I have never seen so much rain in my life. President Santos declared a “state of calamity” for nearly the entire country for how much it’s been raining here. It never stops. Even just when you think maybe, maaaybe it will stay clear today, you feel that first drop. Shoot me.
Yesterday I ran into Raz, my Israeli neighbor who I hadn’t seen since he got kicked out of the house across the street because his dog “bothered” other tenants. He told me he’s leaving Bogotá. Me too, I said. And he’s like, yeah this place will pull on you like that. And I said, yeah, it really does.
The thing is, the Candelaria is a mixture of beautiful and disgusting. Every day I open my door and I’m surrounded by these gorgeous old buildings, so colorful, with the mountains towering over them, clouds here and there (or sometimes everywhere). But well, then I keep walking, and the whole place is scattered with dog crap and homeless people and addicts with glue still dripping from their noses who rip open every trash bag they can find looking for food. Sometimes you can track them by the trail of trash they leave. And my neighbors, they are wonderful, warm, friendly people who have always taken care of me. But they are almost all coke addicts. The foreign ones, mostly, not many of the Colombians. The Colombia=cocaine stereotype can be really offensive because it’s usually the foreigners who are using the drugs. But regardless, the drugs change everything; they change relationships, and it’s hard to watch.
Two of my favorite neighbors, who have also left now, were this old Iranian couple, Mo and Rita, who said they saw the same problems in Iran with opium and they do here with cocaine. They would make me and Andres coffee every day and we’d listen to their stories. They had traveled literally all over the world and had fascinating stories, like one about getting stuck in a tempest-sized storm for three days in like, slave ship conditions on this boat in the Philippines. They also said Iran has one of the most generous cultures in the world, and I should visit.
Mo also once lived in Kansas City, and loved it. He was always telling me what a great time he had there, and how pretty Missouri was. And he’s right, of course! Never hurts to have an extremely seasoned world traveler give your homeland so much praise.
I have definitely been homesick here. Especially on Thanksgiving last week. Of course we got together, all the gringas and some unknowing Colombians, and we cooked A LOT and ate A LOT and rounded off the night with Christmas music. It was lovely, but it was not the same. I’m so looking forward to being home for Christmas.
Until then, though, I’m soaking up as much of Colombia as I still can. I’ve been working hard at my internship and dancing hard on weekends. Slowly discovering I’m not such a terrible salsa dancer. And still unable to shake the light-haired, blue-eyed, bright-neon-light-that-says-hit-on-me-i’m-a-foreigner curse. But at least it’s entertaining.
Finally, today I’m leaving on a two-week adventure with my co-workers to visit a bunch of communities that we work with. First, a week on the upper Caribbean coast, near Santa Marta. The region has a long history of violence + the rape of its natural resources and native populations, often involving the banana industry and now coal and gold mining. But it’s really beautiful. After that, it’s off to Uraba, southwest of Santa Marta but northwest of Medellin, to visit some more rural communities in a more river/jungle landscape. Also a long history of violence and exploitation. Also extremely beautiful. Because that’s what this country is – extreme beauty mixed with extreme wretchedness. You just always have to look on the bright side.
For example, with all this rain, I’ve seen a ton of rainbows. =)
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Friday, November 19, 2010
I might as well be on the Amazing Race
Two weekends back now, budget travel landed me on three overnight buses, two muddy pick-up trucks, and one stiff bed in a Colombian whore-tel. But with the money I saved, I got to fly. Worth it.
Andres and I began the adventure with an 18-hour night ride to Santa Marta, a town on the coast, where we hopped buses to Riohacha, the center of transport in La Guajira, Colombia’s northernmost state and “the edge of the world” according to my Lonely Planet guide. After Riohacha, buses weren’t an option. Transportation method of choice instead involved piling into the back of a truck with maybe ten other people, various canisters of water and gasoline, and several other unknown packages. At least we avoided the truck with the goats.
Five hours of bumpy, muddy road later, we arrived in Cabo de la Vela, a remote costal town under the jurisdiction of the indigenous Wayuu people. Pleasantly void of the typical commercialized tacky boardwalk and everything that accompanies a beach vacation spot as we know it. The normal form of accommodation in Cabo is a three-walled hut-and-hammock get-up fifty feet from the waves, but since it rained monsoon-style the ENTIRE time we were there, we splurged for the fourth wall + bed deluxe combo.
Despite the unfathomably unfortunate weather, we did get to talk a little hike through some spectacular scenery. La Guajira is sort of a phenomena – a desert on the Caribbean coast. So picture bright blue seas, giant seashells, peaceful waves, adjacent to crumbly brown earth and sparse, spiky vegetation. Even flooded with so much rain, it was beautiful and unique.
Leaving Cabo wasn’t easy. Not because we didn’t want to, because we almost literally couldn’t. The storm nearly locked us into town, turning the road – there is only ONE road – into a virtually impassible two-foot deep river. But we found one brave driver willing and able to take on the mission. The man was a pro. Miles upon miles of muck, and we only got stuck once.
As if being cramped in the back of a truck for six hours wasn’t enough, we kept going: 1 hour taxi, 3 hour bus, half hour taxi, 15 hour bus, 15 min metro, non-stop all the way to the first cheap hotel we could find in Medellin. We were aiming for a whole new scene, and that is exactly what we got. Only after we accepted a room key and paid that night’s stay did we explore the neighborhood to find that we had comfortably settled amidst a plethora of whores and other sketchballs. We were warned not to wander about after dark. But what else is new.
Outside of that neighborhood, and actually within it if you overlook certain flaws, Medellin was pretty cool. Instead of mountains on one side like Bogotá, Medellin is surrounded by them, making for an amazing view from all angles. We made sure to check out all things paisa (the term for people from Medellin and the region around it): the Pueblito Paisa (tourist trap, but cute), the Plazoleta Botero (really cool sculptures by one of Colombia’s most famous artists), the Parque de la Luz, and another famous work, Monumento a la Raza by a guy named Betancourt. And of course, those were only a fraction of the options.
The best, best, best, part of the whole extended weekend, however, was our introduction to the world of parasailing. Bought a ticket, hiked up on a hill where two tandem pilots were waiting for us. They strapped us each into a chute, strapped themselves to us, and instructed us to run off the side of the cliff. It was the best thrill I’ve ever had – the closest thing to flying I think you could possibly feel. We were alongside the birds, swooping over waterfalls and bright green pastures. Amazing. I’ve found a new hobby.
We could have stayed in Medellin a few more days, but time and money drove us back to rainy Bogotá. It is still raining to this day. Now, Andres has left, and I’m back to work, taking videos, translating, keeping up correspondences, and always meeting someone new with a wonderful and worthy cause. I only have one month left now to finish my projects and see what more I can, and I plan to make the most of it.
Andres and I began the adventure with an 18-hour night ride to Santa Marta, a town on the coast, where we hopped buses to Riohacha, the center of transport in La Guajira, Colombia’s northernmost state and “the edge of the world” according to my Lonely Planet guide. After Riohacha, buses weren’t an option. Transportation method of choice instead involved piling into the back of a truck with maybe ten other people, various canisters of water and gasoline, and several other unknown packages. At least we avoided the truck with the goats.
Five hours of bumpy, muddy road later, we arrived in Cabo de la Vela, a remote costal town under the jurisdiction of the indigenous Wayuu people. Pleasantly void of the typical commercialized tacky boardwalk and everything that accompanies a beach vacation spot as we know it. The normal form of accommodation in Cabo is a three-walled hut-and-hammock get-up fifty feet from the waves, but since it rained monsoon-style the ENTIRE time we were there, we splurged for the fourth wall + bed deluxe combo.
Despite the unfathomably unfortunate weather, we did get to talk a little hike through some spectacular scenery. La Guajira is sort of a phenomena – a desert on the Caribbean coast. So picture bright blue seas, giant seashells, peaceful waves, adjacent to crumbly brown earth and sparse, spiky vegetation. Even flooded with so much rain, it was beautiful and unique.
Leaving Cabo wasn’t easy. Not because we didn’t want to, because we almost literally couldn’t. The storm nearly locked us into town, turning the road – there is only ONE road – into a virtually impassible two-foot deep river. But we found one brave driver willing and able to take on the mission. The man was a pro. Miles upon miles of muck, and we only got stuck once.
As if being cramped in the back of a truck for six hours wasn’t enough, we kept going: 1 hour taxi, 3 hour bus, half hour taxi, 15 hour bus, 15 min metro, non-stop all the way to the first cheap hotel we could find in Medellin. We were aiming for a whole new scene, and that is exactly what we got. Only after we accepted a room key and paid that night’s stay did we explore the neighborhood to find that we had comfortably settled amidst a plethora of whores and other sketchballs. We were warned not to wander about after dark. But what else is new.
Outside of that neighborhood, and actually within it if you overlook certain flaws, Medellin was pretty cool. Instead of mountains on one side like Bogotá, Medellin is surrounded by them, making for an amazing view from all angles. We made sure to check out all things paisa (the term for people from Medellin and the region around it): the Pueblito Paisa (tourist trap, but cute), the Plazoleta Botero (really cool sculptures by one of Colombia’s most famous artists), the Parque de la Luz, and another famous work, Monumento a la Raza by a guy named Betancourt. And of course, those were only a fraction of the options.
The best, best, best, part of the whole extended weekend, however, was our introduction to the world of parasailing. Bought a ticket, hiked up on a hill where two tandem pilots were waiting for us. They strapped us each into a chute, strapped themselves to us, and instructed us to run off the side of the cliff. It was the best thrill I’ve ever had – the closest thing to flying I think you could possibly feel. We were alongside the birds, swooping over waterfalls and bright green pastures. Amazing. I’ve found a new hobby.
We could have stayed in Medellin a few more days, but time and money drove us back to rainy Bogotá. It is still raining to this day. Now, Andres has left, and I’m back to work, taking videos, translating, keeping up correspondences, and always meeting someone new with a wonderful and worthy cause. I only have one month left now to finish my projects and see what more I can, and I plan to make the most of it.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Dead, the Living, and the Living Dead
This week was the Day of the Dead, in Mexico. Colombians, however, are more into Halloween. Either way, my experiences of the past couple weeks have allowed me to remember some long-dead Colombian inhabitants, and to experience the country’s ever-fantastic life and spirit.
Took a hint from the Bogotanos two weeks ago and got out of the city, to Villa de Leyva, a small colonial town/popular weekend getaway. Besides its cobblestone streets, wonderfully-preserved 16th century town square, and rows of simple white, clay tile-roofed shops, the town is known, of all things, for fossils. In prehistoric times, the area was covered by ocean, and to this day it’s wrought with fossils, homes are adorned with them, and you can of course see the best ones in museums. The guesthouse we stayed in – I went with Andres – even had one randomly embedded among the stones in the courtyard.
We passed the weekend wandering the streets, embarrassing ourselves trying to fit into a truly talented Saturday night salsa crowd, and falling into tourist traps. We saw what’s know as THE fossil – huge skeleton of some monstrous sea-dwelling dinosaur, a rare find, so we were told. Also checked out a ritual site of the area’s ancient inhabitants the Muisca people. Spanish missionaries named the place “El Infiernito” or “Little Hell,” in an effort to make people afraid of pagan worship. Consists of several stone pillars lined up, which created a sort of calendar for the people to keep track of the growing seasons. It’s advertise as “Colombia’s Stonehenge,” and coming in with that level of expectation, we were disappointed. But take away the comparison and it’s pretty neat. Even more amusing to me were the other ancient remnants surrounding the Infiernito – dozens of 5, 6, 7 feet high, crudely-sculpted, upright-toward-the-sky penises. How could you not giggle at least a little? The Muisca people followed a cult of fertility, hence the statues. For worship, and rituals. But come on. They ought to rent out Colombia’s Stonehenge for bachelorette parties.
Besides a bunch of really old rocks, we got a look at the natural beauty around Villa de Leyva. Saw the Pozos Azules (“Blue Wells”) – amazingly bright blue pools, super out of place in their dry, rocky setting. A thousand times more wonderous though was El Sanctuario de Flora y Fauna de Iguaque, a nature preserve/true fantasy land. Literally a site of mythical beauty. The standard hike – NOT an easy one by any means – takes you up a mountain on a steep, slippery, muddy path, first through thick, wet jungle, until you emerge into the drier, rockier, elevated landscape. But a landscape unlike any I’d ever seen, covered in shallow, pale greenery, with the oddest plantlife, the strangest flowers. And the mountains all around you, farms in the distance below but so far away it seemed they weren’t even connected to this place. If that feeling weren’t enough, the end of the trail brings you to the Lagunas de Iguaque – a series of lakes where Muisca legend says human life originated. It was easy to see why they thought there were gods here. The flowery, plant-covered cliffs dropping to the water’s edge, thick white mist billowing over the tops of them and falling down on us, the peaceful quiet. It really felt magical. One hundred percent worth the hike.
Got back to reality, and then back to Bogotá just in time to throw something together for Halloween. Although head-to-toe costumes were hard to find, street corner wig/animal ear vendors had popped up all over the city, and we went with a Nightmare Before Christmas getup – super fun. Nearly got run over by a parade of zombies Friday night – they terrorized sausages stands and even stormed the transmilenio, stopping it in its tracks. Brilliant. Saturday night was the big party, though, the full costume event. Like in the States, bars and clubs are a nightmare, super crowded, hard to get into, and mad expensive. We went with a party bus option – flat rate, cheap booze, and automatic transport and entry into 4 different places. Madness. Departing from the Candelaria, our bus was mostly a hostel crowd, internationals going nuts on rum/vodka/tequila shots, and the bars of course were what you would expect: lights, loud music, scores of drunks dancing and screaming. We couldn’t have had a better time.
And life couldn’t be more wonderful. =)
Took a hint from the Bogotanos two weeks ago and got out of the city, to Villa de Leyva, a small colonial town/popular weekend getaway. Besides its cobblestone streets, wonderfully-preserved 16th century town square, and rows of simple white, clay tile-roofed shops, the town is known, of all things, for fossils. In prehistoric times, the area was covered by ocean, and to this day it’s wrought with fossils, homes are adorned with them, and you can of course see the best ones in museums. The guesthouse we stayed in – I went with Andres – even had one randomly embedded among the stones in the courtyard.
We passed the weekend wandering the streets, embarrassing ourselves trying to fit into a truly talented Saturday night salsa crowd, and falling into tourist traps. We saw what’s know as THE fossil – huge skeleton of some monstrous sea-dwelling dinosaur, a rare find, so we were told. Also checked out a ritual site of the area’s ancient inhabitants the Muisca people. Spanish missionaries named the place “El Infiernito” or “Little Hell,” in an effort to make people afraid of pagan worship. Consists of several stone pillars lined up, which created a sort of calendar for the people to keep track of the growing seasons. It’s advertise as “Colombia’s Stonehenge,” and coming in with that level of expectation, we were disappointed. But take away the comparison and it’s pretty neat. Even more amusing to me were the other ancient remnants surrounding the Infiernito – dozens of 5, 6, 7 feet high, crudely-sculpted, upright-toward-the-sky penises. How could you not giggle at least a little? The Muisca people followed a cult of fertility, hence the statues. For worship, and rituals. But come on. They ought to rent out Colombia’s Stonehenge for bachelorette parties.
Besides a bunch of really old rocks, we got a look at the natural beauty around Villa de Leyva. Saw the Pozos Azules (“Blue Wells”) – amazingly bright blue pools, super out of place in their dry, rocky setting. A thousand times more wonderous though was El Sanctuario de Flora y Fauna de Iguaque, a nature preserve/true fantasy land. Literally a site of mythical beauty. The standard hike – NOT an easy one by any means – takes you up a mountain on a steep, slippery, muddy path, first through thick, wet jungle, until you emerge into the drier, rockier, elevated landscape. But a landscape unlike any I’d ever seen, covered in shallow, pale greenery, with the oddest plantlife, the strangest flowers. And the mountains all around you, farms in the distance below but so far away it seemed they weren’t even connected to this place. If that feeling weren’t enough, the end of the trail brings you to the Lagunas de Iguaque – a series of lakes where Muisca legend says human life originated. It was easy to see why they thought there were gods here. The flowery, plant-covered cliffs dropping to the water’s edge, thick white mist billowing over the tops of them and falling down on us, the peaceful quiet. It really felt magical. One hundred percent worth the hike.
Got back to reality, and then back to Bogotá just in time to throw something together for Halloween. Although head-to-toe costumes were hard to find, street corner wig/animal ear vendors had popped up all over the city, and we went with a Nightmare Before Christmas getup – super fun. Nearly got run over by a parade of zombies Friday night – they terrorized sausages stands and even stormed the transmilenio, stopping it in its tracks. Brilliant. Saturday night was the big party, though, the full costume event. Like in the States, bars and clubs are a nightmare, super crowded, hard to get into, and mad expensive. We went with a party bus option – flat rate, cheap booze, and automatic transport and entry into 4 different places. Madness. Departing from the Candelaria, our bus was mostly a hostel crowd, internationals going nuts on rum/vodka/tequila shots, and the bars of course were what you would expect: lights, loud music, scores of drunks dancing and screaming. We couldn’t have had a better time.
And life couldn’t be more wonderful. =)
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Small Town Charms and Big City Sights
Have now lived in Colombia for over a month (?!?!?!). No more sign of my secret admirer, but meanwhile more important things have been happening.
First, the event with my internship three weeks ago, the Congreso de los Pueblos – huge gathering of thousands of people from all over the country, five days long, with speeches, forums, cultural events, and a massive march through the city at the end. I went with another guy from Witness, Diego, to accompany the event, meaning we were there to sort of… observe passively. The idea of accompaniment is that, as internationals, we don’t participate in demonstrations, but just by being there, we show that an issue is getting international attention, and that attention is a form of protection and encouragement for people that have chosen to stand up against some really powerful, influential opponents. A lot of the people at the Congreso, for example, were indigenous or Afro-Colombians, farmers, students, etc, who often don’t get a strong voice in national decision-making. And they came with a lot of demands concerning land rights, labor rights, etc., that most politicians and big businessmen don’t really want to hear. Here, confronting such powerful people can be seriously dangerous to one’s life. So that’s why we were there.
The weekend was fascinating. It was like they brought their small towns and rural lifestyle and just transplanted it right into the middle of Bogotá. Everyone camped out on a university campus. People started cooking fires, boiling giant vats of soup for lunch, smoking pigskins, and brewing fresh, homemade chicha. Tents and tarps formed little settlements. A long pipe was constructed to pump out water for simple, open, community showers. Little kids played in the grass. Small informal music circles broke out. I saw a Bogotano student on clarinet join in with an Afro-Colombian drumline, a whole new sound you wouldn’t traditionally hear. That was the point of the whole thing. To join forces. But the most magical part of it all was the weather. Prior to the Congreso, it rained every single day in Bogotá for two weeks, like clockwork. Miserable. That weekend, though, some of the events’ indigenous leaders let us know that their tribes’ elders had been at work in the mountains, performing rituals to ask Mother Nature to bless the event with good weather. And it stayed sunny for seven whole days. Only a few scarce drops, and the rest of the time we saw beautiful, clear skies. The power of being in touch with nature like that is astounding – I absolutely believe it made a difference.
So we saw the whole event, met a lot of people from all across Colombia, as well as some other accompaniers from various countries/organizations. We sampled regional flavors, observed dances, music, and works of art, and we witnessed a lot of passionate people at work. Many in Colombia really do struggle to hold onto some of the most basic of human rights. It was amazing to watch the emotion and the resolve they displayed when talking about their communities’ challenges, and even more, their personal experiences. Once again, you can read the blog post I wrote afterwards, here.
With the Congreso and work surrounding it, my birthday arrived before I could blink. Since it fell on a Monday, and since 23 is not exactly a landmark year, I didn’t really expect much, but I got a good extended weekend out of it. A friend from Mexico, Andres, arrived Friday to help me celebrate, and he was barely off the plane before I rushed him off to party hop. Most interesting was a bicentennial-themed party, since Colombia also celebrated 200 years of independence this year. People in 17th-century costumes everywhere, in a really old house with lots of creaky-floored dark rooms, music on every floor, and a fire. Chevere, as they say. Then, Sunday, met up with a friend from AU, Jorge Andres, and his friend from the States, Ryan, who, small world, is also from Saint Louis. Jorge showed us what Bogotanos do on Sundays – leave Bogotá. We got lunch in Chia, a little town about an hour outside the city that pretty much only exists for upper/middle-class Bogotanos to visit on weekends. Great food though, and a pretty drive.
Finally, then, the big day: I rang in my birthday at midnight with shots of cheap rum in the restaurant next door, surrounded by loud Italian Miguel, his Colombian wife Ingrid, the waitress, Sandra, my neighbors – Italian Walter, Puerto Rican George, Colombian Eduardo, Israeli Raz, and his dog, Chico – and Andres. Ingrid played a video of “Las Mañanitas” on youtube for me – the traditional Latin American birthday song, with a little cartoon mouse in a sombrero serenading you. Sometimes I think about how I used to imagine my life when I reached this age. Like I’m so old, I’m reminiscing on the illusions of my youth. Anyway this is definitely nowhere near what I pictured, and that makes me happy.
Birthday-day, went up Montserrate with Andres, Jorge, and Ryan. Montserrate is pretty much THE tourist attraction in Bogotá – church on top of a mountain that overlooks the city. We took a small train up, but they say if you hike it, you get absolved of all your sins. Amen. Anyway at the top, besides the rather generic little church, there’s an amazing view of the city and tons of vendors selling really typical Colombian food and beverages. We lunched on ajiaco, arepas, mazorca, canelazo, and coca tea. After one last look down the mountain, we descended, took a walk around downtown to check out some other landmarks (Presidential Residence, Casa de Monedas, Plaza Bolivar, etc.), and went for dinner and drinks. Aaaand just to make the good times last, we rounded it all off with dinner again the following night at Andres DC, a restaurant/club that reigns as the favorite celebration spot in the city for twenty-somethings. Since I arrived, there has been some kind of party at Andres at least once every weekend. Never a bad choice.
And so time flies!
First, the event with my internship three weeks ago, the Congreso de los Pueblos – huge gathering of thousands of people from all over the country, five days long, with speeches, forums, cultural events, and a massive march through the city at the end. I went with another guy from Witness, Diego, to accompany the event, meaning we were there to sort of… observe passively. The idea of accompaniment is that, as internationals, we don’t participate in demonstrations, but just by being there, we show that an issue is getting international attention, and that attention is a form of protection and encouragement for people that have chosen to stand up against some really powerful, influential opponents. A lot of the people at the Congreso, for example, were indigenous or Afro-Colombians, farmers, students, etc, who often don’t get a strong voice in national decision-making. And they came with a lot of demands concerning land rights, labor rights, etc., that most politicians and big businessmen don’t really want to hear. Here, confronting such powerful people can be seriously dangerous to one’s life. So that’s why we were there.
The weekend was fascinating. It was like they brought their small towns and rural lifestyle and just transplanted it right into the middle of Bogotá. Everyone camped out on a university campus. People started cooking fires, boiling giant vats of soup for lunch, smoking pigskins, and brewing fresh, homemade chicha. Tents and tarps formed little settlements. A long pipe was constructed to pump out water for simple, open, community showers. Little kids played in the grass. Small informal music circles broke out. I saw a Bogotano student on clarinet join in with an Afro-Colombian drumline, a whole new sound you wouldn’t traditionally hear. That was the point of the whole thing. To join forces. But the most magical part of it all was the weather. Prior to the Congreso, it rained every single day in Bogotá for two weeks, like clockwork. Miserable. That weekend, though, some of the events’ indigenous leaders let us know that their tribes’ elders had been at work in the mountains, performing rituals to ask Mother Nature to bless the event with good weather. And it stayed sunny for seven whole days. Only a few scarce drops, and the rest of the time we saw beautiful, clear skies. The power of being in touch with nature like that is astounding – I absolutely believe it made a difference.
So we saw the whole event, met a lot of people from all across Colombia, as well as some other accompaniers from various countries/organizations. We sampled regional flavors, observed dances, music, and works of art, and we witnessed a lot of passionate people at work. Many in Colombia really do struggle to hold onto some of the most basic of human rights. It was amazing to watch the emotion and the resolve they displayed when talking about their communities’ challenges, and even more, their personal experiences. Once again, you can read the blog post I wrote afterwards, here.
With the Congreso and work surrounding it, my birthday arrived before I could blink. Since it fell on a Monday, and since 23 is not exactly a landmark year, I didn’t really expect much, but I got a good extended weekend out of it. A friend from Mexico, Andres, arrived Friday to help me celebrate, and he was barely off the plane before I rushed him off to party hop. Most interesting was a bicentennial-themed party, since Colombia also celebrated 200 years of independence this year. People in 17th-century costumes everywhere, in a really old house with lots of creaky-floored dark rooms, music on every floor, and a fire. Chevere, as they say. Then, Sunday, met up with a friend from AU, Jorge Andres, and his friend from the States, Ryan, who, small world, is also from Saint Louis. Jorge showed us what Bogotanos do on Sundays – leave Bogotá. We got lunch in Chia, a little town about an hour outside the city that pretty much only exists for upper/middle-class Bogotanos to visit on weekends. Great food though, and a pretty drive.
Finally, then, the big day: I rang in my birthday at midnight with shots of cheap rum in the restaurant next door, surrounded by loud Italian Miguel, his Colombian wife Ingrid, the waitress, Sandra, my neighbors – Italian Walter, Puerto Rican George, Colombian Eduardo, Israeli Raz, and his dog, Chico – and Andres. Ingrid played a video of “Las Mañanitas” on youtube for me – the traditional Latin American birthday song, with a little cartoon mouse in a sombrero serenading you. Sometimes I think about how I used to imagine my life when I reached this age. Like I’m so old, I’m reminiscing on the illusions of my youth. Anyway this is definitely nowhere near what I pictured, and that makes me happy.
Birthday-day, went up Montserrate with Andres, Jorge, and Ryan. Montserrate is pretty much THE tourist attraction in Bogotá – church on top of a mountain that overlooks the city. We took a small train up, but they say if you hike it, you get absolved of all your sins. Amen. Anyway at the top, besides the rather generic little church, there’s an amazing view of the city and tons of vendors selling really typical Colombian food and beverages. We lunched on ajiaco, arepas, mazorca, canelazo, and coca tea. After one last look down the mountain, we descended, took a walk around downtown to check out some other landmarks (Presidential Residence, Casa de Monedas, Plaza Bolivar, etc.), and went for dinner and drinks. Aaaand just to make the good times last, we rounded it all off with dinner again the following night at Andres DC, a restaurant/club that reigns as the favorite celebration spot in the city for twenty-somethings. Since I arrived, there has been some kind of party at Andres at least once every weekend. Never a bad choice.
And so time flies!
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Well, that's new to me.
I have a secret admirer. Twice now I’ve found mysterious little gifts attached to my door – a flower crafted out of wire, and a heart-shaped balloon. Of all the unexpected occurrences that I could potentially encounter in this country, this would happen. Kind of fun though. I suspect the neighbor boy across the hall. We hung out a bit the weekend before last – Saturday night, went to a spot down the street to hear a band play costeña music and spy on the U.S. ambassador, who was there attempting to soak in a little culture incognito. And Sunday morning we went to the Gold Museum, which was surprisingly more interesting than I expected. But I believe now this boy is smitten. Or the real culprit is still out there…
More importantly, that Sunday I also attended an event as part of my internship, a concert supporting a group of men who are going through some complicated, and completely unjust, court procedures. All for organizing a workers’ strike two years ago – something they have every right to do. Even more alarmingly, for their leadership role in the strike, these men and their families have been the target of some serious intimidation tactics, even threats on their lives. This is not uncommon. Labor rights are a huge issue in this country. For example, out of 101 unionists murdered last year worldwide, 48 were Colombian. So almost half. Often because they choose to exercise rights that we in the States take for granted.
After the event Sunday, one of my duties was to write a short blog post about the event for Witness’s website, which you can read HERE, the first entry for October. Other duties lately: making speakers’ tour promotional videos, translating, and accompanying another event this past weekend (I’ll elaborate on this in the next post).
Back home in hostelworld, I pass the evenings with my neighbors and occasionally get to witness happy travelers making memories. The other night, for example, I came across Miguel in the restaurant, having a few beers after hours with some guys from the neighborhood. I joined, and eventually a few backpackers wandered in – a Brazilian and a Canadian who wanted food but settled for the wine that Miguel offered. More time goes by. Miguel is being loud and dancing. My other neighbors egg him on. The Israeli guy from across the street comes in, Hebrew-speaking black lab always in tow. A bum outside passes by the open door with his cart and stops, a huge teeth-baring smile plastered on his face, eyes glazed over. Miguel calls out to him, the guy keeps smiling brainlessly, Miguel praises him as the happiest man he knows, then blasts the music and goes on singing in Portuguese. It wouldn’t have been that noteworthy of a night, except what I really liked was watching how much the backpackers were enjoying the whole scene. They absolutely loved it. “Life is so random,” the girl says, and it’s fun because I know that feeling when you just stumble upon the unexpected. And when a situation so normal to some people, seems so extraordinary to someone else.
Some other ordinary things that are new to me: Using the Transmilenio, the city’s mass transit system, which is highly confusing and obnoxious in my opinion. But a challenge. Also, foods like arepas – corn patties grilled and usually filled with cheese or meat, or just loaded with butter and salt, and chicha – traditional indigenous fermented corn drink, really sweet and somehow delicious, unlike the Mexican counterpart (pulque) which I hated. I also drink a lot of tinto – black coffee, served in tiny, tiny little cups.
I could go on. But long story short, there’s plenty to discover in Bogotá.
More importantly, that Sunday I also attended an event as part of my internship, a concert supporting a group of men who are going through some complicated, and completely unjust, court procedures. All for organizing a workers’ strike two years ago – something they have every right to do. Even more alarmingly, for their leadership role in the strike, these men and their families have been the target of some serious intimidation tactics, even threats on their lives. This is not uncommon. Labor rights are a huge issue in this country. For example, out of 101 unionists murdered last year worldwide, 48 were Colombian. So almost half. Often because they choose to exercise rights that we in the States take for granted.
After the event Sunday, one of my duties was to write a short blog post about the event for Witness’s website, which you can read HERE, the first entry for October. Other duties lately: making speakers’ tour promotional videos, translating, and accompanying another event this past weekend (I’ll elaborate on this in the next post).
Back home in hostelworld, I pass the evenings with my neighbors and occasionally get to witness happy travelers making memories. The other night, for example, I came across Miguel in the restaurant, having a few beers after hours with some guys from the neighborhood. I joined, and eventually a few backpackers wandered in – a Brazilian and a Canadian who wanted food but settled for the wine that Miguel offered. More time goes by. Miguel is being loud and dancing. My other neighbors egg him on. The Israeli guy from across the street comes in, Hebrew-speaking black lab always in tow. A bum outside passes by the open door with his cart and stops, a huge teeth-baring smile plastered on his face, eyes glazed over. Miguel calls out to him, the guy keeps smiling brainlessly, Miguel praises him as the happiest man he knows, then blasts the music and goes on singing in Portuguese. It wouldn’t have been that noteworthy of a night, except what I really liked was watching how much the backpackers were enjoying the whole scene. They absolutely loved it. “Life is so random,” the girl says, and it’s fun because I know that feeling when you just stumble upon the unexpected. And when a situation so normal to some people, seems so extraordinary to someone else.
Some other ordinary things that are new to me: Using the Transmilenio, the city’s mass transit system, which is highly confusing and obnoxious in my opinion. But a challenge. Also, foods like arepas – corn patties grilled and usually filled with cheese or meat, or just loaded with butter and salt, and chicha – traditional indigenous fermented corn drink, really sweet and somehow delicious, unlike the Mexican counterpart (pulque) which I hated. I also drink a lot of tinto – black coffee, served in tiny, tiny little cups.
I could go on. But long story short, there’s plenty to discover in Bogotá.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Colombia: the Final Chapter (this year)
I’ve hit the final destination. Until December, I’m renting a room in Bogotá’s historic, colorful, charming yet dirty downtown center, in a neighborhood called La Candelaria. A long hallway connects my room to five others, occupied by one Italian DJ, two Colombian EMTs, and two other girls I have yet to properly meet. With the bunch of them, plus the owner, Blanca, who lives behind us, and another Italian, Miguel, who runs the adjoining restaurant (complete with secret door that connects to our hallway), there is always activity happening, and always music blasting. When my room starts to feel too small, I sneak into the restaurant to hang out with Miguel – the most stereotypical Italian I’ve ever met with his LOUD voice and over-expressive gestures – and his two waitresses. Hopefully picking up some cooking tricks.
I try to avoid spending too much time in my room, because I’m getting what I pay for, which is not much. Since I’ve been to Bogotá before, I’ve already hit some main attractions during past visits – the Plaza Bolivar, for example, and the Botero Museum (both great). Besides tourist stuff, though, just walking around the city makes for a decently entertaining afternoon, especially in my neighborhood. La Candelaria is backpacker central, overflowing with hostels and all their supplementary perks: restaurants, bars, internet cafes, laundry services, etc. This works to my advantage because I have everything I need at my fingertips, and there’s never a shortage of random foreigners to talk to. Unfortunately there’s also no shortage of pickpockets ready to target careless travelers. But I’m not terribly worried.
So far, the best moment hostelworld has yielded happened last Friday night, my second night in town. After the bars shut down, I ended up in a hostel down the street with two Irish backpackers and a Colombian ex-helicopter-pilot-turned-musician. Picture: Four people in a tiny cell of a room. Colombian guy singing and playing guitar, Irish guy joining in on his little Irish flute, both of them improvising, working out the music together as they went. Irish girl and me swaying, humming, singing along to the songs we knew, trying to learn the ones we didn’t. I don’t expect I’ll ever again hear a traditional Irish flute accompany an acoustic ballad sung in Spanish.
This past week, I also got to reunite with a few Colombian friends who used to study with me in DC. One of them took me with her parents to a park outside the city called Panaca – like a glorified farm, where you can see pig races, horse shows, etc, and pet the animals, or even just sit and enjoy the gorgeous mountain view. This is where I got my first taste of panela, made of dehydrated sugar cane juice and used in teas and other sweet dishes, especially in different corn and/or dairy combos. I’m seeing that food-wise, where most Mexicans would use chili, Colombians often use either sugar or butter. Score one, Colombia.
And finally, to bring some productivity to the scene, last Wednesday I started my internship with Witness for Peace. In brief, Witness works on social justice issues in Latin American countries, specifically with relation to U.S. foreign policy. In Colombia, this includes a wide variety of complicated problems that I could spend days explaining. My first day of work alone included a meeting with RECALCA – a coalition of NGOs working against free trade agreements in Colombia, and a second meeting with a woman named Daira who was forcibly displaced from her home in the southwest of the country, and who is about to travel with Witness on a speaker’s tour in the States. She was outstanding.
All together, a good start to what will hopefully be a great experience. I’m excited to see what unfolds!
I try to avoid spending too much time in my room, because I’m getting what I pay for, which is not much. Since I’ve been to Bogotá before, I’ve already hit some main attractions during past visits – the Plaza Bolivar, for example, and the Botero Museum (both great). Besides tourist stuff, though, just walking around the city makes for a decently entertaining afternoon, especially in my neighborhood. La Candelaria is backpacker central, overflowing with hostels and all their supplementary perks: restaurants, bars, internet cafes, laundry services, etc. This works to my advantage because I have everything I need at my fingertips, and there’s never a shortage of random foreigners to talk to. Unfortunately there’s also no shortage of pickpockets ready to target careless travelers. But I’m not terribly worried.
So far, the best moment hostelworld has yielded happened last Friday night, my second night in town. After the bars shut down, I ended up in a hostel down the street with two Irish backpackers and a Colombian ex-helicopter-pilot-turned-musician. Picture: Four people in a tiny cell of a room. Colombian guy singing and playing guitar, Irish guy joining in on his little Irish flute, both of them improvising, working out the music together as they went. Irish girl and me swaying, humming, singing along to the songs we knew, trying to learn the ones we didn’t. I don’t expect I’ll ever again hear a traditional Irish flute accompany an acoustic ballad sung in Spanish.
This past week, I also got to reunite with a few Colombian friends who used to study with me in DC. One of them took me with her parents to a park outside the city called Panaca – like a glorified farm, where you can see pig races, horse shows, etc, and pet the animals, or even just sit and enjoy the gorgeous mountain view. This is where I got my first taste of panela, made of dehydrated sugar cane juice and used in teas and other sweet dishes, especially in different corn and/or dairy combos. I’m seeing that food-wise, where most Mexicans would use chili, Colombians often use either sugar or butter. Score one, Colombia.
And finally, to bring some productivity to the scene, last Wednesday I started my internship with Witness for Peace. In brief, Witness works on social justice issues in Latin American countries, specifically with relation to U.S. foreign policy. In Colombia, this includes a wide variety of complicated problems that I could spend days explaining. My first day of work alone included a meeting with RECALCA – a coalition of NGOs working against free trade agreements in Colombia, and a second meeting with a woman named Daira who was forcibly displaced from her home in the southwest of the country, and who is about to travel with Witness on a speaker’s tour in the States. She was outstanding.
All together, a good start to what will hopefully be a great experience. I’m excited to see what unfolds!
Monday, September 27, 2010
Mexico Wrap-Up
As of last Thursday night, I’ve officially settled into my new spot in Bogotá. Before the switch, though, I had to make sure I explored all of Mexico City’s previously untouched essentials.
Independence Day passed more calmly than I expected. I went with some friends to the parade downtown – a super impressive show of absolutely all that is Mexico, including cactus leaves, raspadas, and other foods, at least ten types of dance, flags, toys, historical figures, Aztec symbols, Spanish colonialists, and on and on. Lunch along the parade route was an appropriately patriotic chile en nogada.
From the parade, we moved on to a party, a very family-oriented “Noche Mexicana” where we ate the traditional independence meal of pozole and watched the president give the “grito” (“shout” or “yell”) on TV: standing on the balcony of the Palacio Nacional the man rings a bell (same site where independence was originally declared, in the same manner) and yells several “Vivas” something like this… President Calderon: Viva la Republica!, Crowd: VIVA!, Pres: VIVA MEXICO!, Crowd: VIVA! Meanwhile the family gathered around the TV at this party was making fun of the first lady’s clothes. Apparently both she and Calderon are widely disliked. After the grito we blew horns and shot off fireworks, and the TV showed a really fantastic light show and fireworks display happening downtown, which several of my friends criticized for the fact that it cost so many millions of dollars. But it did look cool.
That September 15th was only day one of the race to see it all. Like I mentioned, I made an early dent in sightseeing, with the pyramids and Bellas Artes, etc. Since then, I’ve hit tons more:
Museo Nacional de Antrolopología – extensive display of artifacts from all of Mexico’s indigenous cultures. Most important part of course is the Mexica (Aztec) room.
Condesa/Zona Rosa – neighborhood inspired by French culture. Popular for yuppie bohemian types, so naturally I enjoyed it. Went here for hookah and hummus, and OMG I forgot how much I love hummus.
Templo Mayor (Main Temple) – ruins, supposed site of the Aztec’s founding of the capital, right in the middle of the city even today. Hard to imagine what it would have really looked like, but so cool to see, especially knowing that excavation of the site only began about 40 years ago. Before that, no one knew it was hidden under the modern city.
Xochimilco – weird area in the south of the city where you can rent trajineros (large, long, colorful boats) to take you for a ride down some old canals. A really popular place to drink during the day and/or have a family outing. Each trajinero is named after a girl – there were no ANDREA ones though, but we made the boatman change the sign just for me. There are also mariachi boats that you can pay to ride along side your own and play for you. Funny little place, all in all.
Palacio Nacional – finally went inside, to see several more Diego Rivera murals, some government chambers, and a special bicentennial exhibition. Worth it.
Castillo de Chapultepec/Museo Nacional de Historia – site of a battle during the war with the U.S. in the 1800s and the famous story of the Niños Heroes, also used to be a living space for dictator Porfirio Diaz. Best part – tons of Siqueiros murals (I like him better than Rivera). From the patios you also get a fabulous view of the city, and I went on a photo rampage. This, I think, was my favorite attraction within Mexico City. Plus, you have to walk through a bit of the Parque de Chapultepec to get to it – a pretty little bonus.
Besides cramming in a billion tourist attractions, I spent my last week in Mexico with friends, revisiting Coyoacán several times (favorite bar, still: La Bipo), getting my last dose of mariachi music, and still trying and failing to like mezcal. I never expected to be so happy in Mexico, or so sad to leave.
What I found there, above all, were the most genuinely open and generous people I’ve ever encountered. I really was told that their casa was my casa, wherever I went, by perfect strangers. And they meant it. It did take awhile for me to adjust to their pace of life; mainly, nothing happening on time, ever. At first, I couldn’t stand it, but I grew to appreciate the subconscious Mexican belief that, as Lonely Planet puts it, “few things are worth rushing for.” Meanwhile I got to know a totally distinct culture, one that people are really, really proud of, and I also had the privilege of seeing how they see their country’s challenges – they’re very aware, and very openly critical.
Most importantly, as someone from the U.S., knowing how we view Mexico, my eyes were totally opened to the way they look at us, and at our countries’ relationship. The news coverage I saw – of immigration, narco-trafficking, the war in Iraq, etc – was clearly different from what we see in the States. And I can’t even begin to count how many times I was asked for my opinion on Arizona’s immigration law. The answer was always, I hate it, it’s racist, etc, but I was surprised to get a variety of responses back from my Mexican friends. On immigration in general, I heard everything from “They [the Americans] treat us like animals” and Angela’s story of a cousin who got his finger cut off by migration authorities, to “Well, I understand… For example, if Mexico had as many Chinese people as there are Mexicans in the U.S., I would be upset too.” No matter what, though, it was a central conversation topic, one that I hope keeps its momentum in the U.S. as well.
Anyway, my conclusion is that it would do us all good if more people got a taste of Mexico, a real one. Not just a few news clippings and a viewing of Y tu mamá también. Not even twelve college credit hours. You have to live things to really understand them. Six weeks ago, I would have said Mexico wasn’t really my style. Now with just a few days away, I find myself terribly craving the place, pondering when I can go back.
Independence Day passed more calmly than I expected. I went with some friends to the parade downtown – a super impressive show of absolutely all that is Mexico, including cactus leaves, raspadas, and other foods, at least ten types of dance, flags, toys, historical figures, Aztec symbols, Spanish colonialists, and on and on. Lunch along the parade route was an appropriately patriotic chile en nogada.
From the parade, we moved on to a party, a very family-oriented “Noche Mexicana” where we ate the traditional independence meal of pozole and watched the president give the “grito” (“shout” or “yell”) on TV: standing on the balcony of the Palacio Nacional the man rings a bell (same site where independence was originally declared, in the same manner) and yells several “Vivas” something like this… President Calderon: Viva la Republica!, Crowd: VIVA!, Pres: VIVA MEXICO!, Crowd: VIVA! Meanwhile the family gathered around the TV at this party was making fun of the first lady’s clothes. Apparently both she and Calderon are widely disliked. After the grito we blew horns and shot off fireworks, and the TV showed a really fantastic light show and fireworks display happening downtown, which several of my friends criticized for the fact that it cost so many millions of dollars. But it did look cool.
That September 15th was only day one of the race to see it all. Like I mentioned, I made an early dent in sightseeing, with the pyramids and Bellas Artes, etc. Since then, I’ve hit tons more:
Museo Nacional de Antrolopología – extensive display of artifacts from all of Mexico’s indigenous cultures. Most important part of course is the Mexica (Aztec) room.
Condesa/Zona Rosa – neighborhood inspired by French culture. Popular for yuppie bohemian types, so naturally I enjoyed it. Went here for hookah and hummus, and OMG I forgot how much I love hummus.
Templo Mayor (Main Temple) – ruins, supposed site of the Aztec’s founding of the capital, right in the middle of the city even today. Hard to imagine what it would have really looked like, but so cool to see, especially knowing that excavation of the site only began about 40 years ago. Before that, no one knew it was hidden under the modern city.
Xochimilco – weird area in the south of the city where you can rent trajineros (large, long, colorful boats) to take you for a ride down some old canals. A really popular place to drink during the day and/or have a family outing. Each trajinero is named after a girl – there were no ANDREA ones though, but we made the boatman change the sign just for me. There are also mariachi boats that you can pay to ride along side your own and play for you. Funny little place, all in all.
Palacio Nacional – finally went inside, to see several more Diego Rivera murals, some government chambers, and a special bicentennial exhibition. Worth it.
Castillo de Chapultepec/Museo Nacional de Historia – site of a battle during the war with the U.S. in the 1800s and the famous story of the Niños Heroes, also used to be a living space for dictator Porfirio Diaz. Best part – tons of Siqueiros murals (I like him better than Rivera). From the patios you also get a fabulous view of the city, and I went on a photo rampage. This, I think, was my favorite attraction within Mexico City. Plus, you have to walk through a bit of the Parque de Chapultepec to get to it – a pretty little bonus.
Besides cramming in a billion tourist attractions, I spent my last week in Mexico with friends, revisiting Coyoacán several times (favorite bar, still: La Bipo), getting my last dose of mariachi music, and still trying and failing to like mezcal. I never expected to be so happy in Mexico, or so sad to leave.
What I found there, above all, were the most genuinely open and generous people I’ve ever encountered. I really was told that their casa was my casa, wherever I went, by perfect strangers. And they meant it. It did take awhile for me to adjust to their pace of life; mainly, nothing happening on time, ever. At first, I couldn’t stand it, but I grew to appreciate the subconscious Mexican belief that, as Lonely Planet puts it, “few things are worth rushing for.” Meanwhile I got to know a totally distinct culture, one that people are really, really proud of, and I also had the privilege of seeing how they see their country’s challenges – they’re very aware, and very openly critical.
Most importantly, as someone from the U.S., knowing how we view Mexico, my eyes were totally opened to the way they look at us, and at our countries’ relationship. The news coverage I saw – of immigration, narco-trafficking, the war in Iraq, etc – was clearly different from what we see in the States. And I can’t even begin to count how many times I was asked for my opinion on Arizona’s immigration law. The answer was always, I hate it, it’s racist, etc, but I was surprised to get a variety of responses back from my Mexican friends. On immigration in general, I heard everything from “They [the Americans] treat us like animals” and Angela’s story of a cousin who got his finger cut off by migration authorities, to “Well, I understand… For example, if Mexico had as many Chinese people as there are Mexicans in the U.S., I would be upset too.” No matter what, though, it was a central conversation topic, one that I hope keeps its momentum in the U.S. as well.
Anyway, my conclusion is that it would do us all good if more people got a taste of Mexico, a real one. Not just a few news clippings and a viewing of Y tu mamá también. Not even twelve college credit hours. You have to live things to really understand them. Six weeks ago, I would have said Mexico wasn’t really my style. Now with just a few days away, I find myself terribly craving the place, pondering when I can go back.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Getaways!
Time is flying. The past dozen weekdays have been occupied by my last days of teaching, capped off with a pizza/potluck party I helped put together for the students. With that experience ending, I have nothing but good things to say about the English school, but it was not my favorite part of Mexico. Not surprisingly, I enjoy my weekends much more, particularly my weekend getaways.
Two weeks ago I visited Queretaro, a smaller city about three hours away, where half of Blanca’s family lives. Known as one of the cleanest and safest places in the country, the town is a favorite for tourists and better-off Mexican families. I could have stayed for weeks. Favorite activity: strolling the downtown center – a web of narrow streets, old colonial houses and little plazas dotted with artisan and snack stands. Everything right now is decorated in red, white, and green for Independence Day (not Christmas), and street performers are out in full force. Besides the centro, another essential stop was the “arcos” or centuries-old aqueducts, underneath which currently runs an annual sculpture display of alebrijes – traditional imaginary monsters usually in the form of some brightly-colored animal combo, like dragon/fish/insect. After a lovely tour, we (me, Blanca, Mario and Andres – same two friends from our pyramids excursion) hit a few cantinas and ended our Saturday night with tequila and dancing in the bigger, more modern version of them all, La Cantinita. Loved every minute.
Weekend vaycay numero dos took me to Acapulco with the same three friends, plus seven others. We stayed in a gorgeous yet slightly run-down and shockingly cheap multi-level house overlooking the bay and the mountains beyond. Two pools, four balconies, and a 10 to 15 minute drive from the beach. At pretty much every waking hour (and every hour was a waking hour) we could be found swimming, drinking, or eating seafood. Often all three at once.
Friday night we went out to one of the more popular clubs, Paladium, situated in the side of a mountain with a panoramic view of the bay, featuring open bar, bright lights, loud music, and interchanging stage dancers, including one guy painted all in silver and dressed like an Indian. They say he’s been dancing there for decades. Cool? I guess. After the club it was naturally time for more beer and swimming back at the house. And so the cycle continued into Saturday.
Saturday included a round at the beach on an island offshore, and later, several rounds of tequila pong (we ran out of beer) which I helped organize and then lost, miserably. But with dignity =) We relished the sight of the sunset, dined on hot dogs and ramen, pumped the music a little louder, and somehow found ourselves in the pool on Sunday afternoon, counting down the hours til we had to leave. No one wanted that moment to come. But here we are, back in the DF.
A note on security: I have yet to feel unsafe in Mexico. However, I receive a number of frequent reminders that the situation here is constantly stirring. In Acapulco, for example, one friend was warned that it was not safe for us to stay out past 2 a.m., because tourists have been much more frequently targeted here than before. My friends were actually shocked to here such advice – they told me Acapulco is to them what New Orleans or Vegas might be to me, a place where people go to go crazy, to wander the streets at all hours and leave their senses behind. But now, it seems to be less so. In Mexico City too, I’ve heard rumors of a peace pact between narcotraffickers – no gang violence allowed in the city, so druglords can come here to live happily and peacefully (their own weekend getaway?). Some people say the pact might have been broken. Others say alternative groups – mad at the government for not doing more to fight the narcos – are planning some type of revolutionary act for Independence Day. While these are all rumors, the solid truth is that narcotrafficking, and its subsequent violence, is a penetrating reality here. Alfonso Jr. told me he always knows the narcos that come into his restaurant by the way they dress. It’s very distinct and actually pretty comical if you forget the drugs and death thing.
Anyway, not to alarm anyone. In Mexico City at least, the rule applies that if you stay away from the wrong people, they won’t come knocking on your door either. There’s little reason to worry.
To end on an up note, Independence Day is tomorrow. I’m ready to rock my red, white, and green, and dive into the celebration. Can’t wait!
Two weeks ago I visited Queretaro, a smaller city about three hours away, where half of Blanca’s family lives. Known as one of the cleanest and safest places in the country, the town is a favorite for tourists and better-off Mexican families. I could have stayed for weeks. Favorite activity: strolling the downtown center – a web of narrow streets, old colonial houses and little plazas dotted with artisan and snack stands. Everything right now is decorated in red, white, and green for Independence Day (not Christmas), and street performers are out in full force. Besides the centro, another essential stop was the “arcos” or centuries-old aqueducts, underneath which currently runs an annual sculpture display of alebrijes – traditional imaginary monsters usually in the form of some brightly-colored animal combo, like dragon/fish/insect. After a lovely tour, we (me, Blanca, Mario and Andres – same two friends from our pyramids excursion) hit a few cantinas and ended our Saturday night with tequila and dancing in the bigger, more modern version of them all, La Cantinita. Loved every minute.
Weekend vaycay numero dos took me to Acapulco with the same three friends, plus seven others. We stayed in a gorgeous yet slightly run-down and shockingly cheap multi-level house overlooking the bay and the mountains beyond. Two pools, four balconies, and a 10 to 15 minute drive from the beach. At pretty much every waking hour (and every hour was a waking hour) we could be found swimming, drinking, or eating seafood. Often all three at once.
Friday night we went out to one of the more popular clubs, Paladium, situated in the side of a mountain with a panoramic view of the bay, featuring open bar, bright lights, loud music, and interchanging stage dancers, including one guy painted all in silver and dressed like an Indian. They say he’s been dancing there for decades. Cool? I guess. After the club it was naturally time for more beer and swimming back at the house. And so the cycle continued into Saturday.
Saturday included a round at the beach on an island offshore, and later, several rounds of tequila pong (we ran out of beer) which I helped organize and then lost, miserably. But with dignity =) We relished the sight of the sunset, dined on hot dogs and ramen, pumped the music a little louder, and somehow found ourselves in the pool on Sunday afternoon, counting down the hours til we had to leave. No one wanted that moment to come. But here we are, back in the DF.
A note on security: I have yet to feel unsafe in Mexico. However, I receive a number of frequent reminders that the situation here is constantly stirring. In Acapulco, for example, one friend was warned that it was not safe for us to stay out past 2 a.m., because tourists have been much more frequently targeted here than before. My friends were actually shocked to here such advice – they told me Acapulco is to them what New Orleans or Vegas might be to me, a place where people go to go crazy, to wander the streets at all hours and leave their senses behind. But now, it seems to be less so. In Mexico City too, I’ve heard rumors of a peace pact between narcotraffickers – no gang violence allowed in the city, so druglords can come here to live happily and peacefully (their own weekend getaway?). Some people say the pact might have been broken. Others say alternative groups – mad at the government for not doing more to fight the narcos – are planning some type of revolutionary act for Independence Day. While these are all rumors, the solid truth is that narcotrafficking, and its subsequent violence, is a penetrating reality here. Alfonso Jr. told me he always knows the narcos that come into his restaurant by the way they dress. It’s very distinct and actually pretty comical if you forget the drugs and death thing.
Anyway, not to alarm anyone. In Mexico City at least, the rule applies that if you stay away from the wrong people, they won’t come knocking on your door either. There’s little reason to worry.
To end on an up note, Independence Day is tomorrow. I’m ready to rock my red, white, and green, and dive into the celebration. Can’t wait!
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Homemade Tamales and Other Satisfying Adjustments
This past weekend I reached the one-month mark in Mexico. As Saul reminds me constantly, I will never get a full taste of this country in the little time I have given it, buuut in the course of a month, certain things have ceased to confuse me.
I’m no longer startled at the sound of someone yelling at the top of their lungs or blowing a horn in the street at strange hours of the day. They are pushcart vendors, and they’re probably selling something delicious. It’s like hearing the ice cream man coming.
Rather than roll my eyes in protest or try to beat them to it, I wait for guys to open my car door, and I expect them to walk down the sidewalk between me and the street. What’s more, I’ve found I actually like it. The tiny I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, need-to-assert-myself impulse I used to feel in these situations is gone. I’m happily soaking up chivalry.
I know the order of stops on the pesero bus, and on my nearest line of the metro. I know to tip waiters but not cab drivers. I know the most common slang words and gestures, and cuss words. I know where they make the best agua de horchata, my current guilty pleasure of choice. I know what NOT to eat, even if everyone around me can stomach it. I know what hours of the night I can catch a bus, and when I will be shit out of luck. (Luckily I did not learn this the hard way.)
And I can give basic instructions on concepts that were once totally foreign. For example, how to make tamales oaxaqueños. Enjoy!
Step 1: Slap a handful of maza onto a banana leaf (or in other cases, boiled corn husk) and flatten into a patty.
Step 2: Add a large spoonful of salsa verde - made of green tomatoes, chiles, and love... or something like that. Sometimes the sauce is red, but everyone prefers green.
Step #: Add chicken, bone and all. It didn't look like she cooked the meat beforehand, but some online recipes say you should. Sergio tells me pre-cooking is optional with chicken, but not with other meats.
Step #: Fold.
Step #: Steam for about an hour, and they'll be ready to serve!
I’m no longer startled at the sound of someone yelling at the top of their lungs or blowing a horn in the street at strange hours of the day. They are pushcart vendors, and they’re probably selling something delicious. It’s like hearing the ice cream man coming.
Rather than roll my eyes in protest or try to beat them to it, I wait for guys to open my car door, and I expect them to walk down the sidewalk between me and the street. What’s more, I’ve found I actually like it. The tiny I-am-woman-hear-me-roar, need-to-assert-myself impulse I used to feel in these situations is gone. I’m happily soaking up chivalry.
I know the order of stops on the pesero bus, and on my nearest line of the metro. I know to tip waiters but not cab drivers. I know the most common slang words and gestures, and cuss words. I know where they make the best agua de horchata, my current guilty pleasure of choice. I know what NOT to eat, even if everyone around me can stomach it. I know what hours of the night I can catch a bus, and when I will be shit out of luck. (Luckily I did not learn this the hard way.)
And I can give basic instructions on concepts that were once totally foreign. For example, how to make tamales oaxaqueños. Enjoy!
Step 1: Slap a handful of maza onto a banana leaf (or in other cases, boiled corn husk) and flatten into a patty.
Step 2: Add a large spoonful of salsa verde - made of green tomatoes, chiles, and love... or something like that. Sometimes the sauce is red, but everyone prefers green.
Step #: Add chicken, bone and all. It didn't look like she cooked the meat beforehand, but some online recipes say you should. Sergio tells me pre-cooking is optional with chicken, but not with other meats.
Step #: Fold.
Step #: Steam for about an hour, and they'll be ready to serve!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
My tour guide tag team
As I write this, it is Tuesday night, and our electricity is out. Again. It happens. As Nancy says, the house looks like a church with so many candles spread around. Yucari is running in and out of my room showing off her latest treasure – a shiny new Winnie the Pooh balloon – while her parents dine on the tamales Angela and Rocio made earlier today, from scratch as usual. So delicious.
Anyway, I wanted to get into the small but significant dent I’ve made in sightseeing over the past four weeks here. This far from the city’s center, my location is the opposite of convenient, but I have gained a few tour guides by living here. Last week, Rocio took me to Zócalo, the city’s center ever since the Aztec empire. It’s currently all decked out in preparation for the Bicentennial Independence Day celebration, coming in two weeks. On one side is the Palacio Nacional, one is the Catedral Metropolitana, and the others are government buildings. The nearby streets form a huge maze of shops, our real reason for going. We browsed the craft stores and gift shops, and Chio made me try papas adobadas – potato chips coated with what else? Chili powder, and nacho cheese. Not bad.
A few days later, Chio turned over tour guide duty to Sergio, who showed me around UNAM, the biggest and best university in Mexico, considered a landmark of national pride. We mainly went to check out the campus’s botanical garden and sculpture park, both beautiful and impressive. Besides some really large works of art, the sculpture park was heavily scattered with students taking advantage of the space to get together and start their weekends early.
As for my weekend, I checked the next sight off the list when Saul decided to kidnap me for another country excursion. We went to the Sierra de Ajusco, some small mountains about a fifteen-minute drive from our house. The woods there were almost all pine and would have made a great campground, but Saul told me camping isn’t the most common of pastimes in Mexico. We climbed a mountain, all the way to the summit, which was marked by a cross. Not much of a view, but a good accomplishment for the day.
Got back from the woods in time to go to a party with Blanca, had a great time and got limited sleep, as I had planned to get up early Sunday to visit the Teotihuacán Pyramids, an essential tourist stop about an hour outside the city. Since I’d crashed at Blanca’s, she assumed chauffeur/guide position, along with two of her friends. Armed with a giant water bottle to clear the last remnants of hangover, we arrived at the pyramids around noon. Entrance is free on Sunday for Mexicans only, so of course I tried to get by as a national, but the gatekeeper totally pegged me as a gringa, and Blanca gave up the act. Just when I start to think I’m not that obvious.
Teotihuacán dates back to Mexico’s pre-Aztec inhabitants. Once inside, we walked the Calzada de los Muertos (Avenue of the Dead), today lined with vendors selling clay whistles that sound like eagles and jaguars. We met up with my host family at the Pyramid of the Moon and hung out for a while, but parted ways again so we could climb the larger Pyramid of the Sun. At the top, people raise their arms to the sky, or take turns touching the pyramid’s highest center point, to take in the site’s supposed spiritual energy. Meanwhile we took our time to enjoy the beautiful weather, the view of the ancient city grounds in the distance, and the less-than-skillful orchestra of children blowing clay whistles.
Rather than end the day with Teotihuacán, we made our way to Coyoacán, a neighborhood that Blanca explained was once a vacation spot outside the city, but later got swallowed up into it. Love urban sprawl. The place retained its charm, though: cute, colorful houses, a pleasant little square full of well-tended greenery, a craft market, and lots of cantinas and street food. We wandered the streets, gradually eating and drinking our way through. I had already tried pulque – alcoholic beverage made of fermented fruit, gross! – from a stand near the pyramids, and added mexcal – “like tequila but stronger” – to the list of nasty Mexican alcohol that I’d rather not consume again. The food, however, more than made up for it, not to mention the company. I couldn’t have asked for a better Sunday.
When no one’s around, I become my own tour guide. I’ve made it to a few museums – the Palacio de Bellas Artes (Fine Arts Palace) and the Diego Rivera Mural Museum. The main features of both are huge murals by Rivera, which I can easily sit and lose myself in. The other artists’ works in both places, also wonderful. I wanted to take more photos than I was allowed.
Anyway, like I said, these are not even half of the sights I’ve yet to explore here, but I’m more than happy with how far I’ve come, and super grateful to everyone who’s shown me around.
Anyway, I wanted to get into the small but significant dent I’ve made in sightseeing over the past four weeks here. This far from the city’s center, my location is the opposite of convenient, but I have gained a few tour guides by living here. Last week, Rocio took me to Zócalo, the city’s center ever since the Aztec empire. It’s currently all decked out in preparation for the Bicentennial Independence Day celebration, coming in two weeks. On one side is the Palacio Nacional, one is the Catedral Metropolitana, and the others are government buildings. The nearby streets form a huge maze of shops, our real reason for going. We browsed the craft stores and gift shops, and Chio made me try papas adobadas – potato chips coated with what else? Chili powder, and nacho cheese. Not bad.
A few days later, Chio turned over tour guide duty to Sergio, who showed me around UNAM, the biggest and best university in Mexico, considered a landmark of national pride. We mainly went to check out the campus’s botanical garden and sculpture park, both beautiful and impressive. Besides some really large works of art, the sculpture park was heavily scattered with students taking advantage of the space to get together and start their weekends early.
As for my weekend, I checked the next sight off the list when Saul decided to kidnap me for another country excursion. We went to the Sierra de Ajusco, some small mountains about a fifteen-minute drive from our house. The woods there were almost all pine and would have made a great campground, but Saul told me camping isn’t the most common of pastimes in Mexico. We climbed a mountain, all the way to the summit, which was marked by a cross. Not much of a view, but a good accomplishment for the day.
Got back from the woods in time to go to a party with Blanca, had a great time and got limited sleep, as I had planned to get up early Sunday to visit the Teotihuacán Pyramids, an essential tourist stop about an hour outside the city. Since I’d crashed at Blanca’s, she assumed chauffeur/guide position, along with two of her friends. Armed with a giant water bottle to clear the last remnants of hangover, we arrived at the pyramids around noon. Entrance is free on Sunday for Mexicans only, so of course I tried to get by as a national, but the gatekeeper totally pegged me as a gringa, and Blanca gave up the act. Just when I start to think I’m not that obvious.
Teotihuacán dates back to Mexico’s pre-Aztec inhabitants. Once inside, we walked the Calzada de los Muertos (Avenue of the Dead), today lined with vendors selling clay whistles that sound like eagles and jaguars. We met up with my host family at the Pyramid of the Moon and hung out for a while, but parted ways again so we could climb the larger Pyramid of the Sun. At the top, people raise their arms to the sky, or take turns touching the pyramid’s highest center point, to take in the site’s supposed spiritual energy. Meanwhile we took our time to enjoy the beautiful weather, the view of the ancient city grounds in the distance, and the less-than-skillful orchestra of children blowing clay whistles.
Rather than end the day with Teotihuacán, we made our way to Coyoacán, a neighborhood that Blanca explained was once a vacation spot outside the city, but later got swallowed up into it. Love urban sprawl. The place retained its charm, though: cute, colorful houses, a pleasant little square full of well-tended greenery, a craft market, and lots of cantinas and street food. We wandered the streets, gradually eating and drinking our way through. I had already tried pulque – alcoholic beverage made of fermented fruit, gross! – from a stand near the pyramids, and added mexcal – “like tequila but stronger” – to the list of nasty Mexican alcohol that I’d rather not consume again. The food, however, more than made up for it, not to mention the company. I couldn’t have asked for a better Sunday.
When no one’s around, I become my own tour guide. I’ve made it to a few museums – the Palacio de Bellas Artes (Fine Arts Palace) and the Diego Rivera Mural Museum. The main features of both are huge murals by Rivera, which I can easily sit and lose myself in. The other artists’ works in both places, also wonderful. I wanted to take more photos than I was allowed.
Anyway, like I said, these are not even half of the sights I’ve yet to explore here, but I’m more than happy with how far I’ve come, and super grateful to everyone who’s shown me around.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Normalcy
To begin, one of my favorite stories of the week: Who would have thought that I would have my first run-in with the Mexican cops, not for doing something stupid, but for doing volunteer work? Last week I went with the English school’s director, Justina, and one of our students, Sergio, to post flyers around the neighborhood advertising the school. Lo and behold, the cops stopped us and told us we couldn't post things on lampposts because they were government property, even though every lamppost is like, top to bottom covered in flyers so it's obviously something people do all the time and don't get in trouble for. You would think this level of infraction wouldn’t be a big deal and we could get away with a sincere “I’m sorry sir, we didn’t know,” but the cop was ready to take us into the station. Justina, who is Canadian, and I were completely lost for words, but luckily Sergio knew how to negotiate and we ended up paying the guy 80 pesos, like US$7.50ish, to let us go. I couldn’t believe it. I knew coming in that it’s totally normal here to pay off the cops like that, but I never thought that I would have to do it.
In addition to unjust near-arrest experiences, other aspects of life have become relatively normal. I work about 15 hours a week, teaching 3 classes a week, plus five one-on-one tutoring sessions, all Monday through Weds. One class is the kids/beginners class – about eight kids, ages 6 to 15, average like 11. They never study and they’re hyperactive, but they at least stay in their seats for maybe 40 minutes at a time. Then twice a week is the young adults/intermediate class, only three students, in their twenties. This I love because it’s more like hanging out than giving class. Three quarters of the time we actually go through the textbook, and the rest we’re just chatting, or watching youtube videos, or Sergio is giving me a spontaneous cumbia lesson. My job is tough.
Mornings and evenings at home feel sometimes like living in a miniature college dorm, when Rocio (Chio, everyone calls her) and Saul and I sit around our little common room, eating and watching movies. We’re all still close enough to being university students that it fits, until the mood is broken by Angela bustling around cleaning, or little Yucari bursting through the door with one of her parents, lollipop in hand and plastic tiara on upside-down. Then it’s less like a dorm, more like a live episode of Full House: Mexico City. Only instead of cheesy life lessons at the end of every episode, I’m learning cultural lessons.
For example:
In Mexico, it’s normal to eat chili/hot sauce with everything. Not just tacos. Potato chips, pizza, peanuts, apples, oranges, everything gets bathed in chili, or coated with dried chili flakes. Nobody understands why I don’t find this appealing.
In Mexico, after graduation, college students still need to complete a 200 plus-page thesis to officially finish their undergraduate career. They also pay next to nothing for college.
In Mexico, it’s normal to have two weddings – a civil one and one in the church (Alfonso Jr. and Nancy have not yet had the church one). Weddings, at least in my host family, involve a really traditional exchange of goods, i.e. the groom’s parents buy the bridal gown, veil, and jewelry, etc. Bride’s parents pay for most everything else. But I guess in all countries some families are more traditional than others.
On the weekends, I get other cultural lessons hanging out with Blanca and her friends. Mainly, how to drink and dance. In Mexico, it’s normal to drink A LOT of tequila, often mixed with Squirt soda. In cocktail form, the mix is a “Paloma” (“Dove”). As a shot, it’s a “Muppet.” The two Friday nights I’ve spent in the city have been filled beginning to end with Palomas and Muppets, after a few of which Blanca forces whatever male friend is standing closest to give me dance lessons (usually salsa). I enjoy it, but totally stumble through it. When the song ends, I apologize for being awful, the guy will graciously tell me I did a good job and then grab a new partner as quickly as possible. But I still think I’ve learned at least something, and it’s fun. I feel at home in this group – college-educated 20-somethings working 9-5 office jobs and partying on weekends. They even have some of the same drinking games, like Yo Nunca Nunca – Never Have I Ever. Little pieces of familiarity like that really make a difference.
So that’s my normal routine in Mexico City. Not astonishingly different from the States, but it’s always the little things that throw you for a loop.
¡Hasta luego!
In addition to unjust near-arrest experiences, other aspects of life have become relatively normal. I work about 15 hours a week, teaching 3 classes a week, plus five one-on-one tutoring sessions, all Monday through Weds. One class is the kids/beginners class – about eight kids, ages 6 to 15, average like 11. They never study and they’re hyperactive, but they at least stay in their seats for maybe 40 minutes at a time. Then twice a week is the young adults/intermediate class, only three students, in their twenties. This I love because it’s more like hanging out than giving class. Three quarters of the time we actually go through the textbook, and the rest we’re just chatting, or watching youtube videos, or Sergio is giving me a spontaneous cumbia lesson. My job is tough.
Mornings and evenings at home feel sometimes like living in a miniature college dorm, when Rocio (Chio, everyone calls her) and Saul and I sit around our little common room, eating and watching movies. We’re all still close enough to being university students that it fits, until the mood is broken by Angela bustling around cleaning, or little Yucari bursting through the door with one of her parents, lollipop in hand and plastic tiara on upside-down. Then it’s less like a dorm, more like a live episode of Full House: Mexico City. Only instead of cheesy life lessons at the end of every episode, I’m learning cultural lessons.
For example:
In Mexico, it’s normal to eat chili/hot sauce with everything. Not just tacos. Potato chips, pizza, peanuts, apples, oranges, everything gets bathed in chili, or coated with dried chili flakes. Nobody understands why I don’t find this appealing.
In Mexico, after graduation, college students still need to complete a 200 plus-page thesis to officially finish their undergraduate career. They also pay next to nothing for college.
In Mexico, it’s normal to have two weddings – a civil one and one in the church (Alfonso Jr. and Nancy have not yet had the church one). Weddings, at least in my host family, involve a really traditional exchange of goods, i.e. the groom’s parents buy the bridal gown, veil, and jewelry, etc. Bride’s parents pay for most everything else. But I guess in all countries some families are more traditional than others.
On the weekends, I get other cultural lessons hanging out with Blanca and her friends. Mainly, how to drink and dance. In Mexico, it’s normal to drink A LOT of tequila, often mixed with Squirt soda. In cocktail form, the mix is a “Paloma” (“Dove”). As a shot, it’s a “Muppet.” The two Friday nights I’ve spent in the city have been filled beginning to end with Palomas and Muppets, after a few of which Blanca forces whatever male friend is standing closest to give me dance lessons (usually salsa). I enjoy it, but totally stumble through it. When the song ends, I apologize for being awful, the guy will graciously tell me I did a good job and then grab a new partner as quickly as possible. But I still think I’ve learned at least something, and it’s fun. I feel at home in this group – college-educated 20-somethings working 9-5 office jobs and partying on weekends. They even have some of the same drinking games, like Yo Nunca Nunca – Never Have I Ever. Little pieces of familiarity like that really make a difference.
So that’s my normal routine in Mexico City. Not astonishingly different from the States, but it’s always the little things that throw you for a loop.
¡Hasta luego!
Monday, August 23, 2010
Unas fotitos
A few photos to go along with the last two posts...
At the rodeo in Ixcatepec:
Shower/bathroom/laundry and dishwashing space at Abuelita's house in Ixcatepec, plus their cat, Shita:
Tapin ruins:
After the quincenera mass, the birthday girl outside the church:
Angela, Saul, and Abuelita, drinking raspadas - really yummy shaved ice w/natural, homemade fruit syrup:
my room in Mexico City:
The patio:
Dining/living room:
At the rodeo in Ixcatepec:
Shower/bathroom/laundry and dishwashing space at Abuelita's house in Ixcatepec, plus their cat, Shita:
Tapin ruins:
After the quincenera mass, the birthday girl outside the church:
Angela, Saul, and Abuelita, drinking raspadas - really yummy shaved ice w/natural, homemade fruit syrup:
my room in Mexico City:
The patio:
Dining/living room:
Friday, August 20, 2010
In another country's country: Veracruz
So if I thought Ajusco was like a small town, I should have been better prepared for our trip to Veracruz. We left last Thursday in Saul’s janky old Ferrari – myself, Angela, Saul, and Angela’s mom/Saul’s grandma who I know only as “Abuelita.” Eight hours later, we arrived in Ixcatepec, the little country town where Angela grew up. And it was sooooo country: I woke up every morning to our rooster’s crow. The first night we arrived, we went to a rodeo (“jaripeo”) and watched eight-year-olds successfully lasso cattle. Saul’s cousins had recently killed deer heads in their fridge. Angela washed my clothes in the same river where downstream, someone else was washing his horse. Going to Veracruz, I thought I was getting a beach vacation. Instead I got the Mexican version of Grundy County, TN. But with a much prettier landscape.
Abuelita’s house, where we stayed, had two bedrooms, with an outdoor kitchen and “bathroom” complex (bathroom = outhouse + enclosed space for bathing with a bucket) and a large garden in the back full of chickens, ducks, cats, one dog, a variety of fruit trees – lime, guava, orange, mango, banana, coffee – and tons of mosquitoes. I soon came to learn that almost every house in the town sported more or less the same features, although some had flushing toilets.
We visited the homes of what seemed like all of Angela’s family members, few of which knew we were coming (Not really an option to call ahead when there’s no phone). Yet within 5 minutes of entering each house, the woman of the house would immediately produce a glass of homemade fruit juice (from the fruit in the garden) and ask if we’d like to stay for a meal (even if they themselves weren’t going to eat at the time). It’s impolite to say no. I can’t remember the last time I ate so much. The only thing I turned down was the “panza” or soup of stuffed cow stomach. Typical was enchiladas, black beans and manchego cheese, best of all was one cousin who served us venison. I also learned to make tortillas by hand (harder than it looks) and picked up a few words in Nahuatl, the traditional Huasteco (Aztec/indigenous) language, which many people in the town still speak regularly. Tlashkamati = Thank you. After lots of chatter, we would leave, always taking with us another package of some fruit or veggie our host had cut from their garden, or bread from their oven, or the extra chorizo, or whatever. Then, on to the next house, where we’d share the bounty from the first and end up with something new.
At first, the whole tour of family visits, for me, was charming and relaxing, but after hearing Angela tell the same story about her granddaughter for the gazillionth time and stuffing myself with God knows how many tortillas and glasses of fruit water, I got a little sick of it. Everyone asked me, aren’t you bored here? On the first day the answer was no, of course not. On the fifth, yes, yes I am, I like the city.
Two other exciting things did come my way. The first was the quineceñera (girl’s 15th birthday party, huge deal in Mexico) of one of Angela’s distant relatives. The celebration, like a combo bar mitzvah-wedding, started with a mass, where the birthday girl processes in in a fancy dress, followed by three male attendants about the same age, dressed to match, and her godparents. Afterwards, the day continues with a big meal, a big cake, and music/dancing that continues into the night. Favorite moment: after the meal, as our plates and trash were being cleared away and drinks refilled, Saul’s aunt whispers to her husband, look, look at your mom. We look over, and Abuelita – 74-year-old, gray-haired, big-bellied, slow-moving, raspy-voiced Abuelita – is stuffing a pile of extra tortillas into her purse. She then zips the bulging bag closed, rests it on her lap, and takes a giant swig of her Corona. I died.
Anyway, eventually the birthday girl also does a few traditional dances – one, a choreographed dance with her attendants from the mass, one with rotating family members, and one with her father, announced as “the last time she will dance with her dad,” of which I did not approve. The music, in my opinion, was also terrible. Saul taught me how to dance to it, not like a fun salsa or bachata dance, but a really really boring and easy two-step. Every song was the same step, same beat. Even more, Saul told me most celebrations there use the same music, and the same type of dancing. All in all, I’m glad I never had a quinceñera.
The second exciting event was a trip to the Tapin ruins, which to my surprise became a 2.5 hour ride, piled in the back of a truck with Saul, Angela, and like 10 more relatives. The scenery on the way there was beautiful – bright shades of green, fog-shrouded hills in the distance – and the ruins themselves were of course impressive – a huge complex of pyramids and ancient worship facilities. Besides the sights, I enjoyed the ride. Both there and back, we made several stops at roadside fruit stands and always passed the deliciousness around the back of the truck, and the littlest kids fell asleep as we drove. It was so satisfying and peaceful, my favorite day of the whole Veracruz experience.
Now, though, I am more than happy to be back in the city, where I can shower indoors and take advantage of the nightlife, and a much better music scene. The weekend starts now.
Abuelita’s house, where we stayed, had two bedrooms, with an outdoor kitchen and “bathroom” complex (bathroom = outhouse + enclosed space for bathing with a bucket) and a large garden in the back full of chickens, ducks, cats, one dog, a variety of fruit trees – lime, guava, orange, mango, banana, coffee – and tons of mosquitoes. I soon came to learn that almost every house in the town sported more or less the same features, although some had flushing toilets.
We visited the homes of what seemed like all of Angela’s family members, few of which knew we were coming (Not really an option to call ahead when there’s no phone). Yet within 5 minutes of entering each house, the woman of the house would immediately produce a glass of homemade fruit juice (from the fruit in the garden) and ask if we’d like to stay for a meal (even if they themselves weren’t going to eat at the time). It’s impolite to say no. I can’t remember the last time I ate so much. The only thing I turned down was the “panza” or soup of stuffed cow stomach. Typical was enchiladas, black beans and manchego cheese, best of all was one cousin who served us venison. I also learned to make tortillas by hand (harder than it looks) and picked up a few words in Nahuatl, the traditional Huasteco (Aztec/indigenous) language, which many people in the town still speak regularly. Tlashkamati = Thank you. After lots of chatter, we would leave, always taking with us another package of some fruit or veggie our host had cut from their garden, or bread from their oven, or the extra chorizo, or whatever. Then, on to the next house, where we’d share the bounty from the first and end up with something new.
At first, the whole tour of family visits, for me, was charming and relaxing, but after hearing Angela tell the same story about her granddaughter for the gazillionth time and stuffing myself with God knows how many tortillas and glasses of fruit water, I got a little sick of it. Everyone asked me, aren’t you bored here? On the first day the answer was no, of course not. On the fifth, yes, yes I am, I like the city.
Two other exciting things did come my way. The first was the quineceñera (girl’s 15th birthday party, huge deal in Mexico) of one of Angela’s distant relatives. The celebration, like a combo bar mitzvah-wedding, started with a mass, where the birthday girl processes in in a fancy dress, followed by three male attendants about the same age, dressed to match, and her godparents. Afterwards, the day continues with a big meal, a big cake, and music/dancing that continues into the night. Favorite moment: after the meal, as our plates and trash were being cleared away and drinks refilled, Saul’s aunt whispers to her husband, look, look at your mom. We look over, and Abuelita – 74-year-old, gray-haired, big-bellied, slow-moving, raspy-voiced Abuelita – is stuffing a pile of extra tortillas into her purse. She then zips the bulging bag closed, rests it on her lap, and takes a giant swig of her Corona. I died.
Anyway, eventually the birthday girl also does a few traditional dances – one, a choreographed dance with her attendants from the mass, one with rotating family members, and one with her father, announced as “the last time she will dance with her dad,” of which I did not approve. The music, in my opinion, was also terrible. Saul taught me how to dance to it, not like a fun salsa or bachata dance, but a really really boring and easy two-step. Every song was the same step, same beat. Even more, Saul told me most celebrations there use the same music, and the same type of dancing. All in all, I’m glad I never had a quinceñera.
The second exciting event was a trip to the Tapin ruins, which to my surprise became a 2.5 hour ride, piled in the back of a truck with Saul, Angela, and like 10 more relatives. The scenery on the way there was beautiful – bright shades of green, fog-shrouded hills in the distance – and the ruins themselves were of course impressive – a huge complex of pyramids and ancient worship facilities. Besides the sights, I enjoyed the ride. Both there and back, we made several stops at roadside fruit stands and always passed the deliciousness around the back of the truck, and the littlest kids fell asleep as we drove. It was so satisfying and peaceful, my favorite day of the whole Veracruz experience.
Now, though, I am more than happy to be back in the city, where I can shower indoors and take advantage of the nightlife, and a much better music scene. The weekend starts now.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Del otro lado (from the other side)
When she introduces me to people, my host mom always tells them that I’m “del otro lado,” meaning foreign or not from here, but literally it’s “from the other side,” which I think is actually the most appropriate way to say it.
To clarify, I came to Mexico for more or less three reasons: 1, to travel and get a feel for the country, it’s culture and language, 2, to visit my good friend and former housemate Blanca, who’s a Mexico City native, and 3, to volunteer as an English teacher through the organization AMEXTRA. So far all three are moving along nicely.
I arrived in Mexico City one week ago tonight, where I found my host mother and brother waiting for me at the airport. My nerves calmed as soon as I saw them, knowing I would be taken care of. Since then I have become a slightly odd but fairly established extension of the family.
My host family, the Benito-Martinez’s, consists of: father Don Alfonso, mother Doña Angela, sons Alfonso (Jr.) and Saul, daughter-in-law/Jr.’s wife Nancy, and granddaughter Danaí Yucari (2 years old, so cute). The house, which the family built themselves, gradually, beginning when the boys were just toddlers, is 4 levels – ground level with garage/entrance, main level where I live with the parents and where everyone congregates, upper level where Alfonso Jr., Nancy, Yucari, and now Saul live because they gave me Saul’s old room, and top level/roof/web of clotheslines and wet laundry. Behind the house on the main level are an open air “patio” – more like a courtyard – and two more small rooms where a niece, Rocio, rents one room and a non-related mother/son pair rents the other. The patio is crowded with buckets and barrels that I assume collect rain water for laundry. (The main house has running water, but I don’t think the rented rooms or the laundry machine are hooked up to it.) There is also a resident squawking green parrot, Pancha, who I find useless.
Our neighborhood is called Ajusco, situated near the southern fringes of the goliath that is Mexico City. Here we are practically in the mountains. To get to the city center where all the main tourist attractions and government buildings are, I have to first take a pesero (short bus) to the metro, which takes 45-60 min, then continue from there probably about 20 more minutes. In a car it would take maybe 40 minutes the whole trip, depending on traffic which is crazier here than almost anywhere I’ve ever seen.
Ajusco itself is like a small town bubbling out of the city. There are no chain stores, no big businesses, few stoplights. Random animals roam the streets, and many streets close on the weekends because of the market. People generally have less money than in the city, but it’s decently safe, and everyone is wonderfully friendly. My favorite moments are those when someone unexpected rings the doorbell. Angela sticks her head out the window to see who’s at the door below. Oh, a neighbor, of course, I’ll let you in… and the person comes in, has a drink, everyone sits to chat for a bit. Time passes really slowly, because everyone is always sitting around chatting, sipping apple soda.
In addition to the pace of the day, I’m adjusting to plenty of little changes. The way the toilet works – I flush it with a bucket. How to compliment Angela’s cooking – Saying “Se pica bien,” or “It’s very spicy” is a good thing. The way I’m treated by guys – They always let me enter/exit places ahead of them, or have me walk on the non-street side of the sidewalk, and often put a hand on my back to guide me. They do this I think partly because it’s how they learned to politely treat women and partly because it’s how they learned to politely treat awkward, confused foreigners. I suppress the impulse to assert my ability to walk without their help. Above all, I’m getting used to being the obvious minority – speaking broken Spanish, taller and whiter than most, with naturally light hair, and the most divergent feature of all, blue eyes. Running count of people who suddenly break a conversation to comment on my eyes: 4.
Anyway I did start teaching classes and got to see Blanca, both of which I can describe more later but I’m breaking for now. Tomorrow morning I leave early with my host family for a long weekend in Veracruz, where they are originally from. Hasta luego!
To clarify, I came to Mexico for more or less three reasons: 1, to travel and get a feel for the country, it’s culture and language, 2, to visit my good friend and former housemate Blanca, who’s a Mexico City native, and 3, to volunteer as an English teacher through the organization AMEXTRA. So far all three are moving along nicely.
I arrived in Mexico City one week ago tonight, where I found my host mother and brother waiting for me at the airport. My nerves calmed as soon as I saw them, knowing I would be taken care of. Since then I have become a slightly odd but fairly established extension of the family.
My host family, the Benito-Martinez’s, consists of: father Don Alfonso, mother Doña Angela, sons Alfonso (Jr.) and Saul, daughter-in-law/Jr.’s wife Nancy, and granddaughter Danaí Yucari (2 years old, so cute). The house, which the family built themselves, gradually, beginning when the boys were just toddlers, is 4 levels – ground level with garage/entrance, main level where I live with the parents and where everyone congregates, upper level where Alfonso Jr., Nancy, Yucari, and now Saul live because they gave me Saul’s old room, and top level/roof/web of clotheslines and wet laundry. Behind the house on the main level are an open air “patio” – more like a courtyard – and two more small rooms where a niece, Rocio, rents one room and a non-related mother/son pair rents the other. The patio is crowded with buckets and barrels that I assume collect rain water for laundry. (The main house has running water, but I don’t think the rented rooms or the laundry machine are hooked up to it.) There is also a resident squawking green parrot, Pancha, who I find useless.
Our neighborhood is called Ajusco, situated near the southern fringes of the goliath that is Mexico City. Here we are practically in the mountains. To get to the city center where all the main tourist attractions and government buildings are, I have to first take a pesero (short bus) to the metro, which takes 45-60 min, then continue from there probably about 20 more minutes. In a car it would take maybe 40 minutes the whole trip, depending on traffic which is crazier here than almost anywhere I’ve ever seen.
Ajusco itself is like a small town bubbling out of the city. There are no chain stores, no big businesses, few stoplights. Random animals roam the streets, and many streets close on the weekends because of the market. People generally have less money than in the city, but it’s decently safe, and everyone is wonderfully friendly. My favorite moments are those when someone unexpected rings the doorbell. Angela sticks her head out the window to see who’s at the door below. Oh, a neighbor, of course, I’ll let you in… and the person comes in, has a drink, everyone sits to chat for a bit. Time passes really slowly, because everyone is always sitting around chatting, sipping apple soda.
In addition to the pace of the day, I’m adjusting to plenty of little changes. The way the toilet works – I flush it with a bucket. How to compliment Angela’s cooking – Saying “Se pica bien,” or “It’s very spicy” is a good thing. The way I’m treated by guys – They always let me enter/exit places ahead of them, or have me walk on the non-street side of the sidewalk, and often put a hand on my back to guide me. They do this I think partly because it’s how they learned to politely treat women and partly because it’s how they learned to politely treat awkward, confused foreigners. I suppress the impulse to assert my ability to walk without their help. Above all, I’m getting used to being the obvious minority – speaking broken Spanish, taller and whiter than most, with naturally light hair, and the most divergent feature of all, blue eyes. Running count of people who suddenly break a conversation to comment on my eyes: 4.
Anyway I did start teaching classes and got to see Blanca, both of which I can describe more later but I’m breaking for now. Tomorrow morning I leave early with my host family for a long weekend in Veracruz, where they are originally from. Hasta luego!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
We've been on the run, drivin' in the sun
This will be a super long road trip wrap-up, and no links, sorry, Google it yourself… writing now from Mexico, feeling like life took a total swing (in a good way), but first California deserves its fair share of attention so here we go.
I forgot to mention before that in L.A. we also visited a really great and apparently famous farmer’s market, then got cupcakes in Beverly Hills, which Katie’s L.A.-native friend told us is pretty much the Bev Hills experience. After L.A. we toured California, couchsurfing and camping our way north. We stopped in:
Buellton, at the Flying Flags RV Resort. Confused at why we were freezing cold camping in California in July. Meanwhile, this place was huuuuuuuuge – Instead of in the woods, our campsite was on a flat square of grass in the middle of a giant chess board of grass squares with other tents and cars on them. On the (maybe?) plus side, they offered tons of weird extra features, including pool, spa, ice cream social, and Jackie-Chan’s-worst-film-ever movie night that we at least got to make fun of.
San Luis Obispo, walked around downtown which is pretty but takes all of thirty minutes to do, then made the mistake of driving out to Morro Bay, about 15 miles away, because we saw on the map it was the closest beach. Unfortunately, Morro Bay is cold, cloudy, and dirty. Fail. But we took a nap on the beach like the dirty homeless people we are anyway. That night we couchsurfed with a guy named Ben who helped us reclaim our dignity. He handed us each a glass of wine, led us and our wine on a little hike and then a fruit-picking mission around the neighborhood. Every other front yard in California, or at least in SLO, has some kind of fruit tree in it, and it’s one hundred percent legal to pick the fruit for yourself if it hangs over the sidewalk. We came back with overflowing loads of lemons, oranges, avocados, and figs (those we also had to learn how to eat). Ben was an outstanding host and also took us to dinner, which was crazy generous of him.
Paso Robles, had one of the best afternoons of the trip. Did tastings at two wineries, Vina Robles and Peachy Canyon. We picked the second one because of its silly little storybook name, but ended up buying the best bottle of port wine that ever existed. Two wine tastings made for a great lunch, putting us both in supremely good moods, and we continued the drive with uncontrollable smiles on our faces, hands in the wind out the windows, playing all our favorite songs and watching the hills roll by. If only you could freeze yourself in moments like that.
Anyway the wine spell was broken with a couple hours gone by and a stop along the colder, cloudier coast to get a look at some elephant seals. Ugly. Continued driving up the Pacific Coast Highway/Hwy 1, BEST drive of my life, so much fun and so glad I was at the wheel for this part. Couchsurfed a night in Monterey. Pretty place, but we didn’t stay long.
We camped a night in Sequoia National Park and (haphazardly) opened one of our Paso Robles wines for a picnic along this pretty little stream by our campsite. Once again, along with the wine and the bats streaking back and forth over the water as the sun set, our lives could not have been more satisfying.
In Sequoia we took a small hike up Moro Rock for a great view of the Sierra Nevada. We also saw the General Sherman Tree – biggest, although not tallest, tree in the world. We always joke about how all the attractions in the States are just something normal, but really big, like the Grand Canyon is a big hole, then we saw this big tree, in southern California one town advertised the “world’s biggest thermometer” but we didn’t bother to stop and see it.
After Sequoia came Yosemite, for 3 nights. One night in the “backpacker’s camp,” followed by a 7ish mile hike along the appropriately named Panorama Trail (awesome view of some of the park’s highest peaks) into the official wilderness, where we camped next to Ilillouette Falls (also took a dip in the water, freezing but perfect for the end of the hike). There was no one around except some boy scouts and a mom/baby pair of mule deer. We had dinner – peanuts, raisins, and granola bars, same as lunch was and breakfast would be – and fell asleep to the sound of the water and the woods.
The return hike the next day took us downhill past Nevada Falls and Vernal Falls – both beautiful, but we were getting worn out. Made it back and washed up in the park’s bathroom sinks, because you had to pay for showers. To reward ourselves for surviving the wilderness, we stopped in at the bar in the park hotel for dinner and drinks (Much better use of our money than a shower). Back to the backpacker’s camp, made friends with some fellow campers, took a midnight stroll to Mirror Lake, and laid down to look at the stars for awhile. Gorgeous.
All in Yosemite would have been positive were it not for the morning we left, when we walked back to our parking spot only to discover that the truck wasn’t there. How does a truck disappear? The National Park Service impounds it. For improper food storage in bear country (We had taken all the food out of the car but left an empty cooler, which is apparently enough to entice a bear to smash your window open and destroy your life). Getting the car back took hours, and with that, we were more than ready for the drive back to civilization. At this point we calculated that we hadn’t slept on a real bed in three weeks.
Our final stop was San Jose, to stay with my mom’s cousin Cate. It was the perfect way to end the trip – relaxing and hanging out again with family. I am ever grateful for the spirit and generosity of my relatives. We had a ton of fun together, shared great meals, plenty of drinks, and of course funny stories. Plus San Jose is absolutely beautiful. I loved every minute.
In the midst of our stay with Cate, we spent one day/night in San Francisco – our final bar crawl of the trip. Saw the Fisherman’s Wharf, then walked to North Beach and Chinatown. Dropped in a few bars and all of a sudden it was 3 in the morning. All my love to you Katie Labarre for sticking with me through the highs and the lows of nights like this, and the days in between. Lol.
So obviously Katie and I are still friends after living out of a truck for 6 weeks and conquering awful terrain. Now I’m on my own, writing from the school in Mexico City at which I’ve begun teaching English. As always, still not entirely certain what I’ve gotten myself into, but I promise a post tomorrow, at least an intro to my life here. Mucho amor y hasta luego…
I forgot to mention before that in L.A. we also visited a really great and apparently famous farmer’s market, then got cupcakes in Beverly Hills, which Katie’s L.A.-native friend told us is pretty much the Bev Hills experience. After L.A. we toured California, couchsurfing and camping our way north. We stopped in:
Buellton, at the Flying Flags RV Resort. Confused at why we were freezing cold camping in California in July. Meanwhile, this place was huuuuuuuuge – Instead of in the woods, our campsite was on a flat square of grass in the middle of a giant chess board of grass squares with other tents and cars on them. On the (maybe?) plus side, they offered tons of weird extra features, including pool, spa, ice cream social, and Jackie-Chan’s-worst-film-ever movie night that we at least got to make fun of.
San Luis Obispo, walked around downtown which is pretty but takes all of thirty minutes to do, then made the mistake of driving out to Morro Bay, about 15 miles away, because we saw on the map it was the closest beach. Unfortunately, Morro Bay is cold, cloudy, and dirty. Fail. But we took a nap on the beach like the dirty homeless people we are anyway. That night we couchsurfed with a guy named Ben who helped us reclaim our dignity. He handed us each a glass of wine, led us and our wine on a little hike and then a fruit-picking mission around the neighborhood. Every other front yard in California, or at least in SLO, has some kind of fruit tree in it, and it’s one hundred percent legal to pick the fruit for yourself if it hangs over the sidewalk. We came back with overflowing loads of lemons, oranges, avocados, and figs (those we also had to learn how to eat). Ben was an outstanding host and also took us to dinner, which was crazy generous of him.
Paso Robles, had one of the best afternoons of the trip. Did tastings at two wineries, Vina Robles and Peachy Canyon. We picked the second one because of its silly little storybook name, but ended up buying the best bottle of port wine that ever existed. Two wine tastings made for a great lunch, putting us both in supremely good moods, and we continued the drive with uncontrollable smiles on our faces, hands in the wind out the windows, playing all our favorite songs and watching the hills roll by. If only you could freeze yourself in moments like that.
Anyway the wine spell was broken with a couple hours gone by and a stop along the colder, cloudier coast to get a look at some elephant seals. Ugly. Continued driving up the Pacific Coast Highway/Hwy 1, BEST drive of my life, so much fun and so glad I was at the wheel for this part. Couchsurfed a night in Monterey. Pretty place, but we didn’t stay long.
We camped a night in Sequoia National Park and (haphazardly) opened one of our Paso Robles wines for a picnic along this pretty little stream by our campsite. Once again, along with the wine and the bats streaking back and forth over the water as the sun set, our lives could not have been more satisfying.
In Sequoia we took a small hike up Moro Rock for a great view of the Sierra Nevada. We also saw the General Sherman Tree – biggest, although not tallest, tree in the world. We always joke about how all the attractions in the States are just something normal, but really big, like the Grand Canyon is a big hole, then we saw this big tree, in southern California one town advertised the “world’s biggest thermometer” but we didn’t bother to stop and see it.
After Sequoia came Yosemite, for 3 nights. One night in the “backpacker’s camp,” followed by a 7ish mile hike along the appropriately named Panorama Trail (awesome view of some of the park’s highest peaks) into the official wilderness, where we camped next to Ilillouette Falls (also took a dip in the water, freezing but perfect for the end of the hike). There was no one around except some boy scouts and a mom/baby pair of mule deer. We had dinner – peanuts, raisins, and granola bars, same as lunch was and breakfast would be – and fell asleep to the sound of the water and the woods.
The return hike the next day took us downhill past Nevada Falls and Vernal Falls – both beautiful, but we were getting worn out. Made it back and washed up in the park’s bathroom sinks, because you had to pay for showers. To reward ourselves for surviving the wilderness, we stopped in at the bar in the park hotel for dinner and drinks (Much better use of our money than a shower). Back to the backpacker’s camp, made friends with some fellow campers, took a midnight stroll to Mirror Lake, and laid down to look at the stars for awhile. Gorgeous.
All in Yosemite would have been positive were it not for the morning we left, when we walked back to our parking spot only to discover that the truck wasn’t there. How does a truck disappear? The National Park Service impounds it. For improper food storage in bear country (We had taken all the food out of the car but left an empty cooler, which is apparently enough to entice a bear to smash your window open and destroy your life). Getting the car back took hours, and with that, we were more than ready for the drive back to civilization. At this point we calculated that we hadn’t slept on a real bed in three weeks.
Our final stop was San Jose, to stay with my mom’s cousin Cate. It was the perfect way to end the trip – relaxing and hanging out again with family. I am ever grateful for the spirit and generosity of my relatives. We had a ton of fun together, shared great meals, plenty of drinks, and of course funny stories. Plus San Jose is absolutely beautiful. I loved every minute.
In the midst of our stay with Cate, we spent one day/night in San Francisco – our final bar crawl of the trip. Saw the Fisherman’s Wharf, then walked to North Beach and Chinatown. Dropped in a few bars and all of a sudden it was 3 in the morning. All my love to you Katie Labarre for sticking with me through the highs and the lows of nights like this, and the days in between. Lol.
So obviously Katie and I are still friends after living out of a truck for 6 weeks and conquering awful terrain. Now I’m on my own, writing from the school in Mexico City at which I’ve begun teaching English. As always, still not entirely certain what I’ve gotten myself into, but I promise a post tomorrow, at least an intro to my life here. Mucho amor y hasta luego…
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Photos!
I just put up a massive album on facebook of the entire trip, check it out! If you're not my friend on facebook, you should be.
I leave for Mexico in less than 12 hours. Lights out. <3
I leave for Mexico in less than 12 hours. Lights out. <3
Monday, August 2, 2010
Lifestyles of the Poor and the Homeless
(San Jose, CA)
We drove in a giant loop, Vegas, Zion Canyon in Utah, the Grand Canyon in Arizona, and sadly back to Vegas, to pick up the truck from the shop. We camped two nights at a trailer/RV park near Zion, baffled at how cool the temperature got. During the day, we hiked the canyon. I was particularly attracted to the trails with descriptions like “steep dropoffs” and “not for anyone afraid of heights,” so we tried a few. The warnings did not lie. The views were awesome, and we wore ourselves out scrambling, or sometimes more like stumbling, up and down rock faces for a good five hours. Ended the experience with a dip in a cold canyon stream and lunch on the riverbank.
By the time we got to the Grand Canyon the next day, we had seen so much desert and so many giant rock structures that we didn’t mind speeding through. Just a few quick photo stops, to say we did it.
Grabbed the truck in Vegas and moved on to L.A., where we stayed with my cousin T.J, who lives 3 blocks from Hollywood Blvd. Spent the first evening/night exploring the neighborhood – favorite spots: Amoeba Music (record store with untold treasures) and Mission Cantina (restaurant/bar where we got the best tequila/jalapeno cocktail - $4 during happy hour. Also offers dollar tacos on Tuesdays.) We navigated through crowds of tourists near the Chinese theater - not that exciting of a sight - and perused the celebrity stars along the boulevard.
We ended up liking L.A. a lot more than we thought we would. Rather than the hot and snotty plastic crowd that TV and movies brought us to expect, we found a lot of friendly, laid back people, happy as any to chat with a couple of dirty homeless stragglers like ourselves. We hung around Venice Beach for an afternoon, Santa Monica Pier the next, where we tried our hand at these beach jungle gym/gymnastics rings that are set up all along the shore. Much harder than they look, but such a fun thing to have out there, that anyone can use. Where we visited, the beach crowd was especially full of hippies/artists/people scraping by without a steady income, all seeming to enjoy it that way. We also spent a good deal of time drinking with T.J. and his roommate, hitting up both bars that my cousin works at, and celebrity spotting. At Houston’s, where T.J. bartends (and therefore provides free drinks), I sat three seats down from Ben Harper. I would never have known it if I wasn’t told, no idea what the guy looks like otherwise, but still exciting.
I spent the last pennies of my budget in L.A., which really brought me down when I realized it. That was the same day we went to Houston’s. But we got the best surprise when, within five minutes of sitting at the bar, these two middle aged ladies next to us just up and gave us the uneaten half of this huge brownie/ice cream/nut/fudge monstrosity they said they couldn’t finish. It was like they and the powers that be just knew that I was broke and depressed. Since that moment, money has caused me little stress. I’m aware that I don’t have any and I act accordingly, but I’m much less worried about it. The world provides, and when all of this is over, Katie and I will pay everything forward. We are well aware that our debt to karma is mounting exponentially.
Now, two days away from leaving for Mexico, and still enjoying beautiful California. One more update to come before I start out on the second leg of this crazy journey I’ve planned...
We drove in a giant loop, Vegas, Zion Canyon in Utah, the Grand Canyon in Arizona, and sadly back to Vegas, to pick up the truck from the shop. We camped two nights at a trailer/RV park near Zion, baffled at how cool the temperature got. During the day, we hiked the canyon. I was particularly attracted to the trails with descriptions like “steep dropoffs” and “not for anyone afraid of heights,” so we tried a few. The warnings did not lie. The views were awesome, and we wore ourselves out scrambling, or sometimes more like stumbling, up and down rock faces for a good five hours. Ended the experience with a dip in a cold canyon stream and lunch on the riverbank.
By the time we got to the Grand Canyon the next day, we had seen so much desert and so many giant rock structures that we didn’t mind speeding through. Just a few quick photo stops, to say we did it.
Grabbed the truck in Vegas and moved on to L.A., where we stayed with my cousin T.J, who lives 3 blocks from Hollywood Blvd. Spent the first evening/night exploring the neighborhood – favorite spots: Amoeba Music (record store with untold treasures) and Mission Cantina (restaurant/bar where we got the best tequila/jalapeno cocktail - $4 during happy hour. Also offers dollar tacos on Tuesdays.) We navigated through crowds of tourists near the Chinese theater - not that exciting of a sight - and perused the celebrity stars along the boulevard.
We ended up liking L.A. a lot more than we thought we would. Rather than the hot and snotty plastic crowd that TV and movies brought us to expect, we found a lot of friendly, laid back people, happy as any to chat with a couple of dirty homeless stragglers like ourselves. We hung around Venice Beach for an afternoon, Santa Monica Pier the next, where we tried our hand at these beach jungle gym/gymnastics rings that are set up all along the shore. Much harder than they look, but such a fun thing to have out there, that anyone can use. Where we visited, the beach crowd was especially full of hippies/artists/people scraping by without a steady income, all seeming to enjoy it that way. We also spent a good deal of time drinking with T.J. and his roommate, hitting up both bars that my cousin works at, and celebrity spotting. At Houston’s, where T.J. bartends (and therefore provides free drinks), I sat three seats down from Ben Harper. I would never have known it if I wasn’t told, no idea what the guy looks like otherwise, but still exciting.
I spent the last pennies of my budget in L.A., which really brought me down when I realized it. That was the same day we went to Houston’s. But we got the best surprise when, within five minutes of sitting at the bar, these two middle aged ladies next to us just up and gave us the uneaten half of this huge brownie/ice cream/nut/fudge monstrosity they said they couldn’t finish. It was like they and the powers that be just knew that I was broke and depressed. Since that moment, money has caused me little stress. I’m aware that I don’t have any and I act accordingly, but I’m much less worried about it. The world provides, and when all of this is over, Katie and I will pay everything forward. We are well aware that our debt to karma is mounting exponentially.
Now, two days away from leaving for Mexico, and still enjoying beautiful California. One more update to come before I start out on the second leg of this crazy journey I’ve planned...
Monday, July 26, 2010
Natural and Unnatural Wonders
(San Luis Obispo, CA)
…Still trying to catch up to the present, so I’m going to try to run through events as quickly as possible…
Since we entered the southwest, we have been constantly in awe of the scenery and natural landscape that surrounds us, but Arizona was the most baffling of all. On our way to Phoenix, we drove through the Painted Desert (twelve miles of crevices and hills turned tons of different colors – red, white, blue, orange, green, purple – by mineral deposits), two national forests (Who knew there were so many trees in the southwest?), and the regular desert landscape of sparse vegetation, tall cacti, and sandy mesas.
We stayed a night in Phoenix with my mom’s cousin Suzy and her daughter Gina, who were fabulous, in the style of the rest of my family. There wasn’t much to do in Phoenix, but we did get out and watch the World Cup final (Viva la roja!!!), then headed next for Sedona.
People say Sedona is some kind of center for energy vortexes and like, Mother Nature power vibes or something, so the town is full of hippies and stores that sell hippie things like crystals and relaxation therapy and meditation aids. The place itself is beautiful – huge red rock cliffs and canyons, tall oak trees, and mild temperatures thanks to the elevation. We camped for a night and hiked the next day in Oak Creek Canyon, on a trail that crossed the canyon’s creek 18 times and ended at a shallow pool where we splashed around a bit and ate lunch. To this day it was the best hike we’ve done, the most fun and the prettiest.
Straight from the trailhead, we split for Vegas, went through the obnoxious process of driving past the Hoover dam, where traffic slows to a stop-and-go pace due to unnecessary security checkpoints and stupid tourists running across the highway with cameras and children. Dumbest landmark ever, in our opinion, but we got through it and made it to our destination, our friend Dave’s apartment, about a 5-10 drive from the main strip on Las Vegas Boulevard.
Vegas is like a weird mix of Times Square, Branson, MO, and a Jersey Shore boardwalk. We were surprised at how much we disliked it. Temperatures were in the hundreds even at night, so we did not go outside in daylight. Our host, Dave, is in Vegas just to work on the Harry Reid Senate campaign, so we spent a good deal of time hanging out with him and his excessively-proud-to-be-politically-active-democrats campaign friends, who kept us entertained and recruited us to help with mass mailings. Among many things, they explained to us why Vegas exists in the first place – founded as a town of guilty pleasures for Hoover dam workers and mob bosses. God bless America. Vote for Harry Reid.
Katie’s birthday was our one and only big night out in Vegas, and it was a blast. We hopped around to a few casinos, blew way too much money on overpriced drinks ($14 wells, what?), but were moved through lines quickly and without cover charge. Meanwhile, at our final destination, a club called Surrender, our guy friends were asked to pay a $30 cover and decided to go home without us.
So Katie and I make our way into this place, which I guess was what it should have been – multiple outdoor bars surrounding a huge swimming pool, with a main dance floor sporting scantily clad and impressively talented pole dancers. Typical club music, Lady Gaga, Ke$ha, etc. We were satisfied with it, but we did not expect it to spark the night’s events. Then Katie ordered a drink, and Russian John entered our lives. He offered to pay for Katie’s drink, and when she thanked him, his eyes widened. No one ever says thank you here, we come to find. Girls just expect free drinks, take them and walk away. “Your friend is a good person,” Russian John tells me, and decides to hang out with us for the rest of the night. Despite an average appearance, the man is loaded. When we get tired of the club, we exit into the casino (connected, along with a hotel called Encore), where he orders us, no joke, two thousand dollars worth of poker chips and demands that we play roulette with them. When we ran out of those, he ordered more. “It’s nothing, nothing at all. I have it, you don’t. I want nothing.” It was true. You would think he was a creeper, but there were no strings attached to his generosity. He finished up the night by popping a bottle of champagne and showing us the view of the strip from a huge picture window in the top of the hotel. Then he bought us a cab home. Never in our lives have we been so rewarded for having good manners.
After the two following days yielded miserable heat, the truck broke down on what was supposed to be our last night in Vegas. We could not have been more frustrated. Luckily, Katie’s dad was sensitive to our growing restlessness. He rented us a car, and we temporarily removed ourselves from the wasteland that is Nevada…
…Still trying to catch up to the present, so I’m going to try to run through events as quickly as possible…
Since we entered the southwest, we have been constantly in awe of the scenery and natural landscape that surrounds us, but Arizona was the most baffling of all. On our way to Phoenix, we drove through the Painted Desert (twelve miles of crevices and hills turned tons of different colors – red, white, blue, orange, green, purple – by mineral deposits), two national forests (Who knew there were so many trees in the southwest?), and the regular desert landscape of sparse vegetation, tall cacti, and sandy mesas.
We stayed a night in Phoenix with my mom’s cousin Suzy and her daughter Gina, who were fabulous, in the style of the rest of my family. There wasn’t much to do in Phoenix, but we did get out and watch the World Cup final (Viva la roja!!!), then headed next for Sedona.
People say Sedona is some kind of center for energy vortexes and like, Mother Nature power vibes or something, so the town is full of hippies and stores that sell hippie things like crystals and relaxation therapy and meditation aids. The place itself is beautiful – huge red rock cliffs and canyons, tall oak trees, and mild temperatures thanks to the elevation. We camped for a night and hiked the next day in Oak Creek Canyon, on a trail that crossed the canyon’s creek 18 times and ended at a shallow pool where we splashed around a bit and ate lunch. To this day it was the best hike we’ve done, the most fun and the prettiest.
Straight from the trailhead, we split for Vegas, went through the obnoxious process of driving past the Hoover dam, where traffic slows to a stop-and-go pace due to unnecessary security checkpoints and stupid tourists running across the highway with cameras and children. Dumbest landmark ever, in our opinion, but we got through it and made it to our destination, our friend Dave’s apartment, about a 5-10 drive from the main strip on Las Vegas Boulevard.
Vegas is like a weird mix of Times Square, Branson, MO, and a Jersey Shore boardwalk. We were surprised at how much we disliked it. Temperatures were in the hundreds even at night, so we did not go outside in daylight. Our host, Dave, is in Vegas just to work on the Harry Reid Senate campaign, so we spent a good deal of time hanging out with him and his excessively-proud-to-be-politically-active-democrats campaign friends, who kept us entertained and recruited us to help with mass mailings. Among many things, they explained to us why Vegas exists in the first place – founded as a town of guilty pleasures for Hoover dam workers and mob bosses. God bless America. Vote for Harry Reid.
Katie’s birthday was our one and only big night out in Vegas, and it was a blast. We hopped around to a few casinos, blew way too much money on overpriced drinks ($14 wells, what?), but were moved through lines quickly and without cover charge. Meanwhile, at our final destination, a club called Surrender, our guy friends were asked to pay a $30 cover and decided to go home without us.
So Katie and I make our way into this place, which I guess was what it should have been – multiple outdoor bars surrounding a huge swimming pool, with a main dance floor sporting scantily clad and impressively talented pole dancers. Typical club music, Lady Gaga, Ke$ha, etc. We were satisfied with it, but we did not expect it to spark the night’s events. Then Katie ordered a drink, and Russian John entered our lives. He offered to pay for Katie’s drink, and when she thanked him, his eyes widened. No one ever says thank you here, we come to find. Girls just expect free drinks, take them and walk away. “Your friend is a good person,” Russian John tells me, and decides to hang out with us for the rest of the night. Despite an average appearance, the man is loaded. When we get tired of the club, we exit into the casino (connected, along with a hotel called Encore), where he orders us, no joke, two thousand dollars worth of poker chips and demands that we play roulette with them. When we ran out of those, he ordered more. “It’s nothing, nothing at all. I have it, you don’t. I want nothing.” It was true. You would think he was a creeper, but there were no strings attached to his generosity. He finished up the night by popping a bottle of champagne and showing us the view of the strip from a huge picture window in the top of the hotel. Then he bought us a cab home. Never in our lives have we been so rewarded for having good manners.
After the two following days yielded miserable heat, the truck broke down on what was supposed to be our last night in Vegas. We could not have been more frustrated. Luckily, Katie’s dad was sensitive to our growing restlessness. He rented us a car, and we temporarily removed ourselves from the wasteland that is Nevada…
Monday, July 19, 2010
Blood runs thicker than water (especially in the desert)
(Las Vegas, NV)
New Mexico now seems so long ago, but it went something like this:
We arrived at my (great) Aunt June’s house in Albuquerque in the early evening and immediately received the grandma treatment – giant hugs and food galore, even though we had dinner plans in just a few hours. The evening continued with wine on the back porch and a southwestern barbecue dinner with June, my mom’s cousins Kevin and Molly, and their spouses.
I enjoy my family so much, and Katie did too after hanging out with them for a few days. The constant, blunt yet goodhearted banter, the rehashing of favorite stories, the love for singing and the ability to make oneself heard – we got heavy doses of it all. Listening to Aunt June and my cousins enjoy being together, and their memories of my grandfather (her brother), my grandmother, my mom and uncles, I felt so lucky to be a part of this huge clan of wonderful people. The best was hearing June talk about my grandfather and the fun they used to have sitting and drinking on the same back porch where we sat to have wine that first night in town.
Since June had to leave town, we stayed with Molly and her husband David, in their amazing home in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. We enjoyed hiking on some trails in their neighborhood and checking out the spectacular view of downtown Albuquerque. Our second night in, Molly and David treated us to a dinner of New Mexican-style food (didn’t know there was a distinction before) including fish tacos, carne adovada, and lots of things flavored with green chile. I loved it – finally some good, spicy food! We followed dinner with a John Denver guitar/song session on Molly and David’s balcony, taking in the cool, brisk night air. As if that weren’t enough, the next morning David took us flying in the small plane he shares with his brother. Along with spectacular views of the city’s surrounding mountains, plateaus, and suburban sprawl, I got a brief flying lesson. I’m now well on my way to professional pilothood.
Once again, we were spoiled rotten by some excellent hosts. In addition to Molly and David, my mom’s cousin Kevin, his wife Caroline, and their sons Sean and Shane, showed us even more of life in New Mex. Sean, who was nearly our age, introduced us to his friends and took us around to some good nighttime hangouts. We went barhopping in the downtown strip, which was fun, although on a Wednesday night it didn’t maintain the same energy as many of the other cities we’ve seen. The next day Kevin and Caroline added delicious homemade salsa, tacos, and gazpacho to our New Mexico palette, and we visited with them and my other cousin Lisa for more laughs and family stories. Finally, for our last night in town, Sean brought us along to his friend’s birthday party in a casino named after the mountains, Sandia. We enjoyed some drinks, practiced our roulette and slots routine (gearing up for Vegas) and explored the resort premises until some late hour or another. It was a good cap to our stay.
I’ve obviously been slow on the posts, but we’ve been on the move since NM and there’s much more to be told! Updates on the way…
New Mexico now seems so long ago, but it went something like this:
We arrived at my (great) Aunt June’s house in Albuquerque in the early evening and immediately received the grandma treatment – giant hugs and food galore, even though we had dinner plans in just a few hours. The evening continued with wine on the back porch and a southwestern barbecue dinner with June, my mom’s cousins Kevin and Molly, and their spouses.
I enjoy my family so much, and Katie did too after hanging out with them for a few days. The constant, blunt yet goodhearted banter, the rehashing of favorite stories, the love for singing and the ability to make oneself heard – we got heavy doses of it all. Listening to Aunt June and my cousins enjoy being together, and their memories of my grandfather (her brother), my grandmother, my mom and uncles, I felt so lucky to be a part of this huge clan of wonderful people. The best was hearing June talk about my grandfather and the fun they used to have sitting and drinking on the same back porch where we sat to have wine that first night in town.
Since June had to leave town, we stayed with Molly and her husband David, in their amazing home in the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. We enjoyed hiking on some trails in their neighborhood and checking out the spectacular view of downtown Albuquerque. Our second night in, Molly and David treated us to a dinner of New Mexican-style food (didn’t know there was a distinction before) including fish tacos, carne adovada, and lots of things flavored with green chile. I loved it – finally some good, spicy food! We followed dinner with a John Denver guitar/song session on Molly and David’s balcony, taking in the cool, brisk night air. As if that weren’t enough, the next morning David took us flying in the small plane he shares with his brother. Along with spectacular views of the city’s surrounding mountains, plateaus, and suburban sprawl, I got a brief flying lesson. I’m now well on my way to professional pilothood.
Once again, we were spoiled rotten by some excellent hosts. In addition to Molly and David, my mom’s cousin Kevin, his wife Caroline, and their sons Sean and Shane, showed us even more of life in New Mex. Sean, who was nearly our age, introduced us to his friends and took us around to some good nighttime hangouts. We went barhopping in the downtown strip, which was fun, although on a Wednesday night it didn’t maintain the same energy as many of the other cities we’ve seen. The next day Kevin and Caroline added delicious homemade salsa, tacos, and gazpacho to our New Mexico palette, and we visited with them and my other cousin Lisa for more laughs and family stories. Finally, for our last night in town, Sean brought us along to his friend’s birthday party in a casino named after the mountains, Sandia. We enjoyed some drinks, practiced our roulette and slots routine (gearing up for Vegas) and explored the resort premises until some late hour or another. It was a good cap to our stay.
I’ve obviously been slow on the posts, but we’ve been on the move since NM and there’s much more to be told! Updates on the way…
Friday, July 9, 2010
This post is bigger because it’s about Texas
(Albuquerque, NM)
Even though Texas clearly thinks it’s its own country, our time there involved a whole lot of love for America. In Houston we stopped in at Rice University, where another former roommate, Lauren, is currently doing her Teach for America training. We played volleyball in the rain – because it was STILL raining – with a bunch of her new TFA friends and tried to decipher their teacher-y jargon and inside jokes.
Over the fourth of July weekend, we couchsurfed in Austin, and our newest hostess introduced us to the joys of barhopping on 6th street. Two highlights of the night: 1, riding a mechanical bull at The Trophy Room. I nearly broke my neck but stayed on long enough to not be a total failure. 2, meeting up with my friend Meghan (from St. Louis), who showed us some of her favorite Austin spots and recapped with me a few tales of our high school friends.
Miraculously, the sun shone in the morning, and we got to see Austin by day. We toured the capitol building (which in my opinion reveres the Republic of Texas over the U.S. of A., naturally) and took a hike on Mount Bonnell, where we got a view of the city skyline at one end and the array of unbelievably large mansions lining the Colorado River at the other. We watched the mansion dwellers take their speedboats up the river like their own private highway and wondered if they were aware of us commoners looking down on them.
Austin is supposedly the nation’s capital of live music, but I was unimpressed. A visit to 6th street in the daylight revealed only three bars, out of far more, with live acts, and these were one-man shows. Nashville has Austin beat on that front as far I’m concerned, but maybe we just weren’t looking in the right places. We did, however, come across a fair number of dirty hippie/vagrant type characters hanging out on street corners, tons of bike riders, and a casual friendliness that fit the town’s reputation as I’d of it heard before. Things seemed a little run down in places, but comfortable.
Another great night on 6th street added a few bars – the Blind Pig and Maggie Mae’s – to our repertoire. Our hostess had suggested the Blind Pig specifically as a good place to meet genuine southern gentlemen, and her guidance once again yielded fabulous results (even though the gentlemen we found weren’t necessarily southern). Our Fourth of July began with a drive home at the break of dawn…
…BUT the real celebration was yet to come. After a few hours of sleep, Katie woke me up like my little sister on Christmas morning – she, dressed and ready to go, waiting as patiently as possible for me to accept the fact that I wasn’t allowed to stay in bed any longer. But it wasn’t Santa that brought the goodies on the Fourth of July. It was Willie Nelson.
Willie Nelson’s Fourth of July Picnic featured over 25 acts, tons of big names in country music that Katie lost sleep over but I had never heard of. Once we got there, though, I had a blast and enjoyed every artist, every song. Some favorites: David Allan Coe, Folk Uke, Del Castillo, Kris Kristofferson, and The Reflectacles. Possibly even more entertaining was the crowd. So much long hair, so many American flags, and Texas flags, and so many old hippies, young hippies, children, parents, grandparents, booze, weed, and Willie Nelson’s face plastered all over every T-shirt, baseball cap, and piece of jewelry around. I knew the guy was famous, but I had no idea it was to such godlike proportions – slightly creepy. The idol himself didn’t come on stage until after midnight, and I swear I thought the crowd was going to riot if he waited one more minute. Nevertheless, the music was wonderful all day – finally the full dose Austin’s reputation had promised.
Perhaps Texas-ed out, we left Austin for the long drive to New Mexico. Putting up with horrendous post-holiday traffic, we persevered through the rest of the state, passing scenic cattle ranches, an oddly high number of taxidermy shops, and a few “cowboy churches” – still not sure what that is. Spent the night in Wichita Falls, and finally made it out the next day and into the loving arms of my southwestern relatives. From there, a wonderful reunion began!...
Even though Texas clearly thinks it’s its own country, our time there involved a whole lot of love for America. In Houston we stopped in at Rice University, where another former roommate, Lauren, is currently doing her Teach for America training. We played volleyball in the rain – because it was STILL raining – with a bunch of her new TFA friends and tried to decipher their teacher-y jargon and inside jokes.
Over the fourth of July weekend, we couchsurfed in Austin, and our newest hostess introduced us to the joys of barhopping on 6th street. Two highlights of the night: 1, riding a mechanical bull at The Trophy Room. I nearly broke my neck but stayed on long enough to not be a total failure. 2, meeting up with my friend Meghan (from St. Louis), who showed us some of her favorite Austin spots and recapped with me a few tales of our high school friends.
Miraculously, the sun shone in the morning, and we got to see Austin by day. We toured the capitol building (which in my opinion reveres the Republic of Texas over the U.S. of A., naturally) and took a hike on Mount Bonnell, where we got a view of the city skyline at one end and the array of unbelievably large mansions lining the Colorado River at the other. We watched the mansion dwellers take their speedboats up the river like their own private highway and wondered if they were aware of us commoners looking down on them.
Austin is supposedly the nation’s capital of live music, but I was unimpressed. A visit to 6th street in the daylight revealed only three bars, out of far more, with live acts, and these were one-man shows. Nashville has Austin beat on that front as far I’m concerned, but maybe we just weren’t looking in the right places. We did, however, come across a fair number of dirty hippie/vagrant type characters hanging out on street corners, tons of bike riders, and a casual friendliness that fit the town’s reputation as I’d of it heard before. Things seemed a little run down in places, but comfortable.
Another great night on 6th street added a few bars – the Blind Pig and Maggie Mae’s – to our repertoire. Our hostess had suggested the Blind Pig specifically as a good place to meet genuine southern gentlemen, and her guidance once again yielded fabulous results (even though the gentlemen we found weren’t necessarily southern). Our Fourth of July began with a drive home at the break of dawn…
…BUT the real celebration was yet to come. After a few hours of sleep, Katie woke me up like my little sister on Christmas morning – she, dressed and ready to go, waiting as patiently as possible for me to accept the fact that I wasn’t allowed to stay in bed any longer. But it wasn’t Santa that brought the goodies on the Fourth of July. It was Willie Nelson.
Willie Nelson’s Fourth of July Picnic featured over 25 acts, tons of big names in country music that Katie lost sleep over but I had never heard of. Once we got there, though, I had a blast and enjoyed every artist, every song. Some favorites: David Allan Coe, Folk Uke, Del Castillo, Kris Kristofferson, and The Reflectacles. Possibly even more entertaining was the crowd. So much long hair, so many American flags, and Texas flags, and so many old hippies, young hippies, children, parents, grandparents, booze, weed, and Willie Nelson’s face plastered all over every T-shirt, baseball cap, and piece of jewelry around. I knew the guy was famous, but I had no idea it was to such godlike proportions – slightly creepy. The idol himself didn’t come on stage until after midnight, and I swear I thought the crowd was going to riot if he waited one more minute. Nevertheless, the music was wonderful all day – finally the full dose Austin’s reputation had promised.
Perhaps Texas-ed out, we left Austin for the long drive to New Mexico. Putting up with horrendous post-holiday traffic, we persevered through the rest of the state, passing scenic cattle ranches, an oddly high number of taxidermy shops, and a few “cowboy churches” – still not sure what that is. Spent the night in Wichita Falls, and finally made it out the next day and into the loving arms of my southwestern relatives. From there, a wonderful reunion began!...
Friday, July 2, 2010
Charm and Heartbreak in the Big Easy
(Austin, TX)
There’s more to New Orleans than the French Quarter, we soon found out. Our new hostess, Shana, lived in the Garden District. She explained that back in the day when the British first bought out this area of the city, they overloaded it with all sorts of vegetation, to cover up the nasty smell of the river. Like the French Quarter, almost every house had two levels with beautiful open air porches on each floor, but in the Garden District this facade was always draped and framed with tropical trees, ferns, flower bushes, and the occasional cactus. Every house was prettier than the last.
It rarely stopped raining (in fact, it still hasn’t stopped raining, 5 days later now), so we didn’t get to roam around much, but we did take full advantage of the nightlife. After a short round at this dive bar/burger joint/laundromat/notary’s office (??), we met one of Shana’s co-workers on Frenchmen Street, where the live jazz brought the city’s reputation to life, and these bands did not disappoint. Not only did the tunes keep us on our toes, the musicians kind of kept to this smooth transition of members. A singer would accompany the band first, and then four saxophonists would casually join her, then take over while she faded into the audience for awhile, and so on, a constant ebb and flow. We heard later that the lead singer of the first act we saw had left in the middle of his show, jumped in onstage at a bar down the street for a few songs, and come back. No one missed a beat.
We later took a spin at Miss Mae’s, a twenty-four hour bar with dollar wells (yes please!), where we chatted it up with new acquaintances, including Shana’s insane co-worker who proceeded to talk at me for like two hours. He nearly cried describing the week the Saints won the Super Bowl (apparently the city was so obsessed with football and mardi gras parties that crime dropped like crazy), then went on about his absolutely absurd political theories and how he is one hundred percent destined to one day be President. I stopped listening after he told me he would die in office because people would love him so much they’d never vote him out – what country are you in?
The next day included one actually New Orleans-y activity – Po’ Boys for lunch/dinner (whatever you call it when you’ve become semi-nocturnal) at Parasols – a dive, but delicious. Then it was off again for drinks at The Saint, our final and favorite Big Easy bar. We stayed until nearly sunrise, doing karaoke and getting to know a few of Shana and Luke’s much more normal friends. Not one dull moment passed. When I finally made it back to Shana’s in the morning, I discovered one last surprise waiting for me on her doorstep – the over-talkative weirdo from the other night had left me a love letter, accompanied by four, count ‘em, four, mix CDs. He signed the letter POTUS: President of the United States. Swear to God, I am a magnet for the crazies. But Katie and I got a total kick out of seeing what music he chose. It’s such a shame I had to break his heart and leave.
Meanwhile, my heart was broken having to leave New Orleans. But we had deadlines to make in Texas, so we braved the incoming hurricane and moved on
There’s more to New Orleans than the French Quarter, we soon found out. Our new hostess, Shana, lived in the Garden District. She explained that back in the day when the British first bought out this area of the city, they overloaded it with all sorts of vegetation, to cover up the nasty smell of the river. Like the French Quarter, almost every house had two levels with beautiful open air porches on each floor, but in the Garden District this facade was always draped and framed with tropical trees, ferns, flower bushes, and the occasional cactus. Every house was prettier than the last.
It rarely stopped raining (in fact, it still hasn’t stopped raining, 5 days later now), so we didn’t get to roam around much, but we did take full advantage of the nightlife. After a short round at this dive bar/burger joint/laundromat/notary’s office (??), we met one of Shana’s co-workers on Frenchmen Street, where the live jazz brought the city’s reputation to life, and these bands did not disappoint. Not only did the tunes keep us on our toes, the musicians kind of kept to this smooth transition of members. A singer would accompany the band first, and then four saxophonists would casually join her, then take over while she faded into the audience for awhile, and so on, a constant ebb and flow. We heard later that the lead singer of the first act we saw had left in the middle of his show, jumped in onstage at a bar down the street for a few songs, and come back. No one missed a beat.
We later took a spin at Miss Mae’s, a twenty-four hour bar with dollar wells (yes please!), where we chatted it up with new acquaintances, including Shana’s insane co-worker who proceeded to talk at me for like two hours. He nearly cried describing the week the Saints won the Super Bowl (apparently the city was so obsessed with football and mardi gras parties that crime dropped like crazy), then went on about his absolutely absurd political theories and how he is one hundred percent destined to one day be President. I stopped listening after he told me he would die in office because people would love him so much they’d never vote him out – what country are you in?
The next day included one actually New Orleans-y activity – Po’ Boys for lunch/dinner (whatever you call it when you’ve become semi-nocturnal) at Parasols – a dive, but delicious. Then it was off again for drinks at The Saint, our final and favorite Big Easy bar. We stayed until nearly sunrise, doing karaoke and getting to know a few of Shana and Luke’s much more normal friends. Not one dull moment passed. When I finally made it back to Shana’s in the morning, I discovered one last surprise waiting for me on her doorstep – the over-talkative weirdo from the other night had left me a love letter, accompanied by four, count ‘em, four, mix CDs. He signed the letter POTUS: President of the United States. Swear to God, I am a magnet for the crazies. But Katie and I got a total kick out of seeing what music he chose. It’s such a shame I had to break his heart and leave.
Meanwhile, my heart was broken having to leave New Orleans. But we had deadlines to make in Texas, so we braved the incoming hurricane and moved on
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Is this real life?
(Houston, TX)
Continuing the never-ending drive out of Florida, we stopped in Tallahassee last Saturday to watch the U.S. lose to Ghana (I did not publicize my partial leaning toward Ghana, especially when surrounded by red white and blue painted faces). We had a great time and met some really friendly and hospitable people, a precursor to our even better evening, when a last-minute success with couchsurfing led us to sleep on the futon of this old hippie and his family. The house was like a live 3D version of those I Spy books – randomly assorted items on every shelf, in every drawer, on every wall. This guy had collected insane numbers of old maps, doorknobs, toy cars and army men, glasses, hats, photos, and tons more, that kept us entertained for hours. He also operated on a 24-hour open door policy, so certain friends could stop by just to get a glass of water and play with whatever new little antique gadget the guy had acquired – even if he himself wasn’t there. This was the beginning of the unbelievable southern hospitality we have experienced for the past several days now.
The drive then took us through the rest of Florida, including a stop at Santa Rosa Island, about half an hour east of Pensacola, where we took a short break on the beach. Along with blinding white sand and warm waters, we found what we think were the first signs of the oil spill hitting that beach. Neither of us knowing exactly what a tar ball looks like, we can’t be sure, but scattered everywhere were these little nickel- and quarter-sized chunks of dark brownish red, malleable, course, greasy dough-like stuff that at first we didn’t notice but then couldn’t stop noticing. It was all over the place, and it stuck to our feet when we left. The weird thing was, when we stopped again at the beach in Mississippi, there was no sign of anything like it, or anything resembling crude oil in any form. So who knows.
We got to New Orleans, set up camp at Bayou Segnette State Park (the cheapest place we could find within a good distance of the city), ate dinner with some armadillos who wandered up to the site, and headed in to explore the French Quarter. We fell in love. Where else in the world can you go out for the night in flip flops and T-shirts, get three drinks for the price of one (standard in most upper level bars), and sit on a beautiful veranda to consume them as you listen to a live (and actually good) band, on a Sunday night? This city knows how to have a good time on the right level. No “pretty people” bars – no high heels and pretention. But on the other end, a certain amount of refinement – a scarcity of ignorant rednecks, to put it bluntly. This is the balance on which I thrive.
Fate took care of us that first night in New Orleans. We got to talking with our bartender, Shana, who turned out to be very active on couchsurfing and offered us a place to stay for the remainder of our time there. We moved in the next day, and thank God, because it rained from then on – camping would have been horrendous. Shana and her boyfriend, Luke, turned out to be total godsends, and they made our stay unforgettable. Vagabonding only gets better when you have a few locals to show you around, and New Orleans definitely got better and better…
Continuing the never-ending drive out of Florida, we stopped in Tallahassee last Saturday to watch the U.S. lose to Ghana (I did not publicize my partial leaning toward Ghana, especially when surrounded by red white and blue painted faces). We had a great time and met some really friendly and hospitable people, a precursor to our even better evening, when a last-minute success with couchsurfing led us to sleep on the futon of this old hippie and his family. The house was like a live 3D version of those I Spy books – randomly assorted items on every shelf, in every drawer, on every wall. This guy had collected insane numbers of old maps, doorknobs, toy cars and army men, glasses, hats, photos, and tons more, that kept us entertained for hours. He also operated on a 24-hour open door policy, so certain friends could stop by just to get a glass of water and play with whatever new little antique gadget the guy had acquired – even if he himself wasn’t there. This was the beginning of the unbelievable southern hospitality we have experienced for the past several days now.
The drive then took us through the rest of Florida, including a stop at Santa Rosa Island, about half an hour east of Pensacola, where we took a short break on the beach. Along with blinding white sand and warm waters, we found what we think were the first signs of the oil spill hitting that beach. Neither of us knowing exactly what a tar ball looks like, we can’t be sure, but scattered everywhere were these little nickel- and quarter-sized chunks of dark brownish red, malleable, course, greasy dough-like stuff that at first we didn’t notice but then couldn’t stop noticing. It was all over the place, and it stuck to our feet when we left. The weird thing was, when we stopped again at the beach in Mississippi, there was no sign of anything like it, or anything resembling crude oil in any form. So who knows.
We got to New Orleans, set up camp at Bayou Segnette State Park (the cheapest place we could find within a good distance of the city), ate dinner with some armadillos who wandered up to the site, and headed in to explore the French Quarter. We fell in love. Where else in the world can you go out for the night in flip flops and T-shirts, get three drinks for the price of one (standard in most upper level bars), and sit on a beautiful veranda to consume them as you listen to a live (and actually good) band, on a Sunday night? This city knows how to have a good time on the right level. No “pretty people” bars – no high heels and pretention. But on the other end, a certain amount of refinement – a scarcity of ignorant rednecks, to put it bluntly. This is the balance on which I thrive.
Fate took care of us that first night in New Orleans. We got to talking with our bartender, Shana, who turned out to be very active on couchsurfing and offered us a place to stay for the remainder of our time there. We moved in the next day, and thank God, because it rained from then on – camping would have been horrendous. Shana and her boyfriend, Luke, turned out to be total godsends, and they made our stay unforgettable. Vagabonding only gets better when you have a few locals to show you around, and New Orleans definitely got better and better…
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