Tonanzintla, Mexico -- Here in the lovely Mexican village of Tonanzintla, my friend Elizabeth has a stunning, active volcano almost in her backyard. Corn and alfalfa fields spread out directly behind the house, but the volcano lurks on the horizon, keeping a watchful eye on us—and vice versa.

As it turns out, the “evacuation zone” is a truly lovely place to be. And, Elizabeth assures me that, if the volcano has a bad day—the delivery service screws up its shipment of sacrificial virgins—an “excellent evacuation system is in place.”

I want to have full faith in this system. Instead, I find myself enjoying a heaping helping order of skepticism. I like this country a lot, and I don’t measure it against the hyper quick-quick speed-it-up U.S. The Mexico that I have seen so far has a more laid back way of life, and that’s to the good.

Yet, I’ve observed that there’s a whole lot of “ish” involved in the systems here. The cab driver who promises to pick us up at 8:00 and get us to the bus station by 8:30 comes at 8:00ish (8:20). The phone company will set up your service in 30 days(ish). If you want to mail a letter, it will get somewhere on an ish day to be determined. This is all cool with me.

Somehow, however, I don’t want any “ish” involved with the volcano evacuation system. I also harbor a dark suspicion that by “excellent evacuation system,” Elizabeth means, “You’ll be dead fast, Kim, and you won’t notice if the system sucks."

At any rate, there the volcano sits, blowing off a little warning steam from time to time and dreaming about the days when it had a waiting list of virgins. And now, after contemplating the volcano for two weeks in Mexico, and heartily partaking of the delicious food, I’ve begun to sense that a similar volcano has taken up residence in my belly. Active…restless…watchful.

Oh, sure. My stomach’s volcano hasn’t erupted yet. But, much like the volcano in the backyard, it’s always mulling over its options and reserving the right to wreak havoc on the innocent. Let’s just draw a gentle curtain over the topic of my personal planned evacuation system and agree that Gatorade, a hammock, and fountains of Pepto will all play key roles in the Eruption Emergency Response Unit’s (EERU) tactics.

The thing is: I expected the lava to hit the fan within the first few days I was here. All my books told me it would. Elizabeth warned me. Yet, nothing dire has happened. I avoid tap water like the plague. And, like a catechism, I recite the list of foods Elizabeth suggests I avoid (e.g., fruits and vegetables that haven’t been disinfected with iodine or that do not have protective peelings, certain kinds of street food).

Tragically, I am too good a pupil. In my finest, fussiest, Felix Unger manner, I check up on Elizabeth—who has a volcano erupting in her stomach at present: “Should you eat that lettuce?” “How does your stomach feel? Shouldn’t you eat something bland?” “I made more Gatorade, shouldn’t you drink some?” Elizabeth, a veteran of several long-term visits to Mexico, knows her stomach best. But I, amazed at the dormant volcano in my own belly, find myself over-focusing on hers. It is a good thing that she has no weapons here. While flies flee in terror from her patented dishtowel extermination process, she hasn’t gone after me with a dishtowel. Yet.

The good news is that, apparently, so far, my stomach has made the seamless adjustment to the culture that I am unable to make linguistically. I’m really fine, and I swear it’s not that I’m just eating plastic-wrapped sani-stuff purchased at Walmart (they’re everywhere here). Instead, I’ve enjoyed a variety of delectable food in an assortment of delightful places. And, you will, too, if you go to Mexico. A few thoughts follow.

Day 1: Los Girasoles, Tacuba 8A, Mexico City: Stomach volcano is inert.

Food: On my first day in Mexico City, as my first meal in Mexico, we snack at this beautiful restaurant. We sip delicious tamarind margaritas, with coarse salt, chili pepper, and lime rimming the tops of the glasses. We plow into the best guacamole and chips ever. No, they’re better than the ones you get at that restaurant you love. And, we inhale blue corn/squash blossom/cheese quesadillas with a variety of fresh vegetable salsas and toppings. These are more like crispy little turnovers than the quesadillas I eat in the U.S. Very kind service, and a wonderful experience overall.

Lodging: Hotel Catedral (U.S. $34-$48)—Very comfortable, great rooftop terrace, fine views of the cathedral from some rooms, and right in the heart of the historic district. I spent my first night in Mexico City here, and here is where I learned to brush my teeth with bottled water and NOT flush the toilet paper.

The Surrounding Scene: Mexico City sates most of my senses before we even approach the restaurant. The streets that spiral out from the city’s historical center each specialize in selling a different kind of ware. So, we wander through the perfume street, inhaling 500 scents with each five steps, the electronics street—imagine all of the music and videos from all time playing all at once—and the book street, with storefront after storefront full of book spines that make me swoon.

More than just the books make me dizzy, though. Mexico City is full of glitter, enduring beauty, affluence, and kindness as well as pollution, corruption, crushing poverty, and cruelty. I am plunged into the sights and smells of all of this at once. Every city has these qualities, but here, on the first day, it is all magnified. Swimming among the swarms of people, I grow drunk on the colors (it wasn’t the margaritas, I swear), the joy, the gorgeous buildings, the people’s faces and smiles, the music, the graceful children. And, I soak in the sadness in some of the people’s eyes, their worn bodies and faces, and the incredibly hard work to scratch out a living. At red lights, little boys juggle fire in crowded intersections, hoping to get some coins from drivers. The evil green taxicabs (bad record of assaults and robberies with these—avoid) dart everywhere. Rows of uniformed policemen with machine guns stand watch over almost every corner—not a comforting sight.

Day 2: Basilica de Guadalupe, Mexico City: Stomach volcano is dormant.

Food: On my second day in Mexico, Elizabeth seems keen to test my stomach. We buy steaming hot corn from street vendors near the Basilica—mine is roasted, with lime and salt (should have chili on it, but the vendor makes a split-second decision based on my glaring gringa-ness); hers is boiled and coated with mayonnaise and cheese. (Note: All mayonnaise here has lime in it.) Then, we buy a giant, Frisbee-sized corn tortilla smothered in cheese, chili peppers, cilantro, salsa, beans, and cactus—delicious.

The Surrounding Scene: I was raised in the Methodist church. This meant endless Sunday mornings spent kicking the back of a wooden pew while someone in a long robe yammered at me. The occasional Jesus-As-A-Schoolboy coloring book spiced things up, but otherwise there wasn’t a whole lot of flavor and passion going on. No ballsy Baptist swingins,’ swayins,’ and/or snake charmins’. No Donnie and Marie Mormon monkeyshines. Due to the dryness of my portion of Methodist shame and guilt, I always hoped the Catholics had a little something more lively going on—if you’re going to be bummed out, why not at least have interesting stuff to look at? Gory statues. Frilly little white outfits. Incense. A whole posse of people you pray to for various reasons. It all seemed pretty exotic in Vermont, but that was nothing compared to the Basilica de Guadalupe in Mexico City.

In short, some dude had a vision of some virgin (the thought makes the volcano drool), and she does miracles now. Not for me, personally, but that’s because I’m a stinking non-believer. In the center of the courtyard outside the Basilica, men and women crawl on the cobblestones on their knees—in some cases, their bare knees—into the basilica. To the right of the line of crawling pilgrims, an intricate dance involving masks and skeleton faces is in full swing. Past the dancers, at the foot of the stairs leading up to where the dude spotted the virgin, you can line up to get your picture taken—on a donkey and in a cowboy hat—with a statue of the Virgin. E and I merged into a moshpit of nuns and families in their Sunday best and processed at a turtle’s pace past the painting of the virgin. Here, I had a deep moment of epiphany: No matter what country I’m in, children love to reach out and latch themselves onto my rhinestone necklace. Who can blame ‘em? It’s good fun. Surrounding the Basilica, there’s a carnival of sparkly, besequinned, bedazzling Virgin and Jesus snow globes, clocks, key rings, lamps, handbags, t-shirts—you name it—along with an impressive array of Grim Reaper statues and accessories for the whole family.

Day 7: Puerto Escondido (Playa Zicatela): Stomach volcano tans and relaxes itself on the beach, remains quiet.

Lodging: Beach Hotel Ines (about $50/night)…I love our room here. It has a balcony overlooking the ocean right across the street, air conditioning, a little fridge, and—best yet—intensely orange curtains accented with colorful printed textiles and a leopard print day bed. A beautiful pool with hammocks, a nice bar/restaurant, and friendly people. What’s not to like? Sorry to gush. I am extremely happy here, and you will be, too.

Food: Restaurant El Jardin and the restaurant right across the street from Beach Hotel Ines are my favorites here. There are lots of places where you can eat on the beach, with your toes buried in the sand, and I enjoyed doing that once or twice. But mostly, I gravitate towards the places with the food I crave the most. What am I eating? I’m drinking huge quantities of fresh pineapple juice. I’m eating lots of fruit—papayas, mangos, bananas. I’m chomping chips. Mostly, though, I’m lusting after the Rey de Reys salad at El Jardin. I’m sure I’ve misspelled that. It’s a great mix of pickled eggplant, mushrooms, lettuces, peppers, and a bunch of other stuff. Whatever’s in it, it’s the best. 

The Surrounding Scene: Extremely mellow—even the street dogs are chilled out and sport the canine equivalent of groovy grins and dreadlocks—and dense with surfer dudes and dudettes. Even if you don’t surf, and if you don’t want to brave the fierce undertow on this beach, go come here to let your mind—as well as your stomach volcano—get a tan and relax.

The stomach volcano and I are on Day 12 of our sojourn in Mexico. We’ve had many other great meals, many of them at Elizabeth’s home, but that’s off limits to you. In fact, I’m going to go make some food now for my internal volcano—maybe some sacrificial beans or pasta or something—as I contemplate the external volcano.