Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow...

They say you can dream of a white Christmas. Well they never stood at the edge of the precipice, ski tips trembling in anticipation, poised for an instantaneous eternity over the near-vertical sheet of powder clinging tenuously to the defiant teeth of the Rockies.  They never felt the icy wind tear at the helmet straps, they never saw the snowflakes explode into the blur of a hyperspace jump. Let them go on dreaming, snuggled up in their cozy beds, trinkets and baubles patiently waiting under manicured Christmas trees. And while they dream, a select few will tighten their boots, snap down their goggles, exchange a nervous fist bump. And then they'll drop into the void.
 

Oh but first they'll put on dumb reindeer ears. And then they'll drop into the void.


Actually that drop will have to wait, there are more important voids right now. Like the one in the stomach that requires urgent filling with some festive Doritos.



Christmas day dawns crisp and clear with four inches of pristine powder blanketing the rustic town of Steamboat. Ski boots may outnumber cowboy boots these days but at her heart she's never forgotten her roots, unlike the ritzy resorts along the I-70 corridor.



Getting dragged out of bed at 7am so you can spend the day with aching muscles in below freezing temperatures. Can there be any better way to celebrate your birthday?



This is it boys! Red Leader this is Gold Leader. I copy Gold Leader, we're starting for the target shaft!



Fresh pow pow as far as the eye can see. Santa sure did deliver the big one today.



Best save the celebrations until the bottom chief. I foresee a double cartwheel wipeout in your near future.


Mei's favorite run is the one to the chowder bowl at Rendezvous Saddle Lodge.



Raise a toast to an epic Christmas day on some of the gnarliest runs you'll find this side of the continental divide.


Dodge really needs to deploy his game theory to uncover the optimal strategy for Secret Santa. Otherwise he's stuck with a selfie stick that doesn't do much for you when your phone was designed before the word was even invented.


Another day, another fresh dusting of powder. Is this a great mountain or what?


It's half past one. That means darting through the trees between One O'clock and Two O'clock.


Jared so badly wanted to be Rudolph he imbibed half a can of Coors Light to obtain the perfect glow for the part.


Bear with me Simon, I'll master the art of onion browning just as soon as I master the double black diamonds.



Saddle up boys, it's time for the grand finale. Day three starts with another dump of powder, but then the clouds roll back around noon for a legendary blue bird finish.



The question is whether boarders spend more of their time on their edge or on their ass. The answer is neither, Rocky Mountain Remedies wins hands down.


Now here's an elegant weapon for a more civilized age. Stay strong Deer Valley, stay strong.



Get ready for the home run boys, there's almost 4,000 vertical feet of powder separating you from the first beer.



With scenery like this, that first beer can wait a little longer. After all it's frost brewed in the Rockies and it's not like they're running out of frost any time soon.



Darth Powder is wondering how it's possible that an entire legion of his elite Snowtroopers were wiped out by a walking carpet, an archeologist, and a farm boy preoccupied with smooching his sister.




Who said skiers can't be cool too?


Let the race to the bottom begin. Ahem, quite.



T-Bar isn't just ski-in/ski-out, it's ski-right-up-to-your-table-and-pitcher. It might just be the greatest après-ski bar on the planet.



If you brought your skinny ski pants you're allowed to grab a Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the snow drift.


What a way to finish three powder-packed day on the mountain. The Boat delivered, big time.



Rock's driving on ice is just like his skiing, a disaster waiting to happen.


No wonder those burgers went so well with that frost brewed Coors Light.


Back to civilization and the bright lights of downtown Denver. The streets are empty because patron saint Peyton is working a few more miracles over at Mile High.



 

Monday, December 08, 2014

Taco Time Part 2: The Pyramid of the Mezcal

There's plenty of time to admire this gold-tipped Independence Column because like the rest of Mexico City the traffic on Reforma, the main thoroughfare, is simply abysmal.
 

Zocalo is the beating heart of the giant metropolis, a vast central plaza from whence the chaos of a haphazard, unplanned city surges outwards all the way to the arid slopes of the distant volcanoes.



Unfortunately the National Palace is closed for three weeks while they wait for the unrest to cool down. Literally as it turns out; they burned down the palace doors.



The narrow alleys surrounding Zocalo are teeming with little shops, churches, and taquerias. No Doritos Locos to see here folks, move along, move along.



Despite the breathless media coverage back home, there's nary a drug lord to be seen. The relaxed atmosphere is all the more remarkable given you've got 21 million people all crammed into one little valley.



With Turkey Day in Mexico you get the best of both worlds: balmy sub-tropical weather and all the important NFL match-ups live on ESPN Desportes.



Mexico City is one of the world's top destinations for street art. Here's Mei's favorite, she comes from the Bauhaus school where it's all about functionality.



The impressive façade Palacio de Bellas Artes, which doubles as an art gallery and concert hall. There seem to be some protesters in front. Perhaps they'll burn down the doors so we can save the admission fee.



Diego Rivera is perhaps Mexico's most famous artist, most notably for his immense murals. In fact he originally painted this one in the Rockefeller Center in New York, but it was chiseled off the wall in short order when the rather overt leftist themes became apparent. It seems giving Lenin pride of place didn't go down so well in the heart of American capitalism.



And you wonder why John D. Rockefeller had second thoughts...


All this socialism is a bit depressing, let's chisel it down and move on to the hip Condesa neighborhood, often called Mexico City's answer to the West Village.



Azul Condesa takes Mexican-style home cooking, adds an OpenTable booking button and a few nifty swirls of mole reduction, and sells it at a 500% markup to tourists. They're onto a winner.



Before chef's tables were all the rage you could watch the tortilla lady roll out her goods at any street corner in Mexico for free.



Well, it's hard to argue we're not in the right place.
 

Since there's not enough time in the day for all the eating why not extend things past sundown with a late-night street taco and mezcal tasting tour? First stop, corn in a cup drizzled with lime juice, chili, and oaxaca cheese.


She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts, kid. There's more to a hole in the wall than a wall with a hole in it. There might just be some succulent pork shoulder tacos hidden inside.



Next stop, some Mexico City microbrews. Would you like a worm at the bottom of your IPA?



Nothing soaks up alcohol like cheese and peppers served up fresh off a sizzling griddle right off the street corner.


By day this auto repair shop keeps the city's fleet of VW Beetles chugging along, by night the spare tires and oil cans are pushed back to make room for three giant spits of meat that are devoured over the course of the night in the region's signature dish: tacos al pastor.



If you need an oil change with your tacos you've come to the right place.
 

The final food stop of the night offers a new twist on the classic street taco: chorizo and pork shoulder garnished with spring onions. It's all boiled up in a giant vat and then slopped onto fresh tortillas that are steamed right over the pot.



All that food requires something to wash it down. The tour gets a little blurry from this point, but it allegedly involved a midnight stop at a mezcaleria and a sip-and-pass-to-the-right game of shots. We can neither confirm nor deny those rumors.
 



Anywhere with a Pyramid of the Sun, a Pyramid of the Moon, and an Avenue of the Dead has just got to be cool. After last night's mezcal Rock fits right in on the avenue.



The origins of the ruins of Teotihuacan are lost in time, predating even the mighty Aztec empire. Steven Spielberg has a theory that involves gratuitous CGI, crystal-headed aliens, and a washed-up archeologist. Yes it's as bad as it sounds, but at least it comes with a rousing John Williams score.



Watch where you sit in these parts. As if those tacos last night didn't do enough damage.
 


Rock is ready to do the honorable thing and offer his head up to the gods in exchange for mercifully cutting short the after effects of that mezcal. Just remember to remove your glasses before they roll your severed head down the stairs.



If the aliens who built this thing were so smart, how come they didn't bother to install an elevator?




The Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe wasn't built by aliens, although that's what certain tea-drinking factions up north are wont to call them when they venture too far north.



Mexico's other favorite artist was Frida Kahlo, who was actually married to Diego Rivera off and on over the years. Like most artists she was pretty much a certified loony and a commie, but don't hold that against her. All the good ones are crazy.



Frida's blue house was both her home with Diego and her studio. Now it's a museum and one of the most visited spots in the whole city. The fact Salma Hayek played Frida on the big screen certainly didn't hurt either.



Careful, the life of an artist's muse is idyllic, until he decides to cut off his ear.
 



So this is what it's like to be a communist.



Frida's house is in the middle of the colonial Coyoacán neighborhood, a warren of tree-lined streets dotted with quaint cafes. Like artists everywhere, she triggered the gentrification that eventually priced them out.
 


The vehicle of choice in Mexico City. If you're going to spend your whole life stuck in traffic you might as well look good while choking on sulfur fumes.




Despite the city's enormous sprawl there's still an intensely local vibe in the neighborhoods. Once you get off the jammed freeways and into the quiet cobblestone streets you find a Mexico City that really hasn't changed much over the decades since Frida was painting the same scenes.