It took about 3 days of convincing for me to believe that Merida was indeed part of Mexico. My mind’s stereotype started ok from the airport: Hut, Hut, Hut, Palm Tree, Hut. Then as we got to town it started becoming more surreal: Hut, Hut, Mcdonald’s, Hut, Taco Stand, Costco, Sam’s Club, Bennigan’s, Palm Tree, HSBC, Churro Cart, Mercedes-Benz. It was a kind of culture shock I hadn’t prepared for.

Pierre and I had the shittiest car in town (Dodge Attitude with Hyundai guts) and the locals laughed in their land rovers laughed, “Americanos stupidos! Uno Dodge!”

When we dined at a traditional Mexican Hacienda, I ordered my asada with a side of failure. “Madame, is this not what you ordered?” I apparently had that confused grimace look on my face that I get when I’m too drunk to calculate tip. It was what I had ordered. Served with habenero and tortillas, I couldn’t complain that they hadn’t given me the option of making a taco, but I wasn’t sure where I was supposed to put the mashed potatoes or the au jus that my porterhouse had come with, nevermind the broccoli (”What do I do, do I shred that?”). I am, of course, all about solutions, so it was magarita after magarita until everything looked delicious again.

Some endearing pictures of the central part of the city here. Also includes some great pictures of Hello Kitties missing chromosomes.