Going out in Mexi style

It's incredibly hard to believe that this time last year, I was just coming back from a two-week trip in Mexico following my three-month internship with the Associated Press. This time around, I know for sure that I'm coming back to the D.F. and I have a job, no matter how dubious or lackluster it might be. End-of-the-year trips in Mexico have included a tranquil, lazy weekend in the colorful colonial city of Guanajuato, a toasty long weekend in Puerto Escondido with Matt and his parents (who stayed for 10 days, lucky), and a Sunday hike to Ajuso, a mountain just outside Mexico City and reachable by a series of 2-peso metro rides and 4-peso bus rides for a 1.5-hour journey. Here are some pics. Perhaps I'll add witty comments when I feel like it.

El Pípila in Guanajuato
Santa Fe hotel with the Peters in Puerto Escondido
Being cold in the forests of Ajusco.

Choonimals for Charity

As most of you probably know, my boyfriend Matt and five of his friends own Choonimals Clothing Company, a T-shirt company that prints "abstract" animals onto American Apparel gear. This December, the company is designating 10 percent of all sales to La Casa de la Sal, a Mexico City orphanage for children and teens living with HIV/AIDS.

We kicked off the event by making a US$500 donation and publishing a subsequent promotional video (www.choonimals.com/charity). The goal is to raise $500 more to make a second donation.

Five hundred bucks is certainly a lot of money for most people in Mexico - it's a lot of money for me. It was definitely a weird feeling when we purchased $500-worth of medicine for the pharmacy and left with around 10 small boxes of prescriptions that fit into one petite plastic bag. Considering the average cost per child there is 10,000 pesos a month (about $775), with 25 kids at the orphanage and 40 enrolled in the home-care program, 500 bucks is kind of a small clink in the proverbial bucket. The nurses, however, were incredibly happy with the work we were doing for the orphanage, and it was nice to know that at least they thought we were making a difference even if to me it felt like a trivial act of charity.

That said, buy some Choons and help the niños!

Una Navidad Mexicana

Whereas the Christmas season in the United States is bombarded with commercialism, advertisements and 24-hour caroling, Christmas in Mexico is overwhelmed with a nonstop onslaught of seasonal festivities. From the end of November to early January, the central Zócalo plaza becomes the "world's largest" ice skating rink that's free to the public, and several main streets in the historical center are shut down so that posadas, similar to nativity scenes, can take over during the nine days leading up the Christmas Eve. The main Reforma thoroughfare is also dotted with Bethlehem-esque wood shacks, although these ones feature coolers of Pepsi products instead of a baby Jesus. In the middle of Reforma is the "world's tallest" Christmas tree. Listen to my friend Grant's story on World Vision report here.

It's hard to list all of the magical things that are going on around Mexico City during this holiday season because anywhere you look, a pointed and tinsely piñata will invariably be hanging from a tree, ceiling or rooftop. Jolly drivers will stick reindeer antler or a Santa hat out the windows or on the roof of their cars. Nativity scenes, complete with every farm animal imaginable and all of Bethlehem's residents, will appear out of nowhere, the carpets of straw and plastic figurines making passersby pause to gawk/cross themselves/reflect.

Tonight, I attended the Ballet Folklórico de México de Amalia Hernández (one of the most popular in Latin America)'s Christmas presentation, which included the Angel Gabriel defeating dancing devils and delivering the good news to Mary, plus the Three Wise Men offering mariachis and "china poblanas" to a proud Joseph and Mary and baby Hay-zeus. I intended to attach an audio clip, but apparently I'm not saavy enough/you can't do it. Regardless, I now have a fun-sounding track of some face-paced stomping and "ayayayayay"-style mariachi music.

Also, last night I purchased a Rosca de Reyes bread. The dessert is traditionally served on Jan. 6, the Three Kings Day, but after tasting one preemptively at a bakery chain I just had to have another. I think it's pretty much like fruitcake, but I've never had U.S. fruitcake so I'm only making a guess here. It's basically sweet bread with candied fruits on top and tiny holy figurines inside. According to tradition, at a Rosca celebration, family members will pass around the circular bread and cut their own slices. Whoever finds a figurine in their cake is charged with hosting a party sometime soon. Since I found two figurines and it was at during a tiny dinner party at my house, I'm going to assume that those cancel each other out. Here's what was left:

FELIZ NAVIDAD!

....and I'm back!

*Whew* That was a nice two-month long break. I'm sorry to have ever failed you readers like that. But now that The News decided it wasn't worth its time to maintain the Web site, looks like I'll have to write to you myself, since I can no longer post my latest stories on the blog, Maria's Storytime. However, I might copy/paste the Word documents up if I manage to feel so motivated.

Anyway, today on a wonderfully warm and sunny Saturday afternoon, I was working :/ It wasn't so bad, just an annual art fair for one of Mexico City's private U.S. schools. On the way out, though, I was struck by the contrast in the beautiful school I had just exited, the top-rate hospital I'd just passed by, and the slums immediately facing me across the street.

In the central part of the city, residents are mostly protected from the realities of the metropolis' outskirts. Sure, you see homeless people sleeping in the fetal position under a blanket outside a restaurant; you see children as young as 2 selling gum on the metro; you see families washing themselves in the street because the gov't cut off their water supply; you see mothers, fathers and progeny sitting in a pow-wow with a dingy change cup outstretched.

But where some of these people live, the actual slums, are usually out of plain sight. So I was a little surprised to be caught walking through a shabbier area relatively close to my neighborhood. Granted, this place is far from the worst Mexico City has to offer. I'm not even sure if the word "slum" qualifies. In any event, in the middle of an urban sprawl I heard roosters crowing, saw corrugated metal roofs secured into place by rocks, and saw a rampant lack of municipal attention to public spaces (think rebar poking out of the concrete step where you were about to put your foot). Anyway, here's some pictures while I'm still feeling like a social justice revolutionary.Nice glass roof, and then... (don't know why it's a link)Improvisational roof.

Silly, silly hijackers

In case you crawled under a rock yesterday, you've probably heard about the crazed Bolivian hijacker who yesterday threatened to blow up an Aeromexico plane flying into Mexico City from Cancún if he did not receive an audience with Presidente Felipe Calderón.

The initial reaction from the police and media was, of course, to assume that this was some kind of terrorist or drug-related attack. Four possible hijackers had been indicated and a cardboard box-bomb allegedly on board, so what else would you naturally assume?

The BBC London, in fact, called The News office asking for insider information on airport security in Mexico and if hijackings were normal here. I didn't feel qualified to speak as an expert, and as our most inside sources only speak Spanish and all of our English-speaking talent had been so swiftly kicked to the curb months ago, I had to tell a very disappointed Brit that we could offer him nothing. It felt pretty emasculating (can women be that?) to work for a local newspaper and tell a BBC London reporter that we're not actually a real newspaper, we just translate things from the wires (and offer stunningly awesome culture reporting).

Back to the hijacker: As the day progressed, the 104 passengers were released and later the 7 crew members. In the end, there was just one hijacker. His purported accomplices? The Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Apparently the Bolivian man, a Christian pastor who had been living in Mexico for years, had received a message from God that horrible things would happen to Mexico on 9/09/09, as the numbers' reflection spells out the sign of the Devil: 666.

In the end, no harm, no foul. Except for that apocalyptic goblin that ate everyone but gringos yesterday. Time to finally open some Chipotle and Panera franchises down here? I think so, too.

The Turtle Whisperer's Tale

Another weekend, another beach adventure, as the story goes.

The last weekend of August, Matt, Paul, Humberto, Jeff (Matt's friend from home) and I hopped on that infamous 1 a.m. bus ride down to a station just outside Acapulco. We cabbed into Bonfil while two of the boys picked up a rental car at the airport. From there, we drove about three hours east in sticky heat to a beach with no name (or at least one that I don't know).

After driving through small, run-down towns and the thick greenery, we pulled up to an empty field, marred only by a tiny dirt path and a small shack constructed of 2x4s and dried palm fronds.
The seemingly random spot was actually our destination - a couple months ago when the boys were out surfing at a nearby spot, they drifted down the coast and serendipitously landed in front of the house. Seeing a head bobbing around in this virtually uncivilized place, they walked up the beach to the house and met the Turtle Whisperer and his wife Victoria.

TW had moved to this isolated spot around four years ago as civil employee charged with caring for the sea turtles and keeping their eggs safe. The government has since cut him from the payroll, but the couple continue living without any electricity, plumbing or transportation to look after the turtles. Their only income, it seems, is the benevolence of others.

The boys had all had a great time on their last visit, so, unannounced, we decided to stop by for an overnight on their sandy "front yard." Even though we literally dropped in out of nowhere, the couple greeted us as if we were their next-door neighbors stopping by for an evening chat. Their genuinely warm and welcome greeting was a little disarming - I think when I meet people who radiate kindness and warmth, it underscores my tendency to be defensive and cold at first.

We set down our backpacks and tents under their frond-thatched awning and immediately bounded off for the muddy-brown water, hence why Paul has deemed the beach "Chocolate." It's a nice little reminder that even in the middle of nowhere, litter and trash will inevitably wash up on shore - unless Victoria was the one who was chucking individual sandals into the ocean and waiting to see where they'd end up.

Their house was beautiful despite being barebones, it was evident they took great pride in their small piece of property. The main house was split into two sand-floor rooms: the first was the kitchen and living area, and the second their bedroom, both decorated with hundreds of seashell windchimes.

A few steps outside was the bathroom, which for being just a hole above the sand was an elaborately constructed wood-slatted building. The small hut was sectioned off into a shower area and a men's and women's bathroom, with a communal stone basin serving as the sink. The toilet was just a wood crate with a round hole in the middle (the women's with an actual toilet seat), and whatever was henceforth produced landed onto the sand below. A nearby bucket could be filled with sand to cover the 'organic' offerings, and TW sprinkled talc on it each night to fend off the bugs. (Sidenote: just outside the hut was a fresh-water well. Mmmm).

A few hours after arriving, Paul and Humberto drove into town to pick up some freshly caught red-snapper, vegetables and Modelo beer. The couple generously prepared us dinner with the supplies we'd bought and sat down to eat with us at the long, wooden table. During the meal, it started to rain and two giant rainbows appeared in the sky, one visible from both ends. Being techno-gringos, we of course got up to snap millions of pictures, and the couple just laughed a bit and reminded us that they get rainbows there every night.

After the meal, we sat around under the awning drinking our Modelo and wondering why no one had thought to bring bug spray. Even though I was wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, the mosquitoes found a way to my flesh by biting me at least 20 times on each foot. The rain had made the tents damp and chilly, but sleeping on the beach always breaks my insomniac spell like none other.

In the morning, TW and Victoria offered us a heaping breakfast of eggs 'a la mexicana' with tomatoes and onions (I was tempted to ask if they were turtle eggs, but that felt pretty evil), as well as refried beans, rice and the classic Mexican pick-me-up, instant Nescafé. After the boys squeezed in one last surf (I have since retired), we handed the couple a 500-peso thank-you and packed up the rental car. After a thorough hugging session, they repeatedly insisted that we return. I realize I just said that we gave them money, but I like to think that if they were all about the money, they wouldn't be able to speak to turtles, then, would they?

In the end, I felt very warm and fuzzy. I wish I could just go on fun, exciting adventures and offer people my wit, charm and pesos along the way. As of lately, my only charitable giving has consisted of a few coins here and there when the mood strikes me or when I feel guilty about being virtually uncharitable in the day-to-day. It took me about a week to become practically desensitized and indifferent to the poverty and misfortune around me - otherwise, how could you handle living here? Maybe the Turtle Whisperer has all the answers.

USA v Mexico

A few weeks ago I had the chance to attend the USA v MEX World Cup qualifier game. As everyone here probably knows, Mexicans are CRAZY about their fútbol, even more so than *gasp* Buckeye fans are about OSU. So naturally my gringo friends and I were a little nervous about entering the 100,000-person Azteca Stadium where probably 99,900 of fans were not rooting for the red, white and blue. We'd heard stories about people getting batteries, bags of urine and other such gross things thrown on them in additional to emotional injury as well. So, being of ambiguous ethnicity, I wore a green tank top and let a dude outside the stadium paint my face with the Mexican flag to avoid such unpleasantries. Unpatriotic, you might call me. A whimp, you might say. Whatever, my love for USA soccer doesn't run deep enough to suffer through pee bags.

The match had been moved up from the typical evening game to 3 p.m., giving the Mexican team another obvious advantage over Team Gringo. Not only was the game held at 7,000+ feet, but during the afternoon the infamous Mexican smog is at its worst, mixing with the heat to form a truly sweaty and sticky experience. As such, I had to race to the stadium from work, meeting with a group of friends at the Metrobus platform. From there, we grabbed a quick cab ride to the stadium and made it about 10 minutes before the starting kick (with still enough time to grab plastic blue Corona trumpets to squeak into every five seconds). Our tickets were for the general seating section, and since literally every seat was filled, we sat on the steps, leaning left and right to avoid being stomped on by beer, hamburger or Ramen Noodle vendors. The gringo section was across the stadium, with around 100 red-shirted fans standing out amongst the typhoon of green. Looking at pictures of friends who sat in the section, I could see their rows were blocked off by heavily-suited policeman with plastic riot shields and menacing masks. Random objects and liquid were thrown.

Sitting on the steps in the Mexico section, things were relatively tame. When the US scored the game's first goal (USA! USA!) the crowd became unexpectedly silent. I was anticipating Mexicans to foam at the mouth with rage, but everyone just kinda held their breath. When the Mexicans scored, however, everyone went crazy, chucking whatever object was in their hand at the time towards the seats below them. Following both goals I was showered in what I can only hope was beer, conked in the head by empty pizza boxes and rendered deaf by shouts, Corona trumpets and frantic screaming.

On the way out, the gringo fans were offered police escorts, and the rest of us Mexican or wannabe-Mexican fans filed out by the thousands in a painfully slow procession. Don't fret USA fans, our loss at the Azteca didn't disqualify us for the World Cup. And though I still don't care about soccer, I would like to see Mexico shamed in defeat.

My country tis of thee..

The other day while riding one of the fancy new public buses down the central Reforma thoroughfare, I naturally passed a massive mob of protesters. When the stoplight turns red, they filed into the streets and around cars holding big signs and shouting chants in unison. Before the light turns green they run back onto the sidewalk banks and wait patiently for the next turn. This time, the protesters were demanding that the Mexican government treat its citizens like it treats Obama - with reverence, respect and a willingness to coordinate efforts. The Mexican people would like to see that same kind of diplomacy reflected inside its own borders, essentially. To drive the point home, many of the protesters donned Obama face masks, which was really a hilarious sight and made me wish I hadn't left my camera at the office. Instead, this Google-d image will have to suffice:

Mexican Waterworld

Because just one day trip on the water in Mexico isn't enough, last weekend I doubled my water fun by taking a twilight boat ride on Friday and an all-day rafting trip on Saturday.

The slow cruise down the Xochimilco canals in Mexico City's far south is one of those activities that ex-pats living in the city nearly tire of, they do it so much. I, however, had tired of saying "no" (approximately seven times) every time the opportunity arrived. So when Paul decided he wanted to take his visiting brother and sister down the dubiously clean waterways, I concurred (as did Matt and my roomie Humberto).

Xochimilco is pretty far away. It requires riding the metro to the very end of the line, then either taking a cab or hopping on the light rail train. We arrived around 6:30 p.m., and even though the sky was ominously cloudy and thunder was clapping, we escaped Mexico City's predictable evening showers. At the docks, a countless number of wooden rafts is lined up in rows, and you have to walk over four or so to get to the farthest one out. The wooden "lanchas" are painted bright, happy primary colors, and they smartly feature roofs. The dugout floor is complete with chairs and a table, as the essential purpose of making the trip is either to have a family picnic or a sloppy, drunk blowout at 0.002 miles/hour. We settled for a few beers and Mexi-flavored potato chips.

As any guide book will tell you, Xochimilco is a fascinating community seemingly worlds away from the city's interior. Most people there live along the water, taking tiny water taxis to get to places. Many people are farmers or gardeners - one of the city's best flower/plant market is in Xochi. Boat riders pay by the hour for their canal-tastic tour; we paid about 180 pesos for two hours. The ride is ridiculously slow, as an 18-year-old jóven pushed us along by stabbing a long, wooden pole into the water and pushing off the bottom. Passing boats was a little silly, because when you move that slow, you're essentially joined side-by-side with random families and there's no way to hide your curious stares. The best boats to pass were the ones loaded with teenagers guzzling bottles of booze without any parental supervision to stop them. And, despite the feeling of virtual isolation, if you need anything along the waterway, the boat pusher-boy can probably help you find it. We made a beer run once in front of a bare bone, wooden shack, which apparently marked the entrance to a little store somewhere down the path. Various restaurants or greenhouses also provided potties for a 4-peso pee fee.

Saturday was a much faster ride, but still kinda slow. Early in the morning, Laura and I walked over to meet up with some friends of friends who had put together a rafting trip near the Morelos/Guerrero state lines. As we carpooled down and over for about two hours, I marveled at the majestic beauty of the giant green mountains, clear blue sky and sweeping landscapes that are usually denied in Mexico City. But as soon as we pulled up in front of the starting point along the river, I realized we were standing under the gateway to the Cacahuamilpa caves, a trip I'd made with Azul some months back. So much for seeing new places.

No one in our nine-person boat had ever been rafting before, except for Tim, who had been various times in Mexico and used to raft in West Virginia. The river was a mystical shade of brown, and if it wasn't for the dirt and rock sediment that crunched between my teeth when we got splashed, I might've thought it was the chocolate river from Willy Wonka's factory.

The river is a Level 2, meaning it's the second-easiest level of all possible rafting experiences. However, that did not keep us from slamming into a rock wall and subsequently flipping the raft when gliding down the first rapid we encountered. After I fell out, I was stuck in the churning rapid, like a vertical whirlpool, and despite earlier instructions to not panic, I panicked. I started kicking as violently as I could, extending my arms forward in hopes of finding the surface (I also forgot that I was wearing a life jacket and would inevitably float to the top). When I did reach the top, I was stuck under the boat, so I just kept panicking and flailing until I surfaced, gasping for breath as if I'd nearly died after one minute of submersion.

I'm kinda glad that we flipped, though, because not only does it make a charming story for my blog, but it also provided more excitement than we would've otherwise experienced down the river. Not to brush aside the experience - it was a lot of fun - but it was nothing that the 10-year-old in our boat couldn't handle, either. The river was low despite it being the rainy season, and our nine bodies in the boat frequently meant we got stuck on the rocks. Sometimes we had to get out and push it along the more shallow parts.

At one point, the other rafting team and six or so kayakers got out when we crossed under a bridge. I followed Laura's more adventurous lead and climbed up the hillside. With one of the rafting guides, we crossed the squeaky, creaky bridge made out of rebar (the twisted metal rods that stick out of people's unfinished concrete block houses). I again thought that I might die, particularly when another rafter hopped on after me, her weight causing the bridge to swing left, right, left, right. But make it across we did, and after a five minute break to slow down my heart beat, we crossed back over to safety and resumed our casual raft ride down the river.

The end point lead us to the house where we'd first dropped off our stuff. The eco-tourism company we went with had apparently made friends with the family that lived there, who let us park our cars, use the toilet and change out of our river-stained clothes. We even ate weird gooey fruit that had fallen off the tree. After we attempted to freshen up, all 20-something of us walked down the road to a small restaurant, plastic chairs and all. The food was OK, typical roadside Mexican food, but the beer was a delicious 9 pesos a bottle (that's about 70 cents). The bathroom was also a treat: to reach it, you walked up a narrow concrete staircase to the second floor, a one-room space with a door to the balcony. That door was kept open, because behind it hid the toilet, which sat under a spiral staircase, the TP on one of the metal steps and the used paper placed inside an overflowing plastic bucket. After a long, late car ride home, a shower never felt so great.

The one, the only, the Lucha Libre

When people think of Mexican entertainment, a few things probably come to mind: men with trumpets dressed in funny sparkly suits, the grotesque donkey show, bullfighting or the Lucha Libre. I'm here to tell you about the latter.

For some foreigners living in Mexico, the Lucha Libre is kind of like a rite of passage. It's not something that you're necessarily interested in, but it's something that most everyone has seen at least once. And who doesn't want to see a bunch of grown men in spandex fake-fighting for an hour?

A few Friday nights ago I had the chance to attend a match with some super-fanatics, so I thought, 'why not?'

We sat up in the cheap seats inside the gigantic stadium not too far from my apartment. A spot on the sticky stone benches costs a mere 25 pesos (two bucks, roughly), although a 32 oz cup of warm keg beer costs 50 pesos. While our balcony seats where less than halfway filled, the bottom seats closest to the stage were completely packed, with screaming fans going wild for the borderline-homoerotic wrestlers. The best part for me was the live horn band that played during pivotal points or after "victories" on the stage. It's like the Mexican equivalent to our prerecorded scoreboard music that randomly evokes cheers of "CHARGE!" from the audience.

The night was divided into three fights and a succession of various rounds. I didn't actually understand what was going on so my details are going to be a bit fuzzy on this. What I do know is that the wrestlers each fulfilled very particular stereotypes, and I'm not even talking about the midget they stuffed into a blue gorilla costume who waddled on stage at various points.

The "best" wrestler, according to my posse of experts, is the openly gay fighter Máximo who donned a hot-pink mohawk and a sassy little Spartan costume made of purple shiny pleather with dangerously short pleats. I think the mini gorilla was his helper, or something. His preferred wrestling move was to kiss his opponents on the lips, which sent them flying dramatically backwards and left them wiping their lips in a panic for at least five minutes.

There were also a pair of Tejanos, or Texans, who dressed in tight white spandex cowboy costumes, with bull's horns placed appropriately over the crotch. I believe their weapon of choice was a whip. Black Warrior, naturally, was a black wrestler with dreads tied back in a Rasta-esque wrap. A Japanese wrestler with an appropriate karate headband bowed emphatically to his opponents before each fight. They mockingly bowed back after they kicked his butt.

A whole slew of other wrestlers appeared on stage, some wearing nothing more than neon green Speedos. Most wore the traditional Lucha Libre spandex face mask with little holes cut out for the eyes and mouth, and of which hundreds of replicas where available from street vendors outside the stadium. During each round, super sexy dancers came out to shake awkwardly back and forth for the Jumbotron.

Everyone's fighting was just as overblown and clearly fake as in WWF matches, but everyone loved it and clearly wanted more. And maybe I do too.



[Máximo in action!]

A Failed Experiment in Camping

Last weekend I learned that an adventurous spirit isn’t always enough to overcome a lack of preparation. And while Saturday night was certainly one of those “makes a good story” moments, I’m still genuinely scarred by the events that unfolded.

[This story is 1,100 words long. Enjoy].

When Laura proposed a camping trip, I suggested Parque Nacional El Chico, a huge “eco” reserve (albeit littered with chip bags and beer bottles) about 2-3 hours north of Mexico City and just outside the town of Pachuca. None of us knew much about the place, but it’s usually enough to have the general concept down and ask as you go.

After rallying the troops, including Matt, Paul and Enzué, we hopped aboard a “direct” bus (that made various stops) for less than five dollars apiece. Reaching Pachuca, we hopped on a “combi,” one of those ubiquitous 15-passenger vans produced sometime in the 1970s, heading towards the park. We didn’t know quite what to tell our driver, just that we wanted to camp for the night inside El Chico. My guidebooks and Google searches had all been a bit vague as to names and locations, so when the driver suggested the Las Ventanas campsite, it sounded as good as any.

He dropped us off inside a “reserve” complete with a half-empty pond, numerous Mexican weekenders and several wood stalls where women brought in Tupperware containers filled with tasty fillings for tacos, which they heated on large hot plates in the back. We hiked up a bit past the open field and into the woods, the enormously tall trees and thick scrub a promising shelter from tent robbers and the strong winds. The altitude at El Chico isn’t that much higher than in Mexico City, but the clouds were so low you could see them fly past and nearly scrape the ground.

We pitched our tents and explored the neighboring forest, but since we’d arrived around 5 p.m. and there was little to do, we mostly just waited for the sun to set so Sunday could come sooner. Things got cold and damp pretty fast, and it soon became evident that the thin flannel sheets Matt and I had brought in place of sleeping bags was a poor choice. It was an incredibly stupid, horrible, death-defying choice, we would learn a little later.

The leaves, sticks, logs and littered paper were all too damp to start a fire, so after the sun had mostly set, we stood around in a circle eating the food we’d brought: pre-toasted bread slices, plastic-wrapped slices of cheese and baked tortilla discs.

By 8:30 we’d tired of our amazingly bland feast and retired to our tents. I’d brought my yoga mat and we set down our raincoats and one of the blankets on the ground, but the earth was still tough and damp. Laying the far-too-breathable blanket on top of us, Matt and I began shivering in the spoon position, our nervous giggles turning into near-tears (ok, that was mostly just me). I slid my jeans back on over my sweatpants, put a second T-shirt on over my sweatshirt and eventually ended up with a pair of Matt’s boxers – clean – around my neck.

Around 10 p.m. I fell asleep and dreamt a cruel dream that I was back home in Mexico City wearing a tank top, the blaring sun shining down as I thanked the Lord that Saturday night was over. Then I woke up and found myself shaking and breathing hard in the fetal position with more than eight hours left until daylight. I couldn’t really fall asleep after that, and the rest of the night was a marathon of peeking my head out from under the blanket for air, switching sides for my frigid fetus form and occasionally shrieking out loud. Everything was dewy.

Even today, on a mild Monday morning, the sensation of being chilled is an unnerving, unsettling feeling that I’ll never be warm again.

By some miracle the sun finally rose, not that it heated anything up, but at least the night was over. Matt and I were the first up (and the only ones without sleeping bags) and we took a walk to get the blood moving into our frozen bodies. I gave Matt a pep talk so he wouldn’t start killing people in a blind rage. Everyone else got up a while later, and with tents packed and teeth unbrushed, we set off down the highway towards cooler things I’d heard about from some other campers.

Not more than ten minutes later we came across the entrance to El Chico, an under-construction visitor’s station there to greet us. “Ahh,” we sighed, “that’s why everything sucked. We weren’t in the park!” A combi took us into Mineral del Chico, a former mining pueblo that was still waking up when we rolled in around 10 a.m. I sipped what might’ve been the best hot chocolate of my life (because I was cold and because it had delicious spices) and a rice pudding “paste,” the region’s flaky pastry specialty. A nice pear vendor handed me two pieces of the fruit for free, laughing as Laura and I bit into the starchy pears because they were apparently meant for baking.

We spent an hour or so basking in the sunlight around Lake [name] and eating 5-peso bags of candy, surrounded by other campers who obviously knew better than we did. Paul bought a “fishing pole,” or an empty plastic Coke bottle wrapped in fishing wire and a bob. He didn’t catch anything in the paddleboat-polluted lake. We watched kite fliers and trampoline jumpers; we later set our packs inside a restaurant and for several hours climbed up to a ridge that overlooked the water. Our spirits and bodies were much warmer. I even sweat enough to remove two of four layers! The descent took no more than 30 minutes, primarily due to the constant decline that left us “forest surfing.”

Lunch was at the lakefront restaurant where we’d left our stuff. I ate a foil-baked trout that, we double-checked, was not from the lake but from a nearby fish hatchery. Matt ate his seventh huge taco for the weekend. Our return to Mexico City was a traffic-less sleepy haze and an unnecessarily long metro ride to my apartment. Once back in my room, I took a much-needed hot, hot shower and brushed my teeth for the first time in nearly two days. I dressed in pajamas suited for an Ohio winter, shut every window and snuggled deeply into my bed, crying a little inside with joy.

The Mexican "Lunch"

Yesterday I met up with everyone at the school to leave together for a end-of-the-year "lunch." We hopped in each other's cars around 3 p.m. and headed down to the San Ángel neighborhood in the south. By chance, we went to the only restaurant I've ever been to in San Ángel, so it was not quite the Mexican mystery I'd been hoping for.

Around 15 of us sat down at a long wood table, a huge wok of paella sitting in the middle and filled with sausage, pigs' feets and all sorts of goodies I can't eat. We started with a couple beers and packets of Saltines (Mexico's equivalent to giving a basket of bread), followed by squares of delicious 'tortilla patata.' I was encouraged by the other teachers to eat all of them (I did) as I wouldn't get to enjoy in the fruits of paella. Next came some raw meat & tuna spread for the Saltines, which I stared at judgingly. Finally the paella wok was returned to our table after being whisked away for cooking on the grill. I selected a few tough, chewy prawns off the top, popped off their heads and peeled away their little feet and smothered them in Valentina salsa, and I added a little bit of the yellow rice and peas on the side, probably smothered in sinful meat juice.

Everything we ate and drank was part of a prepaid package, so once we collectively consumed 20 beers, we were left with the the two bottles of rum and two bottles of tequila on the table. With the food gone, we sat at the table nibbling the typical bar food of wheat puffs covered in chile as we talked about the kids (mostly their cooky parents) and other girly gossipy things and while I humored the 20-year-old door guy who apparently has a case of puppy love.

Around 11 p.m., the four bottles polished off and surrounded by empties of Squirt, Coke and mineral water, we left the banquet room and moved into the cantina part, where drunken karaoke and dancing took place, but fortunately the Jose Cuervo hadn't hit me enough to encourage me to join. I was pulled up to the dance floor by a couple of my teachers, but after showing them what I mean when I say "gringos don't dance," they let me sit back down. The principal ordered another two bottles of tequila, and with an incredible performace by my liver, I continued drinking until 1 a.m. without much more than a buzz. Good work, OU.

Eventually we all went back to our homes (or some of us to other parties, ahem), me hitching a ride with my infant teacher and her sober husband. As a side note, drunk driving in Mexico does not carry the appropriate stigma that it does in the U.S.

And that, my friends, is a Mexican lunch.

More than just mariachi

Many people conjure up images of decked-out mariachi men when they think about Mexico's music scene. Others picture baggy-shirted images of reggaeton phenoms like Daddy Yankee (who is actually Puerto Rican, but that's beside the point).

I'm here to tell you there's another tune those of you on the outside have been missing.

Anyone living in the city will undoubtedly hear the monotone, incoherent recordings of various carts and trucks that drive through the streets all day, every day. The most ubiquitous and distinguishable are the tamales or camotes vendors; others, like the fruit vendor who circles my block, solicit their product in one five-minute breath of nonsensical syllables.

I have no idea what the voice in the following clip is saying, but as today (July 5) was the mid-term elections in Mexico, perhaps we can pretend it had something to do with encouraging voters to hit the polls. The visual quality of this clip is atrocious (and not rotated), and the sound quality is barely even mediocre. However, it's the best I could too in a flash of inspiration. So shut up and listen!

Long time, no blog

A three-week absence does not a devoted blogger make. I'll blame the 60-hour work week, that always seems to justify things easily.

I just returned yesterday from a glorious escape to the motherland - Ohio. I spent about eight days basking in the warm glory of Ohio summers, and luckily I got in early enough to avoid the suffocating humidity.

[Note: While I was off frolicking in the Promised Land, my roommate Paul was off to Honduras covering the military coup firsthand. He had his story posted in the Wall Street Journal and took some amazing pictures as the events unfolded. And the day I came back to Mexico, Matt left for a film project in Lima, Peru. Let's just say both will receive jealous punches to the face when they return, and congratulatory hugs of course].

On my first weekend back to the U.S. of A, I hopped in a car for the first time since February (eek!) and drove up to Napoleon for the wedding of my OU friends Patrick and Emily. The setting was gorgeous, and though I don't think I could live surrounded by billowing 'amber waves of grain,' it certainly made for the perfect summer backdrop. Reuniting with my OU ladies was an incredibly glorious, short-lived experience that painfully reminded me of those precious years in Athens.

The rest of my Ohio days were filled with all-too-brief moments with family, friends and the new family cat, Miles, as well as all-too-depressing First World shopping sprees that made me both curse the strong dollar and my peso-fied salary with each exasperated swipe of the debit card. But I knew I had to take advantage of the U.S.'s saturated clothing industry, as things in Mexico tend to be incredibly expensive or cheap but tacky and/or ugly. And while I am extremely appreciative for the free meals that my loved ones bestowed upon me at Ohio's fine dining institutions, I found myself cursing American gastronomy as only gryo carts littered a late-night Arena District while I craved Mexico's delicious all-night taco bars, where ravenous diners can stumble in at 4 a.m. and tally boxes on an order card just like those at sushi restaurants.

I also hung around to watch the Friday fireworks downtown for Red, White & Boom (though my heart lies with the Worthington 'works). It was a wonderful chance to see some familiar TWHS faces, wear a star-spangled necklace and randomly burst into patriotic tunes at whim. My actual 4th of July experience took place in Mexico with much less American pride. Laura and I put together a little cookout feast of hamburgers (meat and veggie, duh), watermelon, potato wedges and Rice Krispie treats for seven or so Mexican friends, who despite enjoying the buffet did not want to listen as we YouTube-d songs like "You're a Grand Ole Flag," "Yankee Doodle Dandy," "America the Beautiful," and, of course, a clip of the Backstreet Boys singing the national anthem. Instead our Mexican guests preferred to roll their eyes at the outright patriotism we tried to force upon them. I mean, come on, we rule the universe, can't we gloat every once in a while?

Now it's midnight on a Sunday, which means in seven short hours I'll kick off my last full week at the preschool and begin the fourth edition of my Embassy Row supplement. I already stress-cried once, and the fun hasn't even started yet!

Saturdays are my only day off

Indeed, Saturdays are the only days I'm not working. I have a 5-hour day on Friday with the preschool and a 6-ish hour day with The News on Sunday, but Saturdays are mine!

Last weekend, Azul and I ventured over to Real de Montes, a small stop in the state of Hidalgo, just north of Mexico City. It's only a 1.5-hour drive away, but we took the 3-hour local bus. The city is beautiful, and it's really nothing more than that; quiet streets, friendly residents and walls painted varying shades of yellow, pink, red, orange, blue, green and purple, the windowpanes painted a bold white or covered with curling wrought iron. There must be some kind of city ordinance that requires all walls be incredibly pretty to look at.

I creeped Azul out when I blogged about our trip to Taxco, she was disturbed by how much detail I remembered and penned down. So Azul, this is for you!

Once we hopped off the bus, we headed for fuel: hot, spiced café de olla and "sopes," a thick tortilla disk filled with a multitude of toppings, or, if you're vegetarian, with just mushrooms and/or cheese. We climbed up and down the undulating city streets, taking vanity shots of ourselves against the aforementioned beautiful walls. Azul is a professonial photographer, that's at least how we justified the endless series of self portraits. She also climbed a VW Beetle in a quest to grab some crabapples down from an orchard tree sticking out over a brick wall.

We came across a pair of raisin-faced ladies selling snacks at a little stand and started chatting them up. One of them guided us up the path to a small chapel, where she showed us a very morbid Jesus statue completely covered in blood and topped with real human hair. It's her duty to clean the one-room chapel once a week, which I assume means sweeping the floor, clearing away dead flowers on the altar and giving Jesucristo a nice polish.

We bid our lady friend farewell and continued wandering around Real, a colorful dot of a town surrounded by giant, pine-covered hills in the distance. Snack time brought yummy strawberries-and-cream bars from the ice cream lady and a 10-peso bag of gummy worms from a candy vendor in the city's central square. Our next food stop was at a nice restaurant where a TV loudly blasted scenes from a Cantinflas film (he's Mexico's Charlie Chaplin or something like that). I ordered a plate of cucumber slices covered in lime juice and chile sauce, a simple, typical dish here.

Our last culinary excursion brought us "pastes," which, as indicated by obsessive signage, is Real de Monte's gastronomic pride. The fried, flaky dough presents itself much like an empanada, and I'm not really sure what the difference is between the two. I bought one stuffed with rice pudding and a "hawaina" stuffed with ham, pineapple and cheese for Matt.

Speaking of food yet again, this Saturday Matt and I ambled along the Culturas Amigas festival on Paseo de la Reforma, the city's main thoroughfare. I ruined our fun by deciding to take pictures for a 2-page photo spread in this week's Embassy Row supplement, so what would've been a relaxing afternoon was more like me getting in everyone's way to get decent angles with my unprofessional camera. But we did enjoy a fried plantain patty from the Colombia booth, spicy rice noodles from Tailandia and a small bottle of white wine from South Africa.

The last was a delicious and nostalgic treat for me: tortilla patata (potato and egg) on top of a crusty piece of baguette and topped with a single roasted red pepper, from the Spain booth of course. It took my back to my Spanish host mom's house, where she often made me these starch sandwiches to take along on my weekend excursions. I also scored a free cup of Honduran fruit juice, the server anticipating some wonderful publicity for his restaurant in my photo spread (note: yes, I can be bought).

Well, today is Sunday, meaning all fun has ended for the week! Have a great one yourself!

Why the Mexican newspaper industry sucks

If you've been wondering where all my witty comments and wonderfully written culture features have gone, let me tell you: they've been replaced by an endless cycle of work, from sunrise to sunset.

I wake up in the morning to tend to the niños until 1 p.m., when I change clothes in the big-toilet bathroom and grab the metro then a smelly "pesero" to The News' office in Las Palmas. I've also become that nasty person who eats lunch on the bus with her fingers. Swine Flu Round 2, anyone? Once in the office, I plug away at my Embassy Row supplement as my 12 beleaugered co-workers put in even more work to run an entire paper by themselves. They're editing, designing, procuring photos, and shamefully translating horrible, horrible stories that are sent to us from our Mexican editorial department.

Our first day post-apocalypse (i.e. when 70% of the staff was fired), the new editor-in-chief assured us that The News would still be our paper with our own editorial control. But really he meant that the stories he'd be sending us, which are written by journalists working for other papers under our parent company, would be poorly written, one-sourced and rife with accusations and loaded statements that are never backed up or balanced. It's essentially 'this governor said this.' End of story. I know true objectivity doesn't really exist in journalism, but can't we at least try our best to get there?

My day in the office ends around 8 p.m., although this is kind of an arbitrary time, since it would be impossible to pull off the supplement by working my part-time schedule. I usually leave alone since everyone is still working on the paper, taking another pesero in rush-hour traffic. I eat dinner, yell at Matt and work on my stories until my brain literally turns to mush and I can no longer pull sensible sentences from out of my head.

This was last week at least, we'll see how this week goes. It's been tiring and draining, but I think the hardest part has been everyone's morale suffering a terrible blow. Our managing editor last week was fired, for what I understand as trying to gain back some editorial control so that our paper doesn't totally suck. Another editor is leaving Monday, and most others are thinking about quitting, as 11-hour days and reduced pay don't really jibe well for them.

I myself am waiting to see what transpires. My supplement is pretty independent of the rest of the paper, so as long as the designer and photo editor don't quit too, it would probably still be possible to pull it off...well, if preschool ever ends! But the best part of being overworked is that my Mexican editor told me I had to take my byline off two stories. He said it would be better if the supplement didn't appear to have been written by one person. So we'd take my name off my two least favorite stories and give readers the illusion that another reporter was helping me. What I ended up doing is moving my byline from the top of two stories to the bottom, still giving myself credit but making it less conspicuous to the unobservant reader.

I'm still not sure how my paycheck is going to work out...they're making us all declare taxes with the Treasury, at task that requires presenting yourself in person once a month or so along with a handful of the 21 million that live here. But I still don't have my FM-3 work visa, so I can't get the ID number necessary to fulfill this duty. Pues........

So that's my life thus far. Matt finally moved to Mexico City! But we only see each other for a few stressed-out hours during the week. He's been working most days on the video project with the Institute of International Education and leaves for a week of work in Peru in July! Oh to be able to leave this dead-ended rat race.

Fast Food Nation

During my half-hour recess supervision this afternoon, I approached a group of little niños playing inside the hard plastic fortress. I went up to the window and ordered from them a hamburger and fries, as if it were a drive-thru window. In that instant I had a flashback to my own niña days, when Johnny, Fuzz and I would play "Wendy's" by speaking into an oscillating fan, muffling the sound of our voices as if we were talking through the microphone attached to the plastic menu in the drive-thru lane.

Then I wondered if other cultures have fast food ingrained into their very essence from a young age, or if it's just us gringos.

I pictured my littlest students playing "tamales guy," calling out to their siblings or playmates, "Hay tamales, oaxaqueños, calientitooooooos" like the vendors who peddle around on their bike carts blasting the same prerecorded solicitation. Or mimicking the shriek whistle of the camotes (sweet potato) vendor as he pushes around his cooker-on-wheels. I've already heard the kids playing Mexican metro vendor, offering imaginary wares to each other by bellowing "tres pesooooOOOOooos." But, I suppose with a little help from globalization, all kids will be playing "drive-thru" as their little tushes get stuck going down the green plastic slide.

UPDATE: The other day one of the infant teachers sung a song in Spanish to the tune of "A Pizza Hut, a Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut. McDonald's, McDonald's, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut." That nearly sealed the deal for my hypotheses.

My thoughts exactly...

[For those who don't already know, I am blessed to have kept my job at The News, despite having only worked there one month. Instead of the colorful culture pieces I've written in the past, my focus will now be on putting out an 8-page supplement on all things foreign (embassy, commerce chambers, philanthropic organizations, etc.). Certainly not what I was expecting or necessarily hoping to do, but it will promises to be a challenge and adventure, if nothing else].

Explaining our transition

It was an image not unlike those we have published a thousand times. A group of employees of a Mexican company standing outside their office, bewildered, having been mistreated by their employer. This time, we were on the receiving end: The News has been bought by Grupo Mac, a media company that owns Cambio, Rumbo de México and Estadio, among other publications.

The fault does not lie with them - they are the acquiring company. The fault lies with Víctor Hugo O'Farill, the former owner of The News. The fault, too, lies with Mexico.

At The News, we have never had an agenda of focusing on the negative or tarnishing someone's name for the sake of it. But we do consider it our obligation to point out faults in the system that holds Mexico back.

There are ways of treating employees that Mexico must learn if it truly wants to be a member of the OECD and not be perceived, rightly or wrongly, as a third-world backwater.

When you run or own a small company like The News, which operates more for the greater good than it does the bottom line, treat your employees with respect and humanity. If you don't, it will come back to haunt you, as you will have a reputation preceding you when you try to hire new employees for your newest venture.

If you are going to give employees contracts, give them real ones that clearly spell out their rights and yours. There is no point in creating false contracts filled with loopholes - your employees know you are giving them a raw deal and they will never invest what you need - their lives and hearts - into your firm.

When you lay off dozens of employees by surprise - as happened at The News on Friday, and as is to be expected in any merger, anywhere, particularly during an economic crisis - make a personal appearance to break the news. Have the "cojones" [balls] to fire people yourself, thank them for their hard work and effort and face any possible backlash, rather than leaving the dirty work to the lackeys and muscle-for-hire.

Last year, Mexico passed reforms that, according to the World Bank, made it easier to close a business, but fell 14 spots to 56th place in terms of ease of doing business. It failed to make any improvements regarding treatment of employees. According to the World Bank, wealthy investors were among the most vocal opponents of some of the most heralded reforms. The nation must do much, much more.

In any case, The News continues. Our editorial line will remain the same. The foreigners on our staff love living in this country, of which our Mexican colleagues are an integral part. We will continue to report on the reality of Mexico - the good and bad - as we see it from our perspective.

We will be streamlining - to 24 pages, Monday through Thursday. (On Friday you will receive a 32-page weekend edition; we will no longer be publishing on Saturday and Sunday. We, too, enjoy our weekends.)

Content-wise, I'm pleased to say we will be increasing our focus on Mexico, thanks to the Grupo Mac resources at our disposal. We expect that working with our partners - with their reporting and editing resources, their knowledge of Mexico and their experience in publishing newspapers here - to be nothing but fruitful. We also hope to use our experience in the business here - we did win a global design award or two, and some of our reporting has been worthy of awards, even if we are not eligible for any major ones - to help lift the standards for Mexican journalism, which has been improving for years.

We hope you continue with us as we cover and uncover Mexico - and also, please bear with us as we deal with the adjustments of the merger - and we look forward to being your primary source of news in this wonderfully exciting country.

Spring cleaning

As you probably noticed within seconds after the fact, I deleted all my stories from The News and transferred them over to my second blog, http://mariagalluccistorytime.blogspot.com/

Don't act like you aren't excited to stalk me twice.

Anyway, I just figured now that I'm writing part-time the blogosphere was getting a bit cluttered. I know that sometimes you want hardcore facts about culture in Mexico City, and other times you just want to hear the smooth, easy breeze of my literary voice. So now you can have both in two easy-to-take doses!

Today's terror included another set of tremors as a 5.7 magnitude earthquake hit Puebla, about 90 miles southeast of D.F. I wasn't that scared this time because I knew what was happening, and because I wasn't alone. In fact, I was with three middle-schoolers who are competing in an upcoming national spelling bee. We hosted the interview in a conference room at The News, and in the middle of the round-table talk everything just got really, really wobbly. Fortunately adults were also present (I don't consider myself an adult) so they maintained the calm in the room. It was kinda funny to hear our reactions on my recorder as I played back the interviews to transcribe this evening. The weirdest part for me about tremors is the aftershock...it feels as if the ground is still trembling and the chair is still moving on its own even for a few minutes after everything real has stopped. Eeeerie.

But back to the topic of spring cleaning, tomorrow I'm starting to shift my things into the master bedroom! Drew has set off on his post-university vacations before he returns home to England, and now that I work 50+ wonderful hours a week, I don't need to pay centavos for the glorified closet.

First, I must buy curtains for the floor-length window that takes up most of one of the walls. Drew suffered through a few months without any, leaving him exposed to frequent peeping through my small square window. I'm contemplating painting a wall, but that seems more like fantasy than real ambition. I also plan to buy a bunch of 5-peso Virgen de Guadalupe candles which, though intended for altar purposes, add a nice little touch of purple, yellow, green or blue translucent plastic wherever they go. I've been wanting to buy houseplants for a while, and after writing the plant story I feel as though the time has come to purchase a nice Draceana or Piña Anona.

I decided to feel crafty by starting to save all the glass jars in our house, for storing beans or rice or creating toothbrush and hairband holders. I like to think that the Mason jar look has a certain hipster, eco-friendly appeal instead of tacky and possibly homeless. Maybe I'll steal some stickers from the preschool and give them a nice sparkly makeover.

Cash money

It is often said in Mexico that having a 500-peso bill is as good as having no money at all. Grocery stores are really the only place you can walk into with confidence and expect to get change. Go into an Oxxo convenience store and expect to either put up a huge fuss before getting change ("aaaaayyyy, es que no traigo caaaaambio") or to walk out of the store without your item. They would rather not change your 500-peso bill than make a sale.

So imagine my horror/bemusement when I cashed a 12,000-peso paycheck today at my neighborhood Banamex and received three 1,000-peso bills (or US$ 230.50). I considered protesting but then realized I had a bazillion 500-peso bills and probably took the bank lady's last one. Then I realized that next month's rent will cost 3500 pesos as I move from the maid's quarters to the master bedroom, and while my slumlord is my friend and roommate, it's a chihuahua-eat-chihuahua world here (ugh).

I should have more shame

What to buy when the 800 pesos in your wallet are getting in the way.

A gift from a student for Teacher's Day (we also got candy, roses, and I think I caught a sneak peek at some finger-painted slippers). I'm a little nervous that this apron puts me on the track to be wearing thick sweater cardigans with plastic holiday trinkets sewn on the front. I'll keep you posted come 4th of July should I find myself in a stars-and-stripes bedazzled ensemble.

Back to School Special

8:15 a.m: Presenting a united front against the swine flu, us teachers lined up at the entrance wearing rubber gloves and surgical masks to assure parents that indeed our school would be a safe haven from epidemic. The children were clearly frightened by our mad scientist-like look, and we had to constantly lower our masks so they could recognize our faces. Surgical masks later became a jovial peek-a-boo device for my 1-year-old school crush.

8:45 a.m: Classes begin and my poor teaching skills are worsened further by my new inabilities to flip through flashcards, effectively shame children (because I look like a doctor/clown) or speak without having the mask slide down my face.10:30 a.m: I move out of my basement classroom for my 2-hour help period with the toddlers. Everyone has taken off the gloves and shoved their masks off their faces. The charade is over.

1:00 p.m: Parents start trickling in to retrieve their snot monsters. Masks and gloves go on.
[In my defense, I worked a 12-hour day today, so you can't blame this post on me having too much free time. You can blame it on me being vain, though].

Kiss from a Rose

This is what happens when you interview a flower vendor: He gives you a rose and a creepy wink ;)

The Great Swine Flu Escape

The best way to deal with an oppressive, depressing city on lockdown? Leave!

For the rest of the world, last Friday was Labor Day, which actually meant something to the part of Mexico City's labor force that hasn't been off since Monday (by the way, my school might be canceled for two entire weeks). I drove down to Playa Bonfil outside Acapulco with Laura, our new friend Jonathan and my fourth floor neighbors and potential BFFs Roberto and Aram. We spent the night on the beach and were eventually joined around the campfire by some Bonfilian surfers and a man with drums, fondly named Jimmy Drums. He tried to get Laura and I first to dance for everyone, then to play the drums and then to sing, forcing me to hide behind my fro curtain while I waited for the heckling to subside. I hate him.

After a slow morning Saturday, we traded Jonathan for Paul, squeezed in tight and drove five hours north to Playa Michigan, a virgin beach near Zihuatanejo. After much pleading and begging from the three boys, Laura and I finally conceded to let them play Backstreet Boys as we bumped along the sandy path to the beach parking lot. They're really greedy like that. Car parked and luggage in hand, we boarded a small motor boat, or lancha, and crossed the lake to the beach. The only real development on the island are the tall thatch huts, stinky bathroom and shower stalls, piles of coconut husks for firewood and the corresponding restaurants that maintain the camping spaces, charging less than a dollar per night. There's no electricity, cell phone service or Facebook...it was hell.

As we wandered aimlessly through the maze of identical huts and tents, we serendipitously ran into Enzué and four Frenchies shortly after landing.
Tents pitched and bikinis fastened, we played in the amazingly intense and potentially murderous waves after a 30 second sprint from our camp across the blazing sand. Enzué, Laura and I explored the beach a bit, finding ourselves completely isolated and perhaps trespassing; we later engaged in hammock swinging and gross quesadilla consumption. After a quick lancha ride down the coast, our carpool team swam in the velvety but suspiciously warm and motionless lake, separated from the ocean by a thin strip of sand.

A golden sunset soon kissed the ocean's lips with its ardent haze...and then we got beer. Our hut neighbors lent us some space around their coconut-wood fire, the rhythms of an ipod pulsing through Paul's seven-dollar speakers. Others grilled hot dogs while I sipped slowly from my styrafoam cup, judging. When the beachside raucousness subsided, we snuggled against the hard floor of the sand from inside our tents and woke up when the smothering heat of the sun refused to back off. Sick of the clear sky, the crash of waves and all of God's splendor, we piled back into the car for what would turn out to be a 10 hour ride home (my favorite!).

ADDENDUM: I left out the best part of the whole trip...running on the beach at dusk with Aram and Laura. Of course I won by at least a mile.


EPILOGUE: Less than 24 hours after the reluctant end to the Great Swine Flu Escape, I had my first day as a payrolled reporter at The News! Everything went well, but the paper is horrendously slow right now as most city-wide events have been canceled and because Monday and Tuesday are national holidays. I mostly just took care of some paperwork and fingerprint scanning (fancy) and set off to find some inspiration for stories. Things will probably be a little complicated as I continue to teach at the preschool, but hopefully I can move full speed ahead come July!

Apocalypse Mexico

Today I had the first mildly fearful day in Mexico City, but it wasn't quite related to the swine flu. I did yoga this afternoon around 10:30, a noble task I hadn't bothered to do for the past three weeks. I felt tired and hard-worked afterward and sat down on the couch to - what else- gchat. Then the room started gyrating, and I felt the couch pulsing. I was mostly convinced it was extreme fatigue from being out of shape, so I moved to a more sturdy chair at the dinner table. But the room kept throbbing, and the doors and windows began to slam open and shut. It lasted for a bit more than a minute, long enough for me to realize it wasn't all in my head.

Turns out while I was happily getting buff in my 9th floor apartment, a 6.0 magnitude earthquake struck in the nearby state of Guerrero, about 150 miles from Mexico City. I haven't heard of any damage to the city or deaths caused by the rumble, which is great, but the incident certainly shook me up for a while. Especially because about two minutes after the shakedown I got a nosebleed, which made me half expect to see an alien spaceship encroaching on the skyline á la any movie starring Will Smith. I was desperate to get off the 9th floor, but also incredibly stinky, so in a jolted, panicked rush I showered, cleaned up and fled the apartment (though I took the elevator down, so maybe I'm just exaggerating for dramatic blogger effect).

Feeling more vulnerable than usual, I snagged a free surgical mask at the register of a Sanborn's pharmacy/bookstore as I forked over 180 pesos for a copy of Twilight in English (free poster included inside!). I had to restrict my reading this evening after quickly devouring the first half, which I like to think is more a coping mechanism to the Mexican Apocalypse and not an indicator that I might still actually be 13.

Speaking of overreacting, a lot of non-nationals here seem to be taking this swine flu thing to the extreme. I can assure you that the images you see on any news channel or in the papers are more than just a bit blown out of proportion. Rumors are circulating intensely, and it's hard to assess what's actually happening and what's all just a bit of fear-mongering. A primary example is the fact that a lot of French exchange students are fleeing in droves following the desperate pleas of their families back home. Granted, the EU did just issue a travel advisory against flying to Mexico, but no one has said anything yet about evacuating. I guess they're mostly afraid the borders will close and they'll be trapped inside. My English roomie Drew has been asked by his university back home to avoid traveling until after May 21. I figure it's already hit Ohio, so I'll be fine to go home whenever I please.

So, to anyone out there who is scared of the swine flu, let me just suggest that you pick up a copy of Twilight and indulge in the wonderful, mystical, frightening world of vampires. It's all make-believe anyway.

I hope it comes to this

This will also go great with my 5-piece Louis Vuitton luggage set. Hopefully they make driving gloves to complement the ensemble and to keep my mitts off nasty metro handrails. Earmuffs? Foot booties? Give me all!!!

Victory!

In case you haven't heard, today The News confirmed that my part-time reporting position has been approved and authorized by the higher-ups!

The TV tells me school is canceled until May 6 due to swine flu, which I have yet to confirm with my preschool but am hoping is true. Anyway, the paper and I will use this week to fill out paperwork and figure out the guidelines of my position. As of now, I'll be starting the week of May 4, balancing 32 hours of journalism with 20 hours of "aaaaaapple" and "oooooorange."

I'll be earning 80 percent of a full-time salary (which I think comes out to 14,400 pesos/month, which I think means you should laugh in my face). The editor-in-chief says it's his vision that this part-time gig evolves into a full-time position once I'm done teaching (read: dancing around in an apron).

Thanks for all your prayers and well wishes that have helped me along the way, and 'nice try' to everyone who has been poking fro-topped voodoo dolls and working against me (no one actually does that, right?).

Take care, and remember, wear your swine flu mask!!

Mexican swine flu outbreak

(NY Times)

I find it ironic that on the same day I posted the below story on great vegetarian eats in Mexico City, the city government has canceled school and other events due to a massive swine flu outbreak that the NY Times reports has already killed more than 16 people. Now's probably not the best time to gloat, and even if I did, the flu has taken on a human-to-human capacity, so we're all equally screwed. It sounds really scary - and maybe it is - but I'm not too particularly worried. I'll keep on making out with random strangers in crowded public spaces like the metro regardless.

Read stories here for more info:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/04/25/world/americas/25mexico.html?_r=1&hp

http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/world/la-fgw-mexico-flu25-2009apr25,0,7532211.story

UPDATE: The consensus is that influenza jokes are funny across the board, and that watching people eat and talk on cell phones while wearing surgical masks is highly comical. I also like to think that not being Mexican grants me immediate immunity from the swine flu - which is probably why I'll catch it in the next couple days.

Vegetarianism & The City

Ok, so I didn't write this story for The News, the freelance food writer did. However, I thought to highlight some anecdotes just to show what being vegetarian in DF is like.


Eating vegetarian in the city

BY NICHOLAS GILMAN
Special to The News

Being a vegetarian in Mexico is no easy task - we're deeply entrenched in a meat-loving culture. Mexico City's air plays host to competing breezes from smoke-belching cars and simmering pork shanks. You can't escape it.

While most streets in Mexico City seem to host one "tacos de cabeza" stand or an Argentine parilla, the pleasant surprise is that there are many meatless options in the city....

Two types of strictly vegetarian restaurants exist. The first is the old style "regular-food-but-hold-the-beef" type places, some of which have been around longer than Gayelord Hauser. Then there are the hipster health joints, recent arrivals, the "California stickers still on their luggage.

I have tried several of both. I found vegetarian versions of Mexican classic dishes, new age "faux-meat" concoctions, and lots of plain boiled vegetables and fresh salad....

U.S. concepts of what is and isn't vegetarian may be unfamiliar here. I've ordered "vegetarian pozole" and been served broth made with pork stock, but without the addition of shredded meat. Likewise, "dairy-free" is not a common concept, nor is total veganism. So if you adhere to these diets, you have to explain your needs carefully....

For those who eat fish, there are no end of good seafood places. And the street food scene can be veg-friendly: just find any quesadilla or gordita stand. Many "tacos de guisado" places offer vegetable or egg fillings (be sure to ask if they are augmented by ham or sausage)....

At the top of the list of contemporary, American-style, organic food restaurants is Origenes Orgánicos, in the heart of La Condesa, and its sister venue Eco-Bistrot in Polanco. .... I liked the "Thai" salad (although their geography is confused - there's nothing Thai about yogurt, cucumbers and ginger)....

So even if you crave "tacos al pastor," or salivate at the thought of a juicy steak, eating vegetarian in the city is perfectly doable. And it never hurt anyone to eat vegetarian every once in awhile.