I'm six foot two, and so when I travel to Latin America I anticipate some inconveniences based on my height: I'll have to slouch or tuck in my knees in cars, or be extra careful going up and down stairs, and so on. I've never, though, felt that my height needed to be a handicap in bathrooms until I got to Mexico, where apparently they feel that decent-sized stalls are immodest. As a result I have more than once been in a bathroom that allowed me to either sit down or close the door, but not both at the same time. It's a situation with even less dignity than slamming your head into a low-lying ceiling in front of a plaza full of people.

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There are several beaches in Puerto Escondido, and most of them are kind of dirty and covered with fish debris, but one of them, Zicatela, which if P.E. were shaped like an arm bent at the elbow would be the bicep, is notable in that the water for some reason crests twenty feet or more above the surface before crashing down in a way that is really nothing short of apocalyptic. The first time I went there, I stood watching the waves, trying to get a sense of their size; I thought they only looked about as big as the waves at one of the previous beaches I had been to, which is to say maybe five feet. They broke far out into the ocean, giving the water enough time to form smaller waves near the sand, which I thought were maybe a foot or so tall--Lake Michigan waves. Then I saw someone actually go into the water, and realized that the Lake Michigan waves were as tall as a full-grown man and the ones further out had to be several times larger. It takes the water so long to fall from the top of the crests that the whole thing seems to be moving in slow motion, and then the spray when it finally reaches the surface again is as tall or taller than the original wave--it seems like something that should only happen when nature is really out of whack, or angry at us, or something. It's also completely mesmerizing; I probably spent at least an hour and a half during my four days there just watching them.

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I would like to say a word for the shawls of Zinacantán. This is an indigenous town about fifteen minutes from San Cristóbal, home to 38,000 people or so, among whom, incidentally, are the members of the city's championship basketball team. What's really remarkable about the place, though, are the clothes, and specifically the shawls wrapped around the shoulders of nearly every woman and girl on the street. They are in deep blues and purples, every once in a while a bit of red or green, decorated with stitched flowers and leaves in fabrics that glint just a little bit in the sun. It all reminds me of the scene in Fantasia when the fairies spread frost in the garden, and afterwords the plants sparkle like they were covered in diamonds.

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Things I have eaten in San Cristóbal:

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I'm realizing that so far today I've gushed about "big pink flowers" and the cuteness of a kind of romantic little pizzeria... I might have to emphasize something manly when I scout out the bars tonight.

Also, if Mexico were in an international contest to see whose citizens could give the best directions, it would be losing. The commentators would be saying things like, "Oh—oh dear. What are they—to Avenida Central? Even *I* know that's not right, and I'm sitting in a booth in Atlanta." Then there'd be a shot of Switzerland, on the sidelines, snickering.

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