Veracruz

In the days before air travel, Veracruz was the point of entry into Mexico for most of its visitors and invaders. Today, it seems to have become quite the internal tourist magnet even though it’s largely unknown to English speakers. It sits on the coast on the edge of a jungle, where the heat sinks down on you and makes it difficult to move around comfortably. The boardwalk along the beach is lined with souvenir items so tacky as to be glorious: Frog pens, frog pencils, frog necklaces, frog earrings.

Central Veracruz felt almost like a fortress, or a series of fortresses, with enclosed courtyards and frequent statues of heroic figures. Like any port city, I am sure that in former days it was known as a haven for gamblers, philanderers, sailors and others of ill repute. Now it is outwardly wholesome and geared toward families, but noise is always hanging in the air to a considerable degree. Every evening, you can sit down at one of the outdoor cafes in the Zócalo and listen to marimba bands.

The best food can be found on any back-street restaurant that advertises fish. A specialty is red snapper with tomato and chilli sauce (a la veracruzana), which should be enough on its own to justify your visit to the coast of Mexico. There is an interesting naval museum, but otherwise it is just as diverting to look at the ambitious holiday decorations on the street as it is to visit any of the formal attractions.

Below is the cathedral. A nativity scene, previously mentioned, is on the right:

Now that I was no longer in a city of 20 million, a few people began to approach me and strike up conversations. My Spanish ability is, shall we say, limited, but I carried on as best I could.

"Where are you from?" a woman asked.

"The United States."

"Oh! You are a gringo then."

"Yes." (She seemed just to enjoy saying the word for some reason, and certainly it is melodious if you roll the "r.")

"I hear the Americans treat Mexican immigrants very badly."

"Yes. They do."

"You should not do that."

"I don’t."

And then there was the coffee. Mexico in general does not seem to have much of a coffee culture, though, to be fair, neither does the United States, where the coffee habit is more a product of corporate branding than it is an indigenous custom. The savory drinks you can find anywhere in Mexico are the juices: orange, mango, or any other fruit you wish, or carrot; and always fresh. Yet there are just a couple of blocks in Veracruz where you can sip locally grown coffee, which in the heat of the day induces a very pleasant sort of delirium. If you are ever there, walk a block west of the Zócalo on Mario Molina and visit the first coffee shop you see on the left. I don’t remember the name of it, but the coffee is outstanding.

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Comments

[Andrew]

Isn't corporate branding an indigenous American custom?

[Avery Palmer]

I'm not sure. I'd like to say it's British or Dutch, or wherever corporations got started. This is the second Mexico post where I was tempted to insert a full paragraph complaining about Starbucks. My efforts at self-censorship have been strong.

[Monica Valencia]

You forgot the best part of Veracruz. Right off the coast of Catemaco there is the monkey island. People say that these monkeys are vicious but I dont beleive it. I have yet to see one be horribly mean. They are freindly though. And will grab things and run.

[Avery Palmer]

Hello, if you're still here, I just found your comment. I actually did make it to the monkey island: See the "Catemaco" post.

[Rose Cook]

My mom, now about 80y/o, used to tell us of the days my dad left her in a small shack in the jungles of Veracruz. She remembers hearing the local "wild indians" singing and yollering when they had a good hunting day. She says they would carry their catch of the day, monkeys, on a long pole from their hands and feet. My husband thought I was telling tall tales 'til I showed him several online articles about those Veracruz monkeys.