The Untaken Road

For all travel updates I have a new website!! Please go to www.theuntakenroad.com, a series of women's voices across the open road of America!

Troncones: What a Happy Ending. ; )

The sun licked off the remaining droplets of water on my stomach with a sizzling kiss. I was now dry, ready, to return home.

I deftly packed up my bikinis (pretty much my entire wardrobe of the week) and left the Present Moment retreat at high noon. Valerie left with me calmly ready to embark down the dusty road back to civilization. After our flight from Ixtapa, we had a five hour layover in Mexico City, an amount of time that would normally drive us mad and prompt a reckless purchase of luxe airline lounge passes or a taxi into town. However, the Present Moment Retreat had changed us. The two most Type A girls had learned to chill. The airport would surely have a bar and a burrito stand right? Tequila and tacos? We needed nothing more.

Troncones was an idyllic vacation, although not in the traditional White Chameleon travel sense. Instead of racing down undiscovered paths or challenging the locals to duels of whiskey shots, the days were mostly spent within 100 meters, internally navigating the soul and calming the mind. After enough days here one realizes the outside world, including its societal pressures and materialistic pursuits, do not matter. All that is important is the constant pull of the ocean toward shore. (and the papaya glazed Mahi Mahi...us Californians cannot ever let food slip in priority).

After the girls arrived, I nervously expected San Francisco to come roaring back to me: the work, the pressure, the gossip, the sheer frivolousness that can be city life. But as soon as Monica, Ali, and Valerie stepped foot in Troncones, they transformed just as I had. The usual ‘who is doing who’ conversations ceased. No one was interested in discussing the color selection of this season’s Tod’s handbags. And most importantly, any desire to run or explore instantly died Like me, all they wanted to do was slip into swimsuits and plop.

As we leisurely plopped, diligently yoged,and gracefully sipped our ocean side ginger cucumber elixirs, the rest of the world seemed to be entering Armageddon: Volcanic ash and travel paralysis in Europe, another earthquake in Mexico, and the Goldman Sachs fraud in the US. Not to mention the tragic news about Sandra Bullock’s cheating husband.

But to us, the sunshine drunks, none of this mattered. Our little world of morning yoga, afternoon massage, and sunset cocktails was very much alive and well. We forgot our worries, laughed over cards, and gave appreciative toasts to the fortune that was our life. Healthy, without attachment or concern, the world was our oyster….with a Mikimoto pearl set.

I do not understand the businessmen that slave away their best years under dimly lit excel spreadsheets. Nor the needy women who waste their youth in a state of panic over getting married and having children. Life is so fleeting-shouldn’t we just take time to enjoy it? Why worry, why panic…in fact why live anywhere that doesn’t allow you to wear your swimsuit 24/7? When you spend enough time on a beach reflecting, the things that usually demand brain space (career ladders, dating etiquette, ummm….wearing clothes) become so trivial.

Although I am returning to the apparel world shortly, I do hope to bring the carefree attitude of Troncones with me. Along with help from the girls, perhaps I can create a new look in San Francisco.

A 'Type A' Takin' It Easy

You could spend a lifetime at Present Moment retreat without leaving its acre of Oceanside land. Each day offers a simple rotation. Yoga pavilion - pool - restaurant - bungalow. Rinse and repeat. Life is easy, the air is healthy and even the margaritas seem good for you. If it were not for David’s invitation to visit him in town, my body would have traced the same repetitive route for another full day, like a beached whale on steroids.

However, I abandoned routine to hop on the city bus, the highways bus, and journey to the central market of Zihuatanejo (Zihua). Navigating the Mexican bus system, or any Latin American bus system, is no easy task. There is no space (people and chickens alike spill out the windows), there is no designated ‘stop’ (you just hail the bus on the road like a hitchhiker), and there is no schedule. The driver just arrives when he feels like it. Construction, road accidents, passing cattle, and inviting breaks at taco stands are all reasons for delay.

Waiting is something Americans are not good at. Back at home I will become huffy if someone performs more than one transaction at the ATM, causing me to wait another one minute in line. Mexicans are different. They enjoy each minute as it is given, even if it is waiting for an unreliable bus along the highway. In comparison to my pacing and incessant clock checking, the locals laughingly watch the street dogs play, interestedly read the small town journal, or just blissfully stare out into the sky, recollecting a fond memory. Instead of merely just ‘waiting’ they are using the time given to them. There is no rush. There is just right now.

When the highway bus finally came, I breathed a sigh of relief, eagerly dolled out 15 pesos, and determinedly channeled patience for the additional hour into town. No time like the present to….er…enjoy the present.

And so I relaxed as Mariachi music blasted from the speakers, mustached cowboys in tall hats squeezed beside me, and the painted overweight bus scuttled down the highway like a Mexican bean beetle.

Two hours after leaving Troncones, I finally arrived in Zihua, a Mexican coastal town centered in a small bay with dramatic cliffs. The vertical earth supported tiered pastel housing of the wealthy and poor alike. I navigated my way thought the narrow streets, inhaling the smell of Mexico, a perfume that can be best described as a blend of roasted chili, chalky earth, and furious sun. As a type A American, I had given myself plenty of time for my journey and arrived at the agreed upon coffee shop destination perfectly punctual. However, true to Latin style, David was 30 minutes late. He was accompanied by his sun burnt friend Jerry, who has just made the long drive from Miami to spend the rest of his life in Zihua. As we sipped our coffees, David waved to passersbys he knew and more and more people came to join our motley group. Obviously no one was in a hurry to be anywhere at 11am on a Tuesday. Soon we were an overflowing loud table of American Jews, French Algerians, Mexicans, and Panamanians. We talked of Acapulco in its heyday, romances lost, the growing drug trade (we were on prime cartel territory, after all), and despite all the chaos, why we all had an ongoing love affair with Mexico. After a lingering breakfast of salsa drenched eggs, David offered to take us around town. According to him, there is only one place to go for each service or item you need. He has his preferred shoe repairman, the “most honest” dried chili lady, the ‘sweetest’ coco water stand, the ‘only’ place for calamari, etc. Mexican culture thrives on loyalty. We ambled through stands, streets, and shops, bartering and gossiping with the locals. It wasn’t long before I started to form my own allegiances. Now I just needed to move here.



Walking along the prestigious white sands of Zihua’s “Playa Ropa” I contemplated such a move. Life is cheaper, easier, sunnier. I speak English, Spanish, and most importantly, I speak adventure.

However I couldn’t start looking for property quite yet. My friends were due to arrive at the Present Moment Retreat back in Troncones. Too late for the bus system, I haggled with a taxi driver urged him to speed hastily up the windy road back to our remote village. I would arrive just in time for sunset cocktails. That’s one thing worth being punctual for.

Not Moving in Troncones, Mexico

“Way down here
You need a reason to move
Feelin’ fool
Running your stateside game
Lose your load
Leave your mind behind

Ohhhh Mexico
Sounds so simple I just gotta go
The sun’s so hot I forgot to go home

Guess I’ll go now.”

I came down to this remote coastal town in Mexico’s southern pacific to surf and do yoga. But with fractured feet that refuse to fuse back to their strong selves I have instead resorted to perfecting the ‘Mexican plop’…a very complicated move that involves a bikini, 70 SPF sunscreen, and complete appreciation for the non-moving. I quite like this new sport….and honestly if I spend the entire vacation laying by the ocean and don’t put on real clothes the entire time it will be quite fine by me.

Last night I listened to a Cuban band play on the beach while practicing the ‘sitting, hand-clapping plop’, a rather advanced technique in the plop spectrum. I marveled at the sleepy happy town of Troncones and the eclectic mix of people who had sought it out. Musicians aplenty, Qui artists, surfers, yoga masters, and those looking to do nothing beyond stare at the ocean.

It’s a sleepy town and my main acquaintance to date has been a water loving black dog who insists on staying by my side. I call him Perrito blackie. (original, I know).


But since my Perrito doesn’t talk back much outside of an occasional soft ‘woof’ I decided to make more human sorts of friends. Against the background of Latin drums and soft breezes I drank tequila and conversed with three Harley driving renegades. One insisted on showing me his photo album of the region, which consisted almost entirely of his smiling head next to various sunset backdrops. Another spoke of life’s purpose, and a deep fear of commitment for anything other than an open road. The third had committed….to Mexico. He had been living in Zihua (a nearby town whose full name ‘Zihuatanejo’ produces pronunciation trouble even for the locals) since 2003.

“Life is just simpler here,” he said. This resort is called Present Moment and if you think about it, there is really no where else you should be.”

My newly acquired friend was from Detroit but spoke a flowery Spanish like an Argentine. Although Troncones was tranquil and full of bliss, he said a more vibrant ‘real’ Mexico existed in Zihua and invited me into town whenever I feel up to it. Inspired to see a ‘real’ Mexico, I decided to act like a ‘real’ Mexican plan on navigating the system of chicken buses tomorrow to head into town and see what it has to offer. Since it’s also a coastal town I hope I won’t have to change out of my bikini. One must have goals.

Remembering Paris

It’s time for the journey to end, the photos to be uploaded, and the next chapter of the book to be written. Both London and Paris treated us well (and the south of France simply divine) but I expect that it’s Paris I will most dream about on my plane flight home. And long after we are back and settled in San Francisco, I expect Parisian nostalgic sounds, scenes and scents to continually haunt us, reminding us of the romantic interlude we had from our regular frenzied lives.

Like anyone infatuated, I can easily overlook the city’s faults. Paris isn’t the cleanest city (I managed to step, slip and slide on unmarked dog poop on several occasions). Nor are the convoluted streets easy to navigate (we got lost in side alleys about three times a day). However, it still maintains a unique charm that inspires one to revert back to a naive girl, prance softly, and fall in love with life.

LOVING LIFE AND LIVING WELL—LESSONS FROM PARIS
Ah yes, Paris is vibrant, it’s real, and it’s inspiring. The city made us think about our culture, our actions and taught us a few lessons to bring home.

FIND VICE
I suppose others may not find the smell of fresh baked baguette intermingled with smoky cigarettes appealing, but I feel I may slightly miss it in uber pristine San Francisco. Surrounded by super jocks and vegan eaters, I will miss the slim smokers and fois gras advocates that believe vice is the spice of life. After all, don’t the French live quite long after their diet of Bordeaux and Philip Morris? And they certainly don’t believe in a low carb plan. (a baguette under the arm is a fashion statement). And naturally all Frenchmen scoffed when I asked them about their exercise routine. In their eyes we are crazed overachievers that are only happy when we are outdoing someone else. Now, I will never stop running, but my competitive streak now resembles that of a sleepy French bulldog.. The only time you will see me pushing a sub 8 will be to race to the nearest bakery.

FIND ROMANCE

Paris also has am amazing ability to salvage your belief in romance. Past broken hearts can make us girls callous and cynical. We become overly independent, playing both feminine and masculine roles as if to prove a point that we don’t need anyone else. We rush through personal interactions, whether friendly or intimate and focus on masking our own insecurities. Luckily for us four girls, Paris has started to help us peel off those hard layers and make us much more in tune with life around us. For how can one stay cynical while watching lovers kiss in the street? (Never mind that half of the smitten people we saw were likely with their mistress). And even if not in love, people greet each other on every occasion with smiling Bonjours and Bonsoirs and Bisous and sound actually interested to the answer of "How are you?” Elderly gentlemen call us mademoiselle, and nice men across the bar send us wine….and er…small plates of sausage (nothing says ‘I love you’ like a pile of fatty pork!). Whether it’s receiving a kiss on the cheek or free piece of meat, you feel as if you had entered the land of possibility and are once again who you used to be; feminine and optimistic. In fact we even started to allow doors to be opened for us…

DON SCARVES
The French dress well. Full stop. In addition to building height restrictions, I feel Paris has also put a dress code on the city. Women run around in simple yet elegant dress combos while the men walk confidently in their suits and scarves. Conversely and sadly, most American men seem to think anything that isn’t wrinkled or denim must imply they are gay. “Why, if I wore those form fitting trousers and purple shirt, everyone would think I was a homosexual,” an American man once said to me on a shopping trip. However, I wonder if this notion isn’t really a lack of confidence. No French man feels uncomfortable in pastel regardless of sexual orientation. I would like to persuade all straight American men reading this that if the objective is to ‘not look gay’ and attract more women, scarves and lavender shirts will get you much further than ripped Levi’s and an untucked polo. For my gay friends—you already know you get enough action—pastel works!

STAY FUN, BUT NOT SMASHED?
French women, in addition to looking impeccably put together when they leave the house, also stay impeccably put together into the wee hours of the night. “French women”, one male friend explained to us, “do not really drink much. They don’t allow themselves lose composure and appear wild or coarse. French women are delicate.” Right. My mind immediately flashed back to a prior night where all of us American gals lost more than a little composure on mojitos and may or may not have made space in a crowded bar to do crazed lambada moves. We grinded with each other, with nearby strangers, and perhaps even with a few intimate objects. (I actually think one of us dry humped someone’s briefcase).
With a slight cringe I also recall that no one else in the bar was dancing that night. Right. Now I also do not think these delicate French girls came close to being as fun as us. After all, nothing gets the party started like us Americans. However, I do think pacing alcohol is a thing we may have forgotten how to do. Perhaps one should draw the line at dancing with someone’s work satchel? Then again, that was the highlight of the evening.

SPEAK SOFTLY
We also noticed that the French, and practically all other nationalities, speak much softer than we do. Now, on this trip I had been using the International Accent™ (uncanny and unintentional ability to imitate anyone who speaks to me) and thus had softened my voice to an overly articulate UK version. However even with this modification I still feared my voice carried much further across dining rooms that it should.

“We find the American accent hard to understand,” said one Frenchie. “Americans just speak abrasively.” This last comment was made by an older Australian couple. Now this does seem a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, but instead of becoming defensive us more feminine girls decided to pay closer attention. Sadly, out heightened sensitivity made us notice volume offenders everywhere.

CASE STUDY:
Monica and I entered the infamous Bar Heming way at the Ritz for a ‘last night in Paris’ martini (it may also be my ‘last martini in Paris ever’ as the sticker price on those things relieved my wallet of a day’s wage). No sooner did we step foot into the quiet bookshelf lined bar when we heard a loud Texan shout to his American counterparts at the next table. But he wasn’t shouting in his mind. He was having a normal (aka LOUD) conversation bragging about how he had the city of Paris under his thumb. He went on to detail out his fine dinners and luxurious spa services. Since I couldn’t hear Monica across the table over his voice and have our own conversation, I debated crawling under the table, martini in hand, in horror. This man’s wagging tongue supported why every European despises American tourists. He will be my first student in the International Accent™ soft speaking course for loud Americans. As for me, volume control remains a work in process-I have given the girls free range to kick me if they hear me sounding too ‘American’ in public settings.


All in all Paris is a treasure and an inspiration. We hope to bring back bits of it home and plot out our next adventure. Many of our stories have not been documented on this blog- “What happens in Paris, stays in Paris,” but further details of the trip and our delicate female psyches will be found in the aforementioned novel I am diligently working on (in-between glasses of wine that is). Due to multiple wine and cheese breaks, it may a while before its published, but Europe has taught me to have patience. At least I have material--our little month abroad gave me enough the entire thing! : )

Paris--and then we were four

Paris-the city of love, lights, and life. Last time I was here I frolicked about in a lightweight dress and made my meals from iced Pastisse drinks. Now I am bundled up in Parisian scarves eating hot cheese and drinking hot chocolate (although not together) in order to stay warm.


Trent, the fourth, has arrived to join the journey and join us, the “three trenchcoats” for afternoon city jaunts, late dinners, and even later conversations. Like us, she is completely enamored with Paris.

Paris is a city like no other for its ability to inspire, confuse, and make one fall in love. The very air here makes one susceptible to feel l’amour, even if there is no one in particular to feel it for other than a pain au chocolat. I actually worry that one of us will swoon over a particularly flakey croissant and become so smitten that she won’t be able to leave the pastry shop for the planned tour of the day.

The day tours so far have consisted of modern art museums, funky boutiques, neighborhood brasseries, and the occasional crepe stand. It has never been my intent to write a guidebook (and it would bore the average tourist as all I would write about would be cheese and macaroon shops), but I will provide a tiny taste of a few neighborhoods we seem to frequent the most.

Montmartre: The site of the Moulin Rouge, Amelie Poulain’s kiss, and the infamous steps up to Sacré-Cœur for an unparalleled view of the city. The steps up to Sacré-Cœur were flooded with tourists and locals and multiple guitarists and bracelet makers trying to make a quick buck (or Euro which is today’s sad exchange rate equals $1.50). After walking up the steps we found a multitude of shops, one in which Valerie found a Parisian vintage necklace too perfect to let the exchange rate get her down. Afterall, we are trying to look the part of French ladies (even though our loud American voice usually give us away).

St Germain des Pres: The site of our humble home, zillions of sidewalk cafes (yes Parisians sit outside to drink even when it’s minus freezing out), and tiny tempting shops. I adore the French (and European) propensity to have a little shop particular for one thing. The Fromagerie for cheese. The Boulangerie for bread, and the Epicerie for small cans of pickles and jams. The quaintness makes one want to grocery shop all day long. And I would if St Germain des Pres didn’t have all these tiny restaurants to check out. Our neighborhood has been scene of many 3 hour long dinners fueled with wine and laughter. I am positive that our loud banter, very un-politically correct jokes, and repeat of amusing French words wherever possible (derriere) are offensive to our polite French neighbors but what can we do? We are from the west and even if we resemble cowboys in a tea shop, at least we are having a blast.

The Marais: The Marais offers eclectic charm, the up and coming designer shops, and the Picasso and Pompidou modern art museums. After a unexpected long visit at the Pompidou (for some reason modern art grabs me much more than the “yawn” pastoral paintings of more classical artists) we set off to think profound thoughts before entering amazing boutiques with visual merchandising that must have borrowed the Pompidou’s curator. Sadly no one can afford anything—we have spent all our money on pastries.


Enough of a taste for now—it’s almost time for the aperitif! More to come in Paris, Part Deux….

Ladies of leisure

While at the British Library in London, I picked up a small book on the art of leisure by Robert Louis Stevenson. The famed author makes the point about how most Americans (and some Englishmen) are missing out on the core of life by focusing all their energies to achieving wealth or status for a future end goal. Little time is left to do absolutely nothing and enjoy the moment you are in.

Valerie, Monica, and I all decided that we would never be of that American class that Mr. Stevenson describes. In fact, we were heading to a country cottage in southern France to do exactly what he would want—absolutely nothing. For it is only when we have nothing to achieve that we really enjoy life.


What does nothing look like? A sampling of life the land of leisure.


DRIVING: A car is to get from point A to point B. Nothing more, nothing less. Gone are the German make fancy cars. We ladies are touring in an Opel Wagon and couldn’t love it more. The Opel may or may not have been stuck going around the same roundabout a few times while we try to navigate the country roads—but no matter. We are not in a hurry.

EATING:Eating is really the main mission of every day. When you have time on your hands the only stress you may encounter is not tasting every type of cheese and sausage from the region collected at the local markets.

This, ahem, means we are eating about 2-3 ‘market boards’ daily IN ADDITION to our main meals. We may pack on the lbs while staying here, but in our leisure state of mind, we don’t really care. As my granny says, ‘get fat and sassy!’ Granny, you know best--Bring on the sausicsson!


DRINKING: Cheese and meat trays cannot be eaten dry (or sober for that matter). It is imperative that one has the proper beverage to go with it and perhaps make you tipsy enough so that you forget you are eating encased lard. Although an American may watch us and be motivated to take us to AA, the southern French mind finds it perfectly acceptable to get drunk 2-3 times a day. There is the mid day rosé during lunch. Once sober again from our afternoon ‘leisure activities’ we move on to the ‘before dinner’ aperitif. We cook tipsy and finally enjoy the ‘during dinner‘ red wine while we eat the fruits of our labor. And lastly, we enjoy the very important ‘after dinner’ digestif. The digestif actually doesn’t help you digest anything—it just makes you pass out.

OTHER ACTIVITIES: While we are not passed out drunk or trying out another stinky cheese we amuse ourselves with other leisurely activities. I write, naturally, although most of my writing in La Broulie has to do with sausage wrappings and the mournful cows out in the neighboring field. Monica takes delight in taking the Opel out to go in roundabouts. Valerie has taken on the new sport of fly hunting (she keeps a swatter attached to her waist at all times). We nap. We read. We listen to eclectic French music and take photos of ourselves looking profound.
And we cook slow roasting-time consuming dishes that only the leisurely can do.

We are drunk, we are fat, and we are absolutement très content. We leave for Paris tomorrow afternoon, but since we are in the land of leisure, that seems like a lifetime away.