<p>Although I fancy myself as <i>Rachael Pells, Strong Independent Woman Traveller Extraordinaire</i>, I do have a weakness. Just one, mind:  and a perfectly respectable weakness at that. I require tea. A good, proper English brew: splash of milk, nice and strong, no sugar, thanks. Like many, I drink tea as if it were going out of fashion, and depend upon that first morning cuppa like Juliet does her Romeo.</p>
When I moved to Mexico last week for a newspaper placement/ travelling mega-fun, I came pretty prepared for the tea drought. In my suitcase - much too large to ever be included in that hip group known as ´backpackers´ - I may have forgotten a few vital things such as toothpaste and a plug converter, but I did bring 100 Yorkshire Teabags. For proper British tea. Now, I knew that 100 teabags would not nearly be enough to last me the whole trip, or even the first month, but I had a plan to ration them. One hit a day, before gradually weaning myself off them and embracing the more readily available Mexican version of mint leaves and tepid water.</p>
But it wasn´t that easy. Oh, no. </p>
I´m staying with a retired couple and their crazy dogs in a house which is pleasant and has a roof-terrace (albeit decorated with dog shit and cannibis plants.) The latter may explain why, as I sit writing this, Flacco the dog is attempting to swallow his entire leg whole. The shower consists of a series of pipes which run across the roof and down into the bathroom to either scald or freeze the victim, depending on the weather. These things are all perfectly charming- I can live with them. But <i>there is no kettle</i>.</p>,
Every morning I am offered a cup of coffee, which,, in turn I offer to my plant. I wait with great anticipation to see whether the plant will die or turn into some kind of pimped up Super Plant. The kitchen belongs very much to my host, Rosita. To demand she boil up my bag of Yorkshire goodness would be rude, no matter how desperate I am.</p>
Two nights ago, the couple went out to visit some family and I seized my chance.</p>
Stepping into the kitchen with that mixture of guilt, fear and excitement that only a ten year old embarking on a midnight feast might understand, I inspected my available weapons. How to boil the water? All pots had remnants of food left in them for later. I could tip out some coffee and use that pan? But then the gas switch… which dial would create a flame and which would turn me into ash? Besides all this, what if the taste of coffee remains and ruins my already tainted cup? What is this <i>casa de simplico</i> is actually all a facade and they have a power shower tucked away at the back along with a hub of CCTV cameras hidden in the fruitbowl, watching my every move?</p>
It was all too much. I retreated and admit defeat for now. I sit with a cup of hot water, watching silly little Mexican dogs get high and I accept my detox. Of course, there´s always Flacco´s choice of herb if I fancy a good gnaw on my own leg for comfort.</p>

 
