My local market is the Rialto.** I’m not bragging, it’s just happens to be the truth. Two minutes from my door is a traghetto–a public taxi in the form of a gondola—that takes me across the Grand Canal. It deposits me in front of the market’s famed food stalls for the equivalent of 65 cents. I’m not able to stand up for the crossing as the Venetians do, but I can now get on and off without making it sway from side to side, no longer causing innocent, non-seafaring tourists to panic.

Venetian Traghetto

As you would imagine the covered part of the market, where the fishmongers set up, smells of fish. It’s not the pungent odor sometimes found in supermarkets, rather a blend of the sea and the creatures that long to be back in it. Rows and rows of fresh seafood sit on beds of crushed ice. The workers arrive before daybreak when dutiful chefs and diligent housewives come to scour the immense selection, taking away the jewels of the bounty.

Rialto Market

However, even at 10am, when I cross the canal, people are still lined up to buy what will become their lunch. Swordfish, tuna, cod, and sea bass merge into piles of clams, mussels, shrimp, and squid. The seppie,or cuttlefish, display resembles modern art. There’s excitement in the air as apron-clad vendors, some with cigarettes dangling from their mouths, beat their large cleavers on stainless steel tables. They’re portioning and filleting fish, easing the work of the home cook as camera-wielding tourists stand nearby.

Rialto Fish Stalls

Before coming to Venice, I promised myself I would master calamari—fried, sautéed, and braised. However, when the vendor instructs me to pull out the poor creature’s eyes while taking care not to break its sack of black ink, I quickly decide to eat calamari only in restaurants. I’m not pulling out anyone’s eyes; I’m not that kind of a chef.

Seppie, or Cuttlefish

The hustle and hum of the market is enthralling as muscled young men shout, “signori, signori,” when they want the crowds to part. They push dollies loaded with fresh fruits and vegetables, some making deliveries to restaurants, others unloading boats to restock the stalls. It’s May and subtle, sweet strawberries are everywhere—the fruit of the season. Cherries, peaches and nectarines are starting to appear and will soon be the preferred fruit of summer. Tall, thin stalks of asparagus and violet tinted artichokes are displayed next to the first offering of squash blossoms and long, slender peas.

Vegetable Stall

Inspiration for the cook and the eater—now I must go make lunch! See below for today’s menu (and recipe):

Spinach and Ricotta Ravioli in Gorgonzola Cream Sauce with Asparagus.

*Technically, I don’t think the Jewish elder who raps is actually a rabbi, but for the sake of alliteration he is now. (Bewildered? Then read the “Ghetto Music” post.)

**The Rialto dates from 1097 and has been a constant source of fresh produce and fish for centuries, offering the largest selection in all of Venice. It’s location on the Grand Canal was chosen so residents could easily buy and sell imported goods, unloaded from the numerous ships that sailed into port. After a fire in the 16th century, the city constructed squares and porticoes in this area, dedicating certain spots for different products. There was the naranzeria (orange market) and the speziali (spice market) in addition to the stalls you see today. The market is mentioned in both the “Merchant of Venice,” by William Shakespeare, and in “Sonnets from the Portuguese,” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, as well as many other famous works of literature.

Tourist Tip #4: If you get to the Rialto at noon, when the vendors are packing up, you’ll likely to find good discounts. The freshness of their products also means it might not be meant for tomorrow. If you don’t have a kitchen, then get some fruit, grab a panini or some cichetti from a nearby osteria and you can have a picturesque, affordable lunch sitting on the banks of the Grand Canal. An added extra is that most bars let you slip out the door with flutes of prosecco or a good glass of wine to enjoy in the street, or more importantly, on the Canal. Just remember to take it back…empty, of course.

Octopus and Scallops---just in case you haven't seen enough pristine sea creatures

Simple Spinach and Ricotta Ravioli in Gorgonzola Cream Sauce

This recipe is quick and easy, not to mention tasty. The only secret is to buy quality ravioli and seasonally fresh asparagus. The quantities can easily be adjusted, depending on you preference for Gorgonzola.

4 servings

20 handmade spinach and ricotta ravioli (or more depending on their size and your appetite)

1/2 cup heavy cream

1/4 cup Gorgonzola dolce

salt and pepper to taste

4-6 stalks trimmed and cooked asparagus

1. Boil water and cook the ravioli as instructed on the package.

2. While the ravioli are cooking, place the cream and cheese in a small saucepan over medium heat. Stir occasionally until well blended. Season with salt and pepper.

3. Cut the asparagus in small pieces and add to the sauce.

4. When the ravioli are done, pass them 3-4 at a time through the Gorgonzola sauce. Plate, pouring the remaining sauce with the asparagus on top.

**Optional garnishes: chopped parsley, chopped toasted pecans, a good-quality grated Parmesan cheese. I prefer doing all three.

Then I went to a neighborhood restaurant called Paradiso Perduto (Paradise Lost). The chef and owner Maurizio has curly, grey, shoulder length hair and stylish glasses. Like Elverace, he sometimes wears his pajamas in public, especially when he comes in late at night to check his kitchen. The first moment I saw him I knew I would be a regular at his place. (He was stirring a large copper pot of polenta in a floppy chef’s hat while drinking white wine.) Maurizio is an anarchist; his restaurant motto—“good fish at good prices.”

Frittura Mista: Fried Calamari, Shrimp, Sardines, Sole, Soft Shells Crabs and a Token Scallop

I popped in for some live jazz, a prosecco and plate of a frittura mista. The band was playing a style of music I had only heard once before–in Fiddler of the Roof. I asked the woman seated next to me what it was and she answered Klemzer—the traditional music of Eastern European Jews. Then she told me to be quiet…didn’t I know this was a concert?  Well, actually I knew it was a restaurant and bar, but noticing how she lovingly eyed the bassoon player as only a mother could, I followed her orders.

Jewish Ghetto in Venice

Many of the restaurant’s long wooden tables were filled with people from the nearby ghetto…as is The Ghetto*, the world’s first, which came into existence in 1516. I found out from Mama that the boys were local and their neighbors and relatives had come out to support them. Dressed in orthodox clothing, their tall black hats and ringed sideburns, as well as prayer shawls, were not your normal “hey, let’s go get a drink” attire.

But that’s not the story.

Origianl Klezmer Musician?

After one set of traditional music, the band began a rap session with a clarinet, flugalhorn, bassoon, “fiddle,” and what looked like a shiny black muffler with a keyboard on it.

But that’s still not the story.

Paradiso Perduto

Then an “elder” got up, climbed on stage, grabbed the microphone and started singing a prayer to a rap beat as the crowd of enthralled admirers started to dance, cheering him on as if he were Eminem. The elder waved his hands in the air, never missing a beat and the audience joined him. The entire restaurant was on its feet reciting Hebrew words of prey as the elder threw out phrases and waited for us to repeat them—many, including myself, having no an idea what they meant. The bass player was getting down and the elder getting funky.

Now, that’s the story…the something that shocked and surprised me.

Who knew??

*Venice’s Jewish Ghetto

On March 29th, 1516 the government of the Serenissima Repubblica (that would be Venice) instituted the first Ghetto of Europe. Jews were forced to live in a designated area, not able to leave from sunset to dawn. The Ghetto was closed by gates and guarded throughout the night. A new set of laws announced that Jews were only allowed to practice certain professions: medicine, Arab writings, money lending, (because Catholic religion forbade this practice), commerce and strazzariol or rag sellers—modernly translated to clothes salesmen. The Ghetto existed for more than 250 years, until Napoleon conquered Venice and finally opened and eliminated every gate in 1797. Jews were then free to live in other areas of the city.

Insider Tip #3: Monday night is jazz night at the Paradiso Perduto. It’s the place to be. Inside seating is almost impossible after 8:30 when the crowd spills out into the street. People pull up in their boats, run inside for wine and cichetti* then return to their vehicles to sit in the moonlight.

cichetti*– a general term for traditional Venetian snacks.

Paris? Did she just say Paris? I thought she’s supposed to be in Venice? I know, but believe me it was completely unexpected.

Notre Dame

In a seemingly normal conversation I received an invitation to accompany a friend to Paris where she said we could stay with a distant cousin of hers. I originally said thank you, but no, I’m here to study Italian and live like a Venetian. Then she said who her cousin was and I asked, “When are we leaving?”

I’m not a name-dropper (well, actually I am), but I would like to return one day, so my hostess (for the sake of protecting her identity) will only be referred to as SHE. And I will be referred to as K.

Conversation Number #1:

I recognize a man whose picture is on the refrigerator.

K:        “Is that Lapo?”

SHE:  “Do you know him?”

K:        “Of course, he’s Gianni Agnelli’s grandson. I love the way he dresses.”

(Agnelli Family Feud, August 2008)

SHE:  “How funny! Yes, I know exactly what you mean. He was wearing these outrageous glasses the other day.”

K:        “I personally love his blue velvet slippers.”

(Best-Dressed Hall of Frame, August 2009)

SHE:  “Aren’t they fabulous!”

Since I’m unable to flaunt pictures of my new acquaintances, I’ll share with you the sweet life of Paris instead.

Macaroons

Conversation Number #2:

SHE waves at a man getting into his vintage Mercedes coupe while we stroll down the street.

SHE:  “That’s one of the Annenberg sons.”

K:        “I so admire his mother’s work in L.A.”

(Her Own Kind of Annenberg, September 2009)

SHE:  “She basically supports the museums there.”

K:        “Not to mention those incredible community projects.”

Neighborhood Bakery

Conversation Number #3:

I eye a Christmas card under a stack of papers and recognize the familiar face of Richard Gere.

K:        “What a lovely picture of Richard and the family.”

SHE:  “Oh, he was just here visiting last month. You wouldn’t believe the paparazzi that gathered outside my door.”

K:        “I’m sure he handled it with grace.”

(Ok, I can’t remember which issue, but it involves him and the Dali Lama.

Buddhist = grace, what do you think?)

SHE:  “Of course, he even insisted on posing for pictures with my maid’s children.”

Strawberry Season

Conversation Number #4:

Chatting about parties in New York

SHE:  “It was so much fun at the Eastman’s last party. Paul was there. He played and sang, always the ultimate entertainer.”

(Hmmm…Paul? You have to be quick with this crowd. I knew Paul McCartney was married to Linda Eastman, and that  he’s a singer who plays the piano. So, I took my chances.)

K:            “How’s he doing? I just heard he got remarried.

SHE:  “Yes, and Nancy’s lovely. Such a nice change after Heather.”

K:        “I always thought that was a mistake.”

(Dominick Dunne’s Diary, London Intrigue)

SHE:  “We all did, dear.”

Restaurant Dessert Sampler

www.vanityfair.com

Subscriptions starting at $34.99 a year, well worth the price

PS—if you run into Lapo or Paul, please don’t tell them I’m a fraud.

There’s nothing I like more than eccentric individuals, people who move to the beat of a different drummer, or better yet, their own forty-piece orchestra. Venice is full of them, or so I have read, and I plan to befriend a few before the end of spring. Elverace is high on my list.

View from Ca D'Oro toward the Grand Canal

My small apartment, tucked away on the top floor of a 14^th century house, belongs to a friend who recently acquired it from a dearly departed aunt. One day it will be an expensive tourist rental, but for now it’s affordable and the only reason I can hold my audition. The interior is somewhat confining and the kitchen hard to maneuver; however, the private patio with sweeping views of ancient rooftops is a luxury granted to few. Located on a quiet canal between the train station and St. Marks, my new home is a block away from the Grand Canal and the vaporetto stop of Ca d’Oro, where I can jump on a boat and travel to anywhere on the island.

Apartment patio with view

One of Venice’s main shopping streets is around the corner. I plan to wander the area and make friends before exploring other neighborhoods in an attempt to establish myself as a “local,” if only for a few months. I frequent the café down the street, wedging myself in front of the bar as all Venetians do for my late morning cappuccino. The proprietors, a serious, no frills couple in their 50s, have yet to recognize me. I ask questions in my best Italian, hoping to start a conversation, but neither one cracks a smile or offers more than a simple answer. I plan to weaken them with friendliness, though, until one day they wave me inside to chat.

Caneregio Café

My local wine bar, or enoteca, is an easier conquest. The waitress already knows my name and that I like a spritz* (the drink of Venice) around 6pm. Their outdoor tables offer a great view of life as people from around the world walk by in an assortment of interesting outfits: the Chinese in mundane colors, their women in big straw hats; the Italians always fashionable; the French with their large, colorful scarves and the Americans in baseball caps and practical footwear.

Caneregio market

I enter Billa (the grocery store) on an almost daily basis. The place makes me happy. There’s always 80s music blaring on the speakers and a fine selection of fruit. On a good day I grab a basket and bop down the aisle to Madonna or the Village People. I marvel at the creamy balls of mozzerella di bufala floating in water, inhale the aroma of freshly baked bread, and eye the selection of homemade pasta with desire. Then, if I’m lucky, there’s a brief pause before “Thriller” comes on loud and clear. Within seconds customers begin mouthing the words and executing funny little steps while in line to buy marinated artichokes and thinly sliced salami. The stock boy, high on a ladder, sways his hips and replaces cereal boxes with expert precision and timing.

The street where I live

What more could I ask for?

It’s a wonderful day in the neighborhood.

** Spritz–white wine with sparkling water, and your choice of mixer: Aperol for the sweet version, Campari for the bitter.

Insider Tip #1: In a café, it’s usually half price to drink at the counter instead of sitting at a table. Basically, you’re charged rent on top of the beverage.

Insider Tip #2: Once a year, usually in the spring, Italy celebrates “Cultural Week” when all states museums are open to the public free of charge. It’s a great way to save money and see all the sites. In Venice, there’s also an interesting series of lectures on history and culture, making it a great time to visit.

I sent a quick email to my friends (yes, my hospital in México had wifi) saying thanks for the memories and goodbye. I made them promise I could have a gelato cart at my funeral and a slide show of Betty, my foster child in Malawi. (Don’t worry, on an intellectual level I do realize she’s a baboon.) I advised them to play an electric mix of music from my life, starting with Abba and the Bee Gees and ending well, with Abba (thanks to their Mama Mia! revival) and Michael Feinstein. They were only to serve the best prosecco before, during, and after the event, as well as memorize a few simple steps for a “Soul Train”-style procession down the church (?) aisle. “Don’t worry I’ll leave the choreography notes with the nurses,” I told them. “Oh, and if the Harlem Gospel Singers are available, book them and start a donation fund for their transportation and lodging.”

Basic concept for funeral gelato, preferably displayed inside a wooden, horse-drawn cart

However I survived, even though there were many moments of extreme pain when I wished I hadn’t. I thanked the surgeon who saved my life, then later begged him to kill me. “Really, it’s ok. I want this,” I assured him with authority. For some reason they rarely dispense morphine in a land known for its drug cartels.

I put my funeral plans in a drawer, pleased I had gotten the details out of the way and that my years of event planning had finally come in handy. I grinned knowing that when the day finally comes, I won’t be responsible for the slow service or the person that  inevitably hogs the shrimp station—it wouldn’t be my problem, my catering days would be over.

I laid in bed for two months looking at the wall, not even able to pick up a book. On the bright side I finally had the time to think about my future, with no distractions, no projects, no errands. Was it time to move forward? Really move forward, leaving the past behind with a “been there, done that” mentality?

If so, now what?

I thought of all the places I still wanted to see and the many things I wanted to do; however, one question never left my thoughts: What would it be like to live in Venice?

Grand Canal on a slow day

I’ve been fascinated by the place since I was very young, reading history books about the Doges and museum-like island that houses many of the world’s greatest treasures.  I had spent a day there on a family trip during high school, and visited again on a cold, rainy afternoon with an Italian friend from college who preferred café hopping to walking into historic buildings. In graduate school I spent a night in a nunnery near San Giorgio, where we were awoken at dawn to help with laundry in exchange for cheap accommodations. And then about eight years ago I hit the jackpot. I became friends with a Venetian woman who had three cats and no one she trusted to take care of them when she traveled. Overnight I became the cooing, doting cat sitter, her feline family’s favored companion–but that’s another story. I visited Venice almost yearly, staying 3-4 weeks each time, learning to maneuver the tiny alleys and make friends with the best baristas. My devotion to the place, the famed Serenissima, became more intense.

Laying in bed, with almost ten inches of staples running down my swollen abdomen, I asked myself—Could I live in Venice? Could I make a new life there? Do I even want to?

Knowing there was only one way to answer that question I booked my ticket and headed to my favorite island for a two-month trial period. I refer to it as an audition. I’m not auditioning; rather Venice is auditioning for me.

The Grand Canal with Gondola

Now let’s see what happens.

Weekly blog posts will follow with updates of Venetian life—the good, the bad, and all the entertaining, remarkable details.

I didn’t truly discover this until I walked into one of Seoul’s premier bakeries. Squeezed in between trays of flawless croissants and perfectly executed fruit tarts were stacks of hot dogs, or at least a near relative of my childhood favorite. These “dogs” however were spruced up, baked in flaky puff pastry and wrapped with crisp bacon. They were offered as a quick meal to the bustling lunch crowd, workers who popped in for a bag of treats to take back to the office.

Bacon-Wrapped Hot Dog in Puff Pastry

I eyed them with suspicious before moving on to displays of glutinous rice cakes and red bean donuts. The pastry case, full of light chiffon and sponge cakes: green tea sweet potato and mocha tiramasu, quickly diverted my attention. The hot dog would have to wait.

Cakes at the Paris Baguette Cafe

I must admit, though, that afterwards I was fascinated by my discovery and when not visiting palaces and museums, I delved deeper into the Korean hot dog mystery. It seems they were introduced during the Korean War, when food was scarce and many people survived off US Army surpluses. The locals didn’t originally take to the famed processed meat, choosing at first to disguise its flavor in a stew called “Budae jjigae,” which literally translates to “base stew.”

Little by little, though, they grew fond of the hot dog, taking it to new heights with toppings and wrappers such as: mashed potatoes, french fries, seaweed, coleslaw, egg salad, and even slices of avocado with thousand island dressing. Even the Korean franchise of Pizza Hut weaves hot dogs into the outer crust of their pepperoni and cheese pies.

Assorted Hot Dog Display

Who would have thought?

Looking for a place to stay, I found a youth hostel with excellent reviews. I had thought my days of community sleeping were over, but the place sounded so appealing I made a quick decision—return to my roots and embrace sharing a bathroom with twelve strangers.

Entrance to Hongdae Guesthouse

Within minutes of my arrival to the Hongdae Guesthouse, I had a home and friends. In between visiting the royal palace and national museum, I spent hours talking to Mr. Kim, the hostel’s enthusiastic thirty-something manager. He had a plan—together we would build an empire of Mexican restaurants.

Palace Pagoda

The next day after a morning chat that lasted 3 hours, Kim insisted I check out our competition and gave me explicit instructions to Seoul’s most popular Mexican restaurant. I followed his clues with baited breath only to end up standing in front of Taco Bell. Yes, Kim was right, we would make a fortune.

Palace--Changing of the Guard

I spent my evenings in the cozy living room with Choi, the night manager, discussing our mutual love of travel. He worked at the hostel to learn about the world and saved his salary for journeys to unknown places, his family and friends chastising him for his vagabond ways. His last trip was to Canada, where he discovered that camping in non-designated areas could lead to arrest…and a free jailhouse meal. Learning the secret to hot morning coffee without ever lighting a match, Choi strategically planned where to pitch his tent every night.

Herbal Market--Seaweed Vendor

I ate an incredible meal of grilled pork (incorrectly translated to “small fried hog”) with a variety of condiments, many seasoned with kimchi: spinach with soy bean paste, radishes and boiled cabbage, bean sprouts with shredded carrots.

Small Fried Hog

I rode on the cleanest, most efficient subway I’d ever seen. It was a futuristic world of spotless bilingual trains and small subterranean cafés with piped-in Mozart and Illy coffee. Some stops even had sitting areas with park benches and potted plants.

Traditional Korean Kitchen

Who knew this world existed?

My stay in Korea was brief, but I will return. And when I do, I’ll look up Mr. Kim, for I plan to give Taco Bell some serious competition.

I have seen a few dogs and processed food to feed them, but the poor cat,
woman’s best friend, has been forgotten. The famed felines seem to be dearly
loved, but mainly in theory and on Hello Kitty paraphernalia.

Store after store understands what I’m searching for, that is after reenacting a
desperate cat trying to shovel food into its mouth. “Meow,” I cry in my best Petey
imitation. The clerk meows in return, then shrugs and nods her head, sorry to
disappoint me.

The game of charades seems entertaining to most, but futile for poor Petey,
who doesn’t approve of his creative dining options. He wants Friskies, preferably
beef or salmon, and he wants them now. While hot on their trail I see the sites of
Ulaan Baatar.

Sukhbaatar Square

The town is a child of the communist era, a Soviet satellite that has seen better
times, or maybe not. Crumbling sidewalks and dreary concrete buildings, with
a pastel-painted theater thrown in for good measure, landscape downtown.
However, “progress” has begun. Tall cranes stand on the horizon ready to build
skyscrapers and a new democracy rich with gold, copper and uranium. Will this new-found mineral wealth benefit the country or destroy its pristine land the roaming horses and two-humped camels? The battle is just beginning.

The modern world is also encroaching with sleek coffeehouses and fancy restaurants, hidden inside unassuming structures, offering top-notch cappuccino and pasta, as well as Korean barbeque and locally brewed German-
style beer.

Genghis Khan

Bronzed statues of powerful Mongol warriors dot the Parliament building on
Sukhbaatar Square, paying homage to a culture that once was the most powerful
on the planet. Old men walk around in their winter dell, a wool-lined coat of bright silk, and embroidered felt boots, cozy fur hats covering their heads.

Traditional winter wear

While Petey sheds a few pounds, refusing boiled chicken and fresh liver, I go to museums and cashmere stores, tempted by buttery soft sweaters and warm scarves. Camel hair, angora and top-notch cashmere are some of Mongolia’s gifts to the world, not to mention the creation of felt, the first fabric, still used for housing and clothes.

My nanny job ends when I leave the country without a carrying case and furry
bundle meowing at my feet. Petey is Mongolian now and will have to survive in a
new world with an exotic diet of homemade dinners, nothing packaged, nothing
canned. He will soon be a convert to fresh food; I will be looking for another cat
to traipse around the world with.

Kris in Mongolia in borrowed fur hat.

Petey hails from the Balkans, an Albanian charmer, who loves to snuggle in front of a fire, or so I’ve been told. Licking yogurt from my fingers and sniffing chicken on my breath make him purr in delight.

When Petey’s mother, Jennifer, asked me to accompany him to their new home in Mongolia, I jumped at the opportunity, honored to be called his cat nanny, if only for a week.

Petey (on the right) with his sister, Jasmine

The trip was long and arduous: Mexico-San Francisco-Seoul, three countries and currencies before we reached our destination: a frigid land sandwiched between Russia and China still in the midst of winter, even though they referred to it as spring.

I knew I was in trouble when the preliminary weather reports boasted lows of –17 and –14. When the thermometer failed to move above zero, I placed an online order for boots, gloves and earmuffs.

Petey only had his fur and a sturdy carrying case, a small bag of treats and limited patience. He didn’t enjoy his trip over, but neither did I. Disembarking with no sleep, a blast of cold air awoke me and I pulled Petey close, a kitty coat was not among our possessions.

We drove into the capital of Ulaan Baatar at midnight along a frost-covered road with views of snow-capped mountains. Looking at the barren land with distant smoke stacks I was suddenly alert and curious. What would this land be like??

….to be continued

I know this sounds intriguing, even magical, however we were not alone. The camera was rolling and recording our every move. Illusions of intimacy were further diminished by the four identically dressed couples weaving between us as Leonard Cohen sang, “Take this Waltz”. We moved with care, surrounded by cactus of every size and shape, as well as open, unmarked mine shafts, which plummeted 200 feet into a dark abyss of icy water.

Francisco Towers at Santa Brigita

Mineral de Pozos, a working town of 70,000 during the 19th century, was a picturesque ghost town known for hiking, exploring and the occasional tidy disposal of dead bodies by the time we arrived to film a music video. The flooded shafts and lack of witnesses earned Pozos its reputation for discreet body tossing. I knew of at least one person who has taken advantage of the facilities, however his conscience got the best of him and he soon confessed to the authorities.

Pozos Family

The ruins of Pozos are still standing, just as they were when I waltzed on its graveled ground. The howling wind and sweeping mountain views haven’t changed. Squatters, though, have devoured some of the crumbling stone houses, creating privacy by hanging sheets over the doors and windows. They use the large prickly pear cactus that dot the landscape to dry their clothes and the fallen mesquite trees for cooking.

Among this deserted landscape I found Don Raymundo, the town’s last living miner. He is now custodian of Santa Brigita, the area’s original mine, founded by the Franciscans in the late 16th century. He has worked on the property his entire life, starting at the age of 15, when he went down into the deep shafts to carry out 50 kilo bags of rock that were later sorted into piles of potential silver, gold and mercury.

Don Raymundo

Don Raymundo still possesses a shape mind and agile body, even though he has no idea how old he is. “Maybe 80,” he says when I pry into his personal life. In another sentence he claims to be 65, but that would conflict with his childhood memories of the Cristero War between Church and State in the 1920s.

House at Santa Brigita

“I was paid a peso a day,” the elderly man tells me. “It was just enough to buy corn.” The corn was then milled into masa and rolled into tortillas, which was everyone’s staple diet, along with nopal cactus and beans. Don Raymundo informed me that most miners didn’t have money for more than one set of clothes, so they crawled into the mountains naked, even in the freezing cold. Like most men of his generation, he married young, at 16, and soon had a large family to support. He claims to be one of the lucky ones though—he survived the mines and had enough to eat. Many were not so fortunate.

Ruins at Santa Brigita

When I asked Don Raymundo if he has any fond memories of the old days, he looked at me with surprise and disbelief. Obviously, their depth of despair had not completely sunken in to my modern, comfortable mind. “It was a hard, grueling life. Every day we struggled just to stay alive,” he emphasized with a serious demeanor.

Waltzing among history so many years ago, I never realized the misery of the land and was glad I had a warm, cozy bed and full stomach in 2010.

Chicken a la Veracruzana

From Los Famosos de Pozos Restaurant & Savoring San Miguel Cookbook

The cuisine coming from the state of Veracruz on the Gulf Coast has a predominantly Spanish influence. When the conquistadores landed on the shores of Mexico 500 years ago, they brought olive oil, capers, and green olives. These ingredients, along with ripe, red tomatoes, which are native to the Americas, form an important part of the Veracruz kitchen. This dish substitutes chicken for the originally red snapper.

6 servings

6 boneless, skinless chicken breasts

1 tablespoon olive oil
1 white onion, sliced
4 Roma tomatoes, chopped
1 cup whole green olives
1/4 cup capers
4 whole Guero chiles
3+1 tablespoons chopped parsley
Salt and black pepper to taste

1. Place the olive oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. When hot, add the chicken breasts and brown on both sides. Remove.

2. Add the onion and cook until tender, about 5-8 minutes. (Add more olive oil if necessary.)

3. Add all the other ingredients along with 1 cup of water (or chicken stock). Season with salt and pepper. Cook for a few minutes. Return the chicken to the pan. Lower to medium heat, cover and cook until chicken is done, about 8-10 minutes.

4. Place cooked chicken on a platter and cover with the sauce. Garnish with the extra tablespoon of parsley.