News from Z-wha?!?

Zihuatenejo – it’s a bit of a mouthful, but kinda starts to roll of the tongue if you say it enough. Situated on a little bay surrounded on all sides by four distinct beaches, it’s a city that feels like a small town, hosts cruise ships without losing its character, and had both Chris and myself thinking, “Hmmm, we could really stay here awhile.”

Never mind the fact that we’ve said that no less than a half-dozen times, we really liked the place. So here, in no particular order, are the things that made Zihuatenejo great.

This is actually chicken from Puerto Escondido, but it too is the best chicken

The best chicken: taken off of a spinning rotisserie, hacked up into four or five chunks and thrown into a plastic bag with some tomatillo salsa and a Dixie cup of beans. Let me back up…when we were back in La Cruz those many weeks ago, there was near the bustop a rotisserie chicken establishment. On our trip into Puerto Vallarta, before we got on the bus, we checked out the chickens and fantasized all afternoon about the delicious crispy skin and tender meat. Unfortunately by the time we returned, laden with one million bags of groceries and wanting nothing more than to sit down and tear into a six-pack and a chicken, the place was dark and there were no chickens to be had. We were heartbroken, not to mention hungry.

So in Zihuatenejo, we were not to be put off. There were several places we spotted around town, but at dinnertime, none seemed to have any chicken left. When Chris took off surfing with Coly, a guide to all things Zihuatenejo (diving, surfing, and chicken procurement) he was informed that

the chicken is “lunch food.” No chicken at night. Huh. Well, on our last day in town, we stopped on our way to provision (we try not to make the same mistakes twice) at a counter open to the street, with chicken pressed flat into a sort of cage, spinning in front of a flame and sizzling musically.

Half a chicken – chop, hack, into the bag. We walked across the street to a bar, bought a couple of beers, and opened the plastic bag. It smelled marvelous. We dug in. To be honest, Chris looked a little feral – hunched over, chin glistening, sucking the bones. I may have too. The chicken was amazing: juicy, flavorful, and gone too fast. Naturally it begs the question, “Why is Mexican chicken so clearly superior to American chicken?” I suspect it may have something to do with the way they live and are bred, industrial agriculture and whatnot. Obviously not every Mexico

chicken is running wild on a dusty street somewhere eating grubs before it’s snatched up and taken to the big-time, but judging by the size of the things, they aren’t bred to have the DD-size breasts that are so common here. So maybe they’re just more chicken-y, in whatever way that counts toward making them sooo yummy.

Casa Marina - it's a building of six or so shops (quality stuff, good prices) and a pizzeria/café, all owned by the same family. The cafe overlooks the fishing co-op on playa principal, has great snacks and free WIFI and a good book exchange. We went every day. It took no time at all to feel a little sense of community. We chatted with the shopkeepers, talked to other travelers at the café, and generally felt welcome and comfortable. It was a feeling that is really really nice when you’re actually as far away from home, and for as long, as you’ve ever been. Also, Coly was recommended to us after Chris asked about surfing, and he went on a trip up to Playa Linda with him.

Making our mark: we were waiting for our scuba tanks to be refilled and moseyed down to a little restaurant (comida economica). We were sitting and waiting for our quesadillas and cokes and we noticed that one wall had a bunch of names and years on it which appeared to be names of boats. We were talking to a guy sitting at the other table (who had the interesting job of working for a fish taxidermy company) and mentioned that we had arrived via sailboat and he said, “Well, you should put your name up on the wall.” So we asked the proprietress if we could paint on her wall and she brought out a few paints and brushes and we quickly added our boat name to the group. It's been a long time since I was tempted to write “Amanda wuz here” on tables, walls or bathroom stalls (actually I don't think I've ever really been one for that particular behavior), but there was something very gratifying about making our mark in this little place. It will probably be painted over at some point, but it will still be there, under growing layers of dates, names and boats. I like the idea of that.