Village Magic is Everywhere it Seems -- Or Not?
The Picture That Started It All

Where is Home, Really?


Earlier today, I sucked down a bloody mary packed full of A-1, black pepper and tabasco.  I'm not really a bloody mary chick, but there was something about the boats heading out, the blue/gray sky, the fish 'n chips with malt vinegar, and the fact that it was Friday that made me partake.  So mellowing, those BM's are.  Reminds me of the ojo rojo's in Mex.

Then came the movie "Out of Africa," which I'd never seen.  As I was watching it, I kept jumping back to memories of Mexico wondering which I love more.  Africa?  Mexico?  Indo?  They all seem to ignite some wildfire in me.  Different reasons.  It's like my mind tears into all these crazy directions when I think of travel.  Gotta go here, gotta get back there.  Must see this, hafta experience that.  How could people not want to travel?  Not want the firsthand love affair (or nightmare)?

In Mex, I cant do typical restaurants, the safe ones.  I need the straight dumps.  The tiny shack that would for sure rate a big, fat "D" on the LA rating system.  One morning in PV, Lis and I wandered all over old town looking for the perfect place, the one that was gonna fry up only-in-Mexico eggs and refried beans, wtih hot-off-the-press tortillas.  We found it.  Somewhere near a Blockbuster.  It was Kalahari hot inside, and the mamacita behind the counter not that friendly.  But, I loved it.  It was home for a minute. 

That's what special places do to you, they give you a taste of home.  Wherever that might be.  And, for all those peeps that wanted to know the name of the place in Greece, I say?  Maybe I should go first and then share later?  What if I never make it though?  It might just be the spot that someone has been looking for their entire lives.  Their home. 

Google "Allonisos"--the photos are remarkable.  It's like the primo little Greek village.  Let me know if you make it there.  And, I will do the same.  I'm 5 days in one spot, and counting.  Wow.







Having pounded down the cobblestone from Chihauhua to Chiapas, it is my solemn beleif that roadside stands on bicycle carts, are not only the best grub in the frontera, but also the safest.
If I can't see it and smell it before you cook it, I may not want it.
Beware the heavily limed, and seasoned, cooked behind the counter above the eyes and nostils.
If you got good grits, take em outta the cocina.

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