Unadventurous eating

I have to relate the tale of eating at a sidewalk taco stand, even though I don’t come out sounding too adept (quite inept, in fact). I had gotten down to the bus station in Mazatlan early to buy my ticket to Los Mochis, because it was a Sunday and the buses run more like once every two hours, rather than one an hour on other days. Indeed, I got one of the last seats—there were either seats in the back, by the bathrooms, or two in the very front. I chose the very front, gracias a Dios. But I hadn’t had time to eat breakfast at the hotel (which was fine by me because the food at that hotel was terrible) and I didn’t know when I would be able to eat real food (not chips or cookies or soda sold in the bus stations), so I went across the street from the bus station, where there were several sidewalk taco stands, and chose the one with the most people seated there (as a sign that it was the best; also, it had a station for squeezing orange juice). I started by ordering the OJ, and the duena squeezed it right there; it was delicious. I asked if they had something for breakfast, with eggs, but no, they only had tacos and enchildadas. Not being sure exactly what she said was in the various things, I asked if there was something “vegetarian.” She said, no, well, but I could have an enchilada with cheese. That still sounded too heavy for breakfast and my weak stomach that was about to spend hours in a bus (where I frequently get motion sick). I sat drinking my OJ, and noticed the bowls of fresh salsa and pico de gallo on the tables. I had an idea: I would ask for a plain tortilla, and eat it with pico de gallo. I formulated the question in Spanish in my head and stood up to ask, just as my purse, draped around my shoulders, crashed into my still-full cup of OJ, which spilled all over the table and floor. A lot of “lo siento mucho” and “estoy stupida” flew out of my mouth as I helped her mop up the table. The OJ that dripped down the sidewalk stayed there.

Well, not to be deterred, now that I was there, and no one seemed overly concerned about my estupidez, I asked for a replacement cup of OJ (that I would pay for, of course) and a plain tortilla. They both arrived, and were wonderful, and I ordered another tortilla. In all, it was 36 pesos (15 each for the OJ, 3 each for the tortillas).

Yep, that was my big adventure eating at a sidewalk cafe. I am now reading another travel memoir, Tales of a Female Nomad, by a woman who begins her journey in Mexico at age 48 in Mexico City, on her way to Cuernavaca for a month at a language school. Yes, it has a familiar ring to it, but our journeys are nothing alike. She is so adventurous and daring—I could never be that daring. She relishes eating street food, and makes that her first meals in Mexico City. About a week later, in Cuernavaca, she breaks out in a terrible, undiagnosable rash over her entire body—and somehow she interprets this as a sign that she should keep going; I would have hopped the first plane home (and definitely blamed it on the food; she blames it on the malaria pills she had started taking when she arrived).

OK, it’s time to be a little more daring and get out of this Best Western business hotel and decide my next move. But really, it is so comfortable and familiar here. Last night I watched Cowboys and Aliens dubbed over in Spanish in my hotel room until I fell asleep, exhausted. This morning, I sit at the hotel restaurant, having enjoyed the breakfast buffet, typing on my laptop and soaking up the free, and actually somewhat speedy (by the standards I have enjoyed so far) wi-fi. Who knows if I’ll have Internet at all in the mountains. The tour book advises to load up on cash as ATMs are unreliable in the mountains, so I’m skeptical that I’ll have Internet at all. (These are my complaints—so not daring!)