Can you love a plastic bag?

These days plastic bags don’t get much love. If you look out the window of your car or bus, you will see plastic bags stuck in bushes and trees along almost every road in the world.  Right now, sitting on a dock in Nassau, I watch them float by constantly.

 A tangible symbol of a wasteful modern society, plastic bags have been replaced in some places by their reusable cousins, a sort of small tote bag made of canvas, or cotton or hemp or anything that is not plastic. These bags have found their way into our vehicle trunks and our kitchen closets, if not into everyday use. Some towns have even enacted laws banning plastic bags altogether.

Given all the understandable animosity, I must take a moment to sing the praises of a plastic bag. Not plastic bags in general, but one that I came to love.

It all began on a sunny afternoon in January 2009, in La Paz, Mexico. I was about to lead my first sea kayak guide training course around the islands near La Paz and needed a way to keep my sleeping bag dry. I purchased a roll of 15 white trash bags, heavy duty, designed for trash compactors.  One was destined for greatness.

I used the bag to line the stuff sack of my sleeping bag. With this system, you put your sleeping bag into the lined sack, squeeze out the air and twist the top of the trash bag tightly. Then, tuck the tail down in the stuff sack and cinch the stuff sack tight.  You have now created a nearly full-proof dry bag for something that needs to stay dry no matter what happens out there. It worked well on that 24 day Mexico trip, but that was just the beginning.

The trash bag traveled to Alaska, where it kept glacial water away from my sleeping bag even when a kayak hatch flooded. It went on backpacking adventures in the mountains of northern Canada, and made many return trips to Mexico. It went to the summit of Mt. Kilimanjaro, not once, but eight times, ensuring each day that no matter what was happening outside, I have a cozy and dry nest to climb into by bedtime.

Once, in the wilds of Patagonia it was missing one morning after a ferocious wind the night before. “You’re missing your trash bag?” my companions asked, clearly not getting it. After a frantic 45 minutes I found it lodged in a tree (of course) none the worse for wear and tear.  Over the four- year period between 2009 and 2012, I spent more time outside than in. My work took me to four continents and too many amazing and wild places to count. Stuffing and un-stuffing my sleeping bag day in and day out, the humble trash bag never let me down. It actually outlasted two of the sleeping bags it was charged to protect, and several stuff sacks, with never so much as a tiny hole.

This winter I new the end was near. A bad smell had permeated my faithful servant, and then the first dreaded hole. After one last trip to the islands in Mexico where the great odyssey began, it was time to say goodbye. Not knowing what else to do, I threw my beloved bag in the trash It’s gone now, replaced by another compactor bag, but the lessons I learned from it live on. Recycling is fine, but lets not forget the part about reusing and reducing. If a simple trash bag can last four years and travel the world, what can this morning’s plastic iced coffee cup sitting on your desk do? How about bringing it home and starting a tomato plant in it?

In Oaxaca, on the hunt for mezcal

Many years ago I worked at a wonderful restaurant in the mountains of Colorado. It was a great job, with many perks. One was the sublime joy of skiing to work just as the lifts were closing, and stepping in to a cozy dining room filled with wonderful aromas and good friends. Another was the chance to learn about all manner of delightful food and drink.  The maître’d was a man named Stu, a charming, irascible, lewd, hilarious southerner with an encyclopedic knowledge of wine. One snowy Sunday evening Stu produced, with typical fanfare, three bottles of mezcal.  I knew the stuff vaguely, when someone came back from a trip to Tijuana or spring break in Mazatlan this was a typical souvenir. A yellowish, vile liquid with a resemblance to tequila, its only charm it seemed was the presence of a worm at the bottom.  But, this was completely different. The liquid was clear, the bottles had cool folk art paintings on them, and it was delicious! A really interesting beverage, kind of like a single-malt whisky from Islay- smoky, almost a touch oily, with deep flavors and a pleasant finish.  Moreover, each bottle was slightly different, supposedly reflecting the subtle differences in terroir and production methods between villages near the Mexican city of Oaxaca. I was hooked. Well, not exactly hooked, but I took notice and would seek out a fine mescal from time to time when the opportunity presented itself. I also resolved to one day track them down in their villages of origin.

Seventeen years later I finally made it to Oaxaca, and along with the moles, the tamales, the chocolate, and the fried grasshoppers, I was ready for my mezcal experience. 

Mezcal has come a long way since then. It’s been written up in food columns and travel pieces and is probably available in bars in Omaha and Biloxie. This has not escaped Oaxaca’s notice. All over the city center there are little shops dedicated to individual mescal producers. They resemble fancy clothing boutiques, with only a few bottles artfully displayed on shelves. My gateway mezcal, Del Maguey, probably took the cake, occupying a tiny, modern space between a fancy restaurant and an art gallery, where a fashionable woman sat behind a Mac book next to a table displaying all of their varieties available at the same hefty price they fetch in the US. One sunday we took a bus out to the village of Tlacolula, and after gorging ourselves at the wonderful sunday market, made our way to one of the mescal producers on the outskirts of ton. Despite what the tourist offer had said, there wasn’t much to see on a Sunday. A gruff woman poured a few samples of mediocre product and sent us on our way.

I had to be missing something. I was sure locals drank this stuff, and I was also pretty sure they didn’t buy it in a boutique. I scanned the shelves at one of the ubiquitous corner stores, appropriately called “miscelanea” in Oaxaca: Nothing. Then another, and another. Had the boutiques cornered the market? On the way back to our hotel I decided to check one more place, a little store just like the rest. I didn’t see any alcohol at all, so I asked the woman behind the counter: 

“Ustedes tienen mezcal?”

 She shot a glance at her husband, then back to me, and nodded slightly. 

“Cuanto quiere?” she whispered. 

No way! I’d found it, a mescal speak-easy.

 I kept my cool and asked “Es muy buena? De donde es?”

 She told me the name of the village, one well-known for producing fine mezcals and assured me it was very good. Her husband even fetched a sample from somewhere in back. It was delicious, just smoky enough, and very smooth. A liter was produced in a plastic water bottle, and the price was right. Soon I was sitting on the roof terrace of the hotel, sipping my elicit mescal and munching fried grasshoppers as the sun set over the distant Pacific.

On our last day in Oaxaca I found something of a combination between the corner store speak easy and the tourist boutiques.  A dilapidated old building near downtown the housed the Union de Palanqueros de Oaxaca”, the mescal makers union. Part museum, part enoteca, Kristin and I sipped a dozen different varieties of mezcal from traditional gourd cups, and had a lovely chat with Carmen, daughter of the union’s president., and a mezcal expert in her own right. We learned a bit about mezcal’s pre-columbian, history and the advent of the copper stills brought by the Spaniards. We tasted mezcal infused with various fruits and herbs and two rare gems: la olla, made in the ancient style using a clay still, and “pechuga” a famed, almost mythical mescal that is made using a raw chicken breast hung in the still. I’m not quite sure what the raw chicken does, but the stuff is really delicious. We tottered away into the afternoon sun with a few samples in tote.

So tonight I raise my gourd to Stu, to the mountains, to the resourcefulness of people everywhere who ferment whatever is nearby, to beautiful Oaxaca. Pass the grasshoppers. Salud!

Jamaica Market

One Sunday afternoon in Mexico City we took the metro to the Mercado de Jamaica. The city’s markets are legendary–huge indoor expanses with labyrinthine pathways coursing past stands selling everything imaginable. For a visitor the food area is the big draw, offering a chance to browse exotic produce and grab a stool next to the locals and sample culinary treats from every corner of the country. In addition to the standard market fare, Jamaica (Spanish for hibiscus) serves as the city’s wholesale flower market. Rows and rows of flowers, sold by the stem or in very elaborate arrangements for every occasion. The assault on eyes and nose was intense.

We moved on to the produce section and the focus on aesthetics continued–beautifully arranged sparkling fruits and vegetables of every variety on display. We bought some limes and a pineapple, expertly carved by a machete-wielding vendor. But, it was the food stalls that had really brought us here.

Eating local specialties in a market is one of the joys of traveling. I feel a little bit sorry for those not brave enough to take part in this ritual. I understand the trepidation, but in my experience food stands in the street or in markets that are popular are less likely to give a traveler problems than the average restaurant. Because they have small spaces to work with and typically specialize in just a few things, food doesn’t sit around for long. Plus, all those locals can’t be wrong.

A perfect example of this is tucked away in a corner of the Jamaica market, a little bit of heaven for the adventurous food lover.

“Carnitas Paty” is the name on the sign above the counter. I misread this as “Party”, and with good reason: the place was packed and folks were excited. Every stool was taken and more customers queued three deep, like 2-for-1 night at a college pub. Plates stacked with steaming tacos were doled out in every direction.  We queued up and gracious locals quickly found a couple stools up front for us.

At Paty there’s only one thing on the menu–slow-roasted pork–but still some decisions to be made. The pigs are roasted in big drum cookers just a few feet away, specially vented to keep the smoke out of the Mercado. Workers in white aprons bring steaming piles of meat to the counter where they are sorted into huge metal trays. Customers pick the part they want– everything is available from standard cuts to organs, brains, tongue, or snout. Crammed between queuing customers, waiters running plates to other tables, and the three taco maestros looming above us, we had a crazy view of the action. Huge slabs of meat were tossed on the massive butcher block and within seconds reduced to tiny taco-ready chunks by the blur of a gleaming cleaver. Chunks of meat and fat were flying in all directions. It was like having front-row tickets to a Gallagher show. Talk about being connected to your food.

The maestro then deftly palmed two corn tortillas and used them to scoop up a huge pile of meat for each taco. Repeat three times for a plate, top with minced onion and cilantro, and off they go. Waiters balanced five or six plates at a time. All sense of personal space was abandoned as we watched in awe of the spectacle.

Opting for the standard pulled-pork macisa, we soon had plates in front of us. Stone matetes crammed the bar filled with pickled onions and different salsas. The tacos were so huge we could take the tortillas apart and make two. 2-for-1! Juicy and so flavorful, we couldn’t stop eating them until we were beyond stuffed.

A waiter arrived with a carafe filled with a liter of tepache, a sweet and spicy drink made of fermented pineapple. The atmosphere was crazy, but convivial. Everyone was smiling and passing salsas and enjoying each other’s company and the delicious homemade food and drink.

After stuffing ourselves, then having just one more and downing the last of the tepache we asked for the bill–$8 including tip. Que fantastico!