Eat, Pray, Love Those Tatas

Just got back from Tlacotalpan. This photo-ready village, where the Papaloapan River flows out of the jungle to meet the Gulf Coast, is a United Nations World Heritage Site. Yet, few tourists seem to know. The architecture and street music display Native, Spanish and Caribbean influences. The food is downright sexy.

On the riverfront, I slouched away all afternoon at a restaurant patio table. Wrote a chapter for my upcoming book Fresh Wind & Strange Fire. The Pescado a la Veracruzana (fish simmered with tomatoes, chilis, onions, olives, capers and herbs) was succulent. The empty Corona bottles lined up in front of me spoke for themselves. What should I order next? I got a Dulce de Leche. This handmade milk confection was a pure delight.

Two churches sit on the town square and dominated the skyline behind me. The patron of fishing is the divine avatar of local choice. Many peasants come to these shrines and pray passionately for fish, while I snapped my fingers and received the same in abundance. How ironic.

Many of us pray for pregnancies in our forties and managerial jobs in a recession. When we don't get all we want, we often become bitter. We shout "Noone is listening up there!" Still, we tell children "No means no!" and "Stop that tantrum!" Meanwhile, multitudes ask humbly and submissively for fish. Who do we think is up there - a god or a lackey? If it's alright to demand a heavenly waiter, is it okay for me to demand one like those at Hooters? Better unplug my computer before the lightning strikes.