Expectation is a bitch

A friend candidly said so earlier this year as he nonchalantly pointed out all of my flaws. I listened to all of the gentle but firm criticism and tried to stay positive about the random tirade. One observation that I recognized as irrevocably true (the others took self-reflection and time to digest): "Have realistic expectations," he said.

BBQs

One preamble: This is an abandoned post about summer BBQs that I will try to salvage. Therefore, the memories are not as sharp as they may have once been.

My pre-Mexico summer days witnessed many grilled vegetables, fruits and burgers, of both the meat and bean type. I loved the smell of the burning charcoal mingling with the food. As a child, I use to purposefully, perhaps ingenuously inhale this smoke and exhale as if it were cigarette smoke. This always failed to make me look cool but did make me cough just like my first real cigarette.

Having lived in Georgia, a place with four distinct seasons, my entire life, I find the Valley of Mexico's two seasons a bit disconcerting and slightly stingy. But a weekend overflowing with grilling meet and cold casseroles brought the South to, well, even further south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I attended two BBQs, utterly different from each other but equally entertaining.

BBQ 1: Friday night. American Embassy compound. Me + 1 Canadian.

What happens when one Canadian is present at an American Embassy party? The reader can guess. We decided to make fun of her, in particular, for the show "Degrassi." It just so happens that a few days before in said Canadian's apartment, the show appeared during a channel surfing session. I lingered on the channel, remembering watching the show in my old house, late night, but always thinking it strange. Never being able to put my finger on what was so different. This particular day the mystery of the Degrassi High was solved: The show is from Canada. Upon hearing this I responded genuinely, "Really? I always knew there was something a bit off about that show."

Having lived on a research station, the actual grounds of the Embassy did not strike me as odd, though I imagine the average Joe may find it to be as bizarre as it is. Instead, the people and their lifestyle intrigued me. To start, they move every two years to new countries. For example, Nicole's next post will be in Bulgaria (though she has no previous experience with the language) and truth be told, she looked less than thrilled. And another, a woman I had met before on numerous occasions, who I admired for her guttural voice and seemingly inflated self-confidence, let on to her loneliness, now late into her 30's.

The party ended with Embassy workers admitting that they are compromised mostly of Mormons, with Jesus Jammies under their clothes. Mormons, you may not realize, are the perfect candidate for the foreign service. They have squeaky clean records and thus, have no problem passing the State Department's semi-Draconian background check. And they are away from their parents, who have forced their stringent belief system that does not allow for an inch of indulgence. So what drugs do the these kids do? They drink coffee like there is no tomorrow.

BBQ 2: La Puri. Saturday afternoon. People from work.

It was a German House party so I remember sausages. It is a shame I did not write this post when intended. Eloise also made an excellent cheesecake and if I am not mistaken, this was the first time I tasted the German version of taco salad. This taco salad consists of: minced meat, canned corn, iceberg lettuce, crema galore, and chips. I also vaguely remember speaking with an Argentinean, oh Moises (was this the night we spoke of the Mexican beer Noche Buena and whether it is possible to buy it year round?)

Hmm. So what?

I am always so sure that I am a super-being that can remember all. Now, months later, I have no idea what was so special about this gathering that it warranted half a blog entry. The problem with parties from La Puri is that they all blend together. This is partially due to the same settings and partially due to the same people. All of those people are gone now, save a handful of stragglers that will soon depart.

Happiness

is a funny thing. It can be achieved by such big or little things. Coming out of a serious slump induced by sickness and a lack of nutrients, I now feel as if I have achieved a contentment above all other. Where I live is so different from anywhere I have and may ever live again and I socialize with people I would usually not have the chance to schmooze around with under normal circumstances.

Walking home from the raffle rincon (having finally got my coveted dance), the entrance to La Trinidad and the new farmacia similares neon sign sent odd pleasure signals to my brain. I have not blogged for quite sometime and I am simply doing so now to record this moment of happiness caused by little, mundane things.

La Fiebre Porcina

"It is advising all member states to be vigilant for seasonally unusual flu or pneumonia-like symptoms among their populations -particularly among young healthy adults, who seem to be the most affected in Mexico. Officials said most of those killed so far were young adults - rather than more vulnerable children and the elderly."Great. Nothing like a purported pandemic right in my backyard that is more dangerous for young and healthy adults. As I read this quote from today's BBC cover story out loud over a cup of coffee to my colleague, who was raised as a Jehovah's Witness, he jokingly tells me, " so those who are of reproducing age are going to die? It is the Apocalypse. It will just be a bunch of young and old fuckers".

Will this blow over like killer African bees or SARS? The media is exaggerating, true, but following the events from Northern Mexico mights as well be China. I have spoken with no friends in the area and imagine it is borderline manic right about now. The Heath Minister said to avoid contact with others. In Mexico City's central district, population 8,836,045? How is that even possible, especially for metro riders, who during peak hours fight their way into female and male designated cars where they resemble the population inside a can of sardines?

I wonder what the usually bustling streets of Texcoco, located about 40 km from D.F., look like on this Saturday afternoon. Are people in masks? Out at all? Tomorrow, will the elderly couples hold each other like courting teenagers as they slowly dance in the Texcoco Zocalo? I finish my coffee, pack for my trip to the Sierra Madre Mountains and hope life is not too different when I return South in less than a weeks time.

Filming in Obregon

Obregon makes me love Texcoco. I know I am already Texcoco's one and only international fan, but Obregon would make any sane person pine for the city.

First: Obregon is JUST LIKE FLORIDA and that is not a complement. Its four lane streets are lined by one story strip mall-like buildings, most of them cheesy bars or fast food joints, and the car of choice is a large, expensive truck.

Second: Food. Yes, I have eaten sushi for the three days in a row, which is great, but there are no tacos al pastor stands or cheap restaurant on every block. I have formed a somewhat unhealthy addiction to this delicious, insalubrious food and am actually quite worried about my fate once I leave Mexico and cannot get my fix. I went for my old standby last night at, as far as I can tell, the only place in the city that serves the tacos indigenous to D.F. and the surrounding area. They were tasty but cost 3 times as much as they should.

Third: It is hot. Too hot. Why people build cities in the middle of the desert I will never know.

Fourth: It is eternally daylight outside of my hotel window, which is located in the prime spot of what can best be described as tangential to a carport that is very well lit. At all hours.

So there are some good parts too.

First: I am getting paid to run around with an eclectic group of scientists and film their classes and lectures and field visits.Second: One of my good friends is here and we have had good fun, meaning we sit around and discuss philosophy, ethics, life, etc.. In a group of four we shall venture to the mountains this weekend. It should be noted, however, that when I asked Matthew about cartels in the area and if the city had seen better days he responded with, "well a cop car was blown up with a bazooka the other day but things are pretty quiet here because all of the narcos are in the mountains, actually where we are going this weekend, baby." I think/hope he is kidding.

Third: I am seeing a new part of Mexico, no matter how crappy Obregon may be. And I am viewing it from the back of pickup trucks (which I think is illegal in the States) and leads the scientists to believe I am insane. I guess I am not old enough to turn down the dusty and hot and uncomfortable bed of the truck for the cushy front seat (which was literally the case. No one even sat in the front because they did not think I was serious about jumping in the back).

Should I include learning? I am unsure for I have heard many of these lectures before but maybe not. Bram had an interesting anecdote about how all of the D.F. surrounding states have sold their water to the city and so no irrigating is allowed in the area unless it is done with black water aka sewage. Yummy.

Sympathy:

The fact or power of sharing the feelings of another, esp. in sorrow or trouble; fellow feeling, compassion, or commiseration.

Sympathy is beautiful but so odd to me. Upon hearing of the death of a woman I am not sure I ever even met I cried. Why? Because I know her children. Thinking of these kind young men that I have had the pleasure of knowing the greater part of my life, thinking of their pain as they were told the unexpected news, shivered my bones and pinched my heart. 

I know and have accepted death as a part of life, but I find my ability to sympathize waxes and wane, varying event from event. This inconsistency is possibly due to the fact that I have never suffered a devastating loss, being instead the spectator of other's pain. Perhaps it is the nature of the hardship that hurts me so. I am always shattered by the truly tragic occurrences: the ones that belong on the pages of a Shakespearean tale.

As I feel this pain and compassion, I am fascinated by my own ability and by its evolution and by humanity.

Street food

I love Mexican street food. This cool, hard fact is fully illustrated by my dangerous, cheap taquito overindulgence last week on my adventure in Pie de la Cuesta. I have always considered myself special, thinking that being here 7 months and eating whatever I fancied and seeing no repercussions made me some kind of super hero. I now know the price of living dangerously.

When the sickness started to kick in, it was Friday afternoon and I had a deadline; I forced myself to publish a Zimbabwe-bound module, almost vomiting with each sharpie mark, "Seed Business, Module 3." As soon as I finished, what seemed at the time a herculean task, I ran home with my second sprite of the day and proceeded to moan for hours. Sure, there was some walking in circles, some crying, some physical upchuck, and some calling of my colleagues to find out who could take me to the hospital.

Upon finding my way to a Texcoco doctor (thank you, Pancho), the diagnosis shattered my theory about my street food immunity, which was previously underpinned by the argument that I grew up with dirty siblings and lived for years with hippies who did not fully wash dishes. Bust.

For those street food lovers out there discouraged by my story, fret not. Merely stay away from sandwiches in bus-stations.