Gate 13 and a Half

We stayed in Guadalajara two nights and three days, which really was too long.  But we needed the rest and the hostel had a roof terrace with chaise lounges and a commanding 360 degree view of the city.  We probably could have spent only a day - even though this is Mexico´s second largest city - the main sights are well-concentrated in the city center and it is a very walkable town.  We snap photos of the pretty buildings...

chow down on frijoles, quesadillas, and caldo de pescado at the comedores in the enormous Mercado de San Juan de Dios, and enjoy 5 peso soft serve ice cream cones from endless street vendors - our most accomplished budget-friendly discovery in Guadalajara.

It seems that all we do is eat.  Or think about eating.  Or planning where/how to get our next meal.  It is an all-consuming time waster.  With food so plentiful and accesible - you are never more than 5 feet away from someone cooking and never more than 10 feet away from one of the best meals of your life - food has become our favorite (OK, only) pasttime.  But I am dying for a vegetable.  Or a salad.  Something green.  With apologies to Mexican chefs everywhere, there are really only three vegetables in Mexican cuisine: tomatoes, onions, and chile peppers.  Tourists aren´t supposed to eat salad - the lettuce is most likely washed in local, bacteria-filled, undrinkable water.  I think I saw a sad, wilted stalk of broccoli in the market the other day, but no doubt he was lost, having fallen off a truck headed for an organic cafe in California.

So here I am, thinking about food again, as we zip south along the highway on another space bus, this one quite a bit more modest in its amenities than before.  Hollywood movies dubbed into Spanish blast through the cabin.  Right now we are forced to watch something starring Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, dressed like a tooth fairy.  And Julie Andrews is in it.  Weird.  Outside, parched hills of scrub brush and fields of manicured agave - sprouting anemone-like - amble by, reminding us that we are skipping the 350 peso tour to the Jose Cuervo distillery.  Which, honestly, is probably a good thing.

We are starting to be much more budget savvy, discovering far cheaper travel alternatives and comida tipica.  A cab from the bus station to central Guadalajara naively cost us 150 pesos.  Returning, we find a local bus that only runs us 6 pesos each.  Back at the bus station, we are definitely an Amazing Race team again.  We bob and weave through the crowds, looking for the next (and cheapest!) bus to Mexico City where we will connect to another bus for Oaxaca.  We impulsively decide on one that William says "he has a good feeling about."  It leaves in one minute.  Of course, poor (or no) planning on our part does not constitute an emergency on the part of the ticket agent, but we try to rush her along, asking if we will have enough time to make the bus before it pulls out.  By now, we travel under our Mexican pseudonyms - Guillermo and Juan - because no one understands or can spell our real names.  And when I try to spell our names in Spanish to someone, they always write down something like "Celi Robes."  The ticket agent assures us we will make the bus, takes our money, and off we run with her direction that the bus leaves between gates 13 and 15.  What kind of direction is that?!  Wouldn't that just be Gate 14?  What is this, Harry Potter?  Is the bus set to appear out of some magical, Mexican portal to nowhere?  By now we are kind of frantic, shoving our tickets into everyone´s faces and shouting "Mexico!  Donde´ esta el bus a Mexico?"  "It departs between gates 13 and 15" is all anyone will say.  Perhaps this doesn´t need to be said, but there IS no gate 14.  Just two parking spaces maked 13 and 15.  And nothing between them.  There are buses in both spaces, boarding passengers to other destinations, but neither is going via Mexico City.  Finally, a kind older lady approaches us and speaks English.  She looks at our tickets and confirms that yes, the bus will depart between gates 13 and 15.  But wouldn´t that be Gate 14? I ask.  Now she´s confused.  She asks someone else in a bus company uniform.  He says the same thing.  What the hell is wrong with this place?

Turns out the bus is 15 minutes late.  We watch it pull in, a "Mexico City" sign in the front window.  And seriously, it is somehow between gates 13 and 15.  I don´t know.  Don´t ask.

7 hours and three dubbed movies later, we arrive at the Mexico City Terminal Norte only to discover that all buses to Oaxaca depart from an entirely different terminal totally on the other side of the city which requires us to run an insane backpacker gauntlet involving ankle bending stairs, escalators, 3 different subway lines and a 15 minute jog through a maze of underground tunnels, all whilst laden down with our huge packs.  But hey, the subway only costs three pesos each and we were not about to take a taxi.

Three hours in the new bus terminal, waiting for the last bus of the day at 11:55pm.  We pay for a second class bus, saving 80 pesos each, which seems like a great deal, until we realize that "second class" is Spanish for "no bathroom on board." For future reference, I´ll gladly pay 80 pesos not to squirm and sweat in my seat for six hours...