Un viaje a otro tiempo

Un viaje que fue un poco al pasado y otro tanto al futuro. Con un libro por completar y un corazón por nutrir, partí el fin de semana pasado a Boquete, un pequeño poblado anidado en un valle a las faldas del Volcán Barú (el punto más alto de mi país) en la provincia de Chiriquí. Con sus angostos caminos de montaña, sus parajes de fantasía y las escenas de antaño que a diario se atestiguan en sus calles, Boquete se sentía como el lugar perfecto para tomar un descanso de la ciudad. Dos compromisos, uno al principio de mi viaje y uno al final, funcionaron como mágicos apoyalibros de una experiencia profundamente espiritual y enriquecedora.

En futuros posts sobre este corto viaje quizás hable un poco sobre la maravillosa oferta gastronómica –a todos los niveles– que tienen Boquete y sus alrededores, pero hoy solo los llevaré a caminar por sus senderos y sus calles de otra época, de donde fui sacando con cada paso una historia que contar, un recuerdo inolvidable, un retazo de belleza cotidiana.

Colors.

Few words describe Guanajuato as the title of this post. There are colors in buildings: houses, plazas and monuments from another time, cared for with love and detail. There's the color of the sky: it is the blue that you might have imagined as a kid in your dreams. There is certainly color in the streets: vendors, mariachi bands waiting in parks to be hired, craft shops, the reflection of the afternoon sun on the many fountains and the flower-lady who discreetly sets up shop on the same corner every day.

This was my first visit to this town, nested in a valley in the heart of the Bajío, the center region of Mexico. I had already been in the state of León, but never in this magical place which has become over the years in a popular tourist destination on account of its sui generis attractions and in no small part because of its active cultural scene. Guanajuato is the Cervantes Capital of the Americas, a title which it bears with pride. Every year top-billed artists meet there for the Cervantine Festival; top names have included the New York Philharmonic, for instance.

Peace.

Grilled corvina with
Panamanian Sauce,
Karimar Restaurant in Veracruz.

This I am not very proud of. Panama is a city that has, over several years, robbed its dwellers of what used to be magnificent beaches. There used to be a coastline here, were mangrove and sand cohabited harmonically and danced against the background music of an exuberant, yet elegant natural environment. Now we have buildings, coastal roads, fences, artificial peninsulas and islands, even highways, which steal the sunrise of that magical point where the sun kisses the infinity of the ocean. Gladly, the town of Veracruz is only minutes away. I often like to come to this place, whether by myself or with good company. It is at one time isolated and connected, rustic and strangely urban, peaceful and busy. Here, you can still walk on the sand, touch the horizon, dance with the tide.

The Journey.

First glance at the Caribbean from the ocean-to-ocean 
road to Bocas del Toro, Panama.

Sometimes we embark on journeys of self-discovery, whether this involves physically traveling or not. Very often, we ourselves don't acknowledge we did so until the journey has ended, leaving us with answers or perhaps even more questions. Questions different than the ones we had originally. 

Traveling always involves having meals outside of our routine. If the trip is one as I have referred to above, it becomes almost impossible not to associate the food we had outside of that comfort zone with the emotions we were dealing with at the time. You don't even have to have the same meal, or even feel its aromas. A simple mention of it, and the flavors will begin to magically (or chemically!) appear in your senses, and chances are you will be transported to that place, that situation, that feeling, that emotion, that tear running down your cheek, that candid smile in public; the kind of smile that will make a stranger's day when passing you by on the street on their way to work.

Plátano Frito

Después de pasar varias veces por la calle principal de Campo Lindbergh, María y yo notamos un señor que tenía un pequeño cerro de plátano verde. "Un día cualquiera paramos a ver qué tal", dije.

Ese día fue hoy. El local está anidado en el zaguán entre un edificio y una lavandería; un letrero hecho en bolígrafo sobre papel anuncia que usted ha llegado a "Super Chicken". El propietario cocina al aire libre, en la vereda y es de aquella gente que se le derrama la amabilidad, con quienes da gusto conversar. Pedí un dólar de platanitos fritos, que fueron cocidos a pedido, en aceite vegetal. Solo un poco de sal para aderezar y, desde una bolsa de plástico azul, disfrutamos mientras seguimos nuestro camino de una de las delicias más suculentas de nuestra cultura.

El crujiente tueste característico de esta fruta (llamada oro verde) es algo difícil de explicar. Es llegar a casa. Es la abuela consentidora. Es el final de una tarde de juegos. Es la carrera del equipo de casa dejando tendido en el terreno a los visitantes. Es la magia de mirar el cielo a través de las ramas de un árbol de corotú. Es río, playa, carretera, carnavales, fiesta patronal. Es amor.

Ciertamente volveremos para probar el pollo asado al que acompañan estas tajadas fritas de pura delicia tropical. Si pasan por Campo Lindbergh, les recomiendo una paradita en Super Chicken, ya sea para un pollo asado, o para llevarse un dólar de platanito frito para el antojo. ¡Buen provecho!

(Campo Lindbergh está ubicado en el corregimiento de Juan Díaz en la ciudad de Panamá, Panamá).

From the top.

It was first called Poyautécatl by the ancients, then switched to Citlatépetl – from "He who lives among the fog" to "Mountain of the Stars". Both names seem quite appropriate for El Pico de Orizaba, the tallest mountain in Mexico at 5,747 meters above sea level. I remember the first time I saw it. I was visiting Mexico for the first time, as a guest conductor for the Orquesta Juvenil del Estado de Veracruz. My host Gilberto Martínez had told me that on a clear day you could see it, but you didn't get too many clear days in Xalapa. One day I went out for a walk around the grounds of Hotel Xalapa with a cigar and a head full of thoughts. For some reason, I stopped next to one of the much-esteemed Xalapan Araucaria trees, and stared at the horizon. After a few minutes, and behind the clearing smoke of my cigar, the vision appeared. It left me absolutely stupefied. I knew how far it was from Xalapa, yet it looked massive even from this distance. I was drawn to it immediately. "I have to climb it one day" I said to myself. The day arrived only a couple of months afterwards.

Lambretas in Bahia.

Brazil. Every corner, an opportunity for an unforgettable meal. Whenever people ask me about Brazil, I always open with the food. Yes, there are beaches. And breathtaking natural beauty. But I must admit that every time I get on a plane to go there (to anywhere in Brazil, really), I always begin to fantasize about food. I've had so many wonderful meals there, and with such fantastic people. Brazilians are kind and generous hosts, and they are proud about their food. I have recently come back from a trip to four cities in Brazil, including my beloved Salvador, the capital of Bahia. First thing I thought when my flight was confirmed: Lambretas.


Hard to explain what these are, except for saying they seem like a cross between a clam and an oyster, and they are much loved in Bahia. They are much larger than clams and their meat is so savory and with a sensuous texture. They are usually prepared steamed and boiled with onion and often in chicken broth; then served along with a spicy sauce (a kind of pico de gallo, if you will), and hot lemon-lambreta juice. You can also request a more spicy sauce if you are into heat.

A Lambreta pot, with the warm broth (up, right)
and my Pineapple Caipirinha (down, left) 

In this visit, I was invited by my Bahian hosts to one of the most famous lambreta joints in Salvador, in the street of Mouraria. Here, plastic tables are set literally on the street, while servers walk in and out of the small kitchen with their mammoth servings of the steamy stuff, and your choice of cocktail or tall beer. We chose Caipirinhas, of course!

When you see your first lambreta, with its white proboscis sticking out of its body and its somewhat artless demeanor, you may think it will be the grossest thing in the world to eat. But once you are pass that and put one in your mouth and feel its ironically soft/firm texture, its strong but exquisite flavor, and the juicy richness of its broth, you are in love. Then you start adding the spicy sauce, and drop lemon and the hot lemony broth on top of them before you eat them, and you just want to let that complex flavor evolve inside your mouth, as the elements combine, but never quite coalesce. Pure magic, dear readers. You keep asking for more and more pots of it.



Dressed in white (as tradition says you should in Bahia), we managed to go through four pots of lambretas, a plateful of pasteis de queijo (cheese flour empanadas), and generous cocktails. Meant for sharing, the lambretada is a tradition that binds people, invites them to avid conversation, promotes the sharing of ideas and stories while you share a meal. We certainly did that with our wonderful hosts, and had a magnificent evening at Mouraria. I have a feeling it won't be the last. And yes – there will be more posts on this trip soon!