Somehow the man in the Chihuahua park knew I was easy prey. From a distance he slouched against a hand cart and looked me over. His first pass was casual, just a slow saunter past my park bench, without even a glance in my direction. Old addictive thinking patterns resurfaced, patterns I thought I had long ago conquered. It was my birthday. Surely I deserved a treat? My desire transmitted through thin air. He reversed direction and approached a second time, until he stood on the sidewalk directly in front of me, his glittering onyx eyes boring through me.

“Que tienes?” I asked. What do you have?

“Ah, muchas cosas,” he replied. “Que quieres?” Many things; what do you want?

“Tienes coca?”

He tried to suppress the grin that crept onto his face. “Coca?” he repeated.”No, pero tengo coco.” No, but I have coconut, he corrected, as he reached into his into his ice cream cart for a tube of coconut ice cream. Apparently, I wasn’t the first gringa to mix up the word for coconut with the slang for cocaine, though I might have been the most embarrassed.

I don’t even like ice cream. I can accompany my friends to an ice cream parlor and watch them devour sundaes without experiencing the slightest twinge of desire. But Mexican helado is unlike any ice cream I have tasted; it is sweet seduction, nectar of the gods. I’d first answered the siren call in Cabo San Lucas, where I watched a heladero struggle his ice cream cart down a rocky sand path leading to the harbor entrance. Gnarled, dust-caked toes protruded from his decayed leather sandals and his canvas trousers and white shirt hung on his emaciated frame. I would have bought something even if he were selling pork rinds.

A vast smile slit his leathery brown face when I stepped up and asked what flavors he had. Wait, he signaled with an upheld finger, then opened the cart lid and ducked his head through the ice fog to rummage around in its depths. Triumphantly, he emerged with a frozen foot-long plastic tube filled with a white substance. “Usted debe probar este. Es hecho en casa – mi especialidad!” You must try this. It is homemade – my specialty! I tore a corner of the rubbery plastic with my teeth and tentatively sampled the icy treat. Rich, delicious coconut ice coated my mouth and slickened my teeth. Like a greedy baby I sucked on the tube, forcing the frozen cylinder up from the bottom with my thumbs, not willing to waste a single drop.

Girls lineup to buy ice cream from a Zacatecas street vendor

Though I tried to resist, the siren call of Mexican ice cream continued to lure me into its clutches. In tiny Dolores Hidalgo, the town where Mexico’s independence movement began, I rushed through the old jail and cathedral, anxious to get to the main plaza, where some of the country’s most famous ice cream vendors hawk a bizarre lineup of flavors. Our tour guide led us to his favorite stand. Immediately, spoons Read the rest of this entry »

Most visitors to the Palenque Mayan Ruins in Chiapas, Mexico make the mistake of staying in the town of Palenque. Because the town and the archeological site share the same name, tourists assume that they are one in the same. Upon arrival, however, they discover that the ruins are a 15-20 minute ride from town. The short trip can be done by taxi for 50 pesos (about $4 USD) or colectivo (shared van) for 10 pesos (about 80 cents US), but there is an even better solution. Rather than staying in Palenque, choose accommodations in the tiny jungle village of El Panchan.

The town of Palenque, located a 15-minute drive from the ruins

El Panchan’s location right outside the entrance gate to Palenque is one reason to choose it but there are even more compelling reasons. First, the price of accommodations in El Panchan is much more affordable. Although there are numerous options, I chose Margarita and Ed’s, where I rented a cabana with twin beds and a private, ensuite bathroom for about $15 per night. The room was spotless and well-furnished, there was round-the-clock hot water, and though the owners told me the closest Internet connection was in Palenque, I actually got a signal (albeit weak) on my Mexican TelCel Aircard that allowed me to get email and upload blog posts. Read the rest of this entry »

Although I had been assured that it was not difficult to find last minute accommodations during Mexico’s Cinco de Mayo holiday, upon arriving in Veracruz I was informed that every single hotel room in and around the Zocalo was sold out. Initially, I was surprised, since Veracruz is hardly a prime tourist destination; as Mexico’s largest port, its Malecon runs past cargo and military ships rather than gorgeous beaches and the city offers very little in the way of museums or other attractions. But I hadn’t figured on the Zocalo, the city’s central plaza, being such a cultural mecca.

Palacio Municipal, the oldest government building in Mexico, anchors one end of the Zocalo

Outdoor restaurants line pedestrian-only streets around the Zocalo

Even in the middle of the day, the tree-filled Zocalo was a feast for the eyes. On one side of the square, worshipers stopped into Virgen de la Asuncion Cathedral for quick devotions; on another, people streamed in and out of the brilliant white Municipal Palace, the oldest city government building in Mexico. Waiters stood in pedestrian-only streets choked with dining tables, enticing passers-by with promises of discounts and fresh seafood, while a string of dance troupes performed on a portable stage in the plaza. Phoning around, I’d found a hotel room a mile away, but that simply wouldn’t do; I had to stay on Read the rest of this entry »

By the time all the Semana Santa festivals had finally drawn to a close, I was ready for some quiet time. I boarded a first class Primera Plus bus in Chihuahua and settled back in my plush reclining seat for the ten hour ride to Zacatecas. Whenever I grew tired of watching movies on the overhead TV screens, I stared out my window at mile after mile of desolate desert covered with thirsty bushes and stunted, gnarled trees, marking our progress by distant dusky blue mountains that drew incrementally nearer.

My only concern was whether I would have a place to stay upon arrival. I had been trying to get in touch with Hostal Villa Colonial for the past two days but the contact form on their website wasn’t working. Finally, I emailed them directly and hoped for the best; the bus would arrive in Zacatecas at 11 p.m. and I had no way of knowing if the hostal would even be open at that hour.

From the bus station I grabbed a taxi for the short trip to the center of Zacatecas. This was a different world from northern Mexico. Stately colonial era buildings flanked stone-paved streets and despite being nearly midnight, the sidewalks were filled with people. Music drifted through the taxi’s open windows: jazz, drumming, rock and Mexican ballads mingled as we slowly carved our way through pedestrian clogged avenues. Directly behind the cathedral, my driver pulled over and pointed to a doorway barely visible for the people standing in front of it. I pushed through the crowd to the front desk, where the manager immediately greeted me: “Barbara you made it. We got your email and we have held our last room for you. It is the top floor, a very nice room, you will like it. Let me show you the way.”

View of Zacatecas Cathedral from my rooftop room at Hostal Villa Colonial

The streets are clogged wih people at all hours

La Bufa looms over the town

As I trudged up the narrow stairway to the third floor he apologized for the crowds and the noise; every inch of the hostel was crammed with people who were attending the fourth annual Zacatecas Cultural Festival. So much for a few days of quiet. Breathless and exhausted, I threw open the French doors of the penthouse and gazed out over the Centro Historico (historic downtown) of Zacatecas. The Cathedral’s floodlit dome dominated my rooftop vista in one direction, while more distant illuminated buildings outlined the hilltop known as La Bufa in the other direction. There was no doubt I was going to like Zacatecas, despite not having my wish for peace and quiet granted. Frankly, I was just grateful to have a bed and bathroom. Read the rest of this entry »

I am in the Chicagoland area, visiting my family as usual for the holidays. I love this city and would move back here in a heartbeat, but for its brutal winters (it has been hovering near zero for the last few nights, with daytime temps in the single digits). But the rest of the time, Chicago is a joy, and never has it been more joyful than this past September, when more than 20,000 people pulled off a massive surprise for an unsuspecting Oprah Winfrey during the Oprah Show’s 24th season kickoff party, held on Chicago’s Miracle Mile on North Michigan Avenue. The entire crowd performed a choreographed flash mob dance to the Black Eyed Peas’ “I Gotta Feeling.”

Oprah, who was obviously shocked and thrilled by the surprise, showed the video from that event on today’s show and interviewed two of the people who were dancers. One said that her favorite part of the dance was when everyone was hunched over with their hands on the backs of the person in front of them. Amazed no one seemed to care that they were being touched by total strangers and elbowed by dancers aside them, the woman speculated there would be world peace if everyone lived with that kind of spirit and happiness. Another participant said that he still remembers the steps and whenever he is havingh a bad day, he closes the door to his office and dances to the video of the event. He described the portion of the dance where participants put their palms together in prayer fashion and raised their arms to the sky as “Joy Rising.” I watched the video three times and got goosebumps each time. Take a look:

My wish for everyone in 2010 is “Joy Rising.”

Sarasota’s split personality has always intrigued me. As a retirement community, the average age of its residents is well above the national average and even significantly above the Florida average. On the other hand, several universities and community colleges located in Sarasota County, including the renowned Ringling College of Art and Design, infuse the community with vibrant, creative young people. This youthful energy translates into quirky fashion; unique art; and always, music, music, music.

Most any day of the week I can find live music in downtown Sarasota, but my favorite event is open mic night every Wednesday from 7 to 10 p.m. at Pastry Art on Main. Some weeks feature fiddlers and dobro players; other times, acoustic guitars dominate. Last week, the organizers of this free event, David Brain and Carmela Pedicini (a fabulous musician and vocalist known locally as “Radio-Free-Carmela) outdid themselves. They spread the word that Comcast would be on hand to film the event for their on-demand channel and local talent flocked to the cafe like never before.

For nearly four hours I sipped Americano coffee and nibbled ginger shortbread cookies while a remarkable lineup of artists performed original folk, blues, rock, and indie material. Long-time favorites Michael Read the rest of this entry »

The first time I ever heard cello music was at a screening of the Chinese film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Although the movie featured astonishing cinematography and mystical martial arts scenes set against a background of exquisite Chinese landscapes, it was the music that made my jaw drop. I stayed for the credits; I had to know more about the haunting score. I never forgot that music, nor the artist who performed it, Yo-Yo Ma, so when I discovered the famous cellist was scheduled to give a solo recital at Ruth Eckerd Hall in Clearwater, Florida I immediately purchased a ticket.

I had no idea Yo-Yo Ma would be performing three of Bach’s Six Unaccompanied Cello Suites until I walked into the auditorium this evening and opened my program. Inwardly I groaned; I am not a fan of classical music, and Bach is one of my least favorite classical composers. Still, It was Yo-Yo Ma; I settled into my seat with an open mind.

From the very first note, I was mesmerized. The movements were at times dark and threatening, conjuring images of shadowy figures slinking through alleys, at other times melancholy or Read the rest of this entry »

Joshua Bell performs incognito in Washington, D.C. Metro station

In a Washington, D.C. Metro station on a cold January morning in 2007, a man with a violin played six Bach pieces. During his performance approximately two thousand people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.

Three minutes after the young man began playing a middle aged man slowed his pace and turned to look at the musician, but kept on walking.

Half a minutes later the violinist received his first dollar; a woman threw the money in the hat without stopping.

Not until six minutes into the performance did someone actually stand against a wall and listen.

A three-year old boy tried to stop and listen but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped and looked at the violinist again, but the mother pushed harder and the child continued to walk, turning his head to look at the musician as he walked away. This action was repeated by several other children; parents, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.

In the forty-three minutes that the violinist played, seven people stopped what they were doing to take in the performance. Twenty-seven gave money – most of them on the run – for a total of $32 and change. The remaining 1,070 people hurried by, oblivious to the music, few even turning to look. As he finished playing, silence took over. No one noticed. No one applauded. He received no recognition.

The violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. He played some of the most intricate pieces ever written, with a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days prior, Bell sold out a theater in Boston where the seats averaged $100.

This is a true story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the Metro station was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste, and people’s priorities (Read the full, original Washington Post article here).

In a common place environment at an inappropriate hour, do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautiful instruments ever made, how many other things are we missing in life?

My tour of waterfalls seemingly at an end, I spread the map out on my lap and contemplated the best route between Tallulah Falls and Atlanta, Georgia. As I scanned my options I noticed a red dot on the map, not far from my current location. I squinted to make out the small print: Toccoa Falls. Another waterfall! There was no question I would divert to see it.

Toccoa Falls, 186 feet high, is located on the campus of Toccoa Falls College

Upon arriving in Toccoa I stopped by the renovated train station that serves as the area’s Welcome Center to ask directions. My intention was to make a quick stop at the waterfall and then be on my way but the gracious staff convinced me there was much more to see in this tiny town nestled in the foothills of the Southern Appalachian Mountains. With no schedule to adhere to, I decided to investigate what Toccoa had to offer.

I began with the Stephens County Historical Society Museum and the Currahee Military Museum, both also located within the historic railroad depot. In the Historical Society Museum I wandered from exhibit to exhibit, learning about well-known personages connected with Toccoa. I was not surprised to discover that President Franklin D. Roosevelt was among them. Roosevelt’s love affair with Georgia is well known; he often traveled to his vacation home in Warm Springs, Georgia, which became known at the “Little White House.” On one such Read the rest of this entry »