Lukewarm chamomile will remind me of you.
The mug lived underneath a fragile lamp sprouting from the night-table.
It waited for me to capitulate,
to gulp down the contents
and fall asleep with the soft, clean flavor on my lips.
I woke and closed the door.
8.12.10
2.12.10
Ojalá
My Spanish is shameful after 2+ years in Mexico. Some conversations, of course, flow, videlicet, common talking-points shared with strangers (mainly taxi drivers): what I am doing in Mexico, where I am from, what I like about Mexico, why I do not speak Spanish super bien, tacos al pastor or spicy food, etc...
I tried lessons but found my teachers ripped me off, meaning started from square-bloody-one when I have the basics from high school and college teachers cramming vocabulary and present/preterit tenses down my throat for 5 years, or hoped for more than a student-teacher relationship outside of the classroom.
Surrounded by gringos and loads of other nationalities that speak English with ease and enchanting accents, I recognize the exigent need to practice and continue learning outside of my Spanish-lacking (but lovely) social life.
So I turn to music. I copied a Silvio Rodriguez CD ages ago and had listened to the disc's melodies, ignoring the lyrics. Last week the song "Ojalá" played on random; I was struck by the emotion that ripens in the last minute of the composition as I leaned my head on my commuter bus's window, watching the lesser known and unpolished parts of Mexico City, forever imprinted on the luggage of my memory, rush by. Knowing the word ojalá, which one can translate as "hopefully" or "I hope," signifies doubt and, thus, necessitates the use of the subjunctive, I thought the song a clever way to brush up on the tense that induces so many headaches for English-speakers, who struggle with correct usage because there is nothing comparable in our language.
I found an internet discussion (What is that "Ojalá" song all about anyway?) and sent the lyrics and accompanying English translation to a co-worker, as I have no access to a printer, with the intention to start lesson one of my song studies. I snatched the paper and a cookie to go and began to read the lyrics perfunctorily as my boots clicked against freshly buffed marble. Before I reached my office, I found myself totally engrossed and moved to surreptitious tears as I ingested the dark, raw and yet sweet significance of the words. Quickly, however, I felt the need to justify why I wanted to listen, study and memorize such a depressing song and called my colleague to explain that I had not the faintest clue of the lyrics prior to that moment. "Ya, I was kind of wondering," she said, "but send me the audio. I need to hear this."
Since then, I have spoken about the song with Mexican friends, who know the artist from "hippie days" and specifically this song, apparently his most famous. They laugh at me mostly but last night we sang the heartbreaking lyrics from the top of our lungs around a plastic dinner table with mugs filled of red wine and later on the streets of D.F. as we rode by bike through the dark.
For better or for worse the song is as ingrained in my memory as the city seen from my seat on a bus that will not let me rest until the day I leave this place. As if given to me by an understanding friend, the song could not be more relevant or meaningful than at this exact point on the timeline of my life, not because it holds a mirror to my emotions but because I understand what was lost.
Silvio Rodríguez - Ojalá
Silvio Rodriguez - Ojala by jenni
I tried lessons but found my teachers ripped me off, meaning started from square-bloody-one when I have the basics from high school and college teachers cramming vocabulary and present/preterit tenses down my throat for 5 years, or hoped for more than a student-teacher relationship outside of the classroom.
Surrounded by gringos and loads of other nationalities that speak English with ease and enchanting accents, I recognize the exigent need to practice and continue learning outside of my Spanish-lacking (but lovely) social life.
So I turn to music. I copied a Silvio Rodriguez CD ages ago and had listened to the disc's melodies, ignoring the lyrics. Last week the song "Ojalá" played on random; I was struck by the emotion that ripens in the last minute of the composition as I leaned my head on my commuter bus's window, watching the lesser known and unpolished parts of Mexico City, forever imprinted on the luggage of my memory, rush by. Knowing the word ojalá, which one can translate as "hopefully" or "I hope," signifies doubt and, thus, necessitates the use of the subjunctive, I thought the song a clever way to brush up on the tense that induces so many headaches for English-speakers, who struggle with correct usage because there is nothing comparable in our language.
I found an internet discussion (What is that "Ojalá" song all about anyway?) and sent the lyrics and accompanying English translation to a co-worker, as I have no access to a printer, with the intention to start lesson one of my song studies. I snatched the paper and a cookie to go and began to read the lyrics perfunctorily as my boots clicked against freshly buffed marble. Before I reached my office, I found myself totally engrossed and moved to surreptitious tears as I ingested the dark, raw and yet sweet significance of the words. Quickly, however, I felt the need to justify why I wanted to listen, study and memorize such a depressing song and called my colleague to explain that I had not the faintest clue of the lyrics prior to that moment. "Ya, I was kind of wondering," she said, "but send me the audio. I need to hear this."
Since then, I have spoken about the song with Mexican friends, who know the artist from "hippie days" and specifically this song, apparently his most famous. They laugh at me mostly but last night we sang the heartbreaking lyrics from the top of our lungs around a plastic dinner table with mugs filled of red wine and later on the streets of D.F. as we rode by bike through the dark.
For better or for worse the song is as ingrained in my memory as the city seen from my seat on a bus that will not let me rest until the day I leave this place. As if given to me by an understanding friend, the song could not be more relevant or meaningful than at this exact point on the timeline of my life, not because it holds a mirror to my emotions but because I understand what was lost.
Silvio Rodríguez - Ojalá
Ojalá que las hojas no te toquen el cuerpo cuando caigan--
Hopefully the leaves won't touch your body as they fall
Para que no las puedas convertir en cristal.-- so you won't be able to turn them into crystal (glass)
Ojalá que la lluvia deje de ser milagro que baja por tu cuerpo.--
hopefully the rain will cease to be a miracle that slides down your body
Ojalá que la luna pueda salir sin ti.-- hopefully the moon will be able to come out without you
Ojalá que la tierra no te bese los pasos.-- hopefully the earth won't kiss your footsteps
Ojalá se te acabe la mirada constante,-- hopefully your constant gaze will end
La palabra precisa, la sonrisa perfecta.-- the precise word, the perfect smile
Ojalá pase algo que te borre de pronto:-- hopefully something will happen that will erase you soon
Una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve.-- a blinding light, a shot of snow
Ojalá por lo menos que me lleve la muerte,-- hopefully, at least, death will take me
Para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre-- so I won't see you so much, so I won't see you forever
En todos los segundos, en todas las visiones:-- in every second, in every vision
Ojalá que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones-- hopefully I won't even be able to touch you in songs
Ojalá que la aurora no de gritos que caigan en mi espalda.-- hopefully the dawn won't scream to my back
Ojalá que tu nombre se le olvide a esa voz.-- hopefully that voice will forget your name
Ojalá las paredes no retengan tu ruido de camino cansado.--
hopefully the walls won't hold the sound of your tired footsteps
Ojalá que el deseo se vaya tras de ti,-- hopefully desire will follow you
A tu viejo gobierno de difuntos y flores.-- to your old rule of the dead and flowers
Ojalá se te acabe la mirada constante,-- Rep.
La palabra precisa, la sonrisa perfecta.
Ojalá pase algo que te borre de pronto:
Una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve.
Ojalá por lo menos que me lleve la muerte,
Para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre
En todos los segundos, en todas las visiones:
Ojalá que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones.
Ojalá pase algo que te borre de pronto:-- Rep.
Una luz cegadora, un disparo de nieve.
Ojalá por lo menos que me lleve la muerte,
Para no verte tanto, para no verte siempre
En todos los segundos, en todas las visiones:
Ojalá que no pueda tocarte ni en canciones.
Silvio Rodriguez - Ojala by jenni
16.11.10
Quality of life
I was siting at 100%. I woke to take a tea on my balcony and marveled at the view. Directly below I could see into secret courtyards scattered with caged parrots and little white dogs, popular despite the fact they always look dirty.
I let my eyes wander the miles of sprawl, where colors melt into one another and stretch to the mountains that take away my breath and not only because they suffocate Mexico City by hoarding the pollution, battling to escape.
I sat and began to read but my 100% standing led to reflection and one conclusion: the fabric of my life is quilted with friends and strangers. The laundry lady who has always known my name and the water man who refuses a tip for carrying 20 liters to my apartment and the woman who starts making my carrot and orange juice concoction before I can say "buenos dias" and the friendly man from the tienda de abarrotes on my walk to a house that should be the plot of a sitcom who sells me random vegetables and caguama refills. Each has his or her greeting and each imbues my life with a sense of community.
Then there are the idiosyncrasies of those closest to me that makes me chuckle during live showings and after the fact. The way a friend talks differently to certain types of people or a love and extensive knowledge of domesticated animals or fake animosity that turns to support as ghosts materialize. These side stories are not peripheral at all. It seems people tend to gauge their life by the big moments, big changes, good or bad, but these, the little everyday bits and pieces, are the wherefore of life and embracing them is the key to joy with pleasure. And joy without pleasure ain't no fun, ain't no fun, ain't no fun.
I let my eyes wander the miles of sprawl, where colors melt into one another and stretch to the mountains that take away my breath and not only because they suffocate Mexico City by hoarding the pollution, battling to escape.I sat and began to read but my 100% standing led to reflection and one conclusion: the fabric of my life is quilted with friends and strangers. The laundry lady who has always known my name and the water man who refuses a tip for carrying 20 liters to my apartment and the woman who starts making my carrot and orange juice concoction before I can say "buenos dias" and the friendly man from the tienda de abarrotes on my walk to a house that should be the plot of a sitcom who sells me random vegetables and caguama refills. Each has his or her greeting and each imbues my life with a sense of community.
Then there are the idiosyncrasies of those closest to me that makes me chuckle during live showings and after the fact. The way a friend talks differently to certain types of people or a love and extensive knowledge of domesticated animals or fake animosity that turns to support as ghosts materialize. These side stories are not peripheral at all. It seems people tend to gauge their life by the big moments, big changes, good or bad, but these, the little everyday bits and pieces, are the wherefore of life and embracing them is the key to joy with pleasure. And joy without pleasure ain't no fun, ain't no fun, ain't no fun.
6.11.10
Boing!
I left my apartment to greet Mexico, cloudless and cold, on this November morning. Near a corner taco stand, a disheveled man walked up to me, grabbed an empty Boing bottle from the establishment's stash of returnables and hurled it in the street.
"Va Mariana!," he yelled as the bottle splattered into glass shards, no doubt destined for neighborhood tires.
I continued undeterred but slightly alarmed. I am reminded of a decade old memory:
I was running the loop of my neighborhood on Lookout Mountain; I pushed through an epic hill to find a copperhead, the width of a grapefruit, sunbathing in the middle of my path. Now, any child of the Appalachian Mountains should be able to tell you that the fatter the snake, the older and, consequently, the more venomous. With few options and little reaction time, I acted as if nothing had changed. Just kept going.
"Va Mariana!," he yelled as the bottle splattered into glass shards, no doubt destined for neighborhood tires.
I continued undeterred but slightly alarmed. I am reminded of a decade old memory:
I was running the loop of my neighborhood on Lookout Mountain; I pushed through an epic hill to find a copperhead, the width of a grapefruit, sunbathing in the middle of my path. Now, any child of the Appalachian Mountains should be able to tell you that the fatter the snake, the older and, consequently, the more venomous. With few options and little reaction time, I acted as if nothing had changed. Just kept going.
24.10.10
Technology
I vacillate wildly as to the benefits and or woes of technology. "What did people do before the Internet," a friend asked her elder roommate. Without much thought he named human activities: read, draw, write, paint, listen to/make music, socialize in person...
So why the obsession with the internet? I mean, what has the internet ever done for me or you other than make us less interesting, less sociable, less attentive and less self sufficient? I am sure that a reader may make quite convincing arguments that I am indeed wrong; that technology does just the opposite: makes us smarter, better, faster, more efficient and able to tap into an endless fountain of information, from debates about Norwegian funds for REDD to sustainable rural cities in Mexico. True. But do you use the Internet for that? Even if you do, can you really argue that the majority of people, especially younger generations, are really using the Internet to read Focault rather than faffing about on Facebook?
If I am so against technology then why opt to write on my neglected blog rather than inside my antiquated, tangible journal? Because the internet is useful but rarely utilized.
So why the obsession with the internet? I mean, what has the internet ever done for me or you other than make us less interesting, less sociable, less attentive and less self sufficient? I am sure that a reader may make quite convincing arguments that I am indeed wrong; that technology does just the opposite: makes us smarter, better, faster, more efficient and able to tap into an endless fountain of information, from debates about Norwegian funds for REDD to sustainable rural cities in Mexico. True. But do you use the Internet for that? Even if you do, can you really argue that the majority of people, especially younger generations, are really using the Internet to read Focault rather than faffing about on Facebook?
If I am so against technology then why opt to write on my neglected blog rather than inside my antiquated, tangible journal? Because the internet is useful but rarely utilized.
3.10.10
Shock appeal
Living in Mexico has conditioned me to see things once thought dangerous or odd (but mostly the former) as normal. Traversing a 10 lane busy streets. Normal. Ability to buy candy covered in bees. Totally normal. But I am genuinely surprised that I can now place an attempted mugging in this category.
Walking the extra couple blocks from where I bid my friends and the greedy cab driver, the bastard, adieu, the thought did cross my mind that I should be careful. It was, after all, 1:30 on a Saturday night (better said Sunday morning) in Mexico City. I spotted a drunk guy, stumbling back and forth, and cleverly evaded his sight. He had looked like trouble, and I congratulated myself on a job well done. "Just walk in the road," a friend advised me once. So I did.
I moved to the sidewalk even as a second male approached. He looked legit with his clean clothes, lack of hair gel and piercings and years beyond (but not too far) the teens. Just an ordinary, middle-class guy walking home from a party, I thought. I mean, there is always a chance but there is a bush between me and the road now. Oh, and many cars. But he is not going to...my thought process was interrupted as he jumped for me, putting his arms around my waist and slightly lifting me off the ground. Going for the pockets, I must assume? Why not just grab my bag, not even securely attached, demonstrated by its slow plunge to the ground and subsequent vomiting of my mp3 player onto the side walk through the broken zipper that I have the best intentions to fix?
I saw the change, the adoption of a squatting position not seen since high school gym class, all happening in my mind in slow motion, and I was screaming like a maniac long before he made contact. But this reaction surprised him, nay, even took him off guard, and before I knew it, he was running as I was falling (my classic and effective robber deterrent). I examined my broken nail; then my fallen bag and mp3 player, accidentally activated by the drop and glowing blue on the sidewalk. Had I really made it through that without losing anything? Again? Do not get me wrong - I am very happy about this, but jeez. What an amateur. I do not wish he had taken anything but the whole thing just seems absurd.
I ran to my apartment and, oh technology, wrote a short sentence or two about my adventure on Facebook. Within five minutes an old friend rang me up from L.A. He wanted to know if I was okay.
"You know, Mary," he said, "I remember Mexico City and I know a way to decrease crime by 5%. Today. Install more street lights. That place is fucking ridiculously dark."
So he went on to tell me about how a man in Mexico City he had met in a cantina casually suggested they go for "hookers and cocaine" and that when my friend declined, he called him a "flan." He then spoke of California life and how a bar in L.A. has a swimming pool on the roof accompanied by a vending machine offering $80 bathing suits to unprepared guests.
I do not mean to sound flippant about this, you know. It is just that I was not injured or successfully mugged. I was barely even surprised. So who cares? I would like to say I expect the best in people but maybe having already seen the really nasty side (and I am not even speaking about Mexicans or Americans or Germans or other -ans but the greater pool of humanity) I expect people to act, well, human. A harmless, weaponless, obviously desperate guy tried his luck with some white, very well dressed (so modest), uneven haired and unaccompanied young woman on a dark street. So it goes.
Walking the extra couple blocks from where I bid my friends and the greedy cab driver, the bastard, adieu, the thought did cross my mind that I should be careful. It was, after all, 1:30 on a Saturday night (better said Sunday morning) in Mexico City. I spotted a drunk guy, stumbling back and forth, and cleverly evaded his sight. He had looked like trouble, and I congratulated myself on a job well done. "Just walk in the road," a friend advised me once. So I did.
I moved to the sidewalk even as a second male approached. He looked legit with his clean clothes, lack of hair gel and piercings and years beyond (but not too far) the teens. Just an ordinary, middle-class guy walking home from a party, I thought. I mean, there is always a chance but there is a bush between me and the road now. Oh, and many cars. But he is not going to...my thought process was interrupted as he jumped for me, putting his arms around my waist and slightly lifting me off the ground. Going for the pockets, I must assume? Why not just grab my bag, not even securely attached, demonstrated by its slow plunge to the ground and subsequent vomiting of my mp3 player onto the side walk through the broken zipper that I have the best intentions to fix?
I saw the change, the adoption of a squatting position not seen since high school gym class, all happening in my mind in slow motion, and I was screaming like a maniac long before he made contact. But this reaction surprised him, nay, even took him off guard, and before I knew it, he was running as I was falling (my classic and effective robber deterrent). I examined my broken nail; then my fallen bag and mp3 player, accidentally activated by the drop and glowing blue on the sidewalk. Had I really made it through that without losing anything? Again? Do not get me wrong - I am very happy about this, but jeez. What an amateur. I do not wish he had taken anything but the whole thing just seems absurd.
I ran to my apartment and, oh technology, wrote a short sentence or two about my adventure on Facebook. Within five minutes an old friend rang me up from L.A. He wanted to know if I was okay.
"You know, Mary," he said, "I remember Mexico City and I know a way to decrease crime by 5%. Today. Install more street lights. That place is fucking ridiculously dark."
So he went on to tell me about how a man in Mexico City he had met in a cantina casually suggested they go for "hookers and cocaine" and that when my friend declined, he called him a "flan." He then spoke of California life and how a bar in L.A. has a swimming pool on the roof accompanied by a vending machine offering $80 bathing suits to unprepared guests.
I do not mean to sound flippant about this, you know. It is just that I was not injured or successfully mugged. I was barely even surprised. So who cares? I would like to say I expect the best in people but maybe having already seen the really nasty side (and I am not even speaking about Mexicans or Americans or Germans or other -ans but the greater pool of humanity) I expect people to act, well, human. A harmless, weaponless, obviously desperate guy tried his luck with some white, very well dressed (so modest), uneven haired and unaccompanied young woman on a dark street. So it goes.
20.8.10
Other people's despedidas
I have watched so many people, some quite good friends, leave and, honestly, each time it gets easier. Though the method of cutting cakes in Mexico will always fascinate me (the center part is cut into a circle, which shall remain untouched until all square shaped extremities are consumed), these cakes all start to taste the same and the speeches overlap in my mind. Sure, the locations change from the labs to offices to once mysterious meeting rooms behind doors usually closed. Those attending the event fluctuate too based on departments and differing friend circles. Tears are rare (at least publicly). Each person, speaking in Spanish or English or both, talks about work and how his or her time has helped foster professional and or personal growth. Bosses are always thanked.
It is not until that last moment, the moment when you realize you will more likely than not never again see this person, whoever he or she may have been to you during a period ranging from weeks to months to years, does the bit of panic set in. Should you give them a hug? A kiss on the cheek? Do you say the obligatory "see you" in denial of geography's injustice to your relationship? I always, always talk about how it is not goodbye. Jokingly, naturally.
Now, I go back to my office. I keep working. Nothing is really different because I am not leaving and my work reality is not so closely intertwined with my life. I have not changed with the other person's departure save one aspect: my realization of time passing. I have been here over two years? Is that really true? Time creeps away faster and faster in Mexico and it is at these despididas that I reflect on my own experiences, be them positive or negative, with a Styrofoam cup in hand and a half-eaten piece of cake dripping milk from its plastic fork puncture wound on my lap.
As I write this from my room, emptied into boxes, and overlook D.F.'s Centro from, what is now, my old flat, I am reminded that each despedida is also a bienvenido.
It is not until that last moment, the moment when you realize you will more likely than not never again see this person, whoever he or she may have been to you during a period ranging from weeks to months to years, does the bit of panic set in. Should you give them a hug? A kiss on the cheek? Do you say the obligatory "see you" in denial of geography's injustice to your relationship? I always, always talk about how it is not goodbye. Jokingly, naturally.
Now, I go back to my office. I keep working. Nothing is really different because I am not leaving and my work reality is not so closely intertwined with my life. I have not changed with the other person's departure save one aspect: my realization of time passing. I have been here over two years? Is that really true? Time creeps away faster and faster in Mexico and it is at these despididas that I reflect on my own experiences, be them positive or negative, with a Styrofoam cup in hand and a half-eaten piece of cake dripping milk from its plastic fork puncture wound on my lap.
As I write this from my room, emptied into boxes, and overlook D.F.'s Centro from, what is now, my old flat, I am reminded that each despedida is also a bienvenido.
13.8.10
Stems
Wheat after week after wheat
following accents through rust that must be cleaned before departure
I scrape my shoes on concrete
before the stench of the garbage desert
and the offers of melted chocolates for diez pesos
and the tiptoeing around ambitious puddles striving to unite
and crash onto sidewalks
Wet shoes, I meet you plant to plant
rust dripping
and explain take all disease lingers
even after I leave the soil
following accents through rust that must be cleaned before departure
I scrape my shoes on concrete
before the stench of the garbage desert
and the offers of melted chocolates for diez pesos
and the tiptoeing around ambitious puddles striving to unite
and crash onto sidewalks
Wet shoes, I meet you plant to plant
rust dripping
and explain take all disease lingers
even after I leave the soil
2.8.10
Sinatra. Forget New York.
Dear Mexico City,
When I walk through your streets I feel like I will never have enough time with you. You are lovely and interesting and perfect in your imperfection. Your street vendors tempt chilangos with a plethora of tacos, tortas, juices, sliced fruits, chiclets, magazines, child leashes, flower balloons inside larger balloons, unheard of chocolates, lollies, healdos, elotes, hot dogs wrapped in bacon, flashlights, everything, everything.
I poke my head into your courtyards, dingy and dangled with flowers, hoping to elude the ex-military man in sweatpants and a barrette telling me that I must leave. Now.
When I moved into my apartment I could not stare out the window without the distinct desire to stop time. I would sleep with my curtains open (except on weekends, of course, when the sun assaulted my windows and turned my room into a tropical oven). Weekday wakings at 7 am allowed for the best viewings anyhoo. I would roll towards the window to the city's moods. The clouds or sunrises or smog or (acid) rain. Orange usually. Best when the sky is orange pink swirls saturating and spreading. At night I would look up from my desk, beavering away, to see fireworks exploding over the Zocalo. Unexpected treats with minimal movement.
Ambling about with a heavy film camera I run into parades or protests.
Your buildings, your erratic city planning make my eyes wide. Art deco stands next to dry wash. Fountains that belong in Europe intersect busy streets. Sidewalks turn into swimming pools when it rains. Nearly every building closes with a metal door, you know, the kind they have in storage-units and/or mob movies. A Mexican once asked me the name for these in English; I told him I did not think they had a special name because they do not normally line the streets, at least in the States. He shrugged.
Walking past tilted churches damaged by earthquakes and subsidence and time I cannot breath. Is it ridiculous that I cannot breath more often than not when I walk around these streets? It is not sadness. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Darling, dear Mexico City. You are never stale. You may have made me harder and less trusting and angry or frustrated sometimes. But I am never bored.
I have never felt more alive or more at home or more likely to spontaneously burst into a billion bits than with I am with you.
Te quiero mucho,
Mary
When I walk through your streets I feel like I will never have enough time with you. You are lovely and interesting and perfect in your imperfection. Your street vendors tempt chilangos with a plethora of tacos, tortas, juices, sliced fruits, chiclets, magazines, child leashes, flower balloons inside larger balloons, unheard of chocolates, lollies, healdos, elotes, hot dogs wrapped in bacon, flashlights, everything, everything.
I poke my head into your courtyards, dingy and dangled with flowers, hoping to elude the ex-military man in sweatpants and a barrette telling me that I must leave. Now.
When I moved into my apartment I could not stare out the window without the distinct desire to stop time. I would sleep with my curtains open (except on weekends, of course, when the sun assaulted my windows and turned my room into a tropical oven). Weekday wakings at 7 am allowed for the best viewings anyhoo. I would roll towards the window to the city's moods. The clouds or sunrises or smog or (acid) rain. Orange usually. Best when the sky is orange pink swirls saturating and spreading. At night I would look up from my desk, beavering away, to see fireworks exploding over the Zocalo. Unexpected treats with minimal movement.
Ambling about with a heavy film camera I run into parades or protests.
Your buildings, your erratic city planning make my eyes wide. Art deco stands next to dry wash. Fountains that belong in Europe intersect busy streets. Sidewalks turn into swimming pools when it rains. Nearly every building closes with a metal door, you know, the kind they have in storage-units and/or mob movies. A Mexican once asked me the name for these in English; I told him I did not think they had a special name because they do not normally line the streets, at least in the States. He shrugged.
Walking past tilted churches damaged by earthquakes and subsidence and time I cannot breath. Is it ridiculous that I cannot breath more often than not when I walk around these streets? It is not sadness. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Darling, dear Mexico City. You are never stale. You may have made me harder and less trusting and angry or frustrated sometimes. But I am never bored.
I have never felt more alive or more at home or more likely to spontaneously burst into a billion bits than with I am with you.
Te quiero mucho,
Mary
31.7.10
No comment, dear travel
So much has happened to me in the last month. It has made me lazy. Too much to recount. I went to the Yucatan, to Belize and a 500 year-old coral reef, to Guatemala to swim in a lake and back to Mexico via river.
The epicness of it all is inenarrable but I will write more. I must. If I have ever had anything to write about, it must be these travels. Right? I just need to give them a talking to.
The epicness of it all is inenarrable but I will write more. I must. If I have ever had anything to write about, it must be these travels. Right? I just need to give them a talking to.
18.6.10
Soils and toils
Tuesday, I woke at 5 am and was on my way to farmers' fields by 5:30. I was to film a course on conservation agriculture (CA).
Conservation agriculture is based on the three principles of residue retention, crop rotation and reduced tillage. While it is easy for me to understand the importance of protecting soils, farmers are not as quickly convinced. A deeply ingrained vision of what farming practices should entail and what gives yields, which is generally tearing the soil to pieces by tilling the hell out of it, is firmly in place making a paradigm shift both necessary but challenging. One avenue the CA program uses to increase adoption of said practices is by working directly with farmers. I have heard different representatives say time and time again, " Do not believe me. Try it for yourself."
The idea is to support a number of farmers that can then support other local farmers in a "hub" like system. Everyone has seen those delta maps, right? Same principle. It is not easy goings at the start because the first few years it does not always yield as well and everyone is laughing at you and telling you are crazy for not doing things the conventional way. It turns around, though, and then the joke is on them, who are investing more money in practices that deplete rather than restore soil quality while giving similar if not worse yields in comparison to CA plots.
So Tuesday we set off to do a massive circle around Mexico City and visit 7 farmer hubs.
Mexican countryside is gorgeous: mountains and savanna-like scenery scattered with cacti. But when you add to this set Mexican farmers, with their straw hats and loyal dogs and horses and walking sticks, one can start to forget the 21st century and the reality that one is not, despite current surroundings, a character in a novel Willa Cather should have written about Mexico.
A bit afraid of filming, eyes darted from the mix of scientists to nearby children to the camera lens. It must not have been too traumatic for the farmers gave us fresh cheese and enchiladas, which looked more like quesadillas as all of the yummy goo had evaporated in the heat of Valles Altos. Families watched, grandchildren with bunny rabbits in their arms.
They all said the method is helping; that it is cheaper, pests are dying, and they value our work. One was cynical and spoke about trying all of the techniques just to "see how many lies we tell him" and then laughed. He is my favorite.
Another stop sported two cows licking each-other next to a broken-down truck in a maize field.
All were concerned about water.
Farmers in and around the Estado de Mexico irrigate their crops with black water. That means sewage. That also means the water is dirt cheap and packed with nutrients, so for poor farmers this is an absolute steal. Mexico City, however, with its 22 + million inhabitants needs this water to stay in the city and is currently constructing a treatment plant. Good news for the city but bad news for the farmers. Not only will water prices skyrocket in 2012, the anticipated date of completion, but farmers will have to purchase fertilizers as the water will no longer be laden with urea and other goodies.
From the farmer's perspective this is bad news. I am no farmer, however, and see the event as a potential wake up call for many. Agriculture has a well-earned reputation for inefficient use of water. Perhaps adding a higher price to chronically under-priced natural resources, such as water, is one way to encourage responsible use of available technologies, such as drip irrigation in the case of water.
The farmers practicing CA are confident the CA method is saving them money. Money they say to purchase water when the time comes.
Epic day. I did not make it back to the city until midnight with the empty bag of chips that was my dinner. Driving towards Queretero, skeptical it would actually take us to Mexico City (and with directions consisting of "you take a turn but not really a turn and then just keep going..." who can blame us?) my co-worker and I talked about how much we love Mexico City but because it is, as the Belgians apparently say, "missing a corner." It is its imperfection that makes it perfect. He dropped me off on the corner in my neighborhood and I walked home through the city, purportedly too dangerous to go out in the dark. I crawled into bed at midnight and was content with the day so much so that I did not even dread my soon-to-be-active alarm clock.
Conservation agriculture is based on the three principles of residue retention, crop rotation and reduced tillage. While it is easy for me to understand the importance of protecting soils, farmers are not as quickly convinced. A deeply ingrained vision of what farming practices should entail and what gives yields, which is generally tearing the soil to pieces by tilling the hell out of it, is firmly in place making a paradigm shift both necessary but challenging. One avenue the CA program uses to increase adoption of said practices is by working directly with farmers. I have heard different representatives say time and time again, " Do not believe me. Try it for yourself."
The idea is to support a number of farmers that can then support other local farmers in a "hub" like system. Everyone has seen those delta maps, right? Same principle. It is not easy goings at the start because the first few years it does not always yield as well and everyone is laughing at you and telling you are crazy for not doing things the conventional way. It turns around, though, and then the joke is on them, who are investing more money in practices that deplete rather than restore soil quality while giving similar if not worse yields in comparison to CA plots.
So Tuesday we set off to do a massive circle around Mexico City and visit 7 farmer hubs.
Mexican countryside is gorgeous: mountains and savanna-like scenery scattered with cacti. But when you add to this set Mexican farmers, with their straw hats and loyal dogs and horses and walking sticks, one can start to forget the 21st century and the reality that one is not, despite current surroundings, a character in a novel Willa Cather should have written about Mexico.
A bit afraid of filming, eyes darted from the mix of scientists to nearby children to the camera lens. It must not have been too traumatic for the farmers gave us fresh cheese and enchiladas, which looked more like quesadillas as all of the yummy goo had evaporated in the heat of Valles Altos. Families watched, grandchildren with bunny rabbits in their arms.
They all said the method is helping; that it is cheaper, pests are dying, and they value our work. One was cynical and spoke about trying all of the techniques just to "see how many lies we tell him" and then laughed. He is my favorite.
Another stop sported two cows licking each-other next to a broken-down truck in a maize field.
All were concerned about water.
Farmers in and around the Estado de Mexico irrigate their crops with black water. That means sewage. That also means the water is dirt cheap and packed with nutrients, so for poor farmers this is an absolute steal. Mexico City, however, with its 22 + million inhabitants needs this water to stay in the city and is currently constructing a treatment plant. Good news for the city but bad news for the farmers. Not only will water prices skyrocket in 2012, the anticipated date of completion, but farmers will have to purchase fertilizers as the water will no longer be laden with urea and other goodies.
From the farmer's perspective this is bad news. I am no farmer, however, and see the event as a potential wake up call for many. Agriculture has a well-earned reputation for inefficient use of water. Perhaps adding a higher price to chronically under-priced natural resources, such as water, is one way to encourage responsible use of available technologies, such as drip irrigation in the case of water.
The farmers practicing CA are confident the CA method is saving them money. Money they say to purchase water when the time comes.
Epic day. I did not make it back to the city until midnight with the empty bag of chips that was my dinner. Driving towards Queretero, skeptical it would actually take us to Mexico City (and with directions consisting of "you take a turn but not really a turn and then just keep going..." who can blame us?) my co-worker and I talked about how much we love Mexico City but because it is, as the Belgians apparently say, "missing a corner." It is its imperfection that makes it perfect. He dropped me off on the corner in my neighborhood and I walked home through the city, purportedly too dangerous to go out in the dark. I crawled into bed at midnight and was content with the day so much so that I did not even dread my soon-to-be-active alarm clock.
16.6.10
Sayings
From the English:
as the actress said to the bishop = that's what she said
fairy cakes = cupcakes
queen cakes = muffins
muffins = English muffins
Gordon Bennett = dammit
hundreds and thousands = sprinkles
flat = apartment
waistcoat = vest
vest = shirt with no sleeves
pants = underwear
rucksack = backpack
fiddle sticks = polite cursing
suss = figure out
trousered = to pocket some money
taking the mickey/taking the piss = pulling my leg
cheap as chips = cheap as shit
crumpet = woman
From the Belgians:
work through the children diseases = working out the kinks
missing a corner = imperfect
From the Mexicans:
hablando del rey de Roma y por aquí asoma = speak of the devil and he appears
Chin = short for chingar
Nel = no
Güey = dude
Híjole! = surprise
Ahuevo = cool
Fresas = rich, preppy Mexicans
Nacos = rednecks, vulgar, common
Barrio = similar to Naco but means more provincial and less kitsch
No manches = no way! Not to be used in formal situations but maybe in front of your grandmother?
No mames = no way! Not to be used in front of your grandmother
Orale = hell yes but also used to indicate surprise or confirmation
Chela = beer
Chido = cool
Que pedo? / No hay pedo = pedo literally means fart but people say que pedo as what is up or what is the problem, among other things
Chilango = D.F. inhabitant
Chaqueta = while it literally means jacket, in Mexico it means masturbation. Say Chamarra instead
El invento del hombre blanco = I cannot believe they say this
Vale madre = I don't give a fuck
Me vale verga = same as above but worse
Verga = damn
Poca madre = cool
Chale = whoops
La neta = the truth
From the Newfie:
inhale while saying "yeah"
on the go = dating/let's go/drunk
From the Germans:
Handshoes = gloves
Apparently, the English wake up early to put their towels on chairs at the beach though the English claim just the opposite...
From the Australians:
grog = beer
heaps = lots
From the American?:
You couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a bass guitar
It is raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock
11.6.10
Postópolis!
For 5 days, I scurried home after work, did not cook dinner and went to sit in a concrete semi-covered courtyard. This was sometimes problematic as it is the rainy season. I took an umbrella and shared. The seats - that is, cinder blocks - left white chalk-like markings on all the hipster wear.
Postopolis was born from New York's Storefront for Art and Architecture gallery. The director wanted to put together some kind of event about architecture blogs and their role in shaping architectural discourse. Postopolis celebrates that blogs are changing what people talk about in fields ranging from urban planning, public transport, landscape architecture, agriculture, green design, architectural history, and documentary film-making.
The third installment of Postoplois came to D.F. last week. I went everyday despite the failings of my Spanish knowledge after 1 or 2 presentations. The free beer helped.
I met some interesting people from around the world. I also spoke briefly with David Lida, who wrote an excellent book on Mexico City, about my barrio and some surrounding hinterlands.
A video from Thursday night that will make you laugh:
Postopolis was born from New York's Storefront for Art and Architecture gallery. The director wanted to put together some kind of event about architecture blogs and their role in shaping architectural discourse. Postopolis celebrates that blogs are changing what people talk about in fields ranging from urban planning, public transport, landscape architecture, agriculture, green design, architectural history, and documentary film-making.
The third installment of Postoplois came to D.F. last week. I went everyday despite the failings of my Spanish knowledge after 1 or 2 presentations. The free beer helped.
I met some interesting people from around the world. I also spoke briefly with David Lida, who wrote an excellent book on Mexico City, about my barrio and some surrounding hinterlands.
A video from Thursday night that will make you laugh:
8.6.10
I am an American aquarium drinker
If you listen to the same music everyday, no matter how masterful or lyrical, it will loose what made it special in the first place: its ability to stir up emotions. That being said, when you return to a great album after the passing of time, it can still knock you right off your feet like your first kiss.
I do, what many would consider, an epic daily commute. It starts with 8 or so stops on the chronically saturated pink line. Metro changes in this city are a bit of a gamble. Sometimes you take an unmarked staircase and magically find yourself on the correct platform, but changes are not always fast and this change, in particular, is no exception. Most days "power-walking," an activity more commonly seen in work place sport day events, if not proper running is warranted from the pits of the pink line to one situated above-ground. And not just anywhere - this metro straddles a 6 lane highway and has a distinctly roller-coaster appeal to its design. I am convinced that transport engineers purposively placed this in the highway median to make me feel better about any grievances I may have that day with the public transport (no seat, too much heat, screeching to halt at non-stops, peddling of loud music...) rather than sitting through the traffic. Fair enough. This process takes 30 minute.
I arrive to the outskirts of the city. There are no longer art-deco or neo-colonial buildings lining the street, better said highway, but, instead, austere concrete sometimes painted bright colors. I walk by a teenager selling deep fried tamales in front of a bus stop where a slightly disfigured man encourages me to "pasale" onto his bus. Before I traverse the highway, which will make even an staunch atheist want to be a believer, I take a moment to marvel at the world's worst playground, not lacking swings or slides or monkey-bars but situated on a highway's corner without fencing. No wonder it is always empty. A work bus that blares the latest pop music about bre bre bre breaking your heart is already waiting to take me the rest of the way to Texcoco.
This averages out to about an hour and half, meaning I spend a whopping 3 hours a day and 15 hours a week commuting to and from work. Don't worry, though. It is so worth it. But how is this relevant to music? I would hope the reader could guess.
This morning, I was traveling the first leg of the journey alone, an unusual occurrence as my roommate works for the same organization. Usually our mornings are filled with street juice (I am trying to branch out into carrot juice even though it tastes of dirt) and surprisingly interesting, considering the unholy hour, chats and occasional debates. This morning, however, traveling solo I curled my headphones into my ears and took a seat facing a window though the journey would be, at least for the first metro, entirely underground.
I opted for Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, a classic album that I had not indulged in for quite sometime. The opening track, I am trying to break your heart, builds from semi-distortion to staccato drums and bells, which gather neatly in the background to await Jeff Tweedy's half-singing of haiku-like lyrics. I sat in the heat of the metro listening under florescent lights. In the corner of my eye I saw commuters in polyester suits and ties or cheap knockoffs of the latest fashions fight off the hounds of sleep, but I focused on the entrails of the metro tunnel racing by. The blurred blacks, browns and grays passed so quickly as I let myself sink.
Disposable dixie cup drinking. I assassin down the avenue. I'm running out in the big city blinking. What was I thinking when I let go of you?
I have never felt more at peace.
Listen:
I do, what many would consider, an epic daily commute. It starts with 8 or so stops on the chronically saturated pink line. Metro changes in this city are a bit of a gamble. Sometimes you take an unmarked staircase and magically find yourself on the correct platform, but changes are not always fast and this change, in particular, is no exception. Most days "power-walking," an activity more commonly seen in work place sport day events, if not proper running is warranted from the pits of the pink line to one situated above-ground. And not just anywhere - this metro straddles a 6 lane highway and has a distinctly roller-coaster appeal to its design. I am convinced that transport engineers purposively placed this in the highway median to make me feel better about any grievances I may have that day with the public transport (no seat, too much heat, screeching to halt at non-stops, peddling of loud music...) rather than sitting through the traffic. Fair enough. This process takes 30 minute.
I arrive to the outskirts of the city. There are no longer art-deco or neo-colonial buildings lining the street, better said highway, but, instead, austere concrete sometimes painted bright colors. I walk by a teenager selling deep fried tamales in front of a bus stop where a slightly disfigured man encourages me to "pasale" onto his bus. Before I traverse the highway, which will make even an staunch atheist want to be a believer, I take a moment to marvel at the world's worst playground, not lacking swings or slides or monkey-bars but situated on a highway's corner without fencing. No wonder it is always empty. A work bus that blares the latest pop music about bre bre bre breaking your heart is already waiting to take me the rest of the way to Texcoco.
This averages out to about an hour and half, meaning I spend a whopping 3 hours a day and 15 hours a week commuting to and from work. Don't worry, though. It is so worth it. But how is this relevant to music? I would hope the reader could guess.
This morning, I was traveling the first leg of the journey alone, an unusual occurrence as my roommate works for the same organization. Usually our mornings are filled with street juice (I am trying to branch out into carrot juice even though it tastes of dirt) and surprisingly interesting, considering the unholy hour, chats and occasional debates. This morning, however, traveling solo I curled my headphones into my ears and took a seat facing a window though the journey would be, at least for the first metro, entirely underground.
I opted for Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, a classic album that I had not indulged in for quite sometime. The opening track, I am trying to break your heart, builds from semi-distortion to staccato drums and bells, which gather neatly in the background to await Jeff Tweedy's half-singing of haiku-like lyrics. I sat in the heat of the metro listening under florescent lights. In the corner of my eye I saw commuters in polyester suits and ties or cheap knockoffs of the latest fashions fight off the hounds of sleep, but I focused on the entrails of the metro tunnel racing by. The blurred blacks, browns and grays passed so quickly as I let myself sink.
Disposable dixie cup drinking. I assassin down the avenue. I'm running out in the big city blinking. What was I thinking when I let go of you?
I have never felt more at peace.
Listen:
7.6.10
Condesa is decadent and depraved
I have never been one to judge a Mexcian for being rich or "fresa" (literally translated as strawberry); after my first Saturday night in Condesa, I realize that is because I had never witnessed the fresa in action in one of its natural habitats.
Ah, Condesa. True, the Colonia is one of beauty but artificially so. Walking through its streets, I get the sneaking suspicion that it might belong to Epcot's Mexico Pavilion. That one day it will be transported brick by brick to Orlando.
I mean having lived not only outside of Condesa but outside of the D.F. for years I just do not see Condesa as representative of Mexico, and this much I knew. Everything is walkable; there are loads of green spaces; the streets breed overpriced bistros, restaurants (non-Mexican, of course), boutiques, cafes and bars; and nearly everyone is white, save the people manning these operations or selling street chiclets or practicing some other sort of service, the whole time referred to as "joven" despite age.
So who are these white people? First you have expats. Expats love Condesa precisely because it is not representative of Mexico. God-forbid one runs into some Mexican culture.
Then you have the rich Mexicans. The majority of fresas (with the very big exception of Carlos Slim) were born a fresa, will live a fresa and then be buried in some fresa cemetery. This group of the over-privileged generally have some European lineage and are, therefore, born with lighter features and larger pockets than most of their Mexican brethren. Like most upper echelons in most countries, this one manages to stay the elite class through a mixture of cultural obsequiousness, patrimony and patronage.
And that is deleterious to society as a whole. (Thank you Carl Marx). Really. It exists everywhere. (Again, than you Carl Marx). But coming from the States, that whole American Dream thing is pretty deeply rooted in my brain and I have seen similarities there as well but to a much lesser extreme. Just look at Mexico's football team: notoriously mediocre for the size of the country even though children begin playing before they have full command of their vocabulary. So why has Mexico never won a World Cup? One opinion I have heard is this: instead of trawling the enormous country for the most talented athletes, a good number of the rich, not-super talented, end up winning the coveted position. But that is kind of all they can win.
Yes dangerous, indeed, especially because of naivety. Acquaintances baffled at my concern over sharing a bottle liquor, one that would have left me around 400 pesos poorer, so we could sit at a table (because your 200 peso cover fee obviously does not include the luxury of seating). "Can't I just order one beer at the price of a six pack? No? Alright. Later taters."
In perspective it is not the price of the entrance or the bottle of liquor or the beer. It is the not knowing want, the always having had money, the not being able to fathom the monetary concern of someone outside. To learn the value of money in a place where half of your countrymen earn under 4 dollars a day. That is what would be real swell. How? (Thank you, Carl Marx).
I am being too hard on the Condesa? After all, La Botica was highly enjoyable, with its cardboard menus of an impressive number of mezcals, from mango to pepino, and for decent prices.
But alas Condesa, my confusing, circular mistress. You rose and one day you will fall. Not literally. But McDonalds and Burger Kings will rise. And you will become dirty and people will gentrify somewhere else. And then that place will become semi-disney-world-like until it too declines in hipness. And so it goes.
Ah, Condesa. True, the Colonia is one of beauty but artificially so. Walking through its streets, I get the sneaking suspicion that it might belong to Epcot's Mexico Pavilion. That one day it will be transported brick by brick to Orlando.
I mean having lived not only outside of Condesa but outside of the D.F. for years I just do not see Condesa as representative of Mexico, and this much I knew. Everything is walkable; there are loads of green spaces; the streets breed overpriced bistros, restaurants (non-Mexican, of course), boutiques, cafes and bars; and nearly everyone is white, save the people manning these operations or selling street chiclets or practicing some other sort of service, the whole time referred to as "joven" despite age.
So who are these white people? First you have expats. Expats love Condesa precisely because it is not representative of Mexico. God-forbid one runs into some Mexican culture.
Then you have the rich Mexicans. The majority of fresas (with the very big exception of Carlos Slim) were born a fresa, will live a fresa and then be buried in some fresa cemetery. This group of the over-privileged generally have some European lineage and are, therefore, born with lighter features and larger pockets than most of their Mexican brethren. Like most upper echelons in most countries, this one manages to stay the elite class through a mixture of cultural obsequiousness, patrimony and patronage.
And that is deleterious to society as a whole. (Thank you Carl Marx). Really. It exists everywhere. (Again, than you Carl Marx). But coming from the States, that whole American Dream thing is pretty deeply rooted in my brain and I have seen similarities there as well but to a much lesser extreme. Just look at Mexico's football team: notoriously mediocre for the size of the country even though children begin playing before they have full command of their vocabulary. So why has Mexico never won a World Cup? One opinion I have heard is this: instead of trawling the enormous country for the most talented athletes, a good number of the rich, not-super talented, end up winning the coveted position. But that is kind of all they can win.
Yes dangerous, indeed, especially because of naivety. Acquaintances baffled at my concern over sharing a bottle liquor, one that would have left me around 400 pesos poorer, so we could sit at a table (because your 200 peso cover fee obviously does not include the luxury of seating). "Can't I just order one beer at the price of a six pack? No? Alright. Later taters."
In perspective it is not the price of the entrance or the bottle of liquor or the beer. It is the not knowing want, the always having had money, the not being able to fathom the monetary concern of someone outside. To learn the value of money in a place where half of your countrymen earn under 4 dollars a day. That is what would be real swell. How? (Thank you, Carl Marx).
I am being too hard on the Condesa? After all, La Botica was highly enjoyable, with its cardboard menus of an impressive number of mezcals, from mango to pepino, and for decent prices.
But alas Condesa, my confusing, circular mistress. You rose and one day you will fall. Not literally. But McDonalds and Burger Kings will rise. And you will become dirty and people will gentrify somewhere else. And then that place will become semi-disney-world-like until it too declines in hipness. And so it goes.
2.6.10
Spoken word
I went to a poetry slam last. This was by no means my first poetry slam or reading for that matter as the majority of my Atlanta friends are poets. True, not all of them are aspiring to be full-time poets but some successfully, might I add, are. I am proud of the ones making it but also have lots of love for the others, the engineers and mathematicians and programmers, who write for pleasure.
I half-heatedly wanted to be one of these poets. When I was lucky enough to know beforehand of poetry games, I would come with my lines pre-written in my mind (usually something about eggshells, which I was SURE was poetic) or in a marble notebook that I would surreptitiously consult and then slip back into my pocket. These games involved, ah hem, "extemporaneously" writing one line on a typewriter that is passed around a circle of ironically dressed wine drinkers.
If my memory serves me correctly, the game was captured at least once if not numerous times on film. You see, a successful poet friend was one of the subjects of a documentary off and on for a year or so. He once told me to show up to his apartment to act like a poet because they "needed females" for the shoot. "But I do not write poetry," I said. He assured me that did not matter. I tried hard to be quiet so as to not give myself away but then came a question from the camera man/producer/first Norbet in my book: what is your favorite poem, Mary?
Good question. The classics and what my friends write. But to pull a High Fidelity move, my top five are:
1. This is Just to Say - William Carlos Williams
2. Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota - James Wright
3. Sheltered Garden - Hilda Doolittle
4. Tell Me a Story - Robert Penn Warren
5. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night - Dylan Thomas
I decided to tell him of how my 9th grade English teacher made the class memorize "The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams with accompanying hand motions. He seemed thoroughly impressed, and just as I was congratulating myself on a job well done, he asked for a demonstration. Having consumed a few glasses of wine, in true poet style, I conceded without thinking about whether or not I recalled this poem or these gestures. I started wildly gesticulating, talking about white chickens and rain on wheelbarrows but could not seem to put the pieces in the right spot - the hand motions were off and I second guessed my memory of the whopping 3 line poem. I finally capitulated and told him I could not do it and that maybe he should consider erasing the display, half joking. Whatever came of all that footage? The nights in Shawn´s apartment, the typewriter game, or the jam sessions at the Tipsy pony where we played improvised music and I sang the lyrics of poems? It maybe culminated in a nasty end but who knows.
Of the poetry readings I attended, the ones that successfully plucked me heart strings were, of course, well written but they entailed something more. It was the tone, the emotion, the slight hand twitch or perfected dance of the feet (exactly this many steps forwards and backwards at just the right time) that can arrest a crowd.
As with all poetry slams, the one last night was not gripping performance after the next. What amazed me about the slam, however, was how powerful the readings could still be without full command, on my part, of the Spanish language. I could discern the major plots of each poem easy but I focused a great deal more on the movements and flow and facial expressions. One spoke slowly; One spoke too fast to be real words; One sang the poetry to nursery rhymes; One came tearing through the crowd screaming the lines of his poem; One shivered in delight while recalling the embrace of a lover before turning stoic and stating that already he was not in love; One might as well have been the announcer for a baseball game.
I left the slam thinking that Spanish is a particularly mellifluous language.
1.6.10
Mexico danger discourse
Mexico and Mexico City have a bad reputation right now. No doubt about that. American media coverage, with titles like "the war next door," perpetuate the stereotype that Mexico is not a safe place when, in fact, sensationalized news stories usually refer to only a small, Northern part of Mexico, including the nefarious Ciudad Juarez. So how dangerous is Mexico City really?
In my opinion, the most serious crime a gringo may face in the city is a "fast-food kidnapping." This type of kidnapping occurs when you take a street cab. Once inside, the cabbie will drive you a few blocks, stop and pick up two or three armed men who then escort you from ATM to ATM to withdraw cash and possibly hold you overnight to keep playing the same game the next morning. Jewelry, cameras and other valuables (such as my acquaintance's computer, which was stolen at gunpoint after he hailed a street cab a few weeks ago) are also fair game.
While unpleasant, this process is not usually violent. Also, it seems to me that once aware of the danger, one can avoid this unfortunate adventure by not carrying around ATM cards and/or taking official cabs. Literature on the subject also suggests the number of street cab robberies has gone down. Hearsay in general indicates that the city is a much safer, more pleasant place than it was a decade ago.
Ah, but still. My American countrymen are, for the most part, wary of Mexico though according to a recent article in Reuters:
"The most common crime suffered by tourists in Mexico is robbery, while deaths are more likely to be attributed to a heart attack, drowning or falls from balconies."
Aiming for swimming pools from balconies can be tricky business when you have consumed a whole bottle of tequila in 5 minutes. Not having a heart attack on the way down is another battle, and even if you make it, you still have to worry about the whole drowning thing. As for robbery (or what I would call petty muggings), it is a potential problem but mainly in dodgy areas. Plus, this type of crime is endemic to urbanity, not Mexico City. Sure, you may also be robbed in any part of Mexico, especially tourist destinations, though I have yet to have this problem nor have I encountered others who have been robbed blind the second they enter, say, Acapulco. This again, is true anywhere the gringo goes. While I have not been robbed in Mexico, I did have have my phone pick pocketed in Rome. This turned out to be unfortunate, indeed, as the bloody thing was never properly replaced, and I put myself at the mercy of abandoned phones, mostly heavy square shapes from the 90's.
I have had my fair share of assaults and attempted/successful robberies in both Atlanta and Mexico. In the case of the former, they were almost always home invasions (why hello there man breaking into my bedroom window, front door, back door, car door....) In the latter case, they have always been on foot. Rather than robberies, Texcoco was home to all different flavors of assaults, including a particularly nasty broken nose. It was not even my nose. Walking home from Doppler my friend and I took note of a few teenagers lingering in the beerlight. One walked over to us and punched my buddy in the nose without saying a word. I had no idea how much blood resulted from a broken nose. His white shirt soon turned red and the sleeves of my cardigan dripped the warm liquid as I held them against his nose. Blood covered and still trying to make sense of the random violence, I fell asleep on a hospital bench.
My only tale from Mexico city is of an "almost" robbery at knife point. It was my first solo visit to the daunting metro Insurgentes, with its 6 or so exists, and decided to just "go for it," (this exist looks good enough, right?) The passage was empty (which I later read in Lonely Planet means pick again) save one young man walking in front of me. He gave me a bad feeling, "the willies" I told one friend, but I wrote it off to paranoia up until he grabbed me, said something in Spanish and showed me what I assumed to be a knife. The ninja that I am, I yelped like a dog, which came out quite operatic, and jumped/fell away from him, landing on my bag, and effectively squishing a banana. It must have been the banana but whatever I did worked because he ran away. Witnesses helped me up and handed me my red scarf that I had unintentionally left behind in my scramble to escape the almost crime scene.
More recently, my stories are more of amazement at the lack of danger I have faced considering my behavior. For better or for worse, I have been coming home quite late in the night. The first time I was out past my bedtime, I had to take the last metro car operating. Coming from a concert in Lunario, I had to make a change at Tacubaya to get onto the pink line. When the doors opened, everyone on the train started running. I joined in. It was thrilling. Mothers holding children, men in suits clutching their briefcases and other concert goers all dashed through the underground tunnels hoping to avoid the extra fare (and maybe danger?) that missing the train would induce.
The next week/concert, I walked from Roma Norte, down Orizaba, to Insurgentes and along Liverpool, during which I was met by three groups of people:
1. Drunk kids peeing on the street
2. Middle aged bar goers
3. Old couples walking their dogs...at 3 a.m.
Yet another time, my friend Luna and I walked from the Centro Historico to my apartment at 2 a.m., and I was, again, amazed at how safe I felt. I mentioned this emotion to her and then pointed to a nearby, posh-looking historic building crawling with people in suits and ties. "See Luna. Mira! It is safe! Those are respectable people awake and socializing this late." She pointed out that the building was a funeral home...
Not convinced about the safety of Mexico City? You can visit a shop in Calle Hamburgo were you can buy lip stick knives, pepper spray filled pens and other goodies for the paranoid/cautious at heart.
In my opinion, the most serious crime a gringo may face in the city is a "fast-food kidnapping." This type of kidnapping occurs when you take a street cab. Once inside, the cabbie will drive you a few blocks, stop and pick up two or three armed men who then escort you from ATM to ATM to withdraw cash and possibly hold you overnight to keep playing the same game the next morning. Jewelry, cameras and other valuables (such as my acquaintance's computer, which was stolen at gunpoint after he hailed a street cab a few weeks ago) are also fair game.
While unpleasant, this process is not usually violent. Also, it seems to me that once aware of the danger, one can avoid this unfortunate adventure by not carrying around ATM cards and/or taking official cabs. Literature on the subject also suggests the number of street cab robberies has gone down. Hearsay in general indicates that the city is a much safer, more pleasant place than it was a decade ago.
Ah, but still. My American countrymen are, for the most part, wary of Mexico though according to a recent article in Reuters:
"The most common crime suffered by tourists in Mexico is robbery, while deaths are more likely to be attributed to a heart attack, drowning or falls from balconies."
Aiming for swimming pools from balconies can be tricky business when you have consumed a whole bottle of tequila in 5 minutes. Not having a heart attack on the way down is another battle, and even if you make it, you still have to worry about the whole drowning thing. As for robbery (or what I would call petty muggings), it is a potential problem but mainly in dodgy areas. Plus, this type of crime is endemic to urbanity, not Mexico City. Sure, you may also be robbed in any part of Mexico, especially tourist destinations, though I have yet to have this problem nor have I encountered others who have been robbed blind the second they enter, say, Acapulco. This again, is true anywhere the gringo goes. While I have not been robbed in Mexico, I did have have my phone pick pocketed in Rome. This turned out to be unfortunate, indeed, as the bloody thing was never properly replaced, and I put myself at the mercy of abandoned phones, mostly heavy square shapes from the 90's.
I have had my fair share of assaults and attempted/successful robberies in both Atlanta and Mexico. In the case of the former, they were almost always home invasions (why hello there man breaking into my bedroom window, front door, back door, car door....) In the latter case, they have always been on foot. Rather than robberies, Texcoco was home to all different flavors of assaults, including a particularly nasty broken nose. It was not even my nose. Walking home from Doppler my friend and I took note of a few teenagers lingering in the beerlight. One walked over to us and punched my buddy in the nose without saying a word. I had no idea how much blood resulted from a broken nose. His white shirt soon turned red and the sleeves of my cardigan dripped the warm liquid as I held them against his nose. Blood covered and still trying to make sense of the random violence, I fell asleep on a hospital bench.
My only tale from Mexico city is of an "almost" robbery at knife point. It was my first solo visit to the daunting metro Insurgentes, with its 6 or so exists, and decided to just "go for it," (this exist looks good enough, right?) The passage was empty (which I later read in Lonely Planet means pick again) save one young man walking in front of me. He gave me a bad feeling, "the willies" I told one friend, but I wrote it off to paranoia up until he grabbed me, said something in Spanish and showed me what I assumed to be a knife. The ninja that I am, I yelped like a dog, which came out quite operatic, and jumped/fell away from him, landing on my bag, and effectively squishing a banana. It must have been the banana but whatever I did worked because he ran away. Witnesses helped me up and handed me my red scarf that I had unintentionally left behind in my scramble to escape the almost crime scene.
More recently, my stories are more of amazement at the lack of danger I have faced considering my behavior. For better or for worse, I have been coming home quite late in the night. The first time I was out past my bedtime, I had to take the last metro car operating. Coming from a concert in Lunario, I had to make a change at Tacubaya to get onto the pink line. When the doors opened, everyone on the train started running. I joined in. It was thrilling. Mothers holding children, men in suits clutching their briefcases and other concert goers all dashed through the underground tunnels hoping to avoid the extra fare (and maybe danger?) that missing the train would induce.
The next week/concert, I walked from Roma Norte, down Orizaba, to Insurgentes and along Liverpool, during which I was met by three groups of people:
1. Drunk kids peeing on the street
2. Middle aged bar goers
3. Old couples walking their dogs...at 3 a.m.
Yet another time, my friend Luna and I walked from the Centro Historico to my apartment at 2 a.m., and I was, again, amazed at how safe I felt. I mentioned this emotion to her and then pointed to a nearby, posh-looking historic building crawling with people in suits and ties. "See Luna. Mira! It is safe! Those are respectable people awake and socializing this late." She pointed out that the building was a funeral home...
Not convinced about the safety of Mexico City? You can visit a shop in Calle Hamburgo were you can buy lip stick knives, pepper spray filled pens and other goodies for the paranoid/cautious at heart.
30.5.10
Clownin´ around
On a Sunday amble through Chapultapec park, I decided to stop and watch a street clown performance. I have oft seen these acts in the city but have never stayed for more than a few minutes. With nothing pressing on the agenda for the day, I staked out a place in the back of the crowd. No more than one minute in, the clown, one Pepino Dicaprio, spotted me. "Hola güera."
Oh shit.
I said hello back. He asked me where I was from. I said Georgia (my first mistake, as I should have just said the States or maybe Canada). Pepino signaled for me to leave the crowd and come speak with him. I ducked behind a nearby Mexican. This did not trick my clown friend, who came for me, microphone in hand and speaking a mile a minute. Before I could make a quick get away, before I even realized what was happening, I was center stage facing a crowd of laughing Mexicans and their children, sucking on lollies and playing with toys purchased in the park that magically break the second you pass over the cash to the vendor.
After asking me my name and making fun of me a bit for saying a State rather than a country, ("Eres de Georgia. Soy de Xochimilco") he parted the crowd on the permanent concrete benches and escorted me to what would be my seat for the next hour or so. To assure that I would stay put, he took my bag with him, meaning I would have to make a scene if I wanted to leave. I looked longingly at the brown leather, cooking in the sun of his street theater, and thought about my camera, thought of making a run for it, but soon I became too distracted by the entertainment to care.
Children, ranging age 8 to 10 (though I am shit at telling the ages of kids, and for all I know they may have well been from ages 4 to 13) were dancing. I was sitting next to the mother of two of the stars, a young girl and boy. The little girl desperately wanted to stand by her older brother, who, as any older brother would do, perpetually forced her from his side to that of a nearby child in the line of young volunteers. The same little boy was soon to be seen dancing to Michael Jackson. Well, I do not know if it was dancing so much as thrusting his groin towards the crowd a few times, resulting in loud, full-bodied laughter from onlookers. The dancing was mediocre. Logically. That being said, one young boy, whom I seriously suspect to be part of the show, did take me by surprise as he threw his hat at Pepino and stripped off his shirt to wave it above his head as his body gyrated in ways unimaginable to me at his age of what could not have been more than 9(though again, who can really tell these things?).
I expected the show to continue with the child-centric focus but little by little more adults entered the stage. Having faded into the background for a bit, I assumed I was free to watch the show from my seat. But alas, the clown would call on me again. He would chuckle to himself as he said he had forgotten about me and that it was time to dance. He had already paired up the adults with partners so who was I to dance with...wait a minute. He dislodged me from my seat and again I was in front of more eyes than I dared make contact with. He took my left hand and placed it on his shoulder while putting my right hand in his. "Yo tengo miedo," I told him and the crowd and that, further, I did not know how to dance. "I will teach you." I was relieved that the moves were not so complicated; a few basic steps that I had, indeed, picked up during my time here. "Eso," he said but this time with the microphone in his pocket.
After each dance, when Pepino was done with me, he would yell at those who had filled my seat while I was away. The people would promptly move, provoking the crowd's laughter. Once in my seat, he would pause, look at me silently and then tell me and the crowd of my beauty and how he had fallen madly in love with me. This continued off and on from 1:00 pm to 2:30 pm.
"Ah, mi amor ¿En qué idioma prefieres hablar?," he asked before one of our dances.
"No me importa," I said back, not so much to illustrate a preference but to show I could speak (some) Spanish.
To this he said something too fast for me to understand and probably for the best, judging from the crowd's reaction.
Everyone who participated in the show - the Germans, the Mexicans, the children, the man from Thailand who Pepino kept telling to open his eyes - received balloons shaped like flowers, except the top was not adorned with a tulip- or rose-shaped balloon but that of a heart. Pepino did not give me a balloon. "No te vayas," he said as he explained there was a change (of what sort I did not know but I assume in the show?) and that he was not through with me. I waited for a moment hoping for one of the red noses I had seen him handing out, the kind that projects water at the wearer's will, but then I got kind of scared of what this special gift might actually be or that maybe I was a weirdo for waiting around.
The classic Mexican middle schooler approached me, crumpled piece of paper in hand, and asked for an interview in English. I am so very tired of doing these interviews (how like you parts Mexico?) but I agreed and absconded empty-handed.
29.5.10
Life without the internet
It is kind of great, actually. The reader may ask, if your life is so internet free how are you writing this? The thing is my computer broke. In Mexico. My expectations are low. Let's just say I will be thrilled if it is fixed within the next year.
Therefore, when I want to use the internet, it is guided and constructive. For example, I am currently sitting in an internet cafe outside of Zona Rosa for the purpose of sending my new cell number to a Mexican friend and now, to write this. I do not lay around my apartment, computer in lap, mindlessly surfing the internet. Without my computer (and TV) I read, I walk, I explore, I write, I take pictures with my new Canon FTB and most importantly, I watch people dance in parks.
One of the highlights of my Texcoco life was watching the older couples slowly dance in the centro on Sundays. A German friend-for-a-day commented that having traveled Mexico for two months, he was convinced Mexicans live their lives more fully than in Germany and in fact, if people, en masse, started dancing unannounced in a public German square, they would probably be arrested. Watching a couple in their 70's, eyes closed and holding each other like it was their first embrace, I concurred.
Mexico City is full of people dancing in parks. Just today I came upon 3 dozen youngsters dancing to Kinky´s "Twisted Sister". With my first cup of coffee finally downed at the impressively late hour of 11:00 a.m., I stumbled upon the dancing in the art deco, open-air auditorium of Parque Mexico. The usual suspects in the park - that is, dog walkers, families and expats of all shades with Superama bags in hand - took delight in the display as they paused by my side.
By far the most impressive dancing occurs in the park of Balderas. Here you will find Mexicans from all walks of life dancing together. Most notable, however, are the middle-aged couples learning danzón from a man who I would have assumed to be a blue-collar worker. These teachers are almost always macho men in their 50's wearing jeans and a nondescript t-shirts or button downs that expose hairy chests. The teacher stands aside his small speaker, competing for airwaves over traffic and other nearby speakers, and occasionally corrects the couples in an unannounced fashion by taking the female partner and showing the man the correct steps.
Sundays, again, are the day of action but these classes take place nearly every night of the week, from what I can tell. Occasionally you can also find groups practicing large, coordinated dances composed of people ranging from age 12 to 60. For what, I can only assume.
Therefore, when I want to use the internet, it is guided and constructive. For example, I am currently sitting in an internet cafe outside of Zona Rosa for the purpose of sending my new cell number to a Mexican friend and now, to write this. I do not lay around my apartment, computer in lap, mindlessly surfing the internet. Without my computer (and TV) I read, I walk, I explore, I write, I take pictures with my new Canon FTB and most importantly, I watch people dance in parks.
One of the highlights of my Texcoco life was watching the older couples slowly dance in the centro on Sundays. A German friend-for-a-day commented that having traveled Mexico for two months, he was convinced Mexicans live their lives more fully than in Germany and in fact, if people, en masse, started dancing unannounced in a public German square, they would probably be arrested. Watching a couple in their 70's, eyes closed and holding each other like it was their first embrace, I concurred.
Mexico City is full of people dancing in parks. Just today I came upon 3 dozen youngsters dancing to Kinky´s "Twisted Sister". With my first cup of coffee finally downed at the impressively late hour of 11:00 a.m., I stumbled upon the dancing in the art deco, open-air auditorium of Parque Mexico. The usual suspects in the park - that is, dog walkers, families and expats of all shades with Superama bags in hand - took delight in the display as they paused by my side.
By far the most impressive dancing occurs in the park of Balderas. Here you will find Mexicans from all walks of life dancing together. Most notable, however, are the middle-aged couples learning danzón from a man who I would have assumed to be a blue-collar worker. These teachers are almost always macho men in their 50's wearing jeans and a nondescript t-shirts or button downs that expose hairy chests. The teacher stands aside his small speaker, competing for airwaves over traffic and other nearby speakers, and occasionally corrects the couples in an unannounced fashion by taking the female partner and showing the man the correct steps.
Sundays, again, are the day of action but these classes take place nearly every night of the week, from what I can tell. Occasionally you can also find groups practicing large, coordinated dances composed of people ranging from age 12 to 60. For what, I can only assume.
28.5.10
Old pictures
Picture from the Attaway vaults: A young Phyllis. Aren't our family histories fantastic?
Until recently, I was not aware that my great grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee and that my grandfather was a train-hopping hobo. What I would give for their memories. Sometimes thinking about all of our rich pasts is overwhelming. Too much has happened to us to ever capture and recount. Even if I had these two relatives in front of me for questioning, our memories are merciful. We forget, for better and for worse. Personally, I try to capture my past with photos and videos and journals that can feel more like a chore than a hobby. But if I have learned anything it is that it is just as easy to forget as it is to convince myself I will remember every detail.
Until recently, I was not aware that my great grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee and that my grandfather was a train-hopping hobo. What I would give for their memories. Sometimes thinking about all of our rich pasts is overwhelming. Too much has happened to us to ever capture and recount. Even if I had these two relatives in front of me for questioning, our memories are merciful. We forget, for better and for worse. Personally, I try to capture my past with photos and videos and journals that can feel more like a chore than a hobby. But if I have learned anything it is that it is just as easy to forget as it is to convince myself I will remember every detail.
No love for the past
Is that true?
Walking through the streets of Texcoco today I could not stop thinking about how much I despise the place and how Mexico City is superior in every respect to the dingy, fat, dirty streets of the periurban hinterland city that is 40 km East of my new home. But it was my home. For too long. Self-blame starts to surface as I think of how I stayed too long, like a lover afraid to leave an abusive partner. I convinced myself it was not only habitable but good and beautiful.
But was it all as bad as I remember? An acquaintance recently challenged the basic nature of narrating the past.
We (or at least I) tend to narrate unhappy spells of the past by major events. Maybe your parents got a divorce and then you were in an accident and afterwords your partner dumped you. Sucks, no? The problem with this narration is that the side stories get lost by the bitter and bigger points of your story. You overlook the good that happened during the same time period: the great connections with friends or co-workers; taking up an instrument; or learning to bake bread.
There is no doubt that the streets of Texcoco are haunted with my past, some parts quite hellish, but the past was not all as bad as you and I might think.
Walking through the streets of Texcoco today I could not stop thinking about how much I despise the place and how Mexico City is superior in every respect to the dingy, fat, dirty streets of the periurban hinterland city that is 40 km East of my new home. But it was my home. For too long. Self-blame starts to surface as I think of how I stayed too long, like a lover afraid to leave an abusive partner. I convinced myself it was not only habitable but good and beautiful.
But was it all as bad as I remember? An acquaintance recently challenged the basic nature of narrating the past.
We (or at least I) tend to narrate unhappy spells of the past by major events. Maybe your parents got a divorce and then you were in an accident and afterwords your partner dumped you. Sucks, no? The problem with this narration is that the side stories get lost by the bitter and bigger points of your story. You overlook the good that happened during the same time period: the great connections with friends or co-workers; taking up an instrument; or learning to bake bread.
There is no doubt that the streets of Texcoco are haunted with my past, some parts quite hellish, but the past was not all as bad as you and I might think.
22.4.10
From a letter sent 2/2/09
Picture 1:
No explanation is needed.
Picture 2:
Explains the reason why mp3 music players are evil. While walking down the highway with said mp3 player in hand, I had an undeniable urge to hear "Half a person" by the Smiths. For me, this required exclusive concentration on fumbling with the small device, so much so that I walked straight into this large pile of gray dirt and dust and ruble. The world tumbled unexpectedly as I confusedly fell, skinning my elbow,
causing my hand to bleed and significantly damaging my pride. I jumped up and quickly looked around to see if anyone had witnessed this puerile action; concluding that I had only made a few truck drivers laugh, I strode ahead. It was not until the hoots and hollers past the gas station that I realized my sui generis sunglasses had come unhitched from my shirt during my descent. Restively, I spun around, sure some lucky passerby would see the florescent pink on the ground, screech to a halting stop and take them out of my life forever. Upon returning to the scene of my tomfoolery, I took picture 2. Let it also be stated for the record that I never wanted an mp3 player, never asked for one and should not be allowed to operate electronics, writing utensils or heavy machinery when walking.
Picture 3 & 4:
Upon arriving in La Puri, I was met with a massive, flower-filled celebration outside of the town's church. The celebration, no doubt for some saint I have never heard of, was being led by a priest, microphone clutched in his hand and saying "espiritu" every other word or so.
I wandered away from the church and up the hill for my planned hike to the cross when I was met by picture 4. I had heard the music from afar and finally reached a scene of dance in a local's yard (the bobbling movements will live in immortality on my external hard-drive). I watched the group with a plastered smile that joined me on my hike long after the hatted children and men and musicians played and danced their way down the cobble stone street to the church.
No pictures:
I bushwhacked the mountain, not because I necessarily wanted to but because I have a knack for making things more complicated than they should be. Let us leave it at that and say that I survived. I did, however, take the trail on the way down.
After finishing my trek I decided to try to find Amy's old route to work, which involved scaling a fence. Somewhere. Full of endorphins I seemed to ignore the fact that I had no idea of where this gap in security might be located. I walked and walked and walked around the perimeters, too tired to turn around and give up and sure that if caught, the owner of whatever field I was in would shoot me on the spot.
But all I could see were triple barbed wire fences in every direction. Hungry and enervated I was just about to give up when I assuaged myself with hope and promised myself a taxi if I had to retrace all of my steps. And then there it was: a tree that had grown into the fence and lowered the barbed wire. This had to be it.
I hung my bag on the fence as I experimented with my break-in, but of course my bag fell - now I was committed. Like a kitten jumping off a roof I finally went for it and landed smoothly. Feeling very happy with myself, I noticed that something was amiss. I was, no, still fenced in? I had broken into the fenced in reservoir. How could this be? Feeling completely disheartened by my mistake and afraid of getting caught in the restricted area and with shoes to big to climb even the non-barbed wire part of the fence, I considered digging my way out. I circled the perimeter of my cage to find a locked door that did, however, have an x shape metal covering and to my surprise was located next to a fence missing barbed wire. I propped myself up on the x and stealthy sat on the fence, not yet ready to jump for it. After 15 seconds of fear I gracefully fell, unscathed by the break-in and walked away nonchalantly. To this day, the fence has not recovered.
No explanation is needed.
Picture 2:
Explains the reason why mp3 music players are evil. While walking down the highway with said mp3 player in hand, I had an undeniable urge to hear "Half a person" by the Smiths. For me, this required exclusive concentration on fumbling with the small device, so much so that I walked straight into this large pile of gray dirt and dust and ruble. The world tumbled unexpectedly as I confusedly fell, skinning my elbow,
causing my hand to bleed and significantly damaging my pride. I jumped up and quickly looked around to see if anyone had witnessed this puerile action; concluding that I had only made a few truck drivers laugh, I strode ahead. It was not until the hoots and hollers past the gas station that I realized my sui generis sunglasses had come unhitched from my shirt during my descent. Restively, I spun around, sure some lucky passerby would see the florescent pink on the ground, screech to a halting stop and take them out of my life forever. Upon returning to the scene of my tomfoolery, I took picture 2. Let it also be stated for the record that I never wanted an mp3 player, never asked for one and should not be allowed to operate electronics, writing utensils or heavy machinery when walking.
Picture 3 & 4:
Upon arriving in La Puri, I was met with a massive, flower-filled celebration outside of the town's church. The celebration, no doubt for some saint I have never heard of, was being led by a priest, microphone clutched in his hand and saying "espiritu" every other word or so.
I wandered away from the church and up the hill for my planned hike to the cross when I was met by picture 4. I had heard the music from afar and finally reached a scene of dance in a local's yard (the bobbling movements will live in immortality on my external hard-drive). I watched the group with a plastered smile that joined me on my hike long after the hatted children and men and musicians played and danced their way down the cobble stone street to the church.
No pictures:
I bushwhacked the mountain, not because I necessarily wanted to but because I have a knack for making things more complicated than they should be. Let us leave it at that and say that I survived. I did, however, take the trail on the way down.
After finishing my trek I decided to try to find Amy's old route to work, which involved scaling a fence. Somewhere. Full of endorphins I seemed to ignore the fact that I had no idea of where this gap in security might be located. I walked and walked and walked around the perimeters, too tired to turn around and give up and sure that if caught, the owner of whatever field I was in would shoot me on the spot.
But all I could see were triple barbed wire fences in every direction. Hungry and enervated I was just about to give up when I assuaged myself with hope and promised myself a taxi if I had to retrace all of my steps. And then there it was: a tree that had grown into the fence and lowered the barbed wire. This had to be it.
I hung my bag on the fence as I experimented with my break-in, but of course my bag fell - now I was committed. Like a kitten jumping off a roof I finally went for it and landed smoothly. Feeling very happy with myself, I noticed that something was amiss. I was, no, still fenced in? I had broken into the fenced in reservoir. How could this be? Feeling completely disheartened by my mistake and afraid of getting caught in the restricted area and with shoes to big to climb even the non-barbed wire part of the fence, I considered digging my way out. I circled the perimeter of my cage to find a locked door that did, however, have an x shape metal covering and to my surprise was located next to a fence missing barbed wire. I propped myself up on the x and stealthy sat on the fence, not yet ready to jump for it. After 15 seconds of fear I gracefully fell, unscathed by the break-in and walked away nonchalantly. To this day, the fence has not recovered.
6.4.10
If you love someone let them go
I have always thought this saying ridiculous. If you love someone, you want them near you. You want to laugh and chat and eat and sleep and travel and play chess. Right? Quien sabe...
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