This morning I woke up with the idea that I would indulge in another of my favorite Mexican breakfast: pastries bought from a corner bakery together with Fanta Naranja. I waited until I started feeling hungry (a mistake that would later limit my options). Feeling sadistic, I decided to ask for advice from the Concierges, all of whom have the impression that anybody staying at their middle-end hotel wants to spend money freely and keep sending me to unreasonably priced locations. After a muddled exchange in Spanglish, English, and Spanish with two different Concierges, I was given directions in English “straight down the street two blocks past the Plaza de Bandejas (‘You know flags. Si, FLAGS’) and you will find a ‘very important’ panaderia. After walking the two blocks, I found neither the flags nor the bread, though in all fairness I have a notably poor sense of direction and ability to follow directions. Starting to feel that first of hunger panic set in, I returned to my original plan of wandering the streets until I found a suitable-looking place.

Fifteen minutes later, well into the dizzy symptoms of hunger pains, a woman asked me to help her lift the metal grating to open her store. Feeling chivalrous, I easily lifted the portcullis and seized the opportunity to ask a ‘native’ for her bakery recommendation. After some consideration, she mentioned the Wal-Mart that I had disdainfully passed 30 minutes ago. Before she could finish with a second recommendation I blurted out “El WAL-MART!?”. Seeing that further details might confuse her poor gringo, she smiled and said “yes, the Wal-Mart has a very good bakery.” Lacking the strength and mental fortitude to argue any further, I retraced my steps to the Lair of Westernization. With my stomach digesting my backbone, I stumbled into the bakery section and found all of the delicious pastries that I had sought all morning. My elusive corner bakery had been relocated to a inside corner of the Wal-Mart. I choose out some of my favorites (I love shopping for pastries in Mexico, they give you an aluminum tray the size of a large circular pizza pan and a pair of tongs. Shoppers pick up pastries and place them on their tray, which are then bagged by a nice cashier), grabbed a Fanta Naranja, and beat a hasty retreat. They were as good as any that I have ever had. Oh well, when in Rome . . .