1. Standing behind the yellow line at Alexanderplatz, I wait for the next scheduled arrival of German efficiency. A drunkard in a khaki jacket staggers around on the platform, holding a plastic bag full of empty beer bottles. A couple of the bottles roll onto the tracks. He jumps down onto the tracks and starts casually picking them up. There are shouts and screams and two people rush to pull him out of there just as the next train pulls into the station. I swear the S-Bahn almost hits him. He curses at them and then strolls away, laughing. 'Jesus Christ', I say. The man standing next to me agrees. 'Crazy', he says. 2. Lachlan joined us at the hostel with a grizzled Cat Stevens beard, looking broken, out-of-sorts, a dark lank sulk. From the moment I re-laid eyes on him, I knew that agreeing to accompany him was an error. Before long we were bickering like an old married couple as we walked the East Berlin streets. We snapped at each other at the Christmas markets and had unproductive exchanges at Checkpoint Charlie. He berated me in my cups at a bar and I avoided him like a bad cough when we trudged around Potsdam. Nothing seemed to be able to make him happy and all he could talk about was his miserable Canberra gossip, his miserable ANU politics, his overwhelming retentive misery. Did I mention I regretted being in Berlin with him? The glummiest grumpster holidaying Germany in December of 2013... 3. It became night so quickly at that time of year. And even though I expected it and tried my best to prepare for it, I was still stunned by how sun-robbed and day-poverished my hours were. It was an effort to push and enjoy what I could of this grimy, captivating capital in the little natural light that there was. No amount of glühwein or bratwurst or cheap suspect kebab meat could nourish my body's hunger for more sunlight. The priceless art and archaeology of Museum Island felt diminished in the stale, cement-like air while that strip of energetic street art on the remnants of the Berlin Wall seemed a doleful afterthought. The Brandenburg Gate was a weakness of stalks. A dark wetness sucked at every surface. The only thing that became unlost was the Holocaust Memorial: its normally baffling, oft-critiqued blocks finally rendered appropriately brutal. 4. The Christmas dinner came from a dumpster, according to my friend from Oxford. He was living in a share house (a commune?) with a large group of international students, some of whom evidently had a passion for zero supply chain waste. A plate of meatballs, some bread and potatoes, and a drop of wine. Not bad at all. Though the salad didn’t look that good and had to be re-discarded. It was good to be in his company again, after studying with him many, many months ago in Tokyo. I didn’t take him for the lefty sort, but I guess that's what happens to you when you’re trying to save money doing a museum internship in Berlin that you’re not enjoying (or being paid much for). The next evening, I had a hearty plate of Bavarian food at a restaurant for dinner. 5. — Mr Liu, these impressions of Berlin are a decade old! Why write these at all?
— You're right, terribly right. Blinking at these photos it's almost like the pixels have faded, degraded as if on print. Trying to come up with these anecdotes, it's like remembering a past life. Maybe the Hindus and the Buddhists are right after all... — Why not just go back? Replace the sad and cold with the warm and sparkly, do a reboot, a redux, etcetera, etcetera, that sort of stuff? — Ah, here's the rub: I don't think I will go back, and even if I did, this version of myself and the city no longer exists. Delicious and broody... sweet and resentful... it's all a former incarnation, now untouchable, now impossible to interrogate. — Agreed, Mr Liu. But then I must ask, why go off at all? — Verily, I could not tell you.
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You start in Playa del Carmen on the Caribbean coast in the wonderfully named state of Quintana Roo (because, of course, you are determined to avoid Cancún at all costs). Like so much around here, it was once a small fishing village that quickly became another satellite town of the American tourism empire. The air is hot, the sun is fading. You walk down La Quinta Avenida for cheap "tequila", pharmacies advertising viagra and oral steroids, fast food restaurants, and touts galore. You try the cochinita pibil, or Yucatan-style pulled pork, and decide that it's the only ingestible product this particular part of Mexico specialises in. And what a shame! Many cuisines do pulled pork much better, you muse. You take a tour of the Tulum Archaeological Zone. It's picturesque, what with the morose iguanas and the pristine ocean backdrop. But it's sizzling at midday. You listen to your tour guide drone on about the intricately carved ruins but sadly don't catch much. It's so sweltering. The Mayans were the best thing to ever rock up to the Yucatan Peninsula. Until they weren’t. That's all you manage to pick up. It's very, very warm and you need to lie down. But hurrah, salvation is indeed at hand. Your tour visits some private cenotes, natural sinkholes that are formed from collapsed limestone. You dip into the cold crystal-clear water and your mind goes momentarily blank. A bat flies overhead and you think about how the coronavirus pandemic, which ruined all travel plans of yesteryears, was like a bad dream, one that happened a lifetime ago. Another day passes and you visit another Mesoamerican marvel. Chichén Itzá! Once the greatest city in the Mayan world, it was abandoned to the savage overgrowths of time until it was rediscovered by Spanish explorers stomping through the rainforest in the 16th century. You stare at the iconic Temple of Kukulcán, so iconic that you thought it would be overrated. Overrated in that way that any over-embarked, over-photographed place would be. The Eiffel Tower... The Colosseum... Those other pyramids in Egypt... But no, it is genuinely impressive. A Yucatec castle of fierce grandeur. You enjoy strolling around the site, daydreaming about the majestic and sophisticated brutality of such a civilisation that build these stone structures and spilt so much blood atop them. A civilisation not that unlike your own, only less depressing. You stare into the vividly green maw of the Sacred Cenote at Chichén Itzá. That's what the name of this place is: “at the mouth of the well of the Itza”. And it was in this well that these god-fearing people threw in warriors, maidens, and children; dropped in ceramics, jade, and gold. Such a hungry, infernal mouth. As with your Tulum tour, this tour ends with a visit to a cenote. This one is more touristy, more resorty, and yet somehow more impressive. The water is cool and as you float with your head gazing up out of the limestone window, with its jungle drapes, into the sky, you think everything is going to be alright. You end your days in the Yucatán Peninsula on the island of Cozumel. You drink cocktails, you scuba dive the coral reefs, and you bicycle up and down its lazy streets. Such pleasure. You think you are happy. You think your life is like a balloon, that your heart, your mind, your soul are like spheres of helium, sealed and secure and ascendant after such a successful journey to Mexico. But you don't realise that you are utterly mistaken. You don't realise that when you return to Australia your life is going to change forever. That you're going to break something both within and without. That things are never going to be the same again.
Welcome to the pleasant southern European city of… Guanajuato, Central Mexico. A mining town turned university city and cultural precinct. Although I did not perform my own survey, the Internet tells me that Mexicans consider it one of the most beautiful in the country. I believe it. I mean... just look at this town! It’s genuinely a gorgeous place and vastly superior to neighbouring San Miguel de Allende, a popular and comfortable destination for westerners that I was a bit underwhelmed by. Oddly enough, it reminded me of the Gamcheon Culture Village in Busan (colourful, hilly, working-class roots), only it’s not a soulless tourist trap. I didn’t know until I arrived, but the town was hosting a festival dedicated to Cervantes (the ‘Don Quixote’ guy). There were musicians everywhere and at night the local university students dressed up in traditional outfits and stomped around the back alleys playing regional folk songs as part of a walking tour. It was dreamy. Obligatory food notes!
One of the highlights of Guanajuato is the mummy museum. It contains corpses that were removed from the local cemetery because their families couldn’t keep up with the graveyard rent. And since the local climate preserved their bodies so well, their final resting place ended up being a glass cabinet for morbid visitors like yours truly. They even had a mummified foetus and a woman who had been accidentally buried alive. Grisly stuff. I also took a stroll around the nearby cemetery, which had a pleasant view of the surrounding city. There's something to be said about the cultural understandings that can be gleaned from visiting foreign graveyards and necropolises. The takeaway? Momento mori, I guess. Recall that even Caesar, during his triumphs through Rome, had a slave behind him on his chariot whispering “remember you will die”. There was one thing I didn't like about Guanajuato, mind you. Bloody church bells booming away at seven in the morning. Many communities in Latin America are turning away from their Catholic roots towards evangelical Christianity and this will likely result in all shades of societal and economic disruptions. But all I care about is the following — will this demographic trend stop the damn bells? But O! Guanajuato, I do jest, how can I dislike you? It's the photographer's, the roamer's, el explorador's dream...
Cruising through Puebla around Día de Muertos. A strange feeling trembles. I arrived in Puebla by bus from Mexico City on the 1st of November. It was sultry, it was thronging, and it was appropriately festive in that vibrant Mexican way that captures the soul. Traditionally, November 1st honours children who have died while November 2nd is Day of the Dead "proper" and honours everyone else who has passed on. However, as I strolled around beautiful Puebla, I noticed tension in people's faces. I mean it. There was a tightness on its streets. It didn’t feel good. What was causing this quivering mood? The general weariness of holidaymakers? Are the crowds getting irritated by the crowds? Or was the thinning between the borders of this life and the beyond, despite the celebratory attitudes that surround Día de Muertos, affecting everyone? Stop it. Turn to something else. Here are some churchy snaps from Puebla. Enough of sniffing out omens. I came to Puebla for its beautiful architecture, delectable cuisine, and inspired religious sights. In fact, I’m confident that no atheist under the holy light of the heavens enjoys visiting churches as much as I do! And the highlight of highlights of my ecclesiastical efforts was visiting the extraordinarily baroque and intricately gold-leafed Chapel of the Virgen del Rosario. But not even this decadence beyond decadence could hide it. Not even blemishless gold could gild over the fact that something felt off, however imperceptible. Something was disturbed. Hush now. Show some photos of Cholula. Next to the city of Puebla (and, arguably, one could think of it as effectively part of Puebla) is the city of Cholula. It is best known for "Tlachihualtepetl", the Great Pyramid of Cholula, which — though largely hidden by the hilltop — is technically the largest pyramid by volume that exists on the planet. All this dead stone from a dead civilisation dedicated to a dead god. It certainly left a heaviness despite the loveliness of the weather. It left a shadow on the earth. Darkening and growing. No. Ignore the portent. Write some obligatory food notes:
And lastly. A cold vision on my personal Day of the Dead. Here it is... on the dusty trail to a clearly signposted hell... Like the alcoholic British consul in Malcolm Lowry’s novel ‘Under the Volcano’, I too can sense the weight of Popocatépetl. I stand at the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de los Remedios parish church in Cholula on the morning of November 2nd. There is a touch of sadness on my forehead. An unidentifiable grief shivers through me. Am I standing on the edge of something terrible? But unlike Lowry’s protagonist, no one is willing to save me. And even if someone did come, I would refuse it. “Quiere usted la salvación de Méjico?” suddenly asked a radio from somewhere behind the bar. “Quiere usted que Cristo sea nuestro Rey?”
“No.” Trudging along the relaxed, sunny, red-ochre-and-burnt-yellow American retirement village of San Miguel de Allende... Lazily bouncing from church to cafe to art gallery to church to cafe to art gallery... Here are some photos of my lovely, hot, and dusty one day visit. Obligatory food note. While in the city, I enjoyed a very hearty chile relleno - that is, roast pepper stuffed with cheese. My verdict: Can’t go wrong with this, I reckon. Even better, I had it slopped on my plate at a local fonda (i.e., a tiny, family-run restaurant). Anyway, that's literally all I have on San Miguel de Allende! Nice to visit but glad I only stayed for a day.
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AuthorMing is an economist, traveller, and creative writer from Melbourne, Australia. He’s a nebulous collection of particles on the lookout for a good corner to sit with a book and a cup of coffee. Archives
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