousands could shelter for months at a time.

Taylan cautions that any claustrophobics might want to forgo this visit explaining that there is a long section where one must hunch and once past a certain point, you must commit to the entire visit. It’s extremely interesting and I am not claustrophobic but my legs are wobbly from days of over exertion and I go only as far into the complex as the point of no return. Taylan leads several of us back to the blinding light of day and I wander the usual tourist gift shops outside the cave entrance. I am not much of a souvenir shopper but wanting to sit at a shady table, I choose an ice cream bar, the price of a seat and sit happily and wait for our tour to return.

The Bosphorus Straight to Ankara

June 4th

The morning buffets have become a bit tedious but the city view from the top terrace of our hotel continues to be remarkable. I push the button on one of the many coffee machines and choose a cappuccino. I step around the silver domed warmers of sausages, eggs and potatoes and I fill my bowl (not plate) with of yogurt, fruits and honey.

Everyone is in the lobby precisely at 8:45 with bags ready for our bus departure to our scenic cruise of the Bosphorus Strait and our trip to Ankara, Turkey’s capital. (Except for Art’s and my directional misbehavior yesterday, we are all an obedient group.)

Settled into our seats we are informed that these are not our forever seats and we should switch up daily. It makes perfect sense and is not a problem. I am grateful that the bus is navigating the winding downhill street and that I am not trekking steep cobblestones for the umpteenth time. We pass the spice market and having missed much of it yesterday, I snap a few photos from the window of the bus. The bus parks and we walk a short distance to board our boat. We have the boat to ourselves and all sit on the open deck and enjoy the panorama of grand palaces and medieval castles. We are encouraged to purchase drinks at an additional charge and the hopeful waiter brings a tray of juice and wine glasses to our table. We need only help ourselves and Art and I eventually share an orange drink. A few people take a beer but to the waiter’s disappointment the wine remains unclaimed and I wonder if he will refill the wine bottles after our cruise?

The day is crystal clear, warm and slightly breezy. I have been surprised that we have experienced little or no air pollution in Istanbul but the city straddles the Bosphorus Straight between Europe and Asia with the Sea of Marmara is to the south and the Black Sea is to the north so there is plenty of cross ventilation. I stand up to take a photo and my newly purchased straw hat from Los Gatos is lifted from my head and I sadly watch it float away on the water below. It was a great hat and I hope that someone finds it and enjoys it as much as I have over the past few days. It’s a replaceable loss but what will I do without a hat for our upcoming tour? (Out of desperation, I will buy a very ugly bucket hat two days hence.) It’s a lovely cruise and we visit with our tour mates. There are four groups of four who came on the tour together so it’s natural that they group together. We have been given a photo list of the members of our tour with a notation where they are each from. (no last names.) I watch the waterfront glide by and I spend time trying to match names with people. I have never had great face recognition but by process of elimination I will eventually figured out everyone’s names just days before our tour comes to an end.

*I stand corrected about the air pollution in Istanbul. Google tells me the air quality in Turkey is poor so apparently, we have just been lucky with the timing of this tour.

Our Bosphorus Cruise over, we board our bus for a 6 hour drive to Ankara, Turkey’s capital. Shortly after noon, we stop at a modern rest stop, gas station and food court. Lunch is at our own expense. One can buy snacks or choose from several fast food restaurants in the modern strip mall. Taylan points to a hot buffet where we can point to a dish and maybe get lucky? We do not get lucky. The food is terrible and we pay nearly $20 for a plate of reheated rice, dried out shredded chicken and beans swimming in a sauce. Where is Chipotle’s when we need one? I suffer from gas the rest of the afternoon. Obviously the beans were not a good choice.

The countryside looks like California. It is rich agricultural land with rolling brownish hills dotted with trees. The highway is excellent and straight. It is the beginning of a three day holiday, Eid al-Adha. Taylan explains about the traditions and the animal sacrifices but only if you have needy neighbors who you will share the meat with. The traffic is building and the bus is racing to beat the holiday traffic. The bus driver must take required rest breaks but we delay and pass many rest stops because each is overflowing with locals driving to spend the holidays with their family. We take two rest stop and bathroom breaks on our way to Ankara. Dozens of cars are lined up for gas. The restrooms are huge and pristine a I enjoy watching all the activity. I observe that it’s little different from a family road trip in the U.S.A. There are tired mother’s standing in line with their road weary kids. Kids point and beg their parents to buy them a drink or candy or a salty snack. The main difference I notice is the dress and a majority of the women wear multi layers of long dark loose fitting dresses with their heads covered. Although air conditioned inside, the extra layers of clothing must be uncomfortable and cumbersome when using the restrooms. Everyone is meticulous about washing their hands and instructing the children to do the same.

I pull out my small Toshiba lap top to begin writing this travel blog. Art has set it up for me at home but the battery is dead and our chargers are all in our suitcases in the belly of the bus. I resign myself to looking out the window, editing a few photos on my phone and basically being unproductive.

It is after 7:00 P.M. when we arrive in Ankara. On a Rick Steves tour you agree that you can carry your own luggage several block to the hotel even if those blocks are uphill. The belly of the bus is unloaded and Art takes my rolling bag, plops his bag on top of mine and slings his backpack onto his shoulders. He is a fit and strong old guy. I have only to carry a small personal bag and my purse but even so, the several blocks uphill to our hotel aren’t easy. The Rick Steves check in process is great. Rooms are preassigned, passports already submitted and keys are quickly dispersed almost as if it is a relay race. It actually is a race. We are to meet in the lobby in 15 minutes if we want the city walk where afterwards we will be set free to find dinner on our own.

We are all on time for the city walk and do our buddy checks. We have our head phones and obediently follow Taylan along the main shopping and restaurant street. He points to many restaurants with his recommended best suggestion being a Kabob restaurant that doesn’t serve beer of wine. Turkey is a secular country but it is still 95% Muslim and alcohol is not served everywhere. I stubbornly want a glass of wine and am deluded that Art and I will fend fine on our own. How many years will it take for me to realize that choosing a restaurant together will undoubtedly be a disaster? The majority of our group head to the Kabob restaurant and Art and I walk along reading (or pretending to read) menu after menu unable to agree. It dawns on me that unlike the romance languages, French, Spanish or Italian we simply can’t decipher Turkish. We need a menu with pictures which lowers the bar and limits our options. Art is soon grumpy and I am resigned and we choose a restaurant with the best pictures and lowest prices. Art points to a 3 item, pasta, salad and protein combo. I point to a salad. The iceberg lettuce is tasteless, the few pieces of shredded carrots are wilted but the 3 cherry tomatoes are excellent. Art is not impressed with his combo meal either and he suggests getting a bottle of wine on the way home? Although our room is nice enough, there is no terrace or view where we could enjoy it. We are exhausted so we return to our hotel, take the elevator to our room and fall into bed.

June 5th, Ankara to Cappadocia,

I know there was an early hotel buffet breakfast but the particulars elude me. We are on the bus promptly at 8:15 with our first stop being the Ankara Archaeology Museum.

Taylan herds us on a 45 minute guided tour pointing out the most significant parts of the pre-Roman collection. I love the visual of museums but most often, the dates and history elude me, floating in one ear and out the other. The visual sticks with me and I immediately relate the impressive Assyrian Bull and Lion Friezes in the Louvre to what we are seeing here. We have another delicious hour to explore the museums collection on our own. Art and I wander glass cubes of goddess figurines, tiny Alisar Assyrian tablets and impressive bronze cauldrons. We rest in the terraced garden before boarding our bus for the hour drive to Ataturk’s Mausoleum.

Mustafa Ataturk was the founder of modern Turkey. He was the president of Turkey from 1923 – 1938. It’s quite a walk from the bus up hill to the huge and impressive plaza with a 360 degree view of Ankara and its surroundings. The day is hot and getting hotter and there is little shade. Taylan does his best to guide us from one sparsely shaded spot to another where we stand to listen and learn of Turkey’s more recent history. Sadly, the guards at the entrance have forbidden that we bring my green collapsing stool onto the site. We climb the many stairs to visit the mausoleum that is very beautiful with a high ceiling of golden mosaic and floor to ceiling decorative grill work that allows a slight breeze to blow through the interior.

An extremely realistic statue of a soldier stands guard beside the tomb and it takes me a few seconds to realize the statue is actually a young soldier on a pedestal. He is absolutely still and I am soon agonizing for him because it will be another 30 minutes before the changing of the guards at noon. There is a museum below the plaza and we have time to visit this. The redeeming quality of the museum is that it is below ground and cool. I imagine that many of our group are interested in the memorabilia, dioramas and photographs of Turkeys recent history. I am not. At 11:55 we pop out like moles from our underground bunker to brave the blinding sunlight and stand respectfully to watch the changing of the guards. Six young soldiers with rifles expertly balanced high step march the long walkway of lion statues and across the immense mosaic plaza. I know the current soldier statue inside the mausoleum will soon be replaced with another statue and that the replacement will be required to stand motionless for an hour.

The changing of the guards. Ataturk’s Mausoleum

Back on the bus we drive over an hour to a highway rest stop and gas station. We pass several because they are so busy that there is literally no place for our bus to park. The three day Eid al-Adha holiday begins tomorrow and traffic is slow on the highway. When we eventually stop, cars are backed up at the dozen pump gas station. We have another nondescript rest stop buffet with tired food sitting in steam tables, bland rice, beans swimming in a thin gruel and mushy eggplant dishes. I am not a fan of Turkish roadstop food.

It’s late afternoon when we leave the highway and wind our way towards the village of Mustafapasa. The eroded volcanic landscape morphs into a Dr. Seuss moonscape of fairy chimneys and cliffs honeycombed with rooms. Is this Mesa Verde meets Bryce Canyon or a movie set from the Tolkien trilogy? The afternoon light casts long shadows on the landscape and I relax into the impossibly beautiful geology.

We arrive at a magical hillside bed and breakfast in Mustafapasa. Once again, room numbers and keys are distributed quickly to all of the couples and the few single travelers in our group. We know that on a Rick Steve tour, each room will be different; some large, others small, some up three flights, some with balconies, occasionally some with shared bathrooms. Art and I have won the lottery. Our spacious two cave suite with alcoves carved into the cliff walls is on the ground level with a luxurious spa tub bathroom. Two Turkish rugs are on the stone floor. I am aware that over the past 4 days, Taylan has observed all of his ducklings and is doing his best to accommodate our various needs. Although I wonder about what the views might be from the third terrace rooms, we will not need to climb stairs. Art and I sink into our spacious cave suite and but have little time to relax before doing an about change for a group dinner at a family restaurant a few cobblestone steps away.

The family run Greek House restaurant is lovely in the authentically decrepit way of a restaurant that has been handed down over generations. Our group sits at two long banquet tables inside the old building. There are some table outside where locals sit and visit. We are told that many are family members, recently arrived to celebrate the Eid al-Adha holiday. Tonights dinner is a yummy lamb stew, a delightful change from kabobs. After dinner, our group is invited to poke around upstairs and enjoy the balcony view. We split up and some walk another block into the small village with a few cafes where families sit and visit. Art and I walk back to our hotel. We have a 4:00 A.M. pick up to drive for a hot air balloon ride over Cappadocia.

The Greek Restaurant Terrace, Mustafapasa

Four Days in Istanbul.

Friday May 31, 2025

Our flight to Turkey through Frankfurt leaves Friday night at 7:25 P.M. Our son John drives us to SFO. and there is surprisingly little traffic on a Friday afternoon. John drops us off and after quick hugs at the curb, Art and I hurry inside to wait in the United Airline line check in line that usually winds endlessly back and forth but the line is non-existent and we are checked in and through security in a matter of 15 minutes with nearly 3 hours to wait before boarding. We share an uninspired fast food curry meal and then find a bar where we can each enjoy a drink before boarding. Time passes slowly but it does pass and we eventually board our aluminum cylinder. As we board, I gate check my bag realizing that there will not be enough overhead space. We squeeze down the aisle passing spacious private lie down sleeping cubicles and wedge into our back window and center aisle seats that are especially dismal. Art and I are relatively small and usually the financial savings offset the discomfort but I am soon regretting my choice of United Airlines vs Turkish Airlines that had been recommended to us by our travel agent. Drinks take forever to arrive and by the time we are served, there are no options other than a micro-waved chicken dish that is nearly inedible. We each watch a couple of movies. I choose the Bob Dylan one ‘A Complete Unknown.’ Between the roar of the engines and the bad ear plugs, I can barely hear the movie, which is disappointing since much of the point of this movie was the nostalgic soundtrack. For the second time, I disturb our aisle seat mate to use the bathroom and take a Zolpidem tablet and manage several hours of sleep before being awakened to a dismal breakfast sandwich.

We must change planes in Frankfurt and we deplane and walk many gates down before realizing that we have forgotten to pick up my gate checked bag. After 30 minutes of anxiety we are assured that my bag will meet us in Istanbul and we exit the terminal not fully grasping that we need to change terminals and go through security a second time. Happily we have time but we walk 30 minutes along eerily closed gates and terminals with no human activity. We hurriedly grab a to-go salmon salad minutes before our flight between Frankfurt and Istanbul is scheduled to board. A booming announcement over the P.A. informs us that our flight is delayed 30 minutes because of weather and then it is delayed again. We eventually board only to sit on the tarmac. It’s hardly drizzling outside the window but we wait another 45 minutes because of lightening danger to the workers on the tarmac. Eventually our plane takes off and 3 1/2 hours later lands in Istanbul.

We are nearly two hours late to arrive and there is a long line to get through immigration but unlike most people, I find these lines exciting and a highlight of traveling. The line winds back and forth and we get to greet the same tired faces over and over again. I know each traveler or family has a remarkable story to tell and I love not being in Kansas anymore. Exhausted fathers carry sleeping toddlers, mothers calm crying babies, teenagers stare into their phones. I watch three dark and handsome men in their mid 20s preen their hair and take selfies, presumably to make certain that they look their best when they exit immigration to meet their sweethearts or families. I give them a big smile and a thumb up and we all laugh. Miraculously my suitcase has arrived in Istanbul with me and we have pre-paid for a transfer to our hotel. The airport is huge with many exit doors and Art finds the exit door listed on our transfer conformation. There is no one outside holding up a BOBROSKIE sign and we feel somewhat abandoned but Art finds the lone man absorbed on his phone who confirms that we are on the transfer list and he ushers us to a dilapidated mini-van. The cavernous interior, soiled upholstery and the streaked and finger printed windows assure me that I am on a travel adventure. The outskirts and industrial parts of Istanbul glide past in a hazy dream of jet lag. It is an hour’s drive from the airport to our hotel in the heart of the old town and as we near, we begin to see illuminated domes of mosques and minarets piercing the black sky. The old town is hilly and our funky limousine winds up steep and narrow cobblestone streets and deposit us in front of our 5 star back street Demiray Hotel. It is sandwiched between ancient buildings and the entrance is far from grand with the doors flanked by two strangely lit faux gilded marble statues. The lobby is cluttered with an odd mix of upholstered couches, chairs and end tables. We hand our passports over and I am relieved that our reservations are in order. We don’t need a porter but our minimal luggage is taken from us and we are shown up to our 5th floor room. It is small but lovely and the porter leaves quickly and we begin to settle in.

Art suddenly realizes he is missing his back pack and our hearts stop. He races downstairs and I pray it is in the lobby and that Art has not left it in the departed limousine. Minutes later, Art knocks at our door with backpack in hand. We take quick showers and slip into bed exhausted.

Saturday, June 1st – Istanbul

Although we could sleep longer, we have set our alarm for 8:00 A.M. to be sure not to miss breakfast. Our hotel has a roof top dining room with a remarkable view of the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus Strait. Minarets and the domes of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque shimmer in the morning sunlight. The breakfast buffet offers most everything one could imagine. I push a button on a fancy coffee maker and a cappuccino spits out. There is a vast selection of cheese, breads and pastries. I can’s decide between the beautiful plates of sliced fresh fruits or the plates of sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, arugula, olives and meze dishes. Every possible type of jam is available as well as a hanging block of honey comb and I slice off a chunk of the honey comb and rather than using and wasting tiny disposable dishes, there is a stack of short edible ice cream cones. I pass on the three hot serving dishes of eggs and cheese blintzes and stir fried vegetables. I fill a bowl with plain fresh yogurt and top it with fruit and honey. I eat a morning salad and a piece of bread with goat cheese and honey.

After breakfast we walk down the very steep cobblestone street towards the sea. Our hotel is in a wholesale garment district for children’s clothing and tiny suits and frothy little girl dresses hang in the many shop windows. It’s a busy morning in this area and men haul sacks of clothing upon their bent backs straining up the steep street delivering inventory to the many stores in this district. Men take their tea and smoke breaks clustered together around tiny tables or sitting in doorways and upon parcels needing to be delivered. The air is alive with the promise of a profitable day ahead for these shop keepers. We descend several flights of outdoor steps and the street levels off. We cross intersections with care as drivers do their morning commute. We are in the heart of the old town and retail shops and cafes line the narrow streets. Art has been wanting a haircut and he inquires the price from a hefty, tattooed barber. It is 300 Lire or about $8.00 and I hear that the price is for a hair cut only. I sit in the back and happily watch as the barber performs his magic. The hair cut looks good and the barber asks if Art would like his ear hairs trimmed? Art nods but does not ask if the ear trim will be extra. Within seconds, the barber has two rolled newspaper cones stuck into Art’a ears and lights them on fire. Two torches burn from Art’a ears and I am amused and delighted. The barber is cleaning out ear wax along with any stray hairs. When the flares burn out he unrolls the cones and points to some waxes residue on the paper. Art thanks him and rises to pay but the price has changed from 300 lire to 1100 lire. I feel the entertainment was priceless but Art grumbles for the next few minutes feeling swindled. We meander down towards the water and find ourselves on a covered market street. Tiny shops are selling a mish-mash of tourist trinkets, household goods, foods and spices. Blue glass evil eye trinkets are everywhere. An arcade connects the market street and within the arcade are jewelry shops, antique shops, clothing shops and shops selling designer knock offs. This arcade opens onto a square and after a few minutes of indecision, we sit at a small table in the shade of an open square and order hot Turkish tea. There are no surprises here.

The morning has passed quickly and it’s time to hike back to our hotel and prepare for our 3:00 P.M Turkish Bath at the Cagalogu Hamami. Art was unhappily surprised when I told him the price. It will be $150 each for a package of sweating in a 300 year old bath house, a loofa mitt scrub, a bubble massage and a dedicated foot massage. The back story for this is that I was in Istanbul in 1971 and went alone to a traditional Turkish bath house. It was a memorable experience that in 1971 probably cost just a few dollars. I still remember being awed by the marble interior with the translucent marble dome and the natural light streaming down. I was a backpacker with little money and washed myself at one of the 8 marble fluted shell fountains around the perimeter of the dome. I must have paid for a loofa sponge because I remember a large breasted woman in loose fitting white underwear, scrub my body and watching my exfoliated skin wash into the drainage trough and weeks of backpacking travel dirt disappear.

The Cagalogu Hamami is recommended in the Rick Steve’s guidebook and I reserved our 3:00 P.M. experience from the United States. Art and I find the address off a busy street and we step through the ancient doorway and walk down a few steps and enter into the softly lighted reception room. Several elegantly dressed men check the appointment book, nod and direct us to a small waiting area with a dozen foreigners waiting. I look up and see the huge marble dome above with light streaming in from geometrical piercings in the marble. The guests speak in soft whispers and I overhear that one group has booked the same spa treatment that Art and I have. Another single traveler has booked the basic treatment for 90 Euros. The men’s and woman’s baths are strictly segregated. I ask if both sections are under similar ancient marble domes and we are told that the woman’s bath section is more beautiful than the men’s. A suited man steps into our waiting area and offers those of us waiting various add on spa treatments. Do we want our hands waxed or massaged? Perhaps a facial mud mask or a full body mud bath? Everyone waiting declines the moderately high pressure sales pitch and the man nods and departs. Soon, Art and two other men are called for their appointments and are guided through a small door to the right. Shortly thereafter, my name is called and I am grouped with two other younger women and we are escorted through a different door and into the women’s section. A beautiful marble fountain gurgles that is surrounded by a half dozen small tables and chairs and women sit wrapped head to toe in white Turkish towels sipping tea and nibbling on nuts and dried fruits. Around the perimeter of the space are perhaps 16 private changing rooms. They are dark polished wood each with a number and a large brass lock and key. Three attendants magically appear and April takes my hand and leads me to my changing room. She unlocks the door, hands me the large brass key and through universal sign language instructs me to disrobe and to put on the plastic wrapped disposable bikini underwear and to wrap myself in the oversize white Turkish Towel. A few minutes later, I timidly emerge shuffling in the disposable bath slippers. April magically appears and firmly takes my hand and leads me into another circular dome room slippery with steam and water. She deposits me in a small marble steam room with heated marble benches. I am not accustomed to steam rooms and fear that I will only survive a few minutes. The two other women in my group sit across from me and talk quietly. A lithe young woman enters and sits in a meditative position cross legged on a corner bench. Her palms are together and her fingers point to the ceiling. Geometric ceiling piercings in the marbled ceiling allow light to stream in. 15 minutes pass quickly and April appears again and takes my hand and leads me into the largest of the ancient dome rooms. There are 3 women lying on the center marble slab each in various stages of their treatments and each attended by their personal masseuse. Eight alcoves surround around the perimeter each with a small scalloped shell shaped fountain. April seats me carefully and she ladles warm water over my head and washes my hair. She begins to exfoliate my skin with a loofa mitten which feels heavenly. 15 minutes later she unfurls my large towel and wraps me modestly to lead me the few steps to the center slab. She has me lie down face down and thus begins my 30 minute bubble massage. I’m not sure the mechanics of the bubbles but I can feel them popping all over my body as she firmly massages me head to toe. The soapy bubbles also give a foamy cover of modesty which allows me to relax completely. She instructs me to turn over, not an easy task on the slippery marble slab but once face up, I can enjoy the architectural magnificence of this historical bath. The thick marble dome must be 18 feet across with concentric piercings of squares and then stars and then octagons and then the piercings repeat themselves. I can literally see the soft beams of light streaming down. As April massages my neck and shoulders, I can turn my head to one side and then the other. I see women covered with bubbles on our center slab and on the other side, women are having their hair washed and their bodies exfoliated in their private alcoves. This is the most magical pampering treatment I have ever experienced and I don’t want it to end. I feel that I have stepped into the 19th century painting; The Bath by Jean-Leon Gerome or that I am a Sultan’s grandmother. Thirty minutes later, April leads me back to my sea shell fountain alcove and pours buckets of warm water over my head and body rinsing off the soapy bubble until I am cleaner than I have ever been. She quickly unfurls my wet towel, cocoons me in a dry towel and again grasps my hand to lead me carefully from this slippery bath room into the first room where earlier I saw women sitting around a fluted fountain sipping tea and eating nuts and dried fruit. She puts me into my changing room, leaving the door open so I can have a view of the fountain and the concentric circle of flickering pillar candles. She indicated that I should recline me on the chaise inside my changing room. Another woman instantly appears with a tulip glass of tea and my individual plate of a trio of dried fruit, nuts and Turkish delight. I sit upright and nibble on the treats watching the candles flicker around the fountain. Had I visited with a friend, the two of us would have been ushered to one of the fountain side tables but as an introvert, I am very content in my own private space. I finish my tea and most of the sweets undisturbed and when my glass is empty, April materializes again and pulls a stool up to the end of my chaise and indicates that I am to recline again. I am still wrapped only in my towel and she expertly massages my first one foot and then the other. She firmly massages my both my feet and legs with oil. I am in utter bliss. When the experience comes to an end, she closes the door to my changing chamber and I dress slowly. In the dim light, I see an unobtrusive sign suggesting a tip for your attendant. An envelope lies on the table and I tuck my tip inside. April has treated my body with respect, provided me modesty when possible and made certain that I didn’t slip and fall. I slip outside my dressing room and April materializes again. She smiles broadly when I hand her the sealed envelope, takes my hand and guides me carefully to the exit where Art is waiting for me. I am still floating on a magic carpet but Art tells me his experience was nothing like mine. Apparently the men’s section was not designed with a 300 year old marble dome with sunlight streaming down from geometric piercings and the ambient light of candlelight. His experience felt more like an overpriced car wash.

It’s about 5:00 P.M. when we exit and we are hungry because the guidebook cautioned us not to drink or to eat a heavy meal before our bath treatment. We walk towards the water and find ourselves on a narrow touristy street lined with restaurants. We are regularly accosted by pushy waiters wanting us to sit and have a drink and told that their food and prices were the best. A television hangs over the street at one restaurant showing an Turkish oil wrestling competition. Art is very interested and talks to the waiter about the rules of the game. Although the waiter insists that we sit, we escape his clutches and continue to walk down to the plaza adjacent to the Blue Mosque. The early evening light casts everything in a golden glow and we sit on a bench and people watch on this Sunday night in Istanbul.

After an hour of people watching in the plaza we are seriously in search of dinner. There seems to be no easy way to combine wine with food so I acquiesce and we sit at a busy corner cafe and have a meal that will rival our terrible airline dinner. Afterwards and on our way back to our hotel, we sit at a corner cafe-bar and each drink a glass of wine. We are exhausted by the time we navigate back up the steep cobble stone street and climb the many stairs to our hotel. We request a bag of ice to be sent to our room and I divide it between two smaller plastic bags and ice my knee and back.

Monday, June 2nd – Our Tour Begins

We wake early and although breakfast is included in our hotel, Art wants to first walk to a real cafe. Turkish coffee in Istanbul sounds appealing and mornings are my best time so we navigate downhill to a cafe. After adequate but not exceptional coffee we return to our hotel for another elaborate buffet breakfast with a view of the entire waterfront from the Golden Horn to the Bosphorus Straight. When we finish breakfast, it’s not even 9:00 A.M. and we don’t meet with our tour until 2:00 P.M. It’s only natural that we walk back into the old town to explore further. We pass the wholesale shops selling children’s clothing again and nod at the men who sit and smoke in doorways and to those hauling heavy loads of clothing on their backs. They bend low to gain purchase on the steep street. Art and I decide to visit the Archeological museum before we meet with our tour group. The $20 tickets are expensive and the collection is disappointing. We return to our hotel to rest before our 2:00 P.M. meeting with our tour group.

28 of us gather in a small room off the main dining room. Plates of cookies are on each table. Taylan, a mid 40’s Turkish man is our English speaking guide. Everyone is curious about who is on our group. Half the group is older, about Art’s and my age give or take a few years. There are a few younger couples who at first seem out of place and 4 single travelers in their late 40’s or early 50’s. At first I don’t think I will like our guide but we will grow fond of him and form bonds with many of those on the tour. During our meet and greet, we have a minute each to introduce ourselves and give the reason for choosing the Rick Steve’s Turkey tour. I am the only one who has traveled to Turkey before and some people gasp when I say I visited nearly 55 years ago as a backpacker with no money. This trip will make one couples trip their 8th and there are only a few Rick Steve virgins. This will be our second. Many of the introductions are clever and we visit briefly before being dismissed to our rooms and instructed to meet at 5:00 P.M. for our walk and orientation of the old town.

We meet in the lobby and Taylan distributes headset receivers to each of us so that he can broadcast information to our group as we walk. I remember enjoying this unobtrusive method of guiding on our eastern European and St Petersburg trip in 2019. We will not be following a waving flag like ducklings and he will not need to shout information over a crowd and disturb others. We are instructed to all pick ‘buddies’ that are not your spouse and our group will do buddy checks many times each day. It’s a great system and if applied will prevent any couple being left for shark bait off the coast of Australia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deep_Water_(2022_film)

This is my third walk into the old city today and my knee is feeling it every step. Our head set receivers allow us to spread out as long as we stay in radio range. As we walk Taylan explains a much of Istanbul’s history and the different districts that we are walking through. We wind down the cobble stone streets to the Topkaki Palace that served as the royal residence and the imperial Ottoman court for Ottoman sultans between 1460 A.D. to 1856 A.D. We show our museum passes and pass through the Topkaki Palace turn style gate. The palace gardens are opulent and lush with many low residential buildings, pavilions, courtyards and fountains. The blend of Islamic, Byzantine and Ottoman architecture is stunning.

We begin our tour along the long corridors of the vast kitchens and storage rooms. The thick stone walls and high ceilings keep food cool. Between the hierarchy, guards, cooks and the royal residence, 3000 people needed to be fed daily. The logistics and complexity to keep the Palace supplied and to feed and house so many is remarkable. A few of the kitchen spaces display ancient metal cauldrons and skillets. There are dedicated rooms just to make sweets for the palace. We leave the utilitarian kitchen blocks and tour the gardens and royal residences. Scalloped archways frame ornate tiled rooms. Every surface is intricately embellished with geometric patterns and Islamic script. Some panels are gilded bronze or gold, seemingly cast but when I examine them more closely they are metallic painted and high fire tiles.

We wander through the many rooms of the palace; the most interesting section to me is to me being the Harem complex. Taylan explains that African Eunuchs were the guards for the Harem because any sexual discretion would be obvious and the blood line must be pure. We look up to admire the ornate decorations inside the concave domes and at the gilded grates separating the private rooms and courtyards belonging to the Harem. The thick walls and second story ventilation grills keep the interior hallways cool. Today, many of the buildings have been converted to museums and armories and our group is set loose on our own to choose what sections of the palace we want to visit. Art and I are most interested in the armory and the museum. As terrible as the weapons are, they are as finely wrought and as intricate as jewelry. I feel compassion and suffer with the young men who have worn these talismans of protection with a brave heart but I also think of the suffering artists, metal smiths and jewelers who were ordered to make these masterpieces under pressure, inhaling toxic fumes and in poor lighting. Armory museums are a rare look at the division of classes and the costs of war. We visit the museum to gasp at the opulence of the Topkaki Dagger. I view it from a new perspective. It is breathtaking and encrusted with emeralds and was the star of a 1964 heist movie that I will have to watch again. A series of shield shaped rings catch my jewelers eye. The structural shape of the rings is simple but not a design concept that I have see before. Each ring is embellished with enamel and a variety of gemstones.

We walk from the Topkaki Palace to Hagia Sophia. I was awed by this mosque 50+ years ago but I was traveling alone without a guide and didn’t understand its significance. As we approach we see the magnificent center dome that is surrounded by many smaller domes and multiple minarets reaching towards the heavens. Because it is a house of worship, no museum passes are necessary but proper attire is. Most of the women in our group have scarves but I do not. Several of the men are wearing shorts which is not acceptable. One of the women slips off her button shirt off and converts it to a head scarf and I quickly take my cashmere sweater off and manage to convert it to a head shawl. Allie (I will soon learn everyone’s name) is halted at the entrance and called on her improvised conversion because buttons are showing and a sleeve is hanging down. She manages to adjust and convince the attendant that no disrespect was intended. Art quickly adjusts my cashmere sweater/shawl and I enter without incident.

Hagia Sophia was build in 530 A.D. as an Orthodox Christian Church. When the Ottomans conquered Constantinople in 1453, Hagia Sophia was transformed into a Muslim mosque. It was later transformed into a secular museum and only recently it was converted back to a mosque. The Byzantine interior is magnificent. Many surfaces are encrusted with tiny mosaic tiles and geometric frescos cover the ceilings and walls. The central dome floats on a ring of windows that illuminates the vast interior. Chandeliers alit with rings of golden light bulbs hang symmetrically between the massive marble columns that support the dome. Art is especially struck by the historical significance and beauty of this iconic place of worship. The Deesis Mosiac of Jesus, John the Baptist and Mary is seriously damaged but Art glows as I take photos of him standing in this notable place of history.

From Hagia Sophia we walk along late afternoon sunlit plazas with domes and minarets glowing in the magical light.

We follow our guide like obedient ducklings and with our unobtrusive single ear piece phones we walk down to the harbor for dinner. We only joined our tour 5 hours ago but it already feels (in a good way) that we have been on this tour for days and made friends. I am dubious about having dinner at any touristy waterfront restaurant but we are ushered into one of many and our group of 28 is seated at two long tables. I am ‘inland’ and on the far end but I still have a lovely view of the harbor. As an introvert this end position is ideal and means that I will have fewer people that I am obligated to talk with. Aside from Art there are 3 other men at our end and I relax into their conversations of navigation and history and am grateful that I don’t have to engage in the girl talk a few seats away. Art soon suggests that I change places so he can be more engaged with the men’s conversation of aviation and history and I am agreeable after my first glass of wine arrives. I join the women’s conversation and smile a lot but I am totally uninterested in whatever they are talking about and simply watch the harbor view and anticipate the arrival of our salted fish. We are served Turkish pita bread and uninspired meze dips of eggplant and hummus.

I nibble and attempt to converse and soon the salted fish ‘On Fire’ show is onstage. I usually hate this sort of fanfare but I am drawn into the stage worthy event and when my portion of white fish is served it is simple, tender and delicious and cooked without any oil. I eat every bite. The desert is unremarkable. We walk back along the waterfront quay enjoying the illuminated domes and minarets of the Blue Mosque against the night sky. The promenade is bustling with activity. We somehow manage the steep walk back to our hotel and we request another bag of ice to be delivered to our room. The ice comes quickly and I wish that the ice’s purpose was for nightcaps instead of icing my knee and back. I wonder what the bell hop imagines?

Tuesday, June 3rd, Istanbul

We enjoy another fabulous breakfast buffets but this time we sit with new friends from our tour. We meet in the lobby at 8:30 A.M. promptly, make our buddy checks and are on our way to visit the Blue Mosque. I still don’t have a scarf but there are scattered kiosks in the plaza and I pause for 30 seconds at one, choose a 300 Lire scarf in seconds and catch up with our group. I need fashion scarf tying lessons but there is no time for this so I simply knot my pink patterned polyester scarf under my chin and enter looking like an aging peasant. We remove our shoes and enter.

There is reason for the Blue Mosque’s name. The walls are covered with blue tiles and the dome and arches painted with geometric patterns. Similarly to Hagia Sophia, the dome floats on a ring of windows and light streams down through many multi colored blue stained glass windows. A complex curlicue iron structure supports an odd mixture of chandelier lights. Visitors circulate around the perimeter and the center terracotta colored wall to wall carpet is for worshipers. Although monumental and beautiful, I don’t feel the awe or the magic that I felt yesterday at Hagia Sophia. We exit into a center courtyard, and have time on our own to enjoy the sunlight before rejoining our tour for our walk to the Grande Bazar.

We walk quickly across a plaza with an Egyptian obelisk and onto cobblestone streets that begin to narrow. An ancient archway reads “Grande Bazar” and as I enter, I feel overwhelmed with the visual intensity of it all. I might as well be at the Tucson Gem and Mineral show. Each touristy glass window is packed full of antique jewelry or gold jewelry and the labyrinth of stalls in the covered market place sell everything from designer knock offs to leather goods and silk scarves. I have traveled to 60 countries and experienced similar markets in each. Although the streets are picturesque and ancient, I feel like I am in just another tourist trap. Taylan pauses at a cashmere shawl shop to allow our group time shop and as a meeting point after an hour of free time to explore the market. My back hurts and without asking, Art performs a sleight of hand and sets my telescoping stool against a center pillar. I sit and lean back in relief and watch others in our tour swarm the cashmere shawl shop. I have left my Adville back at the hotel and Art sets off on a mission to find a pharmacy in the maze of shops. (I think Art is grateful for a mission.) A man from the cashmere shawl shop appears quickly with an hour glass cup of tea set precariously on a saucer and I and accept it. I surmise that I am entitled to this courtesy as part of the Rick Steve’s tour and watch a few of our tour group choose and pay for their overpriced scarves.

Our group takes the subway from the old city across to the new city and we pop up and out in a different universe. We walk as a group along Istiklal Street and Taylan points out the best ice cream shops, art galleries and eateries. After a few blocks we are set free for two hours to find lunch and shop. Naturally, the majority of our group follows Taylan to his suggested restaurant and it is good. It isn’t especially touristy or expensive. We sit with our new friends; Yu-lin and Paul and we individually point at a hot buffet to choose the dishes we want to order. I’m already finding the meat dishes tedious so I choose a vegetarian option; an artichoke heart and an eggplant dish, both of which are excellent.

Art and I wander back slowly along the main shopping street. We pop into a strange multimedia art gallery and bookshop event space. We ride the elevator to each floor hoping to see something of substance but the exhibit is so uninspiring, I cannot put words to it. We share an ice cream cone on the way back to our groups appointed meeting spot. Turkish ice cream is made from goats milk and has a chewy texture. It is excellent and the difference is just slightly noticeable. I’m still trying to comprehend how ice cream itself can be chewy and I’m not referring to the nuts, chips or caramel that is sometimes mixed into certain flavors.

The bridge between Old Istanbul and the New City.

My back is really hurting and Taylan offers Art and me a tram alternative instead of walking back across the Galata Bridge. This is a big mistake. He says meet at #51 and Art and I interpret this to be tram stop #51. He points us down into a subway rabbit hole with instructions to catch the tram across the river. It is running the wrong way so we scurry back down and then up again to try to find the platform going in the correct direction. We are hopelessly confused and end up hiking across the bridge after all and eventually boarding the tram to ride to stop #51. We know we are meeting at the spice bazar and Art and I have #51 cemented in our minds. We ride the tram anxiously watching for stop number #51 which doesn’t exist. We get off and cross to the old town plaza and Art tries to ask directions from bored police men and women. They look at us blankly. We know we can find our way back to the hotel alone but we are worried that our group is wasting time searching for us. Nearly an hour later, we see Taylan standing outside of the spice bazar and feel both grateful and foolish. Apparently the shops inside the Bazar have numbers and we were to meet at shop number 51. Lost in translation. I would have enjoyed having a guided tour through the maze of the bazar but we haven’t inconvenienced anyone except perhaps Talan and he covers his annoyance well.

Finally back at our hotel, Art and I have a welcome few hours to rest. Dinner will be on our own. About 6:30 P.M. our stomachs urge us to leave the quiet of our room. Art and I do not do well choosing restaurants together. The restaurants are all several blocks away down the steep cobble stone streets and my back cringes at the thought of yet another round trip hike. I campaign to have dinner at our hotel restaurant, an unexciting and expensive option. Art acquiesces and we head to the rooftop only to see that many of our tour group have made a similar choice. We sit alone at a table for two and order a glass of wine each. I am aware that this will not be enough alcohol but Art is hesitant to order a bottle. We order badly. A carb laden creamy chicken pasta for Art and an equally bad carb laden entree for me. The sunset view is wonderful. We talk a bit with new friends sitting at the table across from us and I bravely order a bottle of wine from our waiter. I want to continue to sit and watch the sunset and I am reasonably sure that a second or third glass of wine will ease my social anxiety and enhance the sunset. It does the trick for both Art and me and we are soon happily chatting with Kathy, Tom and David. Kathy is beautiful and she and her husband Tom are two of the youngest members of our tour. I learn that she also went to a spa alone on the day before our tour began. We share spa experiences and her’s sounds as lovely as mine.

Friends from our tour and our hotel terrace view.

Unfortunately, she was targeted by a carpet sales man before she entered the spa. He apparently waited outside for hours until she exited and under the guise of giving her directions back to the hotel, he lured her into his carpet shop. Once there, she was expertly manipulated by 3 or 4 persuasive Turkish men and pressured into buying an expensive carpet. This was all news to Kathy’s husband Tom and all the time Art is gently kicking me under the table to drop the subject. We share some of our bottle of wine with Kathy and David, watch the sunset and head to bed. (By the following morning, Tom has called their credit card and managed to block the charge.)

A Week in the Colonial Heartland of Mexico.

Tuesday, May 15th – Zacatitos to Queretario

We abandon our safe and familiar ship in Zacatitos. Herb picks us up promptly at Cactus Corner and drives us to the domestic terminal at the San Jose del Cabo airport. We love this quirky man who has made his life as a desert rat living off the grid in Zacatitos. About 65, long grey hair with a rubber band tying his scruffy beard beneath his weathered face. We pass him our remaining groceries and I slip into the back seat of his rattly car. 30 minutes later, at Art’s request we stop at the Subway on the way to the airport toll road. Herb and I wait in the car and an elderly American saunters up to ask us directions. In the 5 minutes we are waiting for Art, we learn this man’s story. We take the toll road to the airport and Herb deposits us curb side and we roll our luggage into the terminal. Domestic check in is a breeze, we pass through security in a snap and spend an hour waiting for our flight at the gate. Easy Peasy.

The flight to Queretaro is about 2 hours. Our flight path immediately takes off over the Sea of Cortez to the mainland and for 45 minutes I stare down at endless ocean. The mainland appears and the mainland is hazy with air pollution. I see curls of smoke twirling upward from fires. Are these dump fires or controlled burns? We fly over an expansive city grid. Guadalajara? Art opens the messy and unappetizing Subway sandwich but I am grateful for a few bites since our breakfast was minimal and our stomachs grumble. There are no snacks or free drinks on Viva Aerobus. We buy an original Coca Cola to share.

We land at the Queretaro airport, claim our luggage and wait in a taxi line to buy a ticket into the town. The ticket is $450 pesos ($30) and the drive takes 45 minutes. Art and our driver converse in Spanish and I occasionally ask for translations. We pass through sprawling outskirts of Queretario. Clover leaf freeway overpasses, Industrial complexes, indistinctive shopping streets, the colors washed away by years of heat and dust and pollution. It is hot and our taxi is without air conditioning but nevertheless, I am fascinated by all that we pass both ugly and beautiful. I soon see the cathedral domes old town Queretaro and our taxi drops down into the heart of the old city, depositing us in front of our Boutique Hotel, Casa del Atrio across from a cathedral.

We pry open immense wooden doors and enter a dark foyer. A woman sits at an ornate desk in the dim light. Our eyes adjust, we hand over passports and she soon guides us over uneven paving stones and through several courtyards to our spacious room on the first floor all the time telling us that she has upgraded us to a suite and that we are going to love our room. We see no other guests and the ancient building with interconnected courtyards feels otherworldly, almost haunted. She unlocks our door with genuine brass keys and we step into our room with 12 foot ceilings, two double beds and two weird but genuine abstract paintings. The furniture is an eclectic mix of creaking antiques and faded oriental rugs. I stand on tiptoe to creak open the double french windows that open onto the street and are layered with smudged panes of solid glass and iron grill bars beyond. I know that in the morning, I will not wake up wondering where I am, a feeling I dislike in most American hotel chains. This room is distinctive and I am not in Kansas anymore.

There is a large flat screen T.V. tucked into an alcove about a carved Spanish buffet. The woman shows us how to operate it and both Art and wish she would hurry up with her instructions because it is doubtful that we will use it. We do however pay attention to the air conditioning instructions.

Within minutes Art and I exit the labyrinth of our courtyard hotel onto the blinding street outside. It is 5:30 P.M. There is a recommended restaurant two doors down from our hotel. Although it serves other local dishes, its specialty is insects. I step into the foyer and I ask to look at the menu. Long and polished wood tables extend the length of their patio courtyard with a colorful mural along one wall. It is upscale and expensive and between the insects and the price, this is not going to work for Art. He slides back to the sidewalk impatiently waiting for me. I take photos of the menu and the various grasshopper, maguey worm tacos and tarantula appetizers available. Page two lists steak options, the prices far surpassing a maguey taco. I have boarded my pet bearded dragon and I text the Veterinarian the insect menu. The staff are both fascinated and disgusted and reply that ‘Princess’ would like a plate of grasshoppers in all sizes. If only Princess were with me. I looked into bringing her on this trip but reptiles are not allowed to travel internationally and this inequitable rule troubles me. Princess is adorable, docile, only 12” long, has all reptile required medical documents and cannot reproduce. As a result I find myself resentful of those who can travel freely with their dogs and cats.

Queretaro is a beautiful colonial city studded with Cathedrals, ambient parks and museums. We wander a block down to a major pedestrian promenade and turn left. Ahead is a park shaded by ancient trees, the crowns of the trees intertwining to cover a vast city block and they form a thick leaf canopy over 12 feet deep. Wrought iron benches line the shaded perimeter and people lounge lethargically in the shade which seems to be 10 or 15 degrees cooler than on the unprotected sidewalks. A few overly optimist vendors have set out their handicrafts and tiny portable carts sell balloons and cheap wind up toys to the few children brave enough to be out in this heat. By 6:30 a few street musicians have found their way to the promenade and the temperature has dropped slightly. I’m beginning to understand the afternoon siesta and surmise that by 8:00 P.M. the promenade will be busy and sidewalk restaurants will be spilling over with diners starting to come out to enjoy the cool of the evening.

Art and I wander a few blocks and find an inner courtyard cafe where we enjoy two for one mojitos. We leave and walk nearby streets looking at restaurant menus trying to choose where we might have dinner? For those of you who don’t know us, we are extremely dysfunctional when it comes to deciding on a restaurant. We try to laugh at ourselves and change our habits but they are deeply ingrained. Although, Art has never farmed rice, he was raised frugally in Okinawa Japan and low prices and large portions are what he looks for in a restaurant. I too was raised frugally but I was a privileged only child of academic parents with a small appetite and my wish is for ambience and a unique taste experiences. After 30 minutes of wandering uneven cobblestone streets and finding nothing that meets both of our expectations, our tempers grow short. We return to the same courtyard cafe where we drank mojitos. I am not at all surprised when the inexpensive chicken breast a la mushroom sauce that we order to share is shoe leather quality with a semblance of mushroom soup poured over it. I order the only white wine available and it comes in a screw top airline size wine bottle and is sickeningly sweet. Art apologies but no apologies are necessary. This is what we do and how it often goes. Perhaps tomorrow night will be better. We are forever optimistic and still married after 33 years of restaurant bickering.

We enjoy a leisurely morning and reasonably good breakfast in our hotel courtyard. Weak coffee, fresh squeezed orange juice, a lovely fruit platter and I choose mushroom tacos instead of eggs. Art has bacon and eggs. We time our morning so we will be at the Art Museum across the street when it opens at 10:00 A.M. The architecture throughout the city is Colonial, worn and beautiful.

Wednesday, May 16th Queretaro

The Museo de Arte, across from our hotel is in a a stunning Colonial building and has a surprisingly good collection. Several galleries are dedicated to an upcoming realist artist, Raoul Campos. At first look, his large canvases feel as if they were painted in the Renaissance period so competent is he with his brush and the imagery is fanciful and surrealistic. After a few rooms of Raoul Campos’s work, his imagery of fish and bowls on heads becomes tiresome but his handling of paint is remarkable. Other galleries unfold with abstract works by Ixrael Montes, my favorite being a large bronze sculpture of a lobster. The entire museum is a delight and two gallery of black and white photography capture our interest. An attendant lets us into the photographic galleries, turns on the light and then turns them off when we leave. We are the only visitors to these galleries and we surmise the light turning on and off is to protect the sensitive images. Remarkably poignant images from years past.

Queretaro has many museums and they are all free but we must sign a tedious ledger each time with our names and marking the time of our entry and where we are from. Our next museum has a quirky array of exhibits. One gallery features, Mexican street fighting posters, another gallery a collection of soap containers. The collections are carefully curated and we take our time trying to absorb and remember the vintage graphics of the various collections. There are galleries that leave us speechless and shaking our heads because we feel the art work is terrible but there are others that are a delight. Our hotel Casa del Artio is so conveniently located that we return twice to use the bathroom and to rest.

After an unmemorable late lunch in a restaurant off a shaded plaza, we venture to another quirky and fascinating museum featuring street art work. Art needs to explain the significance and the coherence of the show but I soon grasp it and delight in the array of taco and hand painted signage art that we often overlook. I can relate to the graffiti art and the hand painted skateboard and surfboard art of Santa Cruz. I think of the many one off and creative signs at Renaissance Festivals that I have participated in over the years. The museum is a treasure of archival signs.

A calendar museum is starred in our guide book and we wonder what its draw might be? We have to pay to enter this museum but it is well worth it and easy to figure out since the many hundreds of calendars are clearly dated. The museum grounds are lush and there are many visitors in the gardens. I surmise that locals pay the modest price for a yearly membership to enjoy the gardens anytime and dine at the cafe. Much of the calendar art work is superb and we soon grasp who the calendar artist rock stars were during their days. We wish to see the original paintings of our favorite, Jesus Helguera but the originals are elsewhere. There are pin up calendars and calendars reflecting the politics and cultures of each era. Framing the edges of most calendars are ad’s for cigarettes, alcohol, perfume and soap. The museum is great fun and a nostalgic flash back to past generations and the norms and cultures of those bygone eras.

I feel that we must view Queretaro’s aqueduct and we take a taxi to the viewpoint overlooking the sprawling city below. It is brutally hot but we take the obligatory photos and following the map we walk a quarter mile downhill to a contemporary Art Museum. This museum leaves much to be desired and it is after 4:00 P.M. when we exit in search of a taxi to take us to the Academy of Art’s Institute where Art hopes to meet the director and inquire about taking a painting workshop. Art is in much better physical shape and the heat has sapped me and I long for a taxi. I watch several taxis pass by but Art wants to find one headed in the perfect and most economical direction. I finally snap and refuse to walk a step further. I shelter in the minimal shade of a signpost before Art hails a taxi and we are rescued. None of the museums or taxis have air conditioning but in some ways, I appreciate that the city and museums rely on thick walls, inner courtyards and canopies of trees. Also, sensible people take afternoon siestas and don’t venture outside during the heat of the day. Tourists do not have the luxury of time nor are we sensible.

Our taxi drops us off at the Academy of Art and Art rings the bell and and the intercom crackles and a willowy young woman soon comes to the iron gates and ushers us into a sunny courtyard where we wait while she finished talking with a student. Five minutes later she ushers us through a dim hallway and into her office. I see plaster casts and busts propped on dusty shelves and easels in the hallway and a beyond. One student stands at her easel drawing the planes of a nose. The director gestures to two chairs. Art asks about the study program and she tells us it is a three year program and requires beginning at the bottom with figure drawing and working the way up completing a series of class blocks. This is not what he is looking for and they eventually come to occasional week long workshops taught by qualified visiting artists who have studied in Italy. From what we gather, these week long workshops cost between $1200 – $1500. This is what Art is interested in and she tells us that the next one will be in the fall but the dates are not yet set. She shows us two of the classrooms. There is a figure drawing class in progress but we cannot enter because there is a nude model. Art will need to keep checking the institutes Instagram page for dates. They do not have a web site or a dedicated e-mail list.

The day is still blistering hot and we walk many blocks to the terrace of a 5 star hotel where we hoist ourselves onto high stools and sip cosmopolitans and share a cob salad. The liquid relaxes and the salad is just what we need to bring us back to life. The weather cools slightly and wander cobblestone backstreets. The late afternoon light sheds a magic over it all and I forget how tired and swollen as my feet are. For dinner, I hope for a salad and a glass of crisp white wine. Art makes an effort for this unfold but there seems to be no white wine available at any of the restaurants. Mixed drinks, shots of tequila and red wine are abundant. Eventually we are directed to a busy side street and find not only a wine bar but several Italian restaurants. We enter an upscale restaurant and I feel momentarily embarrassed when I see the maitre dees eyes scan our wilted cloths his eyes landing at our feet. Both Art and I are wearing sandals. Nevertheless, he graciously seats us and I order a single glass of excellent sauvignon blanc. The glass is elegant and the temperature of the wine perfect. It costs about $11 which by California wine prices is nothing but translated into pesos, it feels expensive. Art drinks an icy Topo-Chico and we share an arugula and prosciutto pizza. Returning to our hotel, I stop at Tikua restaurant again to examine their menu. The insect appetizer options still fascinate me.

Thursday, May 17th. Queretario to San Miguel de Allende.

At 8:00 A.M. Art and I stroll out in search of breakfast. We relish the relative cool of the morning knowing that it will be short lived. We choose a courtyard cafe a few blocks away and we drink marvelous cappuccinos. Art orders eggs and bacon and I choose an open faced toast with arugula and prosciutto. We stroll back to our hotel. Shops are beginning to open. We pop into a few leather and hat shops and I consider a belt for John. Art fingers a tightly woven Panama hat. One street is lined with Quinceanera dress shops and we watch a plump young girl twirl in a green dress while her friends and her mother gush approvingly. Art imagines how beautiful Molly would look in the green dress with her red hair cascading down. I am interested in the hoop petticoats required as undergarments and the cinched waist ties necessary to transform bodies into hour glass shapes. The tradition looks like it is a Cinderella fantasy and almost as painful as lacing a Renaissance Faire corset.

Back at the hotel, we pack quickly and our 11:00 A.M. taxi to San Miguel de Allende is waiting. The set price for the hour drive is 900 pesos or about $60. The driver is pleasant and chats to Art in Spanish telling him about the booming industries, aero space, manufacturing and car factories. Many are American owned as a hedge against China. The freeway is good but we pass a seemingly tragic auto accident and this clouds my mind and heart as I imagine the likely fatalities and see the half dozen paramedics repeatedly in my mind.

The drive takes 1-1/4 hours and we are soon bumping along the narrow cobblestone streets of San Miguel de Allende with the pink wedding cake cathedral perched on the hill. It’s 12:30 when our taxi drops us off in front of a closed wooden door with a small flowered tile sign above the doorway. The taxi is gone in a flash and our suitcases sit forlornly in front of the locked door. Art buzzes and an intercom crackles with a recorded message. He instructs me to stand in the narrow slice of shade on the opposite side of the street and keep watch. Art goes on a reconnaissance mission to see where we might sit while we wait for a human to open the door. An older American man strolls past me and asks if I need help? I briefly tell him our situation and he assures me that there is a cafe two blocks up and nods approvingly at the closed door saying it is a nice place. Rolling our suitcases along the treacherous cobblestones seems daunting but before we must make our decision, a young man hurries up to the door, unlocks it and ushers us along an extremely narrow interior path sandwiched between the buildings. We appraise the non assuming downstairs sitting room and he shows us a large modern shared kitchen. Breakfast service begins at 8:30 A.M. The hotel is a narrow 4 stories with only 6 or 7 rooms. He shows us three rooms that we can choose from and I pick the only room on the 3rd floor.

Our Roof Garden View – San Miguel de Allende

The rooftop terrace is very inviting so in spite of 3 flights, I opt for the 3rd floor room which after two nights will prove to be a good choice.

Art and I settle into our small but inviting room and are soon out on the cobblestones, orienting ourselves to the city layout and walking uphill towards the cathedral square in search of lunch. Did I mention that we are not good at choosing restaurants? (Smile)

The temperature is soaring and I am sure it is 100+ in the shade and considerably more in the open spaces. We slink along the shady side of the cobble stone street looking at menus and choose a nondescript courtyard cafe off a side street. Art orders fish tacos and I choose a sashimi tostado. We share a large icy coca cola. After lunch we visit La Parroquia, the parish church of San Miguel. It’s Neogothic and built of pink sandstone and the thick stone walls cool the interior from the blistering heat. The Cathedrals strange pinnacles give it its wedding cake reputation. The vaulted ceilings are brick and light beams from the clearstory glass windows.

The historical museum is off a corner from the main square and we spend an hour there, reading about the history of Mexico’s independence and the city’s hero, Ignacio Allende.

Tonight we miss our restaurant mark again and choose a Paella restaurant at the end of our street. Passing several times during the day, we become prey to the woman standing outside, hawking her establishment. It is steps from our hotel, advertises, 2 for one happy hour, has a a rooftop bar and a seemingly lovely paella menu. We confidently enter and the host begins to take us upstairs to the roof top which might have been a fine choice but on the way, Art says we came for the 2 for one Mojitos. The waiter halts and says that the 2 for 1 drinks do not apply on the roof top. We’re taken aback slightly but the interior of the restaurant is cool with white table cloths and candle lighting so we choose a table by the front window. We order a seafood Paella that will take 45 minutes to prepare and two margaritas but the waiter halts us and says we may not share them but need to order 2 each and at the same time. It is likely that we would have ordered 2 rounds but we don’t want 4 drinks at once. Then I notice that the happy hour option includes white wine which I prefer so we change our order. The waiter is confused. We are confused. A young woman who speaks some English steps forward and Art tries to be funny replying that perhaps that we need a lawyer to help decipher their special? Two Mojitos now sit in front of Art and by some miracle a waitress pours me a glass of crisp and cold white wine. A beautiful seafood Paella arrives shortly but it is all smoke and mirrors and the delight for us is short lived when the squid tentacles are rubber and that there is no fish what so ever in the overly salty and greasy dish. I push a little around on my plate and can only nibble a few bites. When the bill comes, they have charged us 80 pesos more than the menu price and Art asks if we should point this out? I shake my head, Art pushes his credit card into the hungry machine, adds a small tip and we leave.

Picturesque San Miguel is a maze of cobblestone streets, expensive boutiques and hundreds of courtyard and rooftop bars and restaurants. We walk up to the main plaza which is thronging with people. Unlike Queretaro there are lots of tourists and ex-pats sitting in the shaded and park. A cacophony of competing mariachi groups lurk and play outside of every cafe. Disneyesque 12 foot puppets teeter on the cobblestones and it seems that everyone is taking a selfie or wanting their photo taken with these grotesque puppets. I can almost feel their sweat trickling down inside their sweltering costumes and their frozen faces unnerve me. Both Art and I want to leave but we first buy a large bottle of water and on the way to the register we see bottles of tequila for sale behind a locked display. Why not since we have a quiet roof top garden and three nights at our charming hotel? Back at our hotel, we collect ice from the kitchen, climb the 4 flights up to the terrace and sit blissfuly alone overlooking the city with the lighted Cathedral as a backdrop.

Friday, May 18th, San Miguel de Allende. Art has found a Pickle ball group on the outskirts of the city. It starts at 8:30 so he foregoes breakfast and takes a taxi to the courts. I enjoy the hotel’s breakfast alone. Strong coffee, a pretty fruit plate and freshly squeezed orange juice. The pastries are terrible but have a cooked to order omelet and am quite satisfied. Returning upstairs to my room, I grab my computer and climb the spiral glass stairway to the roof terrace. The morning is blissfully cool, the view is idyllic and I thoroughly enjoy two hours alone writing this blog.

Art rests a bit when he returns and we venture out into the stifling heat and walk to the Escuela de Bellas Artes. The highlight for me is an immense room dedicated to an exceptional unfinished Siqueiros mural. The cosmic mural covers the walls and ceiling with shooting angular lines, optical circles and a projectile red and yellow flaming missile design. Stunning and other worldly. We rehydrate with icy drinks in the shady courtyard of the museum. His new Pickle Ball friends have told him of an art gallery cooperative, La Aurora Fabrica and we take a taxi to the maze of artist studios and showrooms. It’s great to have so many galleries clustered together one flowing into the other. Some good art, mostly mediocre but because of the fluid space, we are seldom cornered by sales persons and can wander on our own. Showrooms flows into courtyards into more galleries. Some spaces are bearable heat wise but crossing unshaded patios in the heat saps me.

Finding a courtyard cafe, we refuel and hydrate. A decent guacamole for me and a club sandwich for Art. With renewed strength we finish the gallery tour and take a taxi back to our hotel to rest. Our room is on the top floor and heat rises and there is no air conditioning. Our room is slightly cooler than the outside temperature and we open both door and window and watch our overhead fan whirl and move the hot air around. We shower and literally lie naked on our bed. I eventually dress and walk up to the roof top and sit in the small patch of hot shade and write. I’m acclimating to the temperature and at least it is dry heat. Several other guests come and go and we all share the one shaded table.

One man who Art played pickle ball with this morning mentioned a good restaurant that we might want to try but after the experience, I question this man’s standards? More likely he mentioned a cheap and passable restaurant. Hecho en Mexico. The courtyard is pretty enough and the service is prompt and amiable but my spinach salad leave everything to be desired. I should have known not to order a salad but because of the heat, I have little appetite. Art’s chicken mole is O.K. and he shares a few bites with me. Although, I believe that I am speaking quietly, I tell Art that my salad is disappointing. I immediately regret this when Art tells me that I have the aptitude of speaking poorly of something at the exact moment that a waiter or sales person walks by. We leave the restaurant grumbling at each other and walk the cobble stone streets back in silence. Collecting ice from our hotel kitchen we climb the 4 flights up to the roof terrace which in the cool of the evening has transformed into a blissful setting. There are 3 large seating areas but we are the only ones on the roof. We forget about our bickering and sip chilled tequila and enjoy the view of the illuminated cathedral and watch the activities on nearby roof top terraces.

Saturday, May 19th, San Miguel de Allende

We eat the hotel breakfast together and Art hurries off to pickle ball. With a cup of coffee in hand, I head to the cool of the rooftop to write. Even though the weather is delightful, the sun is such that there is only one shaded table and a French mother and daughter sit with me. They are planning their day and I give them as much privacy as possible considering the limited shade real estate.

Art returns from pickle ball and we head out for our last day in San Miguel, starting with the Museum Casa del Mayorazgo that is right off the main plaza. The museum is curated in yet another beautiful historical building and is a showcases many best artisans and craft examples from regions of Mexico.

I manage to convince Art that we should hire a taxi to drive us 11 kilometers outside of San Miguel de Allende to the Sanctuario de Atotonilco. The guide book writes that this chapel is this Mexico’s “Sistine Chapel.” When we arrive the small town is void of tourists and Art wisely asks the taxi driver to wait for us since finding transportation back to San Miguel may be difficult. The simple exterior of the chapel complex is walled with cream plaster and we walk the perimeter of the complex before entering.

Although the chapel is nothing like the Sistine Chapel, I am not disappointed. There are groups of Pilgrims waiting to enter the chapel each holding a silken and embroidered flag denoting their particular congregation. We stand behind the first group waiting for an earlier baptism ceremony to end. When the chapel empties we remove our hats and enter as discretely as possible. Every wall and alcove in the interior of the church is painted with earth tone frescos. The many columns are topped with gold plated corinthian capitals and the statues are colorfully painted. We stand with the Pilgrims while they kneel, pray and sing together. Their chanting is both beautiful and other worldly. After about ten minutes, they rise in unison and with bowed heads, back out of the chapel.

Art and I walk around the small village that is preparing for a street festival. Tents line the street selling trinkets and good smelling food. An hour passes before we return to our taxi for the drive back to San Miguel de Allende.

Art is trying to make up for last night’s restaurant choice and tonight we go to the Rosewood hotel and restaurant for drinks. Neither Art nor I are very comfortable in exclusive hotels and restaurants but we allow ourselves to be escorted to a rooftop table with views of the sunset and the domed and spired city beyond. The service is overly attentive but we each enjoy a tasty cocktail and share a wonderful guacamole appetizer. The waiters continually check on us, removing plates and glasses before we have enjoyed the last crumb or sip. I feel they are trying to turn tables quickly and the third time they swoop in, I smile and grab my glass with both hands making it quite obvious that we are not ready to leave. The waiter smiles and leaves us alone. Eventually, we pay the bill we wander the terrace and descend through their manicured courtyard back to the street. Still somewhat hungry, Art direct us to another pickle ball recommended restaurant that proves to be just our style. It has an innovative menu and we order and yummy chicken brochettes with grilled jicama and peppers and another round of drinks. The designer or possibly the owner of the restaurant comes to sit with us and we can feel that an unwanted party is beginning to unfold. Art and I make polite excuses and walk the cobble stone streets back to our hotel.

Sunday May 20th, San Miguel de Allende to Guanajuato

Our taxi to Guanajuato will come at noon so Art has another morning to play pickleball and I can spend another morning on the rooftop writing. It is Sunday morning and guitarist is playing for brunch guests on a nearby rooftop so I am serenaded as I write and blissfully alone. The 1-1/2 hour taxi ride costs 1000 pesos or about $65.00. I don’t know it yet, but Guanajuato will be my favorite of the three cities we visit on this trip. Guanajuato is in the colonial heartland and is one of Mexico’s most beautiful silver cities. It is built in a rugged ravine and the colorful houses climb up along the hillsides. The twisted streets are home to beautiful churches, shaded plazas, ornate Colonial architecture and the fabulous Jaurez Theater.

Many of the streets are one way or unaccessible to traffic so our taxi driver lets us off a street below our hotel. It’s a bit of a challenge to maneuver our luggage up the alley way stairs but we manage and I stand watch over the luggage as Art walks half a block down and checks into the La Casa de Don Lucas Hotel. The hotel is in the heart of town which is a top priority for me. I want to be able to walk to cafes, museums and watch humanity stroll by. I requested a 1st or 2nd floor room and they accommodate us with a huge, odd and very dimly lit suite. We have a separate bedroom with two queen beds and an interior window looking over the hotels patio cafe. I rather like this. The sitting room is furnished with spindly but a nice antique couch, chairs and tables. A wet bar, refrigerator and microwave are in the far corner and beyond that is a small but well appointed bathroom. Once our eyes adjust to the dim lighting and we are able to figure out how to turn bedside lights and how to plug in our electronics I am quite happy with this room. Within 10 minutes we have regrouped and head out onto the street in search of a late lunch.

Apparently the city is preparing for a festival and there are food booths lining the street. It is now past 2:00 P.M. and finding lunch is our top priority. We walk a block down reading cafe menus. Nothing stands out since they all serve traditional Mexican dishes that we are bored with. I quickly acquiesce when Art suggests one of the street food stalls. The grill sizzles and there are many Mexican families sharing long plastic covered tables and the food looks fresh and ample. We order chicken taquitos to share and do not ask the price. Minutes later our ample plate arrives and we dig in. The food is mediocre but we eat heartily and Art is shocked when he asks for the bill. Both of us expected that the prices would be considerably less than if we were to order the same thing in one of the adjoining cafes. We pay our 250 pesos and walk towards the central plaza. Art hates to feel taken advantage of and grumbles as we walk toward the central plaza. I urge him to let it go.

Guanajuato is in the Colonial heartland and is one of Mexico’s most beautiful silver cities. It is built in a rugged ravine and colorful buildings climb up along the hillsides. We wander the twisted cobblestone streets and come to a lovely tree shaded plaza. It is another brutally hot day and these plazas with their wrought iron benches are a welcome rest. The Jaurez Theater adjoins the plaza and we climb the stairway intending to enter but we are informed we need a ticket. Along side the theater is a tiny kiosk and we pay the minimal amount and return to the entrance. It was built in 1903 and is a good example of Mexican Neoclassical architecture. Doric columns support a facade that it crowned with 8 bronze muse sculptures. Two bronze lions flank the entrance. Inside, I feel that I’ve been transported by magic carpet to an Arabian Nights fairy tail. Every surface of the decorative interior is embellished with ‘peacock’ fans of tile, gold leaf, red velvet and crystal chandeliers.

Art and I wander the twisted streets. The alleys are picturesque and the city feels very European.

On the curbs sit children selling straw burrows, young girls with bouquets of flowers, a blind mother and son sing beautiful operatic songs and then I see a young man of about 15 sitting against a dirty wall selling fried scorpions, grasshoppers and tiny fried fish. I don’t usually intrude and ask for a photo but I ask this young man and he beams and gives me a thumbs up! Next door is a tiny bar and Art asks if I would like to have a pulque and we step into the small dark room and order 1 pulque and 1 mescal. Pulque is a traditional Mexican fermented alcoholic mead made from the Agave plant. Mescal is distilled but also made from the Agave plant. Art’s pulque drink is large and milky and comes in several flavors. We order a second round (of course only to sample a second flavor.) We consider a third round and Art says he might eat a scorpion if I allow him another round and watching him eat a scorpion is a tempting offer, but I nudge him forward to pay the bill which is about $5 for two rounds of drinks. The overpriced taquitos we ate earlier are now forgotten.

We walk to the Don Quixote museum which is mildly interesting and as I’m sure you can guess, every painting and sculpture features Don Quixote.

Leaving the museum, we wander other streets and I soon have the central district mapped in my mind. Our stomachs remind us it’s dinner time and the guidebook recommends an unassuming deli that specializes in Japanese food. We find it easily and I order fresh spring rolls and a salmon roll. Art chooses a Bento Box and he points to a selection of cold salads, several mayonnaise based. My meal is reasonably good and a welcome break from Mexican food. Art wolfs his down but his will come back to haunt him over the next several days. I always want to prolong our evenings out and I urge Art to sit at an outdoor cafe off the plaza by the Jaurez Theater. It’s beginning to get dark. Our drinks arrive and I hear the familiar sound of a whip cracking, leave our table and go to the street to see a parade approaching. (Why you may ask, is whip cracking a familiar sound to me? Do enough Renaissance Festivals and whip cracking becomes a pretty common theme at the stage shows.) There are young boys dressed like devils, cracking whips dangerously into the crowd followed by dancers, horn blowers and drummers. I fast walk back to the table and give Art his chance to investigate the parade.

We pay our bill we watch the deafening parade of marchers, elaborately feathered and beaded dancers and a dozen strong men march carrying an alter to the Virgin Mary in the manner one might carry a coffin. My ears still ring when we are back inside our hotel room. I realize that having a hotel directly off the main street during a fiesta may not bode well for a restful sleep.

Monday, May 21st, Guanajuato

This is our only full day in Guanajuato and it seems that all the museums are closed on Monday’s. Going to the Diego Rivera museum was top on our list. Diego Rivera was born in Guanajuato so the museum is both his home and a museum. My only consultation is that I really love this city and that means we will need to return another time. The guide book suggests taking the funicular to the top of the hill so after a mediocre hotel breakfast we set out on foot to the station. I’m not wild about air trams or funiculars but the tracks haul us up a nearly vertical incline and we dutifully take photos from the viewpoint of the colorful city below.

silver mine of Bocamina San Ramon is one of the few things open today and after walking through the covered food market we find a taxi to take us to the mine. The taxi ride takes us up into the hills above Guanajuato to the Valenciana mining district, down a narrow road and deposits us at the entrance to the mine. We pay the modest entrance fee and join a small Spanish speaking tour. The small museum doesn’t need much interpretation. There are dioramas of the mine shaft and examples of the ore and then there is the 60 meter climb down the shaft that is open to the public. The steps are uneven, tall and rock hewn with a cable hand rail on both sides of the tunnel wall. It looks challenging but not impossible and we go down. Down is harder than the upward trek but somewhere along the way, I injure myself or over stress my muscles and by the time I am back above ground, I can barely walk. Unfortunately, we must walk as there are no taxis and I want to visit the Templo La Valenciana, described as a magnificent church with a dazzling interior and golden alters. It’s Monday so of course it is closed.

We stand in the hot and dusty hillside square looking vainly for a taxi to take us back into the city below. A city bus fills before we can board. Seemingly, a long time later, another bus arrives and we are able to get on and find a seat. I am blissfully happy to be careening down the road, sandwiched among locals and watching the scenery pass by.

The bus back from the Valenciana silver mines

Back in Guanajuato, we feel we have earned a splurge and have a late lunch at an upscale restaurant just off the main square. Surprisingly, it is not much more expensive than the other places we have eaten and the salad is innovative and fresh and the chicken dish, smothered with a fruity sauce is quite good. Our meals are accompanied by bread and tucked among the rolls are two sweet bread pastries that are custard filled and melt in your mouth delicious. We walk back to our hotel to rest.

It’s our last night of the trip and we must wake early and take a taxi to the Leon airport. As dusk settles we walk back to the square, eventually settle on a corner upstairs restaurant and score a balcony table overlooking the bustling square below. The moon is nearly full and hangs low in the sky. This is the perfect end to a whirlwind week in the Colonial highlands of Mexico.

Tuesday, May 22nd, Guanajuato to Leon to San Jose California.

The taxi arrives precisely at 5:00 A.M. The 35 minute ride to the international Leon airport costs only 700 pesos or about $40. Checking in and security is seamless but we are hungry and there are no good airport options. Two cappuccinos, a Croque Monsieur and Eggs Benedict set us back over $50. Unfortunately the food is truly terrible and when we board Volaris Air charges for water and even snacks. We share a bag of jalapeño potato chips and a coca cola. The plane is half empty and Art makes room for me to curl up on two seats and rest my feet on his lap. For me the three hour direct flight is painless enough and we land in San Jose at 10:30 A.M. Our car is in long term parking, the shuttle comes quickly and we and head straight to Japan Town for an early lunch.

Why I Love ‘Mecca’ by Susan Straight

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is Mecca-Susan-Straight-768x1024.jpeg — Mecca, by Susan Straight

My father was a geologist and I went to kindergarten in Mecca California while my father was mapping the San Andreas Fault. We lived in an adobe bungalow nestled in a date grove and my best friend was Maria who’s parents were migrants and worked in the date orchards. I spoke no Spanish and Maria spoke no English but Maria would come to our dusty front porch and we played with Jenny Dolls. I was allowed to go to their families date grove encampment some nights. I remember holding her young fathers hand and walking the raised furrows of the grove and watching the women make tortillas. My father was so much older.

In 2010 on a final desert road trip with my father to Mecca, the adobe cottage was abandoned but still standing.

I had one other friend, a boy of about 8 or 9, the son or grandson of the old woman who lived in the main house. He and I would crawl on our bellies through the mesquite and tamarack. We built forts and would catch scorpions.

Every day, my father went to the field to map the geology. My mother packed his tin lunch box and seldom did he return home without a horned lizard, tarantula or snake tucked inside the empty tin. This is why I love reptiles, insects and arachnids. I was in Mecca less than a year but the desert is still my happy place.

Throughout my childhood, I went on many canyon and desert trips with my parents and in 2010, I took my father on a final road trip to his beloved desert; Joshua Tree, Mecca, Painted Canyon and the Salton Sea. He passed away at age 99 in May of 2014.

2010 Road trip with my father – Joshua Tree scenic view point overlooking the Coachella Valley

Everything about Mecca by Susan Straight hits my heartstrings. Truly an “engaging novel about a network of people related by blood, love and duty.” Washington Post.

The Baja Nature Channel

Many of our jewelry designs are inspired by nature. I travel frequently down to the tip of Baja where the desert meets the Sea of Cortez. Yesterday, while reading on our ocean view deck I spotted turmoil on the oceans surface just beyond the surf. A huge school of Mobula Devil Rays were circling, pop-corning and glinting in the Baja sunshine. Although I have seen this a few times before, I am not usually down here in late April. Throughout the day, rays would jump and I would catch their diamond sparkle as they performed acrobatics.

School of Munk’s Devil Rays – Wikipedia photo

The Munk’s Devil Ray is the smallest of the Mobula genus and their cousin is the huge Manta Rays. The Devil Ray is a meter across with two frontal lobe fins that look a bit like horns, giving them their nick name. These frontal fins help to funnel water and food into their mouth. Unless you are a plankton they are harmless and during late spring and late autumn, as the currents change bringing in schools of plankton, they congregate by the tens of thousands to feed, mate and give birth. They give birth to only one pup every 3-5 years. Although they may seem plentiful, they are on the near threatened list, a causality of by-catch and of being the favorite food of the Orca.

Juvenile Spiny Tail Rock Iguana – Photo by Marty

Spiny Tail Rock Iguanas reside within the crevices of the rocky wall of our Baja casita. Whenever I’m at our Baja home, feeding papaya and bananas to our iguanas is my favorite pastime. I work on our websites, write, read and paint. I’m often distracted looking out our many windows to see what our iguanas are doing. Spike is our handsome black and tan male and about 20” long. We have five resident iguanas living in our rock condo wall. Today, I caught Spike and a smaller female, head bobbing (a mating courtship ritual) and circling each other head to tail. As far as I could see his desire was left unfulfilled and she scampered from the wall and into her rock crevice. “Not today dear…” The pesky chipmunks eat the majority of the papaya and banana and our neighborhood burros stretch their necks over the wall trying to reach the treats. I’ve spotted several juvenile Spiny Tail Iguanas as well. They are a gorgeous bright green and we named our January 2023 juvenile Squirt. I haven’t seen Squirt this April, but he or she may have matured and lost its vibrant coloring.

Spike, on the rock wall of our bungalow – photo by Marty

Spike, on the steps to our bungalow. Photo by Marty

Today is May 8th, 2023. I’m starting to shut down our off the grid bungalow in Zacatitos. I looked out the window and on the rock wall and there was a lizard pile. I grabbed my binoculars and Spike was mating with Cholla. Their tails and bodies were intertwined in what I perceived to be an uncomfortable position. Spike was biting the frill on Cholla’s neck to keep her still and in position. By the time I got my camera they were finished with their lovemaking. I’m very excited to anticipate more spiny tail iguanas and verify that Cholla is female. She’s grown, but not nearly as big as Spike and until a few minutes ago, I didn’t know if she might be a young male and their head bobbing activities were territorial or romantic. These iguanas breed in the Spring and it will be 8 – 10 weeks before the female digs her nest and up to 30 eggs are laid. The eggs will hatch 75-90 days later and there is a 50.3% survival rate. I am Exited to be a great grandma in early October!

Buzzard and Crested Caracara

My favorite Baja bird is the Buzzard. They catch the thermals and I watch them soaring over our Baja bungalow. I almost always see them circling Punta Gorda, the rocky point that rises 300 feet above Zacatitos and is the west end bookend for our off grid community. Prior to the Hurricane Odile, buzzards would perch on he frame of our neighbors palapa. These majestic birds of prey are excellent scavengers and do their job well, keeping the desert free of carrion. They have a wing span of 3-4 feet and can live up to 25 years although their average lifespan is 8. They are monogamous and lay 3-4 eggs each breeding season. Pictured, perching on an adjoining cactus is a Crested Caracara, sometimes referred to as the Mexican Falcon. It frequently joins the vultures to feast on carrion and can be spotted walking on the ground as well as perching on the highest cactus.

Buzzard and Cara Cara on Cardon Cactus, Zacatitos Baja – Photo by Marty

Buzzard and Cara Cara on Cardon Cactus, Zacatitos Baja – Photo by Marty

Desert Cardinals – It’s wonderful to see a splash of color against the muted colors of the Baja desert. There is actually color everywhere but you have to look a harder here to find it. Seeking out the surprises nature presents is a bit of a scavenger hunt in Baja. There are many cardinals here. The desert dwelling cardinals are similar to the Northern Cardinal but not the crimson red. In Baja their plumage is grey and orange with red highlights on face, crest, belly, wings and tail. We hear them often a part of the chorus of many distinct bird calls. Their song is high pitched with a loud clear whistle. The desert is a noisy place and geckos bark at night. (I smile to the gecko chirp in my dreams.) Unfortunately there is also the endless sound of construction as paradise is paved.

Cardinal defending his territory from the handsome bird in the mirror. Photo by Marty

Apparently we are parking our 4-runner in one males territory. He mistakes his reflected image in our rear view mirrors and relentlessly challenges the invading male in the reflection. I’m pausing my writing to go cover the mirrors lest he have a heart attack.

Cardinals have 3 to 4 broods each year consisting of 3 to 4 eggs each. They are mostly monogamous but will choose a new mate if their mate dies. Cardinals are not on the endangered pieces list.

Scorpions and the Tailless Whip Scorpions. I see the creepy but harmless tailless scorpions often. They sometimes surprise me in our sink by coming up through the drain pipe. I slip a glass over the intruder, slide a spatula below and return it to its outside habitat. Several nights ago, one greeted us on the steps to our casita. Happily for both of us, I had a flashlight and did not step on him. We also have hundreds of tiny scorpions that hide in our rock wall, under rotted cactus skeletons and under desert rocks. The Scorpions are venomous but not aggressive and we have a mutual agreement to leave each other alone. Look don’t touch. They are easy to spot at night under the ultra violet flashlight and glow green. Going on a scorpion hunt is a fun distraction for the grandkids and the adults as well. Venomous and poisonous are very different. Many plants and animals are poisonous but only if you eat it or them. Venomous means that the bite or the sting from the creature can cause harm. Biting or stinging is usual the creatures last resort. Live and let live.

Burros – Dozens of semi wild burros roam the dirt roads of Zacatitos, Baja. ‘One Ear’ a weather beaten male has probably fathered many of our local burros. They are smart and personable and sometimes annoying. They are always asking for treats. Zacatitos would not be Zacatitos without them. Donkey verses Burro is mostly a matter of semantics but burros tend to be smaller and gray or brown with a stripe down their back. Just like an elephant, a burro never forgets.

Curious Zacatitos Burros – Photo by Marty

Walking Stick Insect – Walking Stick Insects are often referred to as the leaf insects, ghost or phantom bugs for their ability to camouflage. Camouflage protects them from predators but many have a secondary line of defense such as spines or toxic secretions. Here again is an example of poisonous versus venomous. They do not bite or sting but may be extremely unpleasant to eat or digest. They hide in plain sight, some even changing their coloration and predators instinctively know that they are not tasty. This wide order of insects are found on all continents except Antarctica and are most prevalent in the tropics and subtropics. Spotting one of these bugs in the Zacatitos desert is a real treat! These amazing insects come in shapes and colors that are beyond even Pixar’s and Disney’s imagination.

Walking Stick insect in proportion to Art’s hand. – Photo by Marty

Southern Desert Horned Lizard.

We spotted this Southern Desert Horned Lizard, ‘Horny Toad’ at the Melling Ranch in Northern Baja. The ranch has been family owned for 115 years and both my grandfather and father spent considerable time there. It is an effort to drive there but Art and I visited it in 2107 making a pilgrimage to the Melling Ranch a 3 generation tradition. The ranch is the gateway to the Sierra San Pedro Martir National Park. Horned lizards have a distinctive wide and flat body and pointed spikes that protrude from the back of their heads. They are relatively small ranging between 3”-4” in length. They prey primarily on invertebrates, ants being one of their favorite treats. They are a gentle species although two of their defense mechanisms are puffing up when threatened and squirtng blood from their eyes. As a child, I had several catch and release horned lizards while my father was mapping the San Andreas fault in the California high desert. I remember being 7 years old in Castaic and hand feeding my various horned lizards squirming ants held between tweezers. After their meals, I would gently turn them over, stoke their incredibly soft bellies and they would sleep. Perhaps they were playing dead as another defense mechanism but I loved them so. I have been especially bonded to lizards since then.

Peninsular Leaf-toed Gecko

We see these nocturnal geckos occasionally and hear their sharp bark and chirp frequently at night. I count the chirps in my dreams and it is often 9 in quick succession followed by a responding 9 chirps from a nearby gecko. I assume this is their internet dating code asking who wants to hang out, eat bugs and mate? We have many living in and around our off the grid Baja bungalow and they are efficient insect exterminators. Moths and spiders beware. As with all geckos, they have sticky toes that afford them the magical ability to effortlessly scale walls and glass and rest comfortably on the ceiling near light fixtures waiting to ambush the next unsuspecting insect. The ones I encounter are between 3” -5” long with huge bug eyes. (the better to see those bugs in the dark) They are harmless to all but insects. They are tan and brown spotted or sometimes tan and brown banded with splayed sticky toes and incredibly soft bellies. Their nightly calls lower my blood pressure and I smile in my dreams.

Baja Rattlesnake

The beautiful, black, brown and tan diamond pattern Baja Rattlesnake inhabits the deserts of the Baja Peninsula and many of the islands off the Pacific coast of Baja. They are venomous with a distinctive tail rattle that they will vibrate to warn creatures to keep at a distance. They prefer to be left alone and politely announce their presence should you inadvertently wander too close. Should you get close enough to gaze into their eyes, you can distinguish a viper by their vertical pupils. Few people die from a rattlesnake bite but you should seek immediate medical treatment. The bite will be painful but venom is not always injected. The dine on small rodents, lizards and centipedes and have 2- 7 young a season. An adult Baja Rattlesnake is about 3 feet long and in 2015 we were greeted by a juvenile on the bottom step of our stairway and Art carefully relocated it to the nearby brush. Neither snake or human were harmed. The same year, while walking to dinner at Zac’s we saw a 4 foot adult sinuously weave through the sand and low ground cover. Gorgeous and graceful. I managed to video this encounter but when he turned back with a warning glare and rattle, I kept my distance.

Flattie House Spider

Meet Star, our friendly flattie house spider. There are many species of these spiders throughout the world and they are referred to as a flatties because of their low profile. They are harmless and I have become attached to Star. She is nocturnal and greets me most nights on the wall of our bathroom. She is a little larger than a quarter and speckled a pretty brown and tan. She is gone in the morning and on the two nights that I didn’t see her, I was disappointed.

Tarantula

Although I’ve only seen a few tarantulas in Zacatitos, there are 66 species in Mexico. Recently Art and I spotted one on the road between Zacatitos and the paved highway and stopped to photograph it. After a brief photo op, it scurried under our car tire for protection and Art and I argued for some time because I would not let him drive away until I was sure she was safely off the road. They are mostly docile and their bite is no worse than a bee sting. They burrow and prey on grasshoppers, beetles and an occasional small lizard. They can live up to 25 years! Not that I want one but they make good pets and unfortunately the illegal pet and souvenir trade industry is threatening many species. For years I did Craft festivals and was horrified and disgusted to see tarantulas, scorpions, beetles and butterflies encased in plexiglass.

In 2014, John and I traveled to Cambodia and Myanmar. We were not on a tour but arranged for independent guides and drivers. A highlight was a stop at a huge roadside insect market. I was both horrified and fascinated as our Cambodian guide crunched spiders with gusto telling us they tasted just like potato chips. I did not indulge but naturally John nibbled on one. During the Khmer Rouge, food was scarce and insects became a staple to the Cambodian diet.

Fried Cambodian Tarantulas 2014 – Photo by Marty

Land Hermit Crabs

When I first came to Zacatitos Baja, I would frequently find Hermit Crabs on the beach and I kidnapped one or two to take back to our Zacatitos Casita for an overnight airbnb. The next morning I would return them to the exact place on the beach where I had found them. I’m sure they didn’t enjoy their vacation but I loved them so! I named two Skuttle and Butt and they would race around our casita deck until I tucked them into a pail for the night. I know they are omnivorous and I offered them all sorts of edible treats and I collected larger shells to offer the crab whose house seemed too small. I never successfully convinced any to relocate to a larger shell. I have now learned that they can live up to 30 years, need both land, water and the companionship of a colony to thrive. They also need deep sand in which to molt. I see fewer and fewer on the beach today. That may be because I am aging and not making as many long beach walks or that paradise is being paved. Buying a hermit crab as a pet is condemning it to misery and an early death. https://www.nationalgeographic.com/animals/invertebrates/facts/hermit-crabs

Skuttle and Butt – Zacatitos Hermit Crabs – Photo by Marty

Baja Black Tail Deer

It’s May of 2013 and we have seen several of these lithe Black Tail Deer in our arroyo, mostly at sunset. The night we arrived a young buck was silhouetted in the dirt driveway to our casita. These Black Tail Deer weigh up to 225 pounds and are under 4 feet tall and less than 5 feet long. Mule Deer are much heftier and larger. Black Tail Deer have wider and longer black tails that stand out against their white rump. These deer bound quickly along the arroyo but our glimpses are fleeting and too far away for me to get a photo with my I-phone. I hope to see another this evening and get a better visual understanding. Our neighbors tell of antler sheds that they have found in the arroyos and on Punta Gorda.

Baja Rock Crabs

There are thousands of rock crabs swarming the rocky coastline of the east cape of Baja. Apparently there are 3 types of rock crabs between Southern Baja and Washington State but our Zacatitos rock crabs fit none of the other descriptions. Ours are brown with blue dappling and in Zacatitos, the ocean-slick, quartz veined granite with is alive with crab motion. Adult crabs range between 6” – 8” across and their life span is between 5-6 years. The females have wider abdomens where they carry their eggs. The crabs grow in steps, molting their external carapace at each step. Mating takes place when the females have soft shells just after molting and a male crab often protects the molting female by holding her under his abdomen. To this human, this seems so very sweet and perhaps its natures a preamble to foreplay. The crabs scavange as well as catch unsuspecting prey.

‘Blue Spotted’ Rock Crabs – Photo by Marty

The Most Dangerous Catch

Many of you have met my son John at a bay area art and wine festival, at the Vallejo Pirate Festival or at the Maryland Renaissance festival.

Alisha and John at the Vallejo Pirate Festival in June 2019

This week John embarks on the high seas out of Dutch Harbor Alaska as a fish observer. He will be contracting for NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association) recording the weights and and types of fish caught on various fishing vessels that he is assigned to. John graduated from S.F.S.U. with a degree in marine biology and limnology and although he’s had many jobs before, (including wearing a pirate hat at Marty Magic festivals) this will be his first job in his field of study.

I’m grateful that his 3 month contract is during the Alaskan summer and pray that his intensive safety training will not be needed. He is wearing my Angler Fish Pendant as a good luck amulet. Safe adventures John!

Our Garden Oasis

Art made this koi fish and dragonfly gate for our 30th wedding anniversary. I was surprised and delighted that Art carved portraits of two of our koi fish into the gate. We have been sheltering at home since March and having a backyard oasis has been our escape. As winter settles in, the yard is not so lush but we continue to enjoy it under the warmth of outdoor patio heaters.

Several years ago, two ducks would visit our pond. They haven’t come in a few years but this year the crows and the hummingbirds visit. Our yard has been great for socially distant family gatherings and our immediate family of 7 will celebrate Thanksgiving outside this year. The weather is predicted to be 61 degrees and sunny. Yeah for long underwear and patio heaters!

I have two bearded dragons as pets and in the spring and into late summer they love grazing in the clover. We lost our sweet Hoochie Poochie this March and I adopted two other dragons soon after.

May your lives be filled with both thanks and giving this holiday season.