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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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:

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:

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.

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.