My Latin Year

People Magazine Stole My Story!

2008-10-03T14:34:00.001-07:00

...which I stole from the Spanish edition of the Associated Press. But at least I credited them. Here's what happened.

It all started Thursday afternoon. I'd written a lot that morning, cooked lunch and was ready for a break. Then Giovanni calls to me: "I've got the perfect story. Shakira is for Obama." Oof. We write about anything involving Barack Obama and Colombia and just about anything at all involving Shakira, so this was a must. I sat down and knocked it out.

The next day it was linked by "The Most Visited Black Website In The World."

And if you're a snob like me and think capitalizing prepositions and articles is a little over the top, check out the headline it ran under: LATINA POWER!!! Shakira OFFICIALLY Endorses Barack Obama!!

Normally we get about 1,000 hits a day. But the link single-handedly brought 6,793 visits to the story. Counting all sources, the story, at last count, had been viewed 9,279 times--nearly nine times as many as our next highest.

One of those visitors, apparently, was from People Magazine. Their version is not a letter-for-letter reproduction. But I find it remarkable that they used an identical three letter opening. And the same exact second graf quote (which is likely an imperfect translation). And put in a biographical line that looks oddly like a paraphrase of a Bill Clinton quote that I had in the very same position. C'mon.

Now look who, of course, is on top in Google.

Random Thoughts

2008-09-30T09:39:00.000-07:00

Been doing too much online reading and browsing lately. Here are some highlights:

"If you are bored and disgusted by politics and don't bother to vote, you are in effect voting for the entrenched Establishments of the two major parties, who please rest assured are not dumb, and who are keenly aware that it is in their interests to keep you disgusted and bored and cynical and to give you every possible psychological reason to stay at home doing one-hitters and watching MTV on primary day. By all means stay home if you want, but don't bullshit yourself that you're not voting. In reality, there is no such thing as not voting: you either vote by voting, or you vote by staying home and tacitly doubling the value of some Diehard's vote." --David Foster Wallace quoted by Roy Clark in Poynter Online.

A very harsh, well-documented analysis of the beginning of 2007 for New York Times Andean correspondent Simon Romero, who I happen to think is a fantastic writer. Juan Forero of the Washington Post, however, has been breaking the great stories lately. The article is by BoRev, who has no end of criticism for American reporting on South America and reserves particular bile for Romero.

New long-form quarterly planning to do away with the false mantle objectivity in foreign reporting while publishing, among other things, 19,000-word pieces on the real Borat of Kazakhstan. They've got a lineup of heavy hitters and a minimalist website to try to convince you to pay $60 for four magazines. Try an excerpt if you're not convinced--they're longer than most articles you'll find anywhere.

New Yorker staff writer Tad Friend--is that the coolest name or what?--speaks out about how he chews pens and other subjects. Rabid fans of the magazine that uses umlauts over the second 'o' in words like cooperative and never says unique when sui generis will fit take note.

On a personal note (Colombia being a personal topic these days), I came across a five paragraph story (Spanish) that hid under a very numerical lede that the country's Prosecutor's Office say reported disappearances have cuadrupled since 2007 and grown by a factor of 14 since 2003. President Alvaro Uribe, in unrelated news, was elected in 2002.

And I discovered that the Economist agrees with me that Semana magazine, which just released an English edition, is badass. Incidentally, the present cover story published Monday about the military possible murdering citizens is a translation of the Spanish version, which Adriaan reported/transcribed the Saturday it was published. In other words, we beat them to their own story (while giving them credit).

Finally, a virgin appeared on a ceiling, one model 'almost pushed' another and police prevented two people from being resurrected in a busy day for our Trivia section. The most read story I've written for Colombia Reports, by the way, is about Satan's influence over Colombian teenagers. Guess people opt for imaginary evil over the real thing.

Heading things up

2008-09-14T21:08:00.000-07:00

Medellín, COLOMBIA--Last week was a good week for headlines. Here's my top three, working from the back:
3. The lede that follows outshines this headline, but I still like it: "¡Que Pena! Invaluable Goya stolen in Bogotá." (Good thing they didn't steal a Modigliani -- or anything with more than four letters.)
2. This story, at first glance, didn't offer much in the way of headline material, but a stroke of inspiration made something out of nothing: "Colombians causing trouble in paradise."
1. Credit the story, nothing more: "Devil possesses more Ouija-playing teenage girls."

Kay and Kumar go to Colombia

2008-09-12T17:06:00.000-07:00

Medellin, COLOMBIA -- As I mentioned in a previous post, despite our offices being located smack dab in the middle of Colombia's second-largest city, the bulk of Colombia Reports' work could be done from anywhere in the world. Part of it is choice: we get Spanish news into English fast. But most of it is resources: we have three writers, one who does only sports.

This isn't the long-term plan. Adriaan's goal, albeit distant, is that the site supplements our swift news feed with original reporting (beyond our new, all-original travel section). Yet for now we mostly translate, compile and summarize. In fact, sometimes, when we're rushed and don't see any value in doing our own version, we lift English-language wire stories. It was doing just that a few days ago that I realized we're not so different from the big boys.

It was the day we'd launched our new website. Eager to cram it with brand new content, we were working hard into the afternoon. My story count, including three that were accidentally lost, was at eight or so. So, when word came that Colombia's state-owned oil company had made its first Wall Street offering, I was happy to see there was a Reuters article available. (After all, for business stories -- peso movements, oil drilling -- we often turn to the British wire service or Bloomberg.) I dragged from just past the dateline to the final sentence. In the credit line, I read, to my shock: "(Reporting by Shivani Singh in Bangalore; Editing by Savio D'Souza)." Reuters, one of the largest, most respected wire services in the world, reports on Colombia from Bangalore, India.

Not that this is news. The fire started with Pasadena Now, who last May unabashedly announced city council meetings would henceforth be reported from, well, the other side of the world. They were followed in June by the Orange County Register, a paper that has actually picked up a handful of Pulitzer prizes over the years, announced an Indian firm would take over some copyediting duties. And while the pair caught a lot of media heat for their moves, bigger fish have also taken the plunge. The Miami Herald had began sending advertising and community sections design seven thousand miles away at the beginning of 2007, and shortly after The Sacramento Bee followed suit.

So, does that mean there is no shame that sometimes I feel like Rajesh?

Oh musical fruit!

2008-09-09T15:49:00.000-07:00

Medellín, COLOMBIA--Last week, after more than half a year in Latin America, I learned how to make frijoles. I had bought a few pounds, or maybe kilos, during my first shopping trip here and after exhausting the rest of my more familiar supplies -- rice, lentils, eggs -- I turned to the beans. Being new to the business, the chance presence of my Colombian roommate Giovanni's mother was a blessing. Managing a kind of trial-and-error communication -- her swift, heavily colloquial, paisa patois was a bear for me to untangle -- we assembled a soup that the following quantities, cooking times and order of directions may, just possibly, recreate:

Three cups red beans, soaked overnight (no predjudices against white, black, brown)
One 8-inch plantain, cubed to your pleasure
Two onions, finely chopped (red, white, yellow, whatever)
One carrot
Salt, to taste
Magical cube of seasoning provided by Giovanni
More ingredients which you will buy because you aren't too lazy to go to the market

Rice, as much as you want to eat when the soup is ready
Garlic, if you like your rice that way

Drop the beans, the plantain and the carrot, along with a lot of water into a pressure cooker. Heat until it explodes. Turn it down and go review how many tons of cocaine were recovered by the Colombian authorities in the last half hour. Take pressure cooker off burner, avoid frontal burning thanks to crystal clear warnings not to try to open it right away, instead use fork to hold up steam release until the pot clears. Open, remove now sodden carrot, drop in blender with some juice, blend, return liquid carrot to soup. Toss the onion and seasoning in to the cooker, seal 'er up and put her back on the hot spot. Now is a good time to make the rice, but be sure to wash it first, as that will earn the compliments of any Colombians in the kitchen. Once the pot explodes again, things could possibly be ready to eat. Or they may need another hour on the stove. Eventually, in any case, you will eat them. And, if all has gone well, your roommate will curse the fact that you ever learned.

Back in black, midnight black

2008-09-09T13:09:00.000-07:00

Medellín, COLOMBIA--In lieu of actual personal news, I present an update on my friend Midnight. I was checking my email this afternoon, which I am prone to do with the frequency of a goldfish crossing its bowl, and found a new comment message from Juancho--a fellow Midnight groupie, if you haven't fogotten. It read:

I am such an idiot, i just got the whole Ken and Barbie thing.

Whoa. That would be big news. Immediately I checked Midnight's post, a snippet left under my article on the many protests and marches in Colombia this week:

Social activism in the name of rights for the people, excellent!

Ken,

What good is it at all if you can’t spend it on yourself now and then or act like a rock star.

BARBIE

So, what is Juancho's theory? That Barbie's letters are Midnight's take on the Jane and Joe Schmoe point of view? If so, I don't agree. It doesn't explain the servomechanism and the cocaine caviar. Midnight is a nut, an indecipherable, across the board, over the top nut. His nuttiness is only surpassed by my willingness to write long posts about it. My apologies.

As opaque as Midnight

2008-09-05T15:47:00.000-07:00

Medellín, COLOMBIA -- Sometime after newspapers went to the web, they began to allow comments. I never used to take much notice. The few lines peeking up from below the article always confirmed my assumptions about such public exchanges--nothing but snide and poorly punctuated partisan blabber. (I can recall only one recent occasion in which I read through the comments. It was an article about journalism internships.) Since I started writing for Colombia Reports, my outlook has changed little. But I have gotten to know one particularly special commentor. 'Midnight'.

Penning an appropriate introduction has proven beyond me tonight, so I will simply present Midnight (man? woman? beast? I'll use a male pronoun for ease of reading) in his own words. This gem, far less opaque than his usual opinionating, came in response to an article I wrote on the lack of a Colombia-U.S. judicial cooperation bill:

Gee Ken,

I don't think that the DOJ, or Supreme Court need anything not even a video to expedite a hearing for the murders, not in this country. I may be wrong, I have been before but I believe that they have what they need right now. I have the family, family rules or what?

BARBIE

Yes, he is BARBIE. No, he is not always so lucid. And no, he is not always Barbie. For part two, I'll give you a more typical example, but stick with the family theme. He wrote this one today under my article about Colombian president Alvaro suggesting possible successors, including two women:

Excellent idea. I am just shocked, very generous, if you love something you will always find your way to this. Nobility is a just cause.

There are always those who will deny justice but in the end it will prevail. Isn’t that the funny thing. When some people say one way or another, they say it to defy justice, and when others say it, they say it to rectify or enforce it.

Ken,

It’s always the family, always, right now.

BARBIE

Despite the vast majority of our visitors coming from the U.S., Canada and the United Kingdom, a disproportionate of posters are, I assume from their grammar, non-native English speakers. This is fitting, as Adriaan is Dutch. But there is no guessing where Midnight hails from. Perhaps another planet. Here is a serious rant prompted (?) by an article I wrote on a Danish judge refusing evidence because it might have been gained by torture:

Common sense, yes thats what I expect. Common sense.

Ken,

If I have to take time to move I’m going to let the family scrutinize you. Will Colombia be there when I get back? Will you still be eligible for my spontaneity and humor? Can you follow family rules?

I will watch as closely as possible but there is a lot going on right now. I have to keep up with your better half. This I can do while not paying attention. You will find that when you get done with your cleaning and all of you are right now that you will once again be gaining ground all of you together. There is a plan and a feasible one.
Unlike myself you still have a budget, I belong to the servomechanism, please don’t make them come get me, it only causes us all to get upset.

DO YOU HEAR ME NOW?

BARBIE

I want to hear more about the servomechanism. Actually, Midnight is not always nuts. Sometimes forgets his role as resident nut and turns out rather cogent analysis. But that's only sometimes. The rest of the time it's off-the-wall commentary followed by Mattel-inspired garble. I wondered about this bi-polar schism until I came across this post:

Oh no! People do not think that, no not at all. Most people actually realize a wise investment in the future themselves. I myself check out the entire south basin all of the time, the wildlife and one never knows what I may have my hands in too. We don't want, "a rich man from this very website to catch on though." Machismo and all.

I was raised right outside of the gates of a military base however, and he's not only grating on my last nerve he is now squeezing my mainline. You understand.

Funny story one time another Ken launched all out warfare with me using bugs. The fifth month into it he looked terribly ragged and wanted to know how I came so clean.

The time before another Ken launched all out warfare on me and claimed to have the ability to make a mother f888ing junkie out of me. A few months into it and unsuccessful he parked his van outside of my house, unshaven and discouraged he caved right there.

You would not believe some of the ideas that I have had to endure.

Ken,

That dirty wash was not for free, no more cocaine caviar for you I didn't even like your predecessors. If I did know they were getting bags dumped on their heads I was on the East coast listening to the Sultans of Swing.

BARBIE

It seems we've been hearing from BARBIE -- why is it all caps all the time? -- the whole time. No fascinating split personalities here. Just one unforgettable one. And I'm not the only one who appreciates it:

Juancho to Midnight -

Your comments are extremely mind boggling to read. I am yet to understand one single comment, but I tip my hat to you midnight. You are fun to read. Don’t go sane on us now.

I second that.

A day in the Colombian news winds

2008-09-03T23:10:00.000-07:00

Medellín, COLOMBIA -- It started out as a normal day. I knocked out a poll story, then our fourth piece with a headline starting "ICC Prosecutor..." -- although my now old friend Luis Moreno Ocampo had long since finished his three-day Colombian tour. Then suddenly the president was going to prison.

"Uribe's arrest ordered," one bold copywriter put it. I figured it was the latest volley in the battle of words between the country's Supreme Court and Colombian president Alvaro Uribe's administration. But surprisingly, the culprit was a court in the tiny department of Sucre. Apparently a bunch of judges, clerks and other court employees weren't happy their wages had not been equalized as promised.

A few other articles came and went, I spent a long lunch making beans, but when I sat down to eat, there was Uribe. He said he was going to appeal. I finished my lunch at the computer, banging out the new development.

But the story hadn't even been moved from ready to published before the final news of the day hit: the Supreme Court had overturned the prison sentence. The Colombian soap opera of the day was over.

In the course of reviewing the various media reports for each article, there was only a single piece that spoke with a legal expert. Seeing as the Supreme Court's position was, simply, this isn't allowed by the Constitution, that would have seemed an obvious reference point. But it didn't break with custom. In Colombia, you don't call to get the other side's story; you write another story. I'm still getting used to that one.

On Virgins and... not virgins

2008-08-29T19:44:00.000-07:00

Medellín, COLOMBIA--A few days after I started writing for Colombia Reports, our readership more than doubled. We’d been floating at around 600 visitors a day (selfish self promotion: you could be one of those!) and suddenly it was nearly cresting 1,400. It was 1,644 the next day. Then 2,031. My head might have swelled a bit had I not known what Adriaan had published right before the climb began. Tucked among the latest drug raid and a fresh accusation in the ‘parapolitics’ scandal, was this gem: “Colombia loses only pornographic channel.” The extra kick? Playboy News Online picked it up.

These days, virtually any newspaper you visit offers a list of most emailed stories. It wasn’t always this way. I remember going to the San Francisco Chronicle’s website in the early days of newspaper websites—in other words, not long ago. They too had a list, but it was of the most read stories. I’m pretty sure there was some major news breaking that day because otherwise I wouldn’t have gone to the site. Yet the list, well, might as well have been the lineup for Star magazine. Michael Jackson led off, with Brittany following and Madonna in the three slot. Something about O.J. Simpson batted cleanup. (If it sound like an unlikely array, I plead pop culture ignorance.) It was a mirror to our priorities and it wasn’t pretty. It was a lot like looking at our site traffic.

On the second day of our pornographic channel-inspired explosion, I found a story about Viagra sales in Colombia. I didn’t even have to confer with Adriaan—I knew I had a winner. I banged it out right away and we put it up. In the next 24 hours, it barely made a ripple. However, a story I’d written a few ticks before, a breather after hammering out two exploring the latest ‘parapolitics’ cases—clearing the vice president of charges and calls for a top minister’s resgnation—brought a second wave. “Virgin appears on bucket near Cartagena” got picked up by SpiritDaily.com, a kind of religious DrudgeReport.com, and became a runaway success. Religion triumphs over sex.

Actually, sex usually wins. In our all time top ten, which is more of a top eight because one is the homepage and the other is the news homepage, you get right to the end (my Virgin) before you see an article unrelated to sex or, well, sexiness—Miss Universe results hold the number 4 spot, while speculation on Miss Colombia’s chances is firm at number seven. Our all-time non-homepage leader, with nearly a thousand more views than the nearest competitor, is “Yidis Medina”—a former congresswoman who says she was bribed by Uribe’s supporters to vote for his reelection—“poses nude in magazine.” Number nine is a tag search for Yidis Media—draw your own conclusion. The remaining two is our recent porn channel triumph and a Shakira-and-boyfriend sex tape rumor piece. We like to stay astride all Colombian news.

Given what has been going on in Colombia—a ‘parapolitics’ scandal is reaching further each day up the current administration’s ladder, demobilized paramilitary leaders are spilling the beans about their crimes, a steady flow of negative human rights reports, Uribe fighting for a currently unconstitutional third term—the top ten list is a little disheartening. It’s not that I don’t understand the draw—I too was fascinated to learn that with the loss of Kamasutra TV, Colombians will no longer be able to watch “Erotic Cuisine,” “The Other Side of Sex” and “The Porn Guru.” I just thought things were a little more high-minded. On the other hand, Adriaan and I have been discussing a running series on the strip clubs of Medellin. We’re businessmen.

[First, I realize that by linking them I only entrench their positions. Well, let the mirror be accurate. Second, if you got this by email, it's because I added your email to an automatic send function. If you don't want to receive it, just tell me. Same for if you don't, but you'd like to. Also, I've started using datelines because the first question you all ask me is, 'Where are you now?' That said, retrospective blogs will dateline from where I was. So I guess the real reason is just because I like the false sense of professionalism. Finally, Adriaan and I have yet to do any research.]

What I do here

2008-08-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

Medellin, COLOMBIA -- Work usually starts with Adriaan knocking on my door. Although most nights he's out with one of his parade of girlfriends or playing billiards until late, he always manages to rise before me. I chalk it up to countless cups of tinto--coffee, Colombian style---and cigarettes. So, my boss is also my alarm clock. After the knock--which I usually respond to in Spanish, despite both of us being more comfortable speaking English--I rise, dress and shuffle to my desk in the living room. I mumble a sleepy 'Buenos dias' to Giovanni, who is also inevitably already in the desk in front of mine. The gringo is the lazy one in the house. Work begins.

We scan the morning news for about half an hour. I gamely begin at the bottom of the list of new articles that my RSS feeder (if you don't have one, get one; if you don't know what they are, look them up, then get one) has culled from nearly a hundred sites, but am quickly overwhelmed by the pop-up notifications of the latest news. The feeder will accumulate more than 500 new articles in the course of the day, mostly in Spanish, which is several hundred more than I could ever review in 30 minutes. Ultimately, I choose a couple stories from the bottom of hte list, where I started, a couple from the top, where I end up, then check Google news to make sure I've got the big stories. Simultaneously, Giovanni is talking to me in a foreign language--it starts sounding like Spanish after about an hour--and sending link after link over MSN messenger. After 30 minutes, or really whenever, Adriaan walks in and we have our editorial conference.

Almost all stories fall into two categories: serious or odd. (Nevermind, for a moment, that some of Colombia's regular political stories are seriously odd.) Ongoing developments in the parapolitics scandal, which has found nearly a third of the country's legislators--primarily pro-president Alvaro Uribe ones--were in league with the country's rightist paramilitary groups, have taken a few spots each day. Next up are random business or weather stories--volcano erupts, coffee harvest down, etc. Finally, are the silly ones, like the 26-pound yuca, or cassava, and the virgin that appeared on a water bucket (but more on these in a coming post). When we can combine these two, like doing a textile sales story with a lede about underwear, we are happy men.

Decisions made, me and Adriaan bend our heads and let our fingers fly. I can usually do five to six articles in the roughly four hours--pretty slow considering we don't make a single phone call. My process goes something like this: skim entire article, realize you can't skim in Spanish, read entire article, find there is a word you don't understand a word in a key sentence, paste article into Google translator, waste more time comparing "translation" to Spanish words and working out the real meaning, open Google news to find other stories on the same topic, repeat process. Break for lunch.

As you may now realize, despite our office sitting a block off the dead center of Colombia's second largest city, our work involves nothing you couldn't do with from anywhere in the world with an internet connection. There are a number of reasons for this. Yes, Colombia's low life expectancy for journalists is a unseen, but acknowledged deterrent. Yet more than that, however, is that besides our sports man in Madrid, there is just two of us writing, so just getting the days news out is a struggle. And even more debilitating is that, for me, the local paisa accent often leaves me in blinking uncomprehension. But above all, it's our niche. We get the news out fast. Bite-size summaries are what our readers want. Except when they want to read about virgins...

Written without my glove

2008-08-24T21:51:00.000-07:00

On a rainy evening in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala a few months ago, Zoe and I went to shoot pool at a dimly lit place a few blocks off the main square. The small hall was only mildly attended that evening, but the table next to ours was occupied. It was at least half an hour before I realized that the other table had just three balls. And no pockets.

Billiards is a odd game. Well, it's an odd game to a former pool player. In an evening of pool, you have a series of climaxes. The balls are racked, broken, pocketed and then you start again. The conclusion of each game offers an opportunity to quit. Yet with billiards, there is no natural stopping point. The balls are still there, tempting you to try again.

For those who don't know, the point of billiards is to hit one ball so it hits the other two. And then do it again. And again. This is harder than it sounds--and I'm not just talking about the again part. I first tried about a week ago, on my first night in Medellin. (Adriaan, my boss, housemate and drinking buddy, who to "prepare for my arrival" bought me a billiards glove, enjoys billiards just as much as you would expect of someone who buys people unsolicited billiards gloves.) I made three in a row--then one more in the next hour. It's not just odd, it's fucking hard.

[Oh yeah, happy birthday me!]

Day Four (Three is on the way)

2008-08-21T22:40:00.000-07:00

My first few clips at Colombia Reports:

Killings of ex-paramilitary leaders continue - I was making lunch in the kitchen when I happened to glance through the doorway at our new TV. "Ex-paramilitar asesinado," I read, alongside a dateline of Medellin. 'Hey, that's where I am,' I thought. 'HEY!' Ironically, the killing took place in the ritzy part of town, far from the reputedly dangerous but actually quite sanitized city center where I live. Not that it matters: I'm too stuck to my laptop to leave the apartment.

Two Colombians dead, three survive Spanish plane crash - I suspect that none of our readers cared about this. Of course, the site's greatest daily hit number came today, after Playboy.com discovered Adriaan's story that Colombia's only porn channel had shut down. Cue my 39-part retrospective. (I forgive those who don't get the SF Chron humor).

More than 600 displaced by Cauca violence - This was actually the very first thing I wrote for CR. The first hard news story I've written in more than 8 months. And the first thing on deadline in that same period--explaining why freelance ideas are so abundant, but my bank account so slim.

Guerrilla faction gives up arms - I know you didn't even get this far, and if you did you're probably not reading the articles, which you shouldn't really. We specialize in quick news briefs, not in-depth or narrative work. This is partly because Adriaan is physically revolted by drippy writing and partly because until now he was responsible for all the content. So I may yet beat the pavements of Medellin, instead of just the websites of Colombia's newspapers.

Day Two

2008-08-19T11:15:00.000-07:00

Adriaan threw his half-smoked cigarette on the pavement and stormed up the steps. We were taking a spin on the Metro and there was no smoking allowed. Or eating. Or, it seemed, anything which might leave a trace. The train’s platform was—and I looked hard for trash, scum, anything—as sterile as a hospital ward. As Adriaan put it: “If the actual action didn’t dirty the place, you could eat off the floor, if you know what I mean?”

The train—which I noted ran on rails unlike Mexico City’s rubber tire and guide line system—was equally spotless. But as the city started rolling by, I quickly forgot about cleanliness. In every other city and town I’ve visited in Latin America, walls are generally made of gray cinderblocks. In Medellín, while the cinderblocks have gone nowhere, they’ve all turned to a light maroon. It is as if all the houses that climb up the sloping walls of the valley, large and small, finished and unfinished, were made of brick. It is beautiful.

A few stops after we got on, a middle-aged woman and her elderly mother boarded the train through the door closest to us. In the otherwise crowded train, the space immediately between the inner and outer doors was clear, but the design of the train—near the doors the low roof bars curve up to the ceiling and out of reach—left the daughter grasping for a hand hold. She couldn’t reach the curving bar and as the standstill time ticked away, her even shorter mother started looking around in a mild panic. To the mother’s relief, as the doors closed a man relinquished part of a vertical pole, and the daughter, after a slight stumble as the train started, wedged herself into the crowd to get a handful of the lower hanging portion of the pole.

The whole episode, recounted here in far too much detail, made me naturally focus on the actual running of the train. And wow! In addition to being undoubtedly the cleanest metro system I have ever ridden—Atlanta’s system a close second, London’s interiors a very distant third, and New York, Paris, Miami, Boston, Mexico City and the Bay Area all not making the charts—it is easily the smoothest. (It likely helps there is really only one line, a long stretch along the length of the valley, with only one or two arms.)

Day One

2008-08-18T20:19:00.000-07:00

MEDELLIN, Colombia--Since beginning this trip in late January (or mid-November, if you count my one month language program) in Mexico, I’ve bused my way, sometimes reclining in comfort, sometimes crowded four to a bench seat, through Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador, Nicaragua and Costa Rica. More than a few journeys have been made over winding, unpaved tracks hacked through jungle or out of a hillside, but most of the real point-to-point trips on my slow creep south have been by the Pan-American Highway. This was not to be in getting to Colombia. Despite its name, the artery ends without ceremony in southern Panama, at the head of a jungle controlled by nothing but lawlessness.

Thus I decided, after much research, agonizing, calculating, hair pulling, and kicking myself for not planning ahead, to take to the air for the first time in my journey. The price of the next-day, one-way ticket had a clean kind of justice to it: the $377 total ate in almost a single gulp the $425 I had recently received for a handful of articles. My consolation: the alternative, busing to the Panama coast, taking a 5-day yacht journey to Cartagena, Colombia, then busing to Medellín, cost as much on paper and undoubtedly more in reality. Yes, I missed an adventure, but I get even more time to enjoy my unexpectedly expansive, if bare, quarters here in Pablo Escobar’s hometown.

The third floor apartment from which I write is in part bare because my new boss, Adriaan, and his roommates only moved in about 48 hours ago. As such, they’re still hurrying to do furnishing—we stopped on the way back from the airport to buy trays for their potted-plants. Yet it would take a large greenhouse to really fill all the empty corners. Even with two armchairs, two couches, a kind-of high foot rest, a low bureau and, of course, the potted plants, the vast living room feels vacant. A long, wide veranda holds only moving boxes. The hotel-like garden—a tiled plaza adjoining two rock gardens holding richly planted concrete planter boxes—has just a backless director’s chair sitting at its entrance. My room is empty but for an air mattress, a few odds and ends I haven’t yet put in one of the three built-in floor-to-ceiling cabinets, and myself. One of the few fully occupied spaces is Giovanni’s room, a smallish thing off the kitchen that, indicative of the apartment’s former grandeur, was once the maid quarters.

Clips: Popping My Freelance Cherry

2008-08-16T22:06:00.000-07:00

Yup, this is the one that did it. You may have already seen it, but in order to drag this out (trusted sources say actual posts are on the way) I'm going to post all my articles, one by one, starting from the very beginning. Ironically, I hadn't even gotten paid for this article before day pack portion of the backpack was stolen.

The Ghost in the Machine, part 2

2008-07-24T13:37:00.000-07:00

Spyware, I have found, provokes a succession of emotions not unlike the stages of grief. First I was in denial: these error messages don’t mean anything, these folders with “.exe” don’t mean everything, Windows always does weird things, etc. Next I panicked: I realized forces beyond my control were operating behind the scenes; I realized there was a ghost in the machine. I began by trying to root them out through official routes, using virus programs, diagnostic tools. They found nothing, so I just opened my C:\ and start deleting anything that looked suspicious.

As it became apparent my clear cutting had no impact on the ghost, I settled into acceptance: “Perhaps we can coexist,” I thought. “After all, not having internet is a mixed blessing. I cannot download an update that would destroy you, while you, my friend”—by this time I was having mental conversations with my ghost—“cannot communicate with your master.” Like a dog carrying a snake across a river, reaching the shore would put us both in danger.

But then the messages started. Every time I start up my computer I have to fight off half a dozen or more messages from my virus program urging me to “restart my computer to remove new threats.” If I were to say yes to each of these, I’d never actually use my computer. It seems even my friends have turned against me.

Add this to the little discoveries. I can’t display hidden files and folders, the option doesn’t even exist. Pressing Ctrl-Alt-Delete brings up a “disabled by your administrator,” despite the fact that I am the administrator. My virus program—friend? enemy?—quarantines about one new file every minute, each of them either 409, 410 or 18 kb in size. My laptop’s power gauge has disappeared.

Thus, I have now reached the final stage: cautious confidence. In the battle over the fate of my laptop, a conflict that has taken on Deep Blue vs. Kasparov proportions for me, I’m optimistic. After all, this is more like Bridge than Chess, and my trump card is the update. In the meantime, I’m watching the quarantine file build—while writing this post, I found 62 new friends.

A Ghost in the Machine, part 1

2008-07-23T10:49:00.000-07:00

The battery light on my laptop is blinking. It makes me worried. Things weren’t always this way.

It started about a month ago. I began getting more notices of mysterious programs terminating, encountering fatal errors. “_CLS_PCCGuide”, “amvo.exe”, “ino6.com”. I didn’t give it much thought.

Then my USB drive, my connection from laptop to outside world, started acting funny. Every folder suddenly had a “.exe” after it. A couple folders I didn’t recognize popped up: “RECYCLER”, “FOUND . 000”. I would tried opening them, but there was nothing inside. I tried deleting them, but they reappeared.

I got worried enough to act. I ran a virus scan. Nothing. I ran a Scandisk. Nothing. I went to PC Doctor and ran every diagnostic they had. Still nothing. Confessing to myself that unfortunately it all depended on my virus program—which I had, in my infinite wisdom, neglected to renew some six months ago—I cursed my stupidity. I couldn’t download the update now, I had no internet. There was only one option left. I had to go straight to the source. I had to cut out the bad with my own hand.

I started searching for those mysterious terminated programs. Microsoft’s little search doggy told me there was no “_CLS_PCCGuide” or, for that matter, “CLS” or “PCCGuide.” He smiled and denied the existence of “amvo.exe” and “ino6.com.” I grew suspicious. I searched “Windows.” Nope, no files, no folders of that name, he told me. They had corrupted the doggy!

“Ok, who needs search?” I thought. I would track down these infiltrators on my own. Going off a path directory one of those failed program messages had displayed, I opened my C:\ and clicked on Windows. Instead of opening the folder, the explorer window refreshed and, lo and behold, there was no longer any Windows folder. It was like opening up a phonebook to find half the alphabet missing. It’s not there, but here I am. Hmm.

The People You Meet: Giovanni, part 1

2008-07-18T11:18:00.000-07:00

When I signed up for classes and a homestay at La Casa en el Arból, my language school in San Cristobal de las Casas, I was excited to see there was a two-meal-a-day option. I had signed up for three meals a day in both my previous destinations and, faithfully attending those three like any student on a budget, I missed out on a lot of local food. The price difference was $10, which seemed like a good deal until I did the math. I had about $1.42 to spend per day. Even in Mexico, that doesn’t go far, but I seldom eat a big dinner here, so I figured something small off the street would do.

Two weeks after later—boy it’s been short, but so rich—and my only street experiences have been a single pork tamale and a cup of esquites, cooked corn with mayonnaise and chili powder. Instead, I ate with Giovanni.

I met Giovanni my first night in Chiapas. It had been a long day. Thanks to an overnight bus, I had arrived early enough to watch dawn break, then sat in the cold in front of my new school reading The Conquest of New Spain until the doors opened. Introductions at my homestay, a long sweaty search for a laundry mat, Spanish classes and a brief stroll into town followed. Thus, night settling in, I wasn’t eager to venture far for my meal. The pizza place I had already passed four or more times, just a curving three-quarter block from my new home seemed like a good choice. Besides, at $1 a slice, it would fit my budget.

Thus, at about 7 p.m., I came in and met Giovanni, the thirty-something owner who uses “chido” as liberally as a California surfer says 'cool'. (They mean the same thing, by the way.) He told me he hadn’t cooked any pizzas yet, but if I came back in about 30 min’s he’d have one ready. I came back about three hours later and, well, he invited me to a party. That's how it all started.

Back from the Sick

2008-07-14T17:55:00.000-07:00

I've already broke my new schedule and partly it's because I've been sick. Fever came and went, a stuffy nose came and gave and gave and gave and went, then fever did a comeback tour, then a cough showed up on the scene. Then last night my neighbor's dog bit me. In case you're wondering, it really does hurt to be bit by a dog, even when it comes in the fleshy part of your thigh. If my coming blog posts take on a distinctly rabid flavor, then you'll know I've got rabies.

The Gringo as a Funnel

2008-07-09T11:30:00.000-07:00

Salvadorians rarely wear raincoats. They’re smarter than that.

I spent three hours a couple Sundays ago catching up on my virtual life in a windowless internet cafe inside San Salvador’s too-good imitation of an American mall, Metro Centro. Virtues of that use of time aside, when I exited I found not only the sky had grown dark as expected, but the streets were wet. Halfway through my wait for the cross-town bus, the drops started. I put on my raincoat. Then came the rain. I zipped up my raincoat. Then came the downpour. I had an epiphany (a small one, ok?).

People seldom wear raincoats in El Salvador because they make no difference. Rain here, after tickling you with wispy drops then feinting at blowing over, comes down like paint. It coats you, it envelopes you and, in my case, it comes right through the front and down the sleeves of my expensive all-weather windbreaker. The little that is held at bay rolls down my sleeves into my pockets, down my back onto my pants, and down my front onto the tops of my shoes. In an El Salvador rainstorm, I’m not just a sponge, I’m a funnel.

Even Guatemala’s solution, the poncho, is hardly seen here. Umbrellas are popular, but many people rely on a method that they can’t forget at home: waiting. As I run from bus to home or from store to bus stop, I provoke a lot of quizzical looks from more relaxed and, let’s face it, more sensible Salvadorans standing at ease under the eaves. Besides, the rain usually lasts only twenty minutes (it’s like emptying a watering can through its top instead of its nozzle—quick and heavy) and those pupusas look so tempting. Why rush?

The People You Meet: Ruben Lettuce, part 1

2008-07-07T09:48:00.000-07:00

I met Ruben Lettuce the other day. I was sitting in La Nevería, finished with my ice cream but lingering, reading an six-month old copy of The Nation, when he stumbled in. After trying the other two customers, he swayed his way to me and held out his hand. “¿Podría darme un moneda?” he asked. I fished in my pocket and came up with a nickel (I stake no claim to generosity, but in a city where bus fare is a quarter and a decent meal can be had for $1.25, five cents is not throw away money). He held it up for a look then turned his eyes back to me and cocked his head. In a voice as off-kilter as his balance, he asked: “You speak English?”

His real name was Ruben Pacheco Lechuga. I know it exactly not only because it stuck in my head—Lechuga means lettuce—but because he wrote it for me on a sheet of lined paper torn from my notebook. Below it is his mother’s email and two guesses at his wife’s—“I’m educated and all that, I just haven’t used it in a while,” he told me as he paused, pen in hand, drawing a blank on the address. I’m to email them to say he’s alright. That he’s been drinking, but he’s alright. Ruben, by the way, is an alcoholic.

His tale weaved more than he did. It shifted from his current lover to a past girlfriend to his present wife, one foot in the last decade, the other in the present. He drunkenly slurred, he soberly thundered, he—who painted his English with swear words—switched to Spanish to ask me how to say ‘water’. He repeated, he revealed, he trailed off. Talking with Ruben was like watching a man peel an onion, moist eyes and all.

First layer: He had lived in Canada, in BC. “Way up there,” he said, his finger shooting toward the ceiling as if Canada was there, above the white rectangles of the plastic ceiling. Second layer: His mother still lives there. “She’s a foster mother,” he kept telling me, as if the detail were a wayward flake clinging to the back of his finger. Third: His wife, “a native Canadian girl”—another flake of husk—lives there too. He hadn’t seen her for three years, when she came to visit him in El Salvador. He hadn’t been in Canada since 1994. Fourth: Oh yeah, also in Canada were his two daughters. The acid hit the nostrils.

When the Lights Go Out

2008-07-05T11:53:00.000-07:00

It’s raining and the electricity is out. I’m wearing two pairs of socks, loose convertible pants over jeans, a singlet, shirt, polar fleece and raincoat with the hood up. I’m inside. June and July are the months of rain here. Streets flood, the electricity goes, school becomes optional, cooking is done by candlelight.

In the U.S., as I told my host mom, I believe blackouts are a good opportunity to consider how the presence of electricity shapes our lives. From TVs to computers, from electric stoves to microwaves (without which there is little we Americans can cook) and from light bulbs to cordless phones (who hasn’t dusted off an 1980s vintage corded phone during a power outage?). In fact, I continue, sometimes as kids we got excited when there was a power outage. It meant candles at dinner followed by squinting games of Monopoly. It meant spooky shadows and not leaving the refrigerator door open. Yet, I tell her, now concluding, power outs can be a pain too—nearly all of our house’s clocks are electric.

Her response: when Hurricane Stan stampeded through Guatemala in the 90s, it took with it the electricity—but it also knocked out the bridges. The bridges from Mexico to Xela, from Xela to the capital, from the capital to the beach, from the beach to Honduras, from Honduras back to the capital; in short, from everywhere to everywhere else. With one storm, the country broke into islands. And with time, the privations grew.

There was, of course, no power. But quickly there was also no gas—the trucks couldn’t ford the bridgeless rivers. Then there was no bread—same problem. Then there was no pork, no chicken, no eggs, no beans, no corn—no corn in a culture where you eat a tortilla or tamale made from the grain with every meal. There was too much water and there was no water. That which fell from the sky snuffed out any attempts at a fire, yet they had nothing to drink—the purified supplies were cut off. This went on for weeks. “We suffered a lot,” she said, matter-of-factly.

I think of my childish giddiness at the prospect of a dark house. Then I think of my current philosophical conception: the power out as philosophical moment. Then I think of how much time it really took to reprogram all those clocks, all three of them. Then I realize, I came to Mexico, to Guatemala, to Central America, to Latin America for moments like these. To get my lights turned off.

Friendly Showers

2008-07-03T10:56:00.000-07:00

[Fittingly, my first post in more than two months is about a country I long since left. (For those who don't know, I'm now in El Salvador. On that note, and as you may have noticed, I've changed the title of the blog. I'm seeing what I can do about the URL.) I had planned to post something I wrote about another country I visited during my silence, Guatemala, but it's not showing up on my USB. Instead you get this odd thing. In any case, that post and others will be put up in coming days, either here or at a new site. No joke this time—I've already written them.]

It goes on all day. I go into a stationery store and bump my head on a sac of soccer balls hanging from the ceiling. I pass through a shopping zone and have to sift my way through embroidered smocks, soccer jerseys and jeans suspended over the sidewalk. I enter the market and all but gash my forehead on a low-mounted swath of sheet metal. Elsewhere in markets I nearly get garroted by the taut rope holding a vendor’s tarp. Walking the sidewalk, roof eaves threaten to raise goose eggs. Even at home I can’t catch a break; entering the kitchen requires bending over, same with the bathroom.

At just under six-feet-tall, I’m often too big for Mexico. It’s not that there are no men and women of that height, there are, but they are a towering minority. (And I suspect they all end up like my current host dad: with their shoulders perpetually turned in and down.) The rest of the population glides under the hazards of the tall. Heck, every morning they hang the clothes and tether those tarps that I now duck under. Yet, there is an exception. A curious exception.

In the three months into since I arrived in Mexico, I’ve covered some ground. I’ve visited eight Mexican states—Puebla, Guanajuato, Districto Federal, Oaxaca, Veracruz, Guerrero, Michoacán and, now, Chiapas—and spent the night in all but one of them. Naturally, I’ve used the bathrooms in each of those seven. In some cases, I’ve sampled a wide variety of facilities. And you know what? I can only remember one shower whose head was mounted below the top of mine. (These are the kinds of things I remember.)

I remember my first encounter: San Miguel de Allende, Guanajuato, 7:30 a.m. on November 22^nd. I entered the shower a cynic, closed to the possibilities of the water closet, carrying a lifetime of subconscious resentment for chest-spraying shower heads. I left an optimist, a spring in my step. After all, if Mexico can do it, why can’t we?

I’m not sure how this state of affairs developed, but I have a good guess. If it’s right, then the difference is rather ironic. I assume that water pressure in Mexico is generally weaker therefore shower heads are mounted to take advantage of gravity. In the U.S., thanks to our high water pressure, we have shower heads that pound our breasts with water. We’re the country of Tall & Large. We’ve produced Wilt Chamberlain and Shaquille O’Neal. Why can’t I shower standing up straight?

Calling All Students!

2008-04-22T13:29:00.000-07:00

I've been meaning to graduate from college for nearly a year now. Yes, I did go to commencement and walk and all that. But I don't have my diploma. And I am still officially enrolled in UC Berkeley--which means, though they aren't charging me anything, I still get pesky emails from the PoliSci department no matter how many times I attempt to unsubscribe, but that's another rant.
First I couldn't graduate due to circumstances out of my control: A teacher hadn't turned in grades). Then, when the grades finally registered, more than half a semester later, I was busy: I was in Mexico dealing with language courses, traveling, constant confusion, oh my! That brings us to today. I'm still abroad, but I admit that is no longer an excuse. A year later and not graduated, oh the shame!
Yet, about 20 minutes ago, I thought all that procrastination was going to pay off. I went to the World Nomads website to buy some travel insurance and noticed a link: "Travel Writing Scholarship 2008". What does it involve? You go to the "small coastal village of Kosgoda, 70kms south of Colombo". Where is Colombo? Sri Lanka. What do you do? A volunteer project and then write an article about it for the Morning Herald. Where is the Morning Herald? Sydney, Australia. What do you pay? Nothing. The trip includes not just airfare, lodging and vaccinations, but a free laptop.
It was for students, it said at the top, and I figured I qualified in at least two ways (UC Berkeley and ongoing language classes). Yet, then I hit this pesky line with an even peskier adverb: "To be eligible you have to be currently enrolled and actively studying at a recognised educational tertiary institution."
So, I probably dragged that out a bit. But isn't it great to hear from me after such a long silence? Anyways, YOU should apply. You actively studying college students out there. Here's the link: http://journals.worldnomads.com/scholarships/post/15629.aspx
If you think you don't stand a chance, well, I just won 2nd prize in a (non-active) student study abroad essay competition. So, you too can win. Best of luck!

Life in Chiapas, Part 2

2008-04-14T15:48:00.000-07:00

My first few days, though the conversation varied, two central topics emerged. One, because of its climate, San Cristóbal is a great place to study Spanish. Two, I don’t know how to eat tortillas. Both are true. However, the second is slowly changing. When I arrived in Mexico, I would frequently finish meals without once reaching to the ubiquitous stack of towel-wrapped tortillas. The covering didn’t help. Out of sight, out of mind—and mouth. (Ok, that’s awful, but I’m not going to change it). But the real problem was I didn’t know what to do with them. All I could think of was to pile some stuff in middle, tuck in the sides and stuff it in my mouth; the Burrito Instinct. Not only do most Mexicans not do this, it doesn’t work with all dishes. But through careful observation, I’ve discovered other methods. Primarily, roll it up and use it like a finger. Wick up those juices! Another, seen not tried, involves stacking a bunch of tortillas and then shredding them into long strips. What you do with those strips, I’m unsure, because I seemed to have turned away at the crucial moment. So in two months I’ve discovered one new way to eat loose tortillas. Progress is slow.

Life in Chiapas, Part 1

2008-04-10T16:45:00.000-07:00

[Sorry for the two-day delay, but the blog is finally back. I beg a sore neck and the busyness of settling into a new place. Thanks for all the demands I resume (...Dad). Glad I can finally fulfill them. I've got a bit of a backlog of travel writing to do, so for now I'll post about twice a week. As I said before, look for more writing by searching my name at EverywhereMag.com. Best.]

I arrived in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Chiapas on Tuesday before the sun. It showed up 45 minutes later, turning the black sky to indigo, then deep sea, then Elvis Presley suede shoe, before settling into a washed jean. I saw it all from a bench in el parque, San Cristóbal’s main square, waiting among the trilling and gurgling birds for the city to awaken.

I am staying in a brown-gated house a few blocks down from my new school, La Casa en El Arbol, The House in The Tree, or better still, the Tree House (and yes, there is a tree house, though no, I haven’t ascended). The double metal doors of my spacious if bare room open onto the courtyard-cum-open-air-garage of my Mexican family’s main house. I suspect I’m living in what was once a storage room.

My first trip of the day is, no different than in the States, to the bathroom. I step into the hallway that opens just past my doorway, then duck, literally, into the bathroom. The toilet is crowded against the metal door—all the doors in the house are metal, which demands careful maneuvering in the later hours. Once I’ve clanged through the doorway, I turn around and go back out, since if I want a hot shower, I’ve got to turn on the water heater by hand. The shower area is enormous, taking up the rest of the long bathroom. But despite the space, the shower drops only a fine and narrow spray to one side. On the dirty blue wall above the shower tiles, someone has written in a red marker: Bañate rapido y te sentirás mejor. Wash yourself quickly and you’ll feel better. So far, the shower itself has proved enough encouragement.

From the bathroom, I dress in my room and then go on to breakfast, through another low doorway. I’m greeted by my latest Mexican mother, Señora Navarro, and a plate of freshly cut fruit—some mix of mango, apple, papaya and melon. I sit at the corner of the table facing a line of gloomy, opaque windows, apparently the spot designated for visiting students. I pour myself a lime tea—which actually tastes more like lemon—and she brings me two more plates, one of frijoles, beans, and another of huevos, eggs, and a giant basket of tortillas. Then she sits herself down at the head, without a single plate—she eats at 11 with her husband—and watches me work my way through the meal. She’s got short, raven black hair—seemingly dyed—less wrinkles than expected for a woman with eight grown children, and generally wears a crimson shawl and a friendly, if unsmiling, expression.

(April 11: A couple of edits)

To be continued...

Quick note

2008-03-29T17:40:00.000-07:00

Hey all loyal fans and happenstance visitors. I write this from under a fan in a nonetheless sweaty internet cafe next to the bus station in Veracruz. I have not had my computer with me since last Saturday and won't again until the first Monday in April. Until then, no posts. Apologies. Once I get to Chiapas, expect volumes. Hasta pronto.

A quick apology

2008-03-04T14:09:00.000-08:00

My apologies for not posting recently. I've spent the last week writing and pitching travel articles in the hope of making a few bucks to continue my trip. You can see a few of them at www.everywheremag.com if you go to the "Articles" section and select "Gear" from the drop-down menu. I also posted a photo of Monte Alban that you may recognize. If you have any troubles finding the articles or photo, you can also search my name. And, if you think you can do better--you probably can--you can register and submit your own photos and pictures. Not to mention that, once registered, you can vote for my articles. No self-interest here.

Heeeeey Macarena!

2008-02-28T11:34:00.000-08:00

I went to see Cocarola last night, which, as far as I could tell, was about the presidential campaign of Evo Morales who, thanks to it's success, is now Bolivia's president. I base that assumption on what was pictured rather than what was said in the documentary for, though I understood many, even a majority of the words used, the significance of what was said more than escaped me. I did my best to join the audience in laughter, but I was always late. What I do know for sure is Evo got his hair cut twice during the film, played squash once, swam in a pond in the middle of a cocaine plantation and, more to the point, gave a number of speeches. Apparently, there was no electoral backlash for his upper-crust taste in sports. (Perhaps Kerry would fair better in Bolivia).

At any rate, I have no more to say, so here are some pictures of my little brother who, due to an all too frequent error was later discovered to be my little sister and then, by a decision far more arbitrary than a DNA test, was determined to be my daughter. So without further ado, I present my first child: Macarena, the cutest little Snauzer you've ever seen. (Or at least the cutest little dog of a breed that in Spanish sounds exactly like Snauzer).

Luckily, she was still on this pseudo marble floor when, three minutes after this photo, she had to relieve herself.

Macarena with her tía, Rosita.

Oh dear, she's found Michael's shoes ... and she likes the smell!

Yikes, she's found the source!

Attaaaaaack!

It's never been so much fun to have your chin eaten.

Juan Manuel's story

2008-02-27T06:55:00.000-08:00

(Sometimes you don't like what you write, but you post it anyways)

As the boys had scarcely any homework Monday evening, they were already in the courtyard playing when their teacher entered with a dark-eyed boy by her side and called a halt to the games. I’d like to introduce you all to the newest member of our family, she said. Treat him with kindness, just like all your other brothers, she added. The boys gathered round and in rapid succession offered a hand to shake and names that the boy, whose windbreaker was zipped protectively to his chin on the warm night, likely forgot immediately. At least, that’s what I did when the boys of the Casa Hogar para Niños first told me their names.

I spend five evenings a week at the Casa Hogar struggling to explain fractions and graphing while they struggle to understand my awkward Spanish. I would be on solid ground if they were studying politics, I know that vocabulary. But explaining mathematics wasn’t a conversation topic in my college Spanish classes, so I’ve stumbled along, learning as I go. For instance, it took nearly a week of fractions before I learned that denominator was a near cognate: denominador.

I’m in my fifth week volunteering for the Casa Hogar and I know every boy’s name, but I’m still unsure what has brought them there. When I first arranged to volunteer, I thought was a home for maltreated kids, as my school coordinator told me. But the evening I arrived at the home, I was given an undated brochure which states it’s an orphanage. Yet more than one kid has told me of parents in the United States. So, I assume it’s a mix. At any rate, I haven’t had the opportunity to ask the teachers, nor does it seem particularly important. As a consequence, however, families are off the conversation list, as in at least two out of three cases it won’t be a happy topic. Nevertheless, sometimes the boys talk to me. Juan Manuel, who told us his name in a whisper after we’d finished bombarding him with ours, was the latest.

To be continued...

Don't read this, it's pregnant

2008-02-26T16:00:00.000-08:00

It’s an old story. You’re spending some time in Mexico or some other Spanish-speaking country. Perhaps it’s a vacation, perhaps a service trip, or perhaps you’re studying Spanish, no matter. You took some Spanish classes in high school, maybe even in college, but now, with everyone sounding nothing like those language tapes—who taught them how to speak anyways?—your functional vocabulary has been reduced mainly to the tourist trio: hola, sí and gracias.

A limited vocabulary, however, has never prevented any tourist from making a fool of themselves. You are no exception. One way or another you do something that makes you red in the face, which, as science has proven, activates the language centers of the brain. Suddenly, you remember lo siento, I’m sorry, which you tell the nearest person though you fell on your face, not on them. But it doesn’t matter because, joy of joys, you’re speaking Spanish! Even better, your language reserves are now activated. In milliseconds, nay, milliseconds you’ve recalled not just the verb, but the first-person singular form for expressing your state of being: estoy.

In this instant, whole worlds of self-expression open to you; now you can be happy, sad, even tired. Yet, in this moment, you want something more. You want to let them know how shamed you feel that you tripped over your bag in the middle of the hotel lobby. You try, but you can’t think of the word. But you are not to be conquered. This is your hour, well, three seconds of fluent glory. So, as you glimpse your newfound conversation partner looking expectantly at your open mouth, you make a desperate mental lunge and hope for the best: “Estoy embarazada”. And thus countless men and women confide to complete strangers, in moments already marked by embarressment, that they are pregnant.

Thanks to more than one classroom warning state side, I have managed during my time in Mexico to avoid any errors that left me impregnated or otherwise unnaturally compromised. Actually, my mistakes tend to be more metaphysical. I have told my mother that I like sleeping under a little bit of the past (using pasado in place of pesado, or weight) and my father that I like to eat nightmares (pesadillas and not the far tastier pescadillas, or fish quesadillas). Another culinary preference is walls (muros rather than moras, or berries). Despite the hints, neither has shown up on my dinner plate. When tired, I have slurred my way into matrimony (casado in place of cansado), only to be told by my Mexican father, in a whisper and with a grin, that the two words mean the same thing. The problem, more than ignorance, is exhaustion. I make errors when I’m tired. But it isn’t always easy to sleep--and it’s not because I’m in bed with the past. The truth is, I keep getting bitten by boogers (mocos instead of the winged moscas).

A few thousand words from El Tule

2008-02-25T11:22:00.000-08:00

Last week Oaxaca drained me. The heat, the language and missing you sorry lot left neither time nor energy for blog posts. I will begin again tomorrow, but for now here are some shots of the much-described El Tule.

I'm digging the leafy sombrero, but what is that huge thing to the right?

As my Mexican mother would say, using the only English expression she knows: "Oh my god."

It's not easy to fit El Tule into a camera frame.

This is the equivalent of El Tule turning sideways. Gosh, doesn't it all but dissapear. The sign says: "I'm a living thing, don't cut my branches. Take care of me!"

One last look. (What's that little thing next to El Tule? Oh, the church.)

A few thousand words from Monte Albán

2008-02-19T12:10:00.000-08:00

Monte Albán in pictures, not words, for today's post. Enjoy!

The only source of shade remaining in the prehispanic city.

I think this was once the patio of the high spiritual leader.

Nice view, eh?

Another bella vista.

We have baseball at Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park. They had el juego de pelota and they played for keeps; the loser was sacrificed.

The public restroom.

What I did one Saturday, part four

2008-02-18T09:02:00.000-08:00

Attentive readers will remember my opening description of this ever-extending tale was ‘my trip to the Mitla ruins’. Yet, in truth, I did not begin my journey with that destination in mind. I wanted to go to a small Sierra village known in my guidebook as Benito Juarez. But this name, I have since learned, provokes unending confusion and good intentioned but unhelpful corrections. Benito Juarez the man, for those who don’t know, is, at least in most corners, Oaxaca’s most beloved son and one of the country’s national heroes—not incidentally, as a Zapotec, he is the only indigenous president in Mexican history. As such, many a calle bears his name, the 20 peso note bears his face and many a Oaxacan village is named either something-Juarez or Benito-so-and-so.

Thus, back on the main avenue of Santa Maria del Tule, I fell into conversation with a short, stout, grandmotherly lady who had recently been to Los Angeles to visit her sister. Hearing my intended destination, she directed me to the town of Tlacolula. There I asked around and was directed to a corner to wait for a bus up the hill. I chatted with a few different people at the stop and each agreed that buses for Benito Juarez would pass there. But after some time, none had not come, so I asked again. No, they don’t pass here, said a wild-haired woman who had just arrived at the bus stop. And thus I decided to go to Mitla.

A taxi colectivo dropped me off in a large triangle of asphalt, bordered on two sides by buildings, on the third by the two-lane highway, and buzzing with taxis, moto-taxis and, naturally, vendors. A single street lead into the town from the corner of the triangle, passing under, as it went, a high sign reading: Bienvenidos a Mitla. I was unsure whether the sign referred to the ruins or the town, but I decided to walk on.

At first, I passed nothing but shops selling mezcla or embroidered, traditional-style clothing. Then, after a brief stretch of homes, the street was once again lined with stores, which were once again offering mezcal and clothing. Then I crossed a bridge, and there was, perhaps for those who needed some time to contemplate their purchases, shops selling mezcal and clothing. Reaching what was likely the city center, I found a carnival encamped in the streets, concealing who knows how many shops offering mezcla and clothing. The English-titled rides did not entice me and I kept my pace and soon I was back among shops offering, well, you can guess. Fortunately, as I needed neither clothing nor alcohol, the first ruins were just ahead.

To be continued...

Good Morning Class!

2008-02-15T16:46:00.000-08:00

(Today I present a lecture from my alter ego, Maestro Mike. Notice I am also a student in the class. No, this is no comment on my mental state.)

Good Morning Class!

I hope you all had a good Valentine’s Day. It looks like Enrique enjoyed his a little too much, seeing as he hasn’t arrived yet. No matter, we’ll start without him.

Today, we’re going to cover suppositional statements. For instance: “Perhaps Enrique hasn’t arrived yet because he’s suffering from la cruda” (a hangover). Darrien, give us an example. “Maybe he ran away with his girlfriend to get married in Tlacolula.” Very good Darr—oh, good morning Enrique, glad you could make it. In fact, we were just talking about you. Ah, you were late because you were taking photos of the teacher’s union. A man has to make his living.

Let’s move on to suffixes class. Suffixes usually indicate size, but also affection. We will start with, well, how about with Miguel’s house. It is una casa. That’s a word you all know. But Miguel’s mother, were she Mexican, might call it her casita. Yes, as you’ve all learned, that could mean it’s small. Yet it also denotes affection. His mom certainly scraped enough cottage cheese off the ceilings to be fond of the house. On the other hand, sometime after Miguel returns to California he may want to buy a house. He says journalists make no money, so all he’ll be able to buy is a casitita, a very small house. Yeah, maybe you’ll need to stay here in Oaxaca Miguel. Suffixes, however, don’t stop there. There are casitititas. These are about the size of, for example, the homes of the students who attend the Derek Zoolander School for Kids Who Can’t Read Good and Want to Learn to Do Other Things Good Too. Extremely small. Like models. And if that’s too many iti’s for your tongue to handle, there are other options. Maybe a casicas suits you, or a casiquiquitas. Say that one three times fast.

But you can go the other way too. Maybe it’s got columns in front and a double stairway. Provided this only one step up the scale—remember, these are all relative—this is a casota. And you can move up from that to a more grandiose creation, a Bill Gates-sized villa, a casototota. Although maybe it’s big but you don’t like it. It is one of those ugly McMansion’s taking over California. Then it is a casucha.

Got it? Well not so fast. With each word they change a little bit. For instance, Julie Roberts doesn’t simply have a bocota, big mouth, unless you want to imply she’s a blabbermouth. And permutations of perro, dog, can easily be misconstrued, especially if you’re talking about females. No need to start using suffixes right away. Maybe best to stick to grande and pequeno.

(My dear fans, I know it will be hard, but as always I will not be posting over the weekend. Why? One, I'm lazy. Two, I don't have internet access outside of school. ¡Hasta lunes!)

What I did one Saturday, part three

2008-02-14T11:24:00.000-08:00

I have thus far measured El Tule in superlatives. Here are the numbers: more than 2,000 years old (before ol’ J.C.), 42 meters tall (more than a football field), 58 meters in circumference (nearly one and a half football fields), 14 meters in diameter (why is that we always compare things to football fields?) and more than 636 meters tons of weight (eight busloads of the fattest person you know—yea, I made that one up).

Behind this behemoth stands a church whose name I did not record, but which likely involves Santa Maria and El Tule. It has a pleasant and modestly adorned facade, but a walk inside reveals that, like many others in Mexico, this church has swallowed liters of gold. Multiple glittering altars and encrusted crosses back the pulpit and line the walls of the church’s narrow interior. And if you close your eyes you will notice, though you couldn’t have really missed it before, the church’s other abundance: fresh flowers. At least on the Saturday I visited, the church was so packed with newly cut blooms that their scents wafted straight out the door for want of more air to infect. It seemed many gardens had been decimated to fill the vases.

The courtyard offered a different smell. Opposite El Tule, on the far side of the church’s front courtyard, a simple wheel had been mounted on two posts in the lawn. Every ten or twenty minutes, an apparent employee of the church would load the wheel, then light it. Then, with an audible sizzle, the cachuetes, or fireworks, would speed to their loud conclusion: BANG! A second later, the slightly sulfuric traces would have wafted across the lawn.

To be continued...

What I did one Saturday, part two

2008-02-13T17:08:00.000-08:00

The taxi had dropped me at a traffic light on the main avenue, next to a restaurant and a nievería. While I could tell it was going to be a hot day, it was too early for a nieve, or ice cream. Looking across the two-lane avenue I saw a wide, raised and landscaped walkway. Once the light turned red, I crossed the avenue and ascended the steps.

Block letters on the wall of a round building to my right advertised an artisan’s market and a stone fountain stood nearby, but I had no idea where to find El Tule. I saw no sign pointing out the correct direction, nor did the few people on the walkway seem to be headed in a particular direction. My taxi, like virtually every one I had seen, advertised its destination as simply El Tule, as if the eponymous tree was all there was to the town—but where was it?

I knew it was no bonzai. Both my Mexican family and my guidebook had informed me that it is one of the oldest trees, if not living object, on earth. As such, both impressed upon me its enormity, though, as my guidebook pointed out, it is fatter than it is tall—which I figured was fortunate because I think few trees could measure up to the grove of California sequoias visited this summer. In fact, what I heard of the tree reminded me more of the Stanislaus Forest’s ancient Bennett Juniper, which my mom and I had reached after an agonizingly slow drive in her mini along a pothole-studded road. Now it crossed my mind that this tree might require a similar trek.

Nevertheless, I forgo asking anyone. Hoping to spare myself an embarrassing exchange—‘Can you direct me to El Tule?’ ‘Yea, it’s right there.’—I decided to walk to the town’s central church for a quick visit. At the gate—odd for a church—I said hello to the guard and read the posted sign. At the top it read simply: El Tule. I looked from the sign, to the church, to the shade on the ground and, for the first time, up into the branches of the enormous tree that occupied most of the church’s front grounds. Rather than a single organism, it was like a two-trunked pine in which fusion seemed to have occurred in reverse, with a whole grove of trees now existing as one. It was a Trumpalar of a tree and I had been practically under it the whole time.

What I did one Saturday

2008-02-07T13:43:00.000-08:00

My trip to the Mitla ruins started in a taxi collectivo, a group taxi, headed to Santa Maria del Tule. I had walked from my home to the nearby periferico, a busy semi-highway that curves around nearly half of the city’s center, and after waiting some time for a bus to my destination, hopped aboard the umpteenth passing group taxi headed that way. I’m no expert, but given that there were four or five in traffic every time the light turned red, I’d say that there is a market glut.

As I closed the door and snapped my seatbelt on, the only time I would be able to do so in three taxi trips that day, I realized to my chagrin the taxi’s stereo was blasting the California alt-rock group Greenbay. At first I wondered it was for the benefit of Americans like myself, but as he honked to signal empty seats at every pedestrian we passed, few of whom appeared to be tourists, this theory was swiftly discarded. I might have asked him if he liked the group, with the hope of jumping into a conversation, but sitting in the back as I was—the front seat was occupied what appeared to be his wife and primary-grade-age son—I would have had to nearly shout over the music, his bellowing horn and the surrounding belches of traffic.

So, sitting silent in the back with my thoughts, I began to fancy that he was listening to American pop music to improve his English, hoping to land a career in an area without such legions of competitors. But then the song changed and, though I was doing my best to shut out the English lyrics, I couldn’t help but listen as the opening lyrics of Blink 182’s ‘Family Reunion’ blasted through the cab: “Shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits, fart, terd, and twat—I fucked your mom.” I looked at my driver. His son was playing with his outstretched finger and he wore a smile that was oblivious to the profanities issuing from the taxi’s speakers. I didn’t say anything.

At a traffic light on the long, straight main avenue of Santa Maria del Tule, my driver stopped to let me out. I paid him what I thought was owed for the ride, opened the door, and before I could get out, he handed me 2 pesos. The ten-minute ride had cost me $0.80.

(To be continued...)

My first day of classes

2008-02-07T13:17:00.000-08:00

Amid streets busy with small taquerias and smaller shops, the yellow-blue cement block facade of El Centro de Idiomas stretches along an nearly an entire city block. Its blue metal gate opens onto a courtyard occupied by a dry fountain and, when I arrived, a handful of Mexican students presumably on break from classes in French, English, German or one of the university’s other offerings. I headed to the administration window and fumbled through a question about the school for foreigners, which, as I was rusty and the words foreigner and strange are similar in Spanish, likely came out “Where is the School for the Strange?” Fortunately, I was intercepted by my email amiga, Ariana, before they could answer me.

Ariana had been tireless in rapidly answering my multitude of emailed questions about the school and, finally meeting her, I found she was no less bubbly and solicitous in person. As I took the two placement tests, she asked twice if I wanted coffee, thrice how the trip had went and assured me repeatedly I needn’t complete the second test if I felt it was too hard. Ultimately, I was placed in level 2 and, after once more offering me coffee, Ariana introduced me to my grammar instructor.

Paulina was a very competent, if slightly dour instructor. (I write ‘was’ not because she has since died, but because she was my grammar instructor for only two days.) She told me she had spent some time teaching at Humboldt State, and she might well have walked off the campus that very day--she wore Birkenstocks and just the right selection of muted earth tones for the Northern California style. Our first item for review was ‘if clauses’ and her first example: “If I had more money, I wouldn’t be here.” We later moved on to topics less personal, but she managed to rise to the occasion: “If there was life on Mars, there would be a brain drain from Mexico.”

In the way that one might hesitate to question finding a huge wad of cash in your mailbox for fear that if you lose your ignorance you will also lose your new found wealth, I have not yet asked whether students get one-on-one instruction year-round. But as I sat there with Paulina and no one else entered the classroom, I began feeling very lucky.

(To be continued...)

First night in Oaxaca

2008-02-07T13:08:00.000-08:00

I spent my second night in Mexico in a hostel five blocks from the zócalo, the main square, of Oaxaca. In the standard international flavor of Mexican hostels, my fellow residents included an Argentinean, a white Botswanian, an ethnic Japanese Swiss citizen and the obligatory handful of Australians—Mexico is apparently a preferred destination down under.

The hostel, MezKalito, is one of more than a dozen that litter downtown Oaxaca and, based on what I saw by popping into half a dozen to ask their nightly rate, one of the most attractive. The hostel’s central patio is painted in vivid orange and blue tones, a handful of potted plants add some green, and soft hammocks hang from the courtyard’s fat columns. There is also wireless internet and, for the computer-less, four computers with internet—though two were down when I was there. On that note, the bathrooms, though very clean, are not in the best of shape.

My first trip to the hostel’s men’s bathroom went something like this: I entered needing to pee, noticed two of the four urinals had out of order signs, peed in one of the two remaining, flushed and watched water rush in and nothing go out, flushed again to the same effect. So, I decided to forget it and wash my hands. I went to the sink, turned the knob to no effect, I tried the other knob, same result, I tried the next sink, again nothing. Luckily, the third sink had both functioning faucets and a functioning drain. As I washed my hands, I read a computer print-out taped to the mirror titled in English: ‘How to Conserve Water.’

My trip after dinner, to do number two, was nearly identical. I entered a stall, was about to sit down when noticed there was no bin for waste—necessary as Mexican plumbing is not designed to accommodate toilet paper. I entered the second door, again was about to sit when I saw there was no latch on the door. Again, the third was the charm. Budget accommodations, budget bathrooms. (And actually, much nicer than many of the budget accomadations I’ve since chosen.)

After a restless night’s sleep, breakfast was hardy affair, if only faintly Mexican. I ate scrambled eggs, corn flakes, a bun and a very wet portion of beans. Chatting with my Swiss dorm mate, who was an animated conversationalist despite his awkward English—not a bad lesson for me—I learned he had spent a week in Los Angeles prior to arriving in Mexico. What did he think? “They have a very good subway system.” Maybe someone could tell the residents?

After an only half-successful attempt to ask the hostel’s morning manager for directions to El Centro de Idiomas, my school for the next month, I packed and left. As recommended by the manager, I caught a bus from the nearest corner. The trip was a success in so far as I did not knock anyone over with my backpack—itself larger than many of the other passengers—but when I later arrived at El Centro I learned that the 25-minute ride could have been accomplished in a 10-minute walk. Such are bus rides in the traffic-choked downtowns of most Mexican cities.

To be continued...

I turn a budget hotel room into a metaphor for Mexico

2008-02-07T12:55:00.000-08:00

Reentry was easy.

I swept through immigration with a Spanish greeting to the officer, I pressed el botón before a customs agent had a chance to ask, the entreaties of the unauthorized taxi drivers scarcely cracked my calm, the bus agent didn’t once give me a what-is-this-gringo-saying look and during the pre-bus ride search I was not, I am happy to report, the cause of humor—though unlike last time, the screeners simply walked me and the rest of the passengers through a metal detector. Nevertheless, I was walking back into Mexico.

I write this from a hotel room in Puebla, Mexico’s fourth largest city and, as is so often the case, the capital of the state of the same name. My room is perhaps eight by 12 feet and yet manages, in my traveler’s conceit, to house a metaphor for Mexico.

A rug-like array of green and yellow tiles carpet the room and extending halfway up the walls. A couple sturdy, semi-ornate wooden chairs upholstered in convincing faux leather sit along the wall. And out the window there is an open air shaft reaching from the first floor to the sky. In these you have colonial Mexico. Yet, from above shines a circular fluorescent tube in the middle of a plastic-paneled ceiling. And to look into the air shaft, you have to open a sliding frosted pane with a faux wood handle. So, modernizing, mid-80s Mexico is here too. But we’re not finished. A black wire tied in a loose noose protrudes from where the pristine ceiling meets the left wall. This wall also holds the room’s only electrical outlet. And all over the room, white plaster gapes from holes where tiles have fallen from the walls. Thus, Mexico imperfecto* has a grip on both eras. So besides me, my laptop and my huge backpack, I fancy the room holds history, modernity and disorder. It’s missing any trace of Mexico’s indigenous history, but you can’t have everything in a third-floor budget hotel room in Puebla. (And if you’re really into the metaphor, you might say the absence is telling).

False metaphor? You tell me.

*My original post had 'basico' in this spot which, as I realized after posting it, is a false amigo, or a word that does not have the same significance in Spanish as in English.

A day in San Miguel

2007-12-05T19:24:00.000-08:00

Two weeks after I arrived here, my blog is finally in San Miguel. My fan can rejoice. That’s you Zoe. Oh yea, and you Dad. Two! I can use the plural. I have aficionados, fans. How wonderful. But really, what’s kept me so busy?

Well, days here are long. They start at about 7 a.m.—a healthy, wealthy and energy-wise hour to rise. And accomplished with the help of just three alarms: my cell phone, a small battery-powered clock and the sun. Each morning I turn the first two off, climb back into bed, and the third gets me up in time to make 8 a.m. desayuno.

My nearly daily meal is a bowl of fruit—papaya, apple, bananas and sometimes mango or kiwi—sprinkled with granola and a few hefty dollops of yogurt. It’s often washed down with pineapple, grape or peach juice, or, every now and then, fresh squeezed orange juice. Yup, I get all my daily fruit servings right there at the kitchen counter.

Once finished, I walk the three minutes down the hill to the school and begin eight hours of classes. First up: pronunciation. For nearly an hour, the lenguas of my classmates and I slur through vocales—both fuerte and débiles—twist into diptongos and flubber over guturales. Repeat with me our daily opening anthem: aeo, aiu, aeo, aua, aei, eui, oua, oai. No, I won’t make you do it all. The biggest mistake I ever made? I once drank a chamomile tea with breakfast. My tongue slept all through class. Never again.

After the oral weight-lifting, I head to three hours of general Spanish, now grouped by ability. I’m in level four, taught by Paula (pronounced Pow-la), along with three other students. (For the first two weeks, there was just one other, but we added some bodies midway through the four-week session.) Class discussions include the conditional verb form, the best way to cook tenderloin—in a pressure cooker submerged in cerveza, apparently—how to give commands, and the current state of Mexican politics—caliente, hot, according to Paula.

I have learned a number of things in my next course, Twentieth Century Hispanic Literature. First, I recognize a lot of words. Second, recognizing a word doesn’t mean you can remember what it means. Third, even when you remember what the words mean, that doesn’t mean you can understand the sentence. Fourth, even when you understand the sentence, or even the paragraph, you never understand the story. Fifth, never read poetry in Spanish.

I walk uphill to my home with head pounding and confidence high. I am, during that walk, confident I will never learn Spanish. The more I learn, the less I know, to paraphrase Socrates. And then there's the pain between my eyes. Consequently, comida, as lunch is called in Mexico, is usually a silent meal. I groan to Lourdes ‘Me duele la cabeza’, ‘I have a headache’, and tell her the name of the culprit of the day: Pablo Neruda, Rosario Castellanos, Jorge Luis Borges. She nods; she's seen nine years of dispirited lunchtime students.

Fortunately, lunch is the largest meal of the day in Mexico, so there is plenty of work to be done that precludes conversation. Typically, comida starts off with a sopa, or soup, of boiled vegetables or puffed corn kernels. The main dish varies widely. I’ve had bean and cheese tacos, American-style spaghetti, rice and a calabaza-carne de vaca (squash and beef) mix and the well-known chile relleno (stuffed and fried peppers). It’s all washed down with jugo (juice) or occasionally one of various atoles: canela, arroz, chocolate. The cinnamon, rice or chocolate drink is sweet, a bit thicker than a typical hot chocolate and, happily for my lactose-discriminating stomach, light in milk.

After lunch, I retreat to my room and collapse on my bed, felled by this soporific combination: a bellyful of food and a head full of Spanish. Yet as sleep seldom comes to me in the middle of the day, especially as my mind continues obstinately to translate every piddling English thought to Spanish, it is a short-lived collapse. I often end up reading an old sixth grade Spanish exercise book. I don’t understand that either, but it has pretty pictures.

To be continued...

Not the land of Gideon

2007-12-03T20:23:00.000-08:00

In 1823, an American hotel received a stack of bibles to be distributed to each their rooms. Nearly two centuries later, about 450,000 bibles are distributed each year, most courtesy of the Gideon Society. The result: a bible in every room.

So when I open the drawer in my hotel room in San Miguel de Allende, a city known as ‘the heart’ of one of the most Catholic countries in the world, I am slightly taken aback. Yup, Gideon hasn’t reached San Miguel. Not that I needed a Bible, but the lack was emblematic. My comfortable and tastefully appointed room was strangely bare. Aside from two bottled waters, there was nothing in the place. Nothing in the drawers, nothing in the cabinets, nothing in the bathroom. Most distressingly for me, and for the Mexican family I was about to meet for the first time, there was no soap in the shower.

(I had arrived in San Miguel the night before. With the help of a friendly cab driver, I took a bumpy, weaving journey through the cobble-stoned streets of San Miguel to find an ATM—I was broke; then a hostel—full; then a hotel—expensive, but at 3 a.m., after almost 24 hours of travel, any price was acceptable.)

After a long, hot, soap-less shower, I head out to find my new home. I ask the clerk at the front desk for directions and she says something. For all I know, she gives me exact directions, but to me it sounds, bizarrely, like “go to the market.” I guess my Spanish isn’t getting any better. She does give me a map, with my house’s location marked. I walk down the hotel’s narrow private drive to the street, glance at the map and take a left. Two blocks later, as the heat and my overweight bag start to wear on me, I realize I turned the wrong way. Half an hour after starting, I find my street about three blocks from the hotel. According to the map, I need to turn right. Looking left, I see the market. Ah. She said “Go through the market.”

My new house sits on a steep hill overlooking the city. It is unremarkable from the outside: a dull red metal gate emblazoned with one of the city’s ubiquitous no parking signs rises to meet a small balcony decorated with a few plants and a Mexican flag. I knock and, after a moment, my mother for the next month answers the door. She is of medium height, with dark hair and a round nose in a warm face. I say what I’ve been practicing in my head all the way up the hill: ‘Buenos días’.

Though she wasn’t expecting me for about three more hours, Lourdes Montes is very sweet. Nine years of hosting students is apparent: she speaks slowly, she gestures constantly and, though she doesn’t speak English, she knows the words for the basics. We’re hundreds of miles from the U.S. border, but the Montes living room sits on cultural middle ground. Christmas teddy bears sit along the top of the overstuffed sofa and faux wreaths sit atop the red and green plaid tablecloth of the dining table. Yet over the sofa is a shrine to the Virgin Mary and on the walls hang a Diego Rivera reproduction and a surrealistic Don Quixote portrait.

Lourdes leads me up a white tiled staircase and opens the door onto an expansive balcony. It is enclosed on three sides by walls—respectively vivid green, burnt orange and brick—and above by a yellow roof along which runs exposed white beams. Plants crowd the walls, leaving room only for four doors, one of which leads to my room. A white plastic table and matching chairs sits centrally under the roof, and a second glass-and metal table and chair set sits under the sun in a smaller, exposed subsection of the balcony. I walk out to this area and look down, through power lines, to the city below. I can see the spiky pink shape of the Parroquia, the city’s most well-known church; the skinny stone tower of the Our Lady of Health church; the giant salmon dome of the city’s largest church; and the spires of half a dozen smaller churches. The door to my room is about a dozen feet away. Wow.

My room is equally spacious and nearly as colorful. From the bed spread to the curtains to the two red tablecloths, flower patterns dominate. The blinds are closed, but the room is bright with yellows: a deep ocher post stands off center in the room joined with beams at the ceiling, the walls are a mild lemon and under my feet are tiles with marbleized pattern in daffodil. By contrast, the toilet and most of the rest of my private bathroom is blue, with the themes meeting in the painted sink, where two blue fish swim in a yellow background. Parting the curtains, I see a view that nearly matches the one that took my breath away outside. The room is supplied with both a television and an enormous built-in bookcase. I ignore the first and scan the spines. I spot civil engineering textbooks, Reader’s Digest collections and Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. I also see two bibles: one English, one Spanish. No visit from Gideon needed here.

(Information about the curious history of drawer-based proselytizing drawn from www.straightdope.com)

A red light in the night

2007-11-30T20:34:00.000-08:00

On a sunny day in September 2003, I boarded a train and spent nearly an hour watching a city I didn’t know pass by. A smile I couldn’t help sat on my face the whole time. I had just arrived in London.

I hoped to do the same in Mexico. My plan, when I was booking my ticket, was to arrive in Mexico City early in the day and ride to San Miguel while it was still light. I wouldn’t have a guide, but I wouldn’t have understood what was said if I did. And you don’t need one. Watching a foreign land roll by is a mix of the banal and the surreal. You see houses, cars, signs. Like always. Yet, the images are tweaked. Bare concrete homes sit next to snazzy billboards. Men in Nike sweatshirts walk with baskets balanced on their heads. The car passing your bus could fit in the bed of your neighbor’s pickup. The signs, despite their brevity, are tellingly different in their mix of suggestion and imperative.

Yet it was not to be. I got to Mexico City so late I nearly spent the night, and thus all but the beginning of the four hour bus ride passed in darkness. I didn’t even have a chance for unsuccessful conversation: in front and behind me my fellow riders slept. Silence on the bus was broken only by a mysterious bleeping that emitted from the front of the cab, which I solved only after some serious squinting at a red light that would illuminate in time with the noise; once in focus, the light turned to characters: “85 km/ph”. Our driver was setting off the speeding alert.

But we did make one brightly lighted, slow-paced detour. I woke from a light sleep nearly an hour from our destination to find the bus on an uneven dirt road. Looking out the window, I saw modest houses and small fields stretching alongside the road. After a moment, we passed another bus on the side of the road and slowed to a stop in front of it. A minute later, people began boarding the bus. Their bus had broken down. They filled the seats. They filled the aisles. And when the bus was packed from back wall to the front step, we took off again. And, soon enough, the bus began bleeping.

Boarding the bus

2007-11-24T09:51:00.000-08:00

The two hours waiting for the bus passes slowly but pleasantly. I am like a child in this world; everything is new to me. I browse a few tables of books set up in the center of the large waiting area and am tempted by many, including a biography of Jim Morrison in Spanish, but my bag is too heavy to consider buying anything. I eat a cheap ‘torta’ or sandwich; and read signs: Sanitarios públicos (above the metal revolving door for the pay-to-enter public restrooms) and SuperVoy de 24hrs. (like mini 711, of which there are two no more than 30 feet from each other in the waiting area).

When ten o’clock comes, I pass through a metal detector onto the bus platform. The lady supervising asks me something in Spanish, then seeing that I don’t comprehend, takes my wrists, raises each arm out wide and, to my surprise, pats me down. I try to ask which bus is headed to San Miguel, as buses line the curb in front of me. Her response, as I’m beginning to expect, is unintelligible to me. ‘No entiendo,’ I say. I don’t understand. She says something, then seeing my still vacant face, points to the bus directly in front of me. The one with the sign saying ‘San Miguel de Allende’ in the window. Mmm. Like a child.

I hand my bag to be stowed away beneath the bus, and step aboard. Handing my ticket to the driver, he points behind me, where I see a line that I somehow bypassed. I mutter an embarrassed ‘Lo siento’— ‘I’m sorry’—and step off the bus. When it comes my turn, the woman tells me something and I start to turn around, thinking that’s what she wants. She laughs, stops me, signals me to step closer and, to my repeated and now greater surprise, begins to search me a second time. I hold out my arms again, resigned to a trip of continual confusion.

One more 'gringo loco'

2007-11-22T17:55:00.000-08:00

After collecting my beast of a bag—by choice, mine has no wheels—I walk through the airport, scrupulously ignoring the men who shout ‘Taxi’ at me. Only take authorized taxis, I’ve been advised. At the authorized taxi stop, I buy a $15 ticket and climb aboard a sparkling new PT Cruiser—a 2008, my driver tells me in response to my feeble ‘Me gusta su carro.’

Taxi drivers are always willing to talk, I figure, so I try some basic Spanish. It goes well, helped by his own competent English, and soon I learn he spent two years studying in New York, or at least I think that’s what he says, and that he spends six months of every year there, or something like that. I continue to ask him questions in my halting Spanish, and he humors me with answers, though he speaks my native language with much more confidence than I his. While we’re talking I mention that I plan to take a bus tomorrow to San Miguel de Allende. He tells me I could still catch one tonight—it’s about 7:45 p.m.—and save money on the hotel. Will it cost more to get a ride to the bus terminal? I ask in Spanish. In English he deadpans: “Fifty dollars,” then laughs. After a moment, I join him.

After warning me to deal only with people at the counters, my friendly cab driver drops me off. The bus terminal, a large semi-circular building with glass panes facing the street and ticket stalls of various bus companies lining the wall, is buzzing with activity. But no one, as far as I can tell, pays more than cursory attention to me, the sole gringo. After reading the large destination signs of a handful of stalls, I find one that offers a ride to San Miguel de Allende. ‘Cuanto cuesta un autobús a San Miguel,” I ask, rough Spanish for: How much for a ride to San Miguel? Two-hundred and fifty pesos, he answers in Spanish and continues at too rapid a pace for me to understand. I catch only ‘mañana’. The bus won’t leave till tomorrow. Shit.

Inwardly, I curse my taxi driver. ‘He just wanted to get rid of me, so he could find another fare,’ I think. ‘He probably knew there was no bus tonight.’ ‘But he seemed sincere... maybe he was just guessing about the bus.’ ‘Either way I’m stuck, damn it.’ As my mind cycles angrily through irrational scenarios of deception, I walk to the largest of the stalls and ask if there are any buses leaving tonight for San Miguel. They point me to the end of the semi-circle, where, to my relief, I find a company that runs a bus to San Miguel. It doesn’t leave for two hours, but I’m happy. I even recognize that, for a while there, I was just another gringo loco.

Travel highlights

2007-11-20T18:44:00.000-08:00

Celebrities in security

In line for the security check-in, I spot a tallish guy wearing a cap with a narrow brim, a too-short black t-shirt, dirty shorts and low-cut sneakers. He resembles a major sports star. I look more closely, but he is half turned away from me. His calves, however, seem a bit too robust for the average poorly dressed American male. He turns toward me. Suspicions confirmed. It is Andy Roddick.

(I always thought, implicitly, that celebrities went through some kind of special line. Guess not. Or maybe Roddick’s career has nosedived so badly that he’s flying economy these days. Or at least he’s sold his private jet.)

---

Lucky Maria

In the air, I glance from my book to the balding, bespectacled gentleman sitting a seat away. Red pen in hand, he’s scribbling in the margin of some multi-paged document. I can see it’s in Spanish, but can’t read the words or his edits. As I watch, he continues reading, makes some underlines, then scribbles some more. I turn back to my book and forget about him.

A few minutes after we’re served our drinks for the flight, I smell something strange. After a moment, I realize it’s not because the smell is unfamiliar, but because I’m on an airplane. Usually the only scents I pick up are perfume and body odor. I get a whiff again and look around. A seat away, the editor is holding a bottle wrapped in plastic foam. I look at his plastic cup, and see a clear liquid, in contrast to the Coke can sitting on his tray. He’s now putting the bottle into the bag at his feet, when I see the manila cover of the document: ‘Tésis Sra. Maria’—and the rest is cut off (tésis=thesis). Simultaneously, I recognize the smell. It’s vodka.

He pulls out the bottle at least a half a dozen more times before the plane’s final descent. He doesn’t pull out the tésis again. Lucky for Maria.

---

!Empuja el botón!

I’ve made it through the first part of customs. I warranted scarcely a nod from my examiner, though I am still trembling from having to speak Spanish for a practical purpose for virtually the first time in my life. My final test involves a seemingly cursory scan of my luggage. I have to speak Spanish again, but this time I’m ready. I even answer the inspector’s ‘Buenas tardes’ with ‘Buenos noches’—she glances at her watch, sees it is no longer afternoon, and says ‘Sí, buenos noches.’

Confidence sky-high, I pick up my bag and walk to the exit. Someone calls to me, but of what they say all I understand is ‘Senor!’ I turn, listen uncomprehendingly, until someone says in English: ‘Push the button.’ They point to a pole, where three people are standing. There is a large yellow button set in the green pole, with ‘The Button’ in large capitals above it. The Spanish equivalent of ‘random search generator’ is printed in smaller letters.

Finally understanding, I step towards the pole, reach out and push the button. No alarm. I walk through sliding doors into Mexico.

Checking in

2007-11-20T17:26:00.000-08:00

“Length of stay in country not permitted. Please see a customer service representative.”

That’s what appeared on the electronic check-in screen after I selected my flight and scanned my passport. My ticket’s return date was in August, more than the typical six month Mexican visa period, but I didn’t think the airline would worry about that. Or if they did, I figured the system would have told me when I purchased the ticket. After all, the purchase was directly through United. ‘Oh well, it’s the first hiccup of the journey,’ I thought, and headed with my Dad for customer service.

There were just three people waiting in line, in contrast to the dozens in line to check-in, but it took more than twice as long to get to the front. Long enough for a roaming customer service agent to come along and ask us about our problems. She was a rotund lady with a bright dinosaur sticker on her name badge. Hearing our troubles, she nodded sagely. ‘Yeah, I know what’s going on. That’s going to be difficult to fix.”

We explained that the August return wasn’t important, and besides, I had a ticket to return through a different airline in December, so the visa period would start again in January (still too long a stay, but closer to acceptable). ‘We can just change the date of the ticket, right?’ I said, and my dad added something similar. Her reply, addressed to my dad: ‘Where’s that accent from?’ ‘New Zealand’ ‘Hmm,’ she said, ‘You guys need to do something about that Barramundi.’ Barramundi? What?

In truth, those may not have been her exact words, but she was definitely serving a reproach for the treatment of the beloved Australian fish. Not that I knew it was an Australian fish, anymore than Spanglish for an uncovered world (mundo = world), until a few seconds later in the conversation. We continued talking, though I don’t believe she ever explained why she thought we were going to have problems, until she was called away, and moments later we went to the counter. We explained my situation for the second time as a trainee found my flight, then looking up from the computer, she told us there was no problem and handed me the boarding pass. Our Barramundi-loving friend was nowhere to be seen.

Disclaimer: Details are subject to my memory, which, without a notebook, is notorious.

Ten hours till departure

2007-11-17T23:29:00.000-08:00

A year out of high school, I spent a semester studying in London. A few years later, I spent a summer working in Miami. I spent the next summer in the Sierra foothills, living at an all-but abandoned sawmill in a cabin which didn't have doorknob when I moved in. But for the first time, I'm a bit anxious about the next journey. I leave for Mexico tomorrow morning.

After spending a week in the hallway outside my bedroom, my belongings are packed into a weathered brown bag that is likely older than I am. It's filled with cords: one for my camera, one for my cellphone, one for my iPod. My cellphone has been prepped for international calling--this is no Christopher McCandless trip. My iPod has been prepped for immersion--I've stripped it of all but Spanish songs. And I'm ready to prep on the plane for immersion--a bag of dusty flashcards from years of ineffective Spanish classes is ready in my backpack.

I found the insect repellent--with DEET--that my program demanded. I, against my nature, assembled a small pharmacy in case of burns, bites, coughs, colds, putrid water or other horrendous calamities I have never before feared. I packed a book on Mexican history and two choice selections of Fuentes. I've even got my passport. Wait, where did I put that thing?

The thing is, I'm going for less than five weeks. A blink of an eye. I'll be back for Christmas. But I'm still a little nervous. Even with all those cords.