Four years ago, Supczak wouldn’t have done something like this—he had no particular affinity for bugs—but that changed when he bumped into a noble false widow in his backyard and got curious. He fell down a research rabbit hole and suddenly became spider-thirsty.

The obsession made him into a bomb of arachnid information, and everyone around him was getting hit by the shrapnel. “Every time I came up to my husband,” Supczak recalls, “he’d just start rolling his eyes.”

The apathy of his friends and family didn’t make sense to him. Who wouldn’t want to know that female green lynx spiders can spit venom?

“I had to find another way to share this passion I’d developed,” he says. In other words, he needed to save his relationship—so he founded The San Diego Spider Society, a Facebook group with 2,000-plus members who share a mutual appreciation for spider facts. Members can ask the group for help with identification. Often, on weekends, Supczak leads free nighttime spider walks, which I’ve joined this week.

Dark begins to fall and we keep our eyes on the sides of the trail. We are looking for tiny, hairy legs sticking out of old rodent burrows or for peripheral movements in the grass. Two different kinds of tarantulas call this part of San Diego home: the Steindachner’s ebony tarantula and the California ebony tarantula. The wandering season is July to August for the former and September to November for the latter. Supczak reminds me that though tarantulas look scary, they have much more to fear from humans than we do from them. Their abdomens are fragile and can fatally rupture—Humpty-Dumpty-style—from a drop as low as one foot.

We walk the curved dirt trail. “There was a trap-door spider here last week,” Supczak says, trying to tap the right spot on a dirt mound to get the clever arachnid to reveal its home’s hinged opening.

After an hour, we’re still yet to see any spiders looking for a coupling. The males, he explains, spin a sperm web before setting out. (“It’s exactly like it sounds,” he adds.) They deposit their sperm into this special web, suck it up into their two front appendages called pedipalps (when the appendages are full and bulbous, spider people sometimes refer to them as “boxing gloves”), and go on their way, fueled for baby-making. The mating sounds less than ideal—the tarantula will try to maneuver his palps over the female’s genitalia while trying not to become her post-coital snack.

Stink beetles cross our path. A black widow perches between boulders, and wolf-spider eyes reflect off our flashlights like shattered glass. We are less than a mile from the 52 highway, but it feels like we could be on the Oregon Trail.

The last time he came out here, Supczak tells me, he saw a tarantula hawk—a type of parasitic wasp—attack a tarantula. It paralyzes the spider with its sting, drags the tarantula into an empty burrow, and lays its egg on top of it. When the wasp larva hatches, it devours the spider from the inside, avoiding all essential organs to keep it alive so it can feed for longer. As the arachnid dies, the wasp larva pupates. I look out at the brown grass and gorgeous purple sky and marvel at what a horror show nature can be.

I want to murder tarantula wasps, but Supczak explains that nature is complex: I’d be killing one of the top pollinators of milkweed, which keeps our monarch population alive.

After two-and-a-half hours—and a great time, despite no tarantula sightings—we make it back to our cars. Before driving off, I ask Supczak if there is anything about spiders he wishes more people knew.

“If we woke up tomorrow and everything was exactly the same,” he says, “except some person got their wish and all the spiders were gone, crops would begin failing within weeks because insect populations would explode. We’d have famines. Starvation. It’d be an ecological disaster.”

I think about that for a minute. It’s not the big, thick arachnid in your bedroom that is the nightmare. The real nightmare, it turns out, is if there were no spiders at all.

The post Getting Cozy With Tarantulas During Wandering Season appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

No, you chose this vacation for a reason. Mole! Mezcal! Art! Yes, you remember now—you are here to immerse your family in centuries-old crafts and culture. You do not need Spandex and seashells. You can do more than sand and waves.

You would have stayed at Hotel Escondido or Quinta Real or Hotel El Callejon, but you do Airbnb now to get extra bedrooms. Again, twins. You wonder for the 1,000th time since having kids why hotels were built to torture families.

To fortify yourself before exploring the Ruta Magica de las Artesanias (or “Magic Route of Crafts”)—a route made up of small towns surrounding Oaxaca City that specialize in different crafts like weaving, embroidery, and ceramics— you eat all the things. Tlayudas from Chili Guajili, pan de elote from Boulenc, huevos divorciados from Pan:Am, paletas from Mezcalite POP!, a flight of eight different corn drinks from Atolería.

You could try one of many cooking classes, like the one from La Cocina De Humo, but you ease yourself into your workshop-laden visit by taking a chocolate class hosted by Chimalapa Cacao. You learn Oaxaca is home to more than 20 different cacao beverages, some made entirely of foam. You roast the cacao beans on a comal (a smooth, flat griddle), peel off the brittle skins, and grind them with spices. You mix the resulting powder with water using a specialized wooden wand called a molinillo. You have an epiphany: Any place that has a specific chocolate utensil is the Right Place.

“We want to teach people that chocolate is more than candy,” explains Diego Armando Contreras, biologist and one of the resident chocolate experts.

You feel bad for all the people snorkeling right now. They are not sipping chili chocolate.

The next day, you take a 20-minute drive to Arrazola, a small town that specializes in alebrijes, whimsical creatures painted in bright, intricate designs. The godfather of alebrijes was Pedro Linares, who is said to have hallucinated the elaborate, animalistic beings during feverish visions he had in the 1930s.

Instead of Linares’ papier-mâché, Manuel Jimenez of Arrazola started making alebrijes out of hand-carved copal wood. You visit the workshop of his grandson, Armando Jimenez. Armando’s wife holds up a log, saying, “We bring out the animal that’s inside.”

You want active participation, so, of course, you sign up for an alebrije painting class. It looks easy to paint. There are lots of colors and dots and ovals and stripes. You sit around a table, feeling confident with 50 different pigments and a bare armadillo. As you swab your paintbrush in hot pink and flub an oval, you build a deeper appreciation for the art form and for the skill it takes to paint even one perfect circle.

You remind your kids that travel is heart-opening and humbling and they say, “Where’s the green? No, not that one,” and “Why does paint taste so bad?”

You need adult time, so you finagle a sitter recommendation from your Airbnb host and go to Crudo for dinner. The chef, Ricardo Arellano, who once lived and cooked in Escondido, CA, helms the Japanese-fusion establishment. His food makes you emit moany noises, but it’s not weird, because it’s doing that to everyone.

You overhear a guy four stools down talk about a ceramic studio a few towns away—a 76-year-old man who is blind creates sculptures using red clay that his family digs up in nearby fields.

Two days later, you are in a car with the guy four stools down, driving to San Antonino Castillo Velasco to visit the man’s workshop, Manos Que Ven (“Hands That See”).

Don José Garcia’s signature pieces are faces on pots. Most look like his wife and sport her iconic forehead mole. He tells you that “love” is his inspiration and that he calls his wife “Princesa Magnolia Pechos de Oro” (or “Princess Magnolia Golden Breasts”). You wonder why your husband hasn’t come up with a cute nickname like that for you. If he were a sculptor, would he lovingly recreate your hairy upper-arm mole or your abnormally tiny and thick pinky toenail?

Assistants teach you Don José’s process by allowing you to attempt to form a visaged vessel, which they will fire for you to take home. They teach your kids, too, but instead of a vessel, one makes a blob with one whole that she tells you can both eat and poop. You pretend not to hear or see her demonstration.

You don’t have time to visit all the towns that specialize in clay, but there are multiple nearby with workshops to tour and places to get your hands dirty. One town is San Bartolo Coyotepec, which is famous for its black pottery. Yet another, Santa María Atzompa, is known for clay works fired in a ubiquitous algae-green glaze.

Before heading home, you manage to fit in a few more big experiences. You hit Hierve el Agua, a highly photogenic and swimmable mineral spring, before arriving at Teotitlán del Valle, a town known for tapestry.

Casa Textil Arte Zapoteco is a cooperative of 65 families. Alfredo, your host, tells you that his ancestors moved to this valley hundreds of years ago. They had fled the Aztecs, who had built quite a reputation for painting people indigo and sacrificing them to weather gods. The only thing the people of Teotitlán want in indigo is their beautiful Zapotec rug designs.

You see a demonstration about the dyeing process— how pecans make brown, moss makes green, cochineal insects make red—and have an option to sign up for more intensive natural dye courses.

You and your offspring are satisfied by the quick version. Alfredo dries the cochineal bugs, crushes them into a powder, and uses various methods— like lime juice or baking soda—to rehydrate them into different shades of red, anything from rosy pink to dark crimson.

As you leave, your son asks over and over again, “Why did the sun god want dead people?”

For you, the most magical part is driving with a guide to the town of Cuajimoloyas and going mushroom foraging in the northern Sierras. You find amanitas, russulas, and boletes hiding under pillows of pine needles and bring them to a tiny restaurant, El Mirador, for the chef to transform into traditional fare. Your favorite is the amanitas cooked in a packet with mayonnaise, Oaxacan cheese, and epazote. You are sure you will crave this taste (and moment) for the rest of your life.

In between your workshops, you’ve managed to eat at Casa Oaxaca, Adama, and Criollo and do the very worthwhile five-mole tasting at Los Danzantes. Oaxaca is the culinary capital of Mexico, after all, so you need to do your due diligence. You take a five-hour market tour in Central de Abastos. You put it all into your mouth: huaraches, memelas from Doña Vale, tesajo, tejate, habanero chapulines, pulque, squash-blossom empanadas. You realize you have not felt hunger for about eight days, and you are proud that you haven’t let that stop you.

Someone tells you about a cocktail. They say, “You must have this cocktail before you leave.” You go to Selva to get the drink made with hoja santa, poblano liqueur, and mezcal and garnished with a roasted Oaxacan cheese ball. They don’t allow children in the bar, but they happily serve you the drink outside. People were right—this is divine. It’s bright, fresh, novel, creative, deep, and delicious. It’s Oaxaca in a coupe glass.

On your last day, you develop stomach issues. You are in the fetal position, but you’re an optimist; you brag about your new ability to turn any food into water.

You are not sure what the kids have processed from this trip—you briefly think about the beach, the waves—but then one taps you on the shoulder. “I love Oaxaca,” she says. “Can we come again next year?”

You picture those poor suckers with their sticky snorkels, sunburns, and sandy skin crevasses, and you know it for sure now—you nailed this vacation.

Oaxacan Cuisine Mentioned

Chapulines

Deep-fried or toasted grasshoppers seasoned with lime, chile, garlic, and salt.

Epazote

A leafy herb sometimes called “Mexican tea.” Powerful and medicinal in flavor, it has notes of citrus, oregano, and anise.

Hoja santa

A leafy, aromatic herb with flavors of eucalyptus, liquorice, mint, and tarragon. Its name means “sacred leaf.”

Huarache

Masa (cornmeal) dough filled with refried beans and formed into an oblong shape that resembles the leather sandal that shares its name. It’s then fried and crowned with salsa, meat, onions, potatoes, cilantro, and queso fresco.

Huevos divorciados

“Divorced eggs.” Similar to huevos rancheros, this is two fried eggs served over tortillas, but one egg is covered in green salsa and the other in red salsa.

Memelas

A small, oval-shaped, fried or toasted masa cake. Typical toppings include black beans, salsa, shredded cabbage, mole negro, guacamole, and cheese.

Mole

A name for several different sauces, typically containing chiles, fruits, nuts, and spices. The most famous, mole negro (“black mole”), is made with chocolate.

Paleta

An ice pop. Creamier milk-based paletas come in flavors such as horchata and vanilla, while water-based pops are made with fresh fruit.

Pan de elote

A corn cake. Made with sweetened condensed milk, it’s sweeter and moister than American corn bread, with a bread-pudding texture.

Pulque

A milk-colored alcoholic beverage made by fermenting agave sap. Said to be North America’s oldest fermented drink, it’s tangy, like buttermilk, though a version called pulque curado is sweetened with honey and fruit.

Tejate

A non-alcoholic beverage made with roasted corn flour, fermented cacao beans, cacao flower, and the toasted seeds of a sweet-and-savory fruit called mamey sapote.

Tesajo

Thinly sliced, salt-cured beef, usually made from organ meat or flank steak.
In Oaxaca, it’s often served with tlayudas (see below) and radishes.

Tlayuda

A large, crunchy tortilla, traditionally topped with refried beans, pork lard, lettuce or cabbage, avocado, meat, Oaxacan cheese, and salsa. It looks like a cross between a pizza and a tostada.

The post Exploring the “Magic Route of Crafts” in Oaxaca appeared first on San Diego Magazine.

The hotel’s arresting doors come from China, Morroco, and India

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

Melissa Strukel wanted out of event planning. She longed to sink her design impulses into something bigger, more sustainable. On an early pandemic drive, she was out in the middle-of-nowhere desert—scrub, boulders, border wall—when she spotted a temporarily closed hotel. She got up on her tiptoes and peered over the property’s wall.

“I just knew it,” Strukel says. “This hotel was in my future.”

When she told her business partner, Corbin Winters, about the spot, “I said, ‘Cool,’” Winters recalls. “‘But is it for sale?’”

Strukel, Osborne, and Winters have lived and worked in Jacumba Hot Springs since becoming stewards of the town in 2020

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

It wasn’t yet, but Strukel couldn’t stop talking about it. “My friends were like, ‘We get it, you found a hotel,’” she says. If you believe in coincidences, maybe you’d call it one, but, really, it felt more like fate: Three months after Strukel stumbled upon the hotel, it hit the market.

But there was a significant catch. The hotel, they learned, came with most of the main-street shops, a defunct gas station, an old bathhouse, a dried-up lake, and about 80 percent of the land. They wouldn’t just own the hotel; they’d become stewards of a whole town.

They called on Jeff Osborne, a real-estate dude and former client (they had planned his four-day, boho wedding in a remote, unplumbed meadow a few years back), who they hoped would join their partnership. He was 100 percent uninterested.

The trio used native plants and locally sourced materials like pumice and obsidian in the hotel’s design

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

“I said, ‘No, no hotels. It’s a pandemic,’” he remembers.

But Osborne came to check out the place. He saw the town’s vacant buildings—really, the potential in them—and the opportunity to revive a historic place. He camped in the wash, and, by morning, he said, “Let’s make an offer.”

Strukel, Winters, and Osborne closed the deal in October 2020, founded a hospitality group called We Are Human Kind, and moved to town as newly minted locals, starting work on the Jacumba Hot Springs Hotel.

Jacumba Hot Springs, their new borough, is only a little over an hour east of downtown San Diego, with a population in the 500s. It is so close to Mexico that you can discern the color of homes over the wall. In the 1930s, it was a hot tourist destination—folks would come in droves to wander the desert and unwind in the hot springs. Clark Gable was spotted there. Marlene Dietrich, too.

 

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

In the 1960s, Interstate 8 was built, skirting the town by two miles. People stopped coming. Jacumba disappeared from the city dwellers’ lexicon. The town began a period of decline.

So before working on the hotel, Strukel, Winters, and Osborne engaged in projects for all of Jacumba. They started a monthly flea market where locals could sell for free. They rehabbed the lake, hacking away overgrown weeds and extracting old tires and other refuse.

The lake is now an oasis, where sparkling water meets sandy shores, a rope swing and ready-to-use kayaks perch on the beach, palms jut upward, and hot water burbles from aquifers nearby. Down the block sit the otherworldly ruins of the bathhouse, which the team has repurposed into a music venue where they host monthly, donation-based, candlelit concerts.

The two mineral hot springs pools on the property are said to have healing properties. Those looking to take a dip can purchase a day pass or membership.

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

“We knew we needed to do something for the community,” Osborne says. Considering they’d all but bought the keys to the city, the trio wanted to showcase their good intentions to the locals. “Also, in a selfish way, we live here now, too, and we’d like it to feel cool, fun, and connected,” he adds.

Their focus lately has been on the hotel itself, which they began renovating from the ground up in 2021. The reincarnated resort opens in July. Much of the design has been informed by what Strukel and Winters learned planning events—everywhere from Point Loma to Montauk—for more than a decade.

“Essentially, we are trying to make an event that lasts,” Winters says.

While the hotel itself is adults-only, the restaurant is family-friendly and showcases what Strukel, Winters, and Osborne have coined “international high desert” cuisine from chef Juan Mora.

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

When organizing soirees, they realized the best nights weren’t necessarily the ones that had the most frills, but ones where guests left feeling like magic had occurred. “We’d be like, ‘Oh my gosh, this feels so good,’” Winters explains. “We’d talk to each other about what it was that was making us feel that.”

At the hotel, creating that magic, as they’ve come to understand it, lurks in the small and often intangible details, like how the shadows from overhead eucalyptus posts shift upon the wall throughout the day and can serve as a makeshift sundial. It’s in knowing that the wind rustling through the giant pines overhead is as much of a character in the overall feel as the hand-plastered, undulating wall encircling the hot-spring pool, and in using a mix of materials to represent all five elements in areas made cozy with plants.

The dark bar is a welcome respite from the bright desert heat

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

The design is not based on the latest round-up of architectural trends—“We aren’t reading magazines or scrolling Pinterest,” Strukel says—but on how they want people to feel in the space. Doorways are critical to them; they imported half-century-old, hand-carved doors from Morocco, India, and China. They intend for the doors to strike curiosity, as well as appreciation for the intricate craftsmanship. “We want to give people that moment of wondering, ‘Wow, what’s behind that?’” Strukel adds.

They’ve mixed materials from myriad eras and cultures, hoping that, once ensconced, their guests will feel lost in space and time. The bar is windowless, embedded with custom black upholstered booths and oil paintings of nudes (a few of which are hand-me-downs from the now- defunct-but-forever-adored Mission Valley restaurant, Albie’s Beef Inn). Turkish chandeliers hang overhead, and the bar counter is modeled after an Indian dowry chest that they use as a DJ stand.

Guests enter the resort through a hand-crafted, 500-year-old door from India.

Photo Credit: Johanna Siring

“You’re going to wonder where in the world you’re at,” Strukel says, “and in so doing, become much more present.” (If one is present enough, there are architectural Easter eggs to discover, like how an arch meets its reflection in the pool to form an eye shape. When a person sits on the bench below the arch, she becomes the pupil.)

Their design choices reflect a desire to honor their new hometown. The hotel’s fencing is made from native ocotillo stems, and the team also collected lava rock from the surrounding land, using the porous gray stone for planters and as the focal wall in their restaurant. “It’s to pay homage,” Strukel says of the rock. “It comes from the volcano that gave us the aquifers that gives us the mineral water.” Obsidian, a black, glassy stone formed from cooled lava, was also harvested from the desert, tumbled smooth, and then pieced together to form an archway in their bar.

As they open the 22-room hotel to guests, they hope it also leads visitors to rediscover the long-forgotten border town. “Once people come out here, they will feel the magic,” Osborne says.

Many locals are pretty stoked about the revival, too. As an 80-year-old longtime resident put it, “I’ve been waiting for shit to happen in Jacumba.”

The Jacumba Hot Springs Hotel’s grand opening will be held on August 5, and visitors can start booking their stay in early July.

The post The Newly Renovated Jacumba Hot Springs Hotel Opens Its Doors appeared first on San Diego Magazine.