Tampico, Plus One

Tampico, Plus One

Around February, I fired out the invite to many, many friends of mine to come visit me during their American spring break. I offered a free place to stay, guided tours of the city, a celebratory party, and a guaranteed good time. One high school friend, Chris Golden, who has always been the spontaneous, adventurous type, took me up on the offer, and the next thing I knew I was answering the door to first person that I didn’t have to explain and then justify my American lifestyle to I had seen since my arrival in Mexico, which was nice.

Chris is an Industrial Engineering student at The Georgia Institute of Technology, the alma mater of my father and bitter, hated rival of the University of Georgia. He has been a connoisseur of many things in the time that I have known him, ranging from running shoes to beer. He, in preparation for the trip, had recently delved into Tequila. It took less than five minutes for Chris to start asking me questions about top-shelf tequila – where to buy it, what to buy, how much it should cost, how he would get it back to the states, if he wanted one bottle, or two, or five – all of which I was hopelessly inept in answering. I told him that I prefer the 8 dollar kind. Fun fact: one cannot purchase Patron en Mexico.

The plan was for Chris to head in Friday, before the weekend, at which point we would travel to some place cool and exotic like a deserted Mexican beach so that Chris could have a normal college spring break filled with cool exotic beaches, alcohol, and women, and then head back to Monterrey where he and I would do all kinds of activities around the city before his departure on the following Saturday morning. We made it to the beach, we did some activities, and we definitely knocked out the alcohol requirement, but it was by no means easy.

There exists a mythical place on the Mexican coast called San Blas. In San Blas, there exists a mythical place called “Stoner’s Surf Camp”, which, by name alone, is most definitely somewhere that would be on a college student’s travel list, if not for any other reason than to buy a T-shirt. The plan was to head there for the free weekend when Chris arrived and tackle the aforementioned spring break requirements. According to the website (www.stonerssurfcamp.com), it was perfect – beachy, tropical, deserted, with cheap surfboards and free waves. I booked some bus tickets for an eight hour ride, a pair of which ran a quite economical twenty five dollars, and made a reservation at the surf camp. Plans were set. Sweet. Later in the week, I was talking with a Finnish friend of mine, Atte, and mentioned the trip, at which point Atte told me that he would love to join. I said the more the merrier, and sent him an email with the bus information in it so that he could get on the same vessel. Two nights before we were to leave, I get a phonecall from Atte:

Atte: Hey man, I have some questions about the bus?

Randall: Yea sure dude, what’s up?

Atte: San Blas is on the Pacific coast right?

Randall: Believe it, I’m excited.

Atte: Right. You know, these tickets are really cheap. And the bus ride is only 8 hours. It takes 16 to get to Mazatlán (a city on the same coast, but closer to Monterrey). I think you may have gotten tickets to a different San Blas.

Randall: (like a small child about to find out that Santa Claus is fictional. Responds with shaky voice). Atte…what are you saying?

Atte: Santa’s not real.

Randall: (unintelligible rant full of profanities). Click.

And so it was. I had purchased the wrong tickets. This ranks just above the rest of the dumb things that I have done in my life, including but not limited to, running straight into a brick wall, being a Georgia Tech fan during my adolescent years, and that time that I lit someone else’s hair on fire in middle school after which I promptly lit my own hair on fire to show that it wasn’t that big of a deal.

The next day, I took a bus down to the bus station and embarrassingly righted my wrongs. The new plan was to head to the city of Tampico – a slightly less cool, less deserted, less tropical, less wavy, but just as beachy beach on the Gulf Coast of México. I Googled the place, which seemed nice, kind of like a Destin or a Panama City but with less people. I must say, however, that if we’re being real here, all parties involved knew that it wasn’t going to be Stoner’s Surf Camp. But hey, in Mexico, a falta de pan, tortillas.

Chris and I made the trip to Tampico pretty smoothly. Upon our early morning arrival, as I was stepping off of the bus and taking in the surroundings, I couldn’t help thinking that had it not been for Atte and his Finnish intuitiveness, that I would, in that moment, have been stepping off of a bus and taking in my surroundings in the heartland of Mexico, quite far from any coast. The funniest part might have been that I may not have realized that I wasn’t at the coast until I hailed a taxi from the station and kindly asked him to take me to the beach. A big thank you to Atte for sparing me that experience.

Tampico

The first thing that I noticed about Tampico when we got in is that the weather was horrible. The forecast called for Friday showers, 50/50 good weather on Saturday, 70/30 good weather on Sunday, and 50/50 good weather Monday. It was cold and windy, with scattered rain and the occasional crack of thunder. We flagged down a taxi and asked to go to the beach. The taxi driver chuckled and motioned towards the weather but was met with our insistent American “we’re going to the beach no matter what” facial expressions, and eventually agreed.

To get there, we had to pass through the center of the city, which featured a nice square with a park and a Popeye’s Chicken location, as well as a large sign reading “Hotel: $150 Pesos”. I told Chris that the advertised room was sure to be pretty horrible, but he responded that he would settle for nothing different than a seedy hotel room on our frugal Mexican weekend trip. Great answer.

We arrived at the beach and were met with a billboard that featured a beautiful Mexican woman drinking a tropical drink while glistening elegantly in the Mexican rays on white, sun bleached sand. In contrast, the scene below the billboard featured a tundra-like environment with a cold howling wind, a frothy sea that was accented by a black flag meaning that under no circumstances should one enter the water, and sporadic precipitation. Not to mention zero beautiful women sunbathing. We got out of the cab and stood facing the sea; Chris in a Georgia Tech hooded sweatshirt and me in a Mexican flannel pullover, bags in hand, shivering, and trying not to think about the weather at Stoner’s Surf camp. Hours later, we decided that, while lounging on the beach in 60 degree rain can be fun, the day could be better spend seeing what there is to see in Tampico. Turns out, that’s not much. We verified the $150 peso pricetag on the seedy hotel and checked in, set our bags down, and headed out to explore. Of interest, there was a market complete with restaurants that provided delicious food at the lowest prices that I encountered in the whole of my Mexican stay, a small town square complete with Spanish style cathedral, and numerous corona sponsored signs announcing night life spots. The latter boded well for our meeting the ‘party like it is spring break’ requirement. There was a small internet café next to our hotel that I used for letting my parents know that I was alive, and Chris used to communicate briefly with his group members with whom he was building a computer database for a class at school. I stood by and played slime soccer online, feeling intelligent. We managed to stay entertained throughout the day, showered and dressed ourselves, then made further plans to grab a late dinner and investigate the nightlife.

Throughout our stay in Tampico, we noticed that there were absolutely no other tourists or Americans living in the city. Tampico is a blue collar working town epitomized by the large PEMEX oil refinery located on its outskirts. This became very apparent when we strolled confidently into the first bar of the night. We sat down in a room full of industrial looking men, ordered a beer, spoke English amongst ourselves, felt slightly un-comfortable, and then decided to look for a new bar. We repeated this process three or four times, and then moved again. Upon arrival at the new we were greeted a typical scene in which the bar was packed with the same type crowd as the others. It featured dim lighting and loud ranchero music, scantily clad women who by no means should ever dress in a scantily clad manner, drunken Mexican men and drunker Mexican men, bad dance steps, and lots of cheap beer. The place was packed. Each table appeared occupied by at least one person, everyone chatting amiably, some letting their interested eyes wander over towards Chris and me. Someone with the air of manager met us at the door and told us to follow him to a table. We took a stroll down the main aisle of the bar and discovered that there were no un-occupied tables. The manager, in a strategic business move aimed at not losing his only two American customers and their dollars, sat us at a table occupied by a semi-conscious, very intoxicated, and intriguingly alone Mexican man. In keeping with Chris’ good nature, and partly because I was myself very interested in the situation, we laughed and sat down.

I tried once to hail this man, but he was in a faraway place, so Chris and I continued to chat away in English. Looking around the bar, we saw many couples. Cute. But upon further observation, I saw that most of the men were old, fat, poorly dressed, and if you all don’t mind my saying, relatively un-attractive. The women, in contrast, were younger, better dressed, less fat but by no means skinny, and less un-attractive. When we were seated, the manager character asked, in a most nonchalant manner, “Can I get you hombres a beer? How about a woman?” I answered for both of us when I requested two beers, and then relayed to Chris that he had just asked if we wanted a woman. This experience, combined with my perception of the social dynamic present in the bar, made me realize that, in fact, these men were probably not smooth conversationalists who had attracted younger, better looking women with their witticisms and cunning.

After scanning the room for a while, everything now making sense, my attention again turned to our friend sitting at the table. He was still unconscious for the most part, resting precariously with the top of his head pressed back against the wall and mouth wide open facing the ceiling. Our compañero would shift occasionally, murmur a word or two, and then slink back to a peaceful state of repose against the wall. We had just seen the occasional murmur part of the process when Chris and I noticed a cockroach on the wall behind the man. The cockroach followed a downward trajectory and disappeared behind the man’s back. I looked at Chris and chuckled. Then the cockroach reappeared on the crest of the man’s shoulder. I looked at Chris with a confused expression, wondering what we should do. I was now faced with a situation in which I have never previously found myself – looking at a piss drunk stranger in a bar with a cockroach crawling down his chest, wondering what to do. I considered using a shoe to hit the cockroach against our amigo’s chest, killing it instantly and most likely not disturbing our friend in the least. A second thought was to revive the man and give him a shoe with which to eliminate the cockroach in the above described manner, which was very viable, as drunken people are easy to persuade. Twenty other ideas rushed through my head, ranging from lighting this man’s shirt on fire to scare away the cockroach, to telling the man that he had bought a pet cockroach earlier in the night, which he had named, and could not legally kill his new pet, but I, in the heat of the moment, was unable to act.

The cockroach eventually left, as did we, to run off and tell his cockroach friends about what just happened. As did we. The night rounded out with an un-eventful visit to one more bar – one that lacked prostitutes and cockroaches (boring) – after which Chris and I walked back to our hotel room.

The next morning, Chris and I made our way to the beach to bask in the 60 degree sea air and admire the beautiful vista of the black flag on the lifeguard stand. Apparently black means “Don’t under any circumstances get in the water”, a meaning which I fully understand, but guidelines such as these were obviously meant for people lesser than Chris and myself, so just to spite the weather gods and proclaim to the world that no matter the weather, spring break is spring break, Chris took a dip. I watched from my beach chair, cowering in a towel and shivering, like a boss.

We spent the rest of the day eating 2 peso (15 cent) churros and walking around town before we boarded a bus back to Monterrey. Even in the face of adverse conditions, largely due to Chris’s unwavering determination to have fun, we had a great weekend. I walked up the bus steps, took my seat, and slept very soundly because I knew that nothing that the bus ride could throw at me would be more mentally demanding than the cockroach-on-the-sleeping man conundrum.

Update

Beloved readers,
I apologize for the genuine flojera that my blog has been over the last two weeks. I write to you from the Monterrey airport at 6 in the morning to tell you that due to the Mexican Swine Flu and some conservative play-calling on behalf of my parents, I am returning home, se acabó. Let’s be real, this isn’t quite how I had planned on ending perhaps the most fun semester of my life, but I can say with pride and confidence that I did Mexico. I assure you that there are more stories to come at dudemexicobro.wordpress.com, as well as the completion of the potentially new york times best selling novela about the Semana Santa.

Swine Sincerely Suck,

-Randall

La Semana Santa, By Randall Bourquin

The Semana Santa has finally drawn to a close. I ended up landing in Guadalajara, moving over to the beach at San Blas, slid down the coast a bit to Puerto Vallarta, and somehow made it back to Monterrey. Along the way I have accumulated a small book’s worth of interesting stories, so in lieu of the usual summary of events, I will, over the next few days, be capitulating my experiences into a bit of a Novella.

Chatper One: The Perils of Planlessness
The plane touched down in Guadalajara in the early morning and I stepped optimistically into the Mexican sun. I brought with me one backpack full of swim trunks and other things that one wears at the beach, and a tent, as to not be confined by the necessity of a hotel – or more probably the necessity of vacancy at a hotel. We were to meet up with two Chilean friends of my Chilean roommates, stay with them a couple of nights, and then head to the beach either with them, or with Neto, a Mexican friend of mine. Regardless of how, the crux of this story is that we were to head to a beautiful Mexican beach full of beautiful waves, beautiful bottles of Mexican beach beer, and beautiful Mexican women as soon as possible.

The ensuing four days were amongst my most stressful here in Mexico. The problem, I believe, lies in a cultural difference between Americans and Latinos, and if not that, a cultural difference between Randall and the great nation of Chile. While Americans are very much action oriented – that is to say that there should probably be something decently cool happening at all times while on vacation (doing nothing on a beach is an exception, because it counts as doing something) – Latin Americans are quite content to live the low key lifestyle and do nothing, especially if there are friends around. This formed a deadly combination with the Latino tendency to not at all care about time or promptness, which resulted in a daily promise that we would leave for the beach tomorrow, and four days into my stay in Guadalajara, I found myself restless and un-amused.

A typical night in Guadalajara for me consisted of sitting in a room somewhere, beer usually involved, food sometimes involved, bad music always involved, kind of paying attention to the Chilean conversation about Chilean things but not really, as my mind was occupied with how I would like to be at the beach. A highlight of the trip was our excursion to the Chivas soccer match in Jalisco stadium. This was my first Mexican soccer experience, and come to think of it, my first soccer experience with anything close to hooliganism, and I was genuinely excited. The avid fan section was impressive. Think the fraternity section of a Georgia game, but all on the same page and with the Redcoat Band’s drums. They started singing when the team ran out, and didn’t stop until the end of the game. Juan Pablo, an avid fan of the Catolica club in Chile, informed me that, although it was cool, it was not as on par in terms of being crazy with other Latin American sporting events, and that Mexican club soccer is weak.

Before I went to Guadalajara, Marco, my roommate, advised me that Guadalajara is famous for having a population of really good looking women. Upon hearing this, I laughed, thinking it an outrageous claim, but when in the city, I couldn’t help notice that he was right. This kind of regional singularity in the level of hotness present in women was strange to me. I tried to think of some other place in which the same phenomenon occurs. Sweden? Too big. The Midwest? Texas? Wow, a unique place in the world, this is exciting. And then it hit me. Guadalajara has nothing on Athens Georgia, and I live there. After realizing this, I was bored again.

The peril of planlessness in this instance is inaction. I’m scared of three things in this world: nuclear war, carnies (circus folk, small hands, smell like cabbage), and inaction while on Spring Break. This resulted in my having to break the news to the roommates that the next day, bright and early, for my mental well being, I would be hopping a bus to a mythical place on the coast at which I have been trying to arrive since march called Stoner’s Surf Camp (http://stonerssurfcamp.com). I awoke at sunrise, paid the man 100 pesos, and boarded a bus headed west until it hit water, happier than ever to be on the move.

Chapter Two: Setting

The bus first rolled into a town called Tepic, from which one can pay an additional 40 pesos for the hour long ride to San Blas. I had about a forty minute layover in Tepic, which was occupied by really great Carne de Res and waiting ever so sketchily outside a bank next to the bus station for the owner of a car with North Carolina tags to walk to his or her vehicle. While doing this, I sat in the sun and watched the electronic bank thermometer climb from 32 degrees Celsius to 34 degrees Celsius. Time to board the bus rolled around, so I wrote “I was born there” with an arrow to the license place in the dust on this person’s window and went merrily on my way.

On the bus ride, I met a very nice ex-marine , ex prison transporter, Vietnam veteran from Kentucky who had moved down to San Blas with his wife and opened a bed and breakfast with the two spare rooms in their house. I peppered him with questions about what he had done, as this is a very viable retirement (career?) plan for me, one of which was “How many Gringos live in San Blas?” He said “About six or seven.” I said “Six or seven…hundred?” He said “No, just six. Or seven.”

Don offered me a ride to the surf camp from the bus station, which I was very much grateful for, and minutes later I walked into paradise. The surf camp occupies the fifty yards of sandy land in between the road and the beach, and consists of a large thatched roof that houses a restaurant for beachgoers, two beachfront cabanas, two not quite beach front cabanas, showers, a small kitchen, four or five hammocks in the shade, and a real heady Mexican longboard surfing champion named Pompis who owns the place. When I first walked to the beach and saw the ocean, very much to my surprise, it looked like a lake. Who puts a surf camp on a beach with no surf? Pompis came to talk to me about my business there, but all I could say at first was “Dude. Dude, where are the waves?” He assured me that they would be rolling in at dusk and that the next few days would be good. This made the rest of my day an anxious waiting period for my watery friends to be blown to me by the wind somewhere in between San Blas and Hawaii, and sure enough, they arrived at dusk. I rented a board, waxed down, and headed out with the locals for the rest of the night, happier than ever. Here comes one of those bad MasterCard commercial rip-offs:

Place to put a tent: $3

Surf Board, daily: $6

Seafood, Delicious: $4

Surfing until sundown and not getting out of the water because the full moon provided enough light to continue: Priceless

The one downside to the paradise that is San Blas, that unfortunately has a lot to do with the aforementioned priceless full moon, is the hellacious insects that take residence there. These little guys are quite aggressive and take no prisoners. The worst part is that they like to make sweet, sweet hellacious insect love (mate) when the full moon is around, so instead of having to deal with normal insects, we had to deal with sexually frustrated adolescent insects and their raging hormones. These insects, who have garnered fame for themselves all along the Mexican coast, are translucent in color, which makes them hard to kill and impossible to head off their attacks on your ankles and legs. We did however discover the local custom of burning dried coconut shells to ward off these little devils, because just like me, these bugs hate smoke.

Apart from the bugs, the beach is ideal. It is about three kilometers long and is lined with rugged, tropical looking palm trees. It boasts water that is cool enough to be refreshing but warm enough for people lacking body fat to enjoy and waves that aren’t quite as brutal as those in Puerto Escondido but make the east coast of Florida look like child’s play. Structures sporting thatched roofs are the only ones present on the beach, which adds to the tropical paradise thing. I lament, however, that San Blas is experiencing the surge in construction and development that seems to attack every tranquil and low key paradise. Someone just erected a two story thatched structure.

I had access to ten peso beer, surfboards, waves, sunshine, sand, and great food and all was right with the world. It was here, in this place, that I would meet the people who would really make my vacation.

Chapter Three: The People You Meet

There exists a sort of camaraderie between people in Mexico who look definitively like they are not from Mexico. It is almost always acceptable to find a language that the two subjects have in common, and run through the standard questions like “Hey, where are you from?” and “So where are you going?” I fall into this category, as does Phillip, a six foot five, blond haired blue eyed Swedish guy who was also staying at the Surf Camp. I forget who it was the started the conversation, him I believe, but I came to find out that after high school, Phil left Sweden on a grand adventure to

In San Blas, while idly waiting in the swells for a wave to ride, I struck up a conversation with a slightly foreign looking person per the aforementioned rule, who introduced himself as Noel from Brazil. A few wavelessness minutes passed, and Noel and I continued talking. Three days of knowing Noel later, I think that he is the most interesting person I have ever met.

Noel’s lifeline (kind of like a timeline, but for one’s life) looks something like this. He was born and grew up in Brazil, where he learned Portugese, German, and English. When he went off to college, he went to Switzerland, where he studied bio-medical engineering. He spent a year studying in Valencia, Spain, where he converted his Portugese to Spanish. He then went to work on the swiss border with Germany, where he masterd German. Somehow Noel speaks French. The language tally is now at 5. That, while impressive in itself and more than enough to win my admiration, all happened before the cool part of Noel’s life. He worked for about a year and a half in Switzerland, after which he dropped everything and set out to make the world his playground.

From Switzerland, Noel did europe, then jet-setted to africa, where he bummed around for a while before going to south east Asia for a number of months. After Asia, he bounced to Australia to visit his sister for six months, where he worked with a local farmer harvesting crops by hand (with a biomedical engineering degree). After australia came Fiji, and a long flight back to the continent of South America, on which Noel spent three more months traveling before returning home to Brazil to work for a year. When I asked how Noel came to be in San Blas, he responded that he had flown to Los Angeles, bought a car, and is now driving back to Brazil. When I asked what kind of car, he responded “Ford Aerostar” which caught me off guard.

Noel, in his time traveling, had some really awesome stories to share around the beachfire over the next couple of nights.

Update

Today, I passed up a wonderfully opportunity to write a false story about my own kidnapping by drug lords here in Mexico in the name of April fools. I don’t know how funny it would have been, given the possibility of it actually happening and the surely adverse reaction of my mother, but I assure you all, I could have sold it.

Tomorrow morning my Chilean roomates, Juan Pablo and Caro, and myself fly out to Guadalajara – the second largest city in Mexico – for Semana Santa, which is the Mexican spring break. The plan is to spend two or three days there, then head to the beach. How? Which beach? With who? Who knows. We’ve got a Mexican plan, which is to not have one. I’ll let you know how it goes.

The Desert

Jan asked me if I wanted to go with him and a few friends to a place called Cuatro Ciénegas. Spring break is right around the corner and I’m trying to save a few pesos for my trip, so I did a little skeptical investigating to see if this place would be worth visiting. Here’s a little info about Cuatro Ciénegas, written by me.

Cuatro Ciénegas is beautifully situated between two large cities – Denver 1,ooo miles to the north and Mexico City 1,000 miles to the south. It offers a wide variety of attractions (three different ones) that draw people from all corners of the map (no one besides us).  There exists in 4Ciénegas a great balance between the hustle and bustle of a blossoming city (the visitor’s center for a pond, which is one of the three attractions) and the calm of the Mexican desert (too windy to be calm, ever).

I decided that it sounded great, Jan assured me that it could be done quite economically, and next thing I knew, I was in a rented Volkswagon Pointer headed northwest on a highway out of Monterrey. At some point in the journey, I made it into the driver’s seat, where I observed a few things about Mexican Highways. First, although it would appear that there are only two lanes on the road, there in fact exist anywhere from three to five. These lanes exist more in concept than they do form, as the reality of the situation is that as long as you are not currently colliding with a car coming from the opposite direction, you are in a lane. Also, I’m quite ignorant as to the actual velocity of “Kilometros per hour”. This made it hard to invoke my usual rule of ten miles an hour over the limit at all times, so I decided to move with the flow of traffic. Then I realized that we were in the middle of nowhere and there was no traffic, so I changed my plan to “see how fast the car can go.” Francois sat rather calmly in the front seat, reading a newspaper whose front page article featured perhaps the most gruesome picture I have ever seen of a man who died because he was driving too fast.

When we rolled into Cuatro Ciénegas, we got out of the car, and I told Jan to stop whistling. He said that he wasn’t, at which point I saw the back right tire slowly deflating. This was bad news, but nothing to be too worried about, we would just change the tire and continue merrily on our way. We opened the trunk and took out the spare only to find that it had been worn to the metal strip and was deflated as well. Luckily, we were not far from the local sears auto service center, so we took the car there for a little lovin’.

A couple of pesos later, we were well on our way to the real destination, an oasis about twenty minutes outside of the town.

We first headed to the Poza Azul, a pond that comes from an underwater spring that boasts amazingly clear water. Because of this, one can see down into the cave-like aqueduct that is the mysterious origin of the water, which creates a deep blue color that screams “please swim in me!” I tried my hardest to satisfy this request, but my efforts were stifled by rules and regulations aimed at the preservation of the water’s crystal-clarity, which made me hate the rules just a little less. In all reality, the Poza Azul was a pond with a radius of about twenty feet in the middle a most dry, most arid place. If you stand facing the pool and rotate 360 degrees, you see absolutely nothing but desert and mountains. But if you concentrate on the deep blue of the pool while standing under the hot, hot desert sun, its easy to convince yourself that you’re in the Caribbean.

After seeing this and whining about not being able to swim in it for a while, Francois, a french travel companion who bears a striking resemblance to Lebowski, aka “the dude”, told me that we were about to hop in our honeywagon and drive to our campsite on some part of a desert Oasis. We drove a solid fifteen minutes on a dirt road and, 45 pesos of admission later, we arrived at our straw roof situated on some body of clear water in the middle of the desert.

Sometimes, when I travel, I wonder what people would think of a particular place that I am in. Being in the middle of the desert drew me to thoughts of my parent’s reactions upon arrival. I would venture to say that the reactions would go something like this:

Dad: Cool. Look at this. We are in the middle of nowhere. This is cool! There’s no one else here! No email, no computers, no phonecalls, no bothers in the world at all. Just ourselves and the big wide open. The roads run straight for as far as you can see. Cool. Its hot as hell. Cool. I’m going for a run.

Mom: Charlie, I’m not so sure about this. We are in the middle of nowhere. I’m worried. There’s no one else here. Where are the other people? We can’t email anyone, call anyone. What if we get stuck out here, just ourselves and the big wide open?

Although I carry chromosomes from both parents and am like each of them in different ways, I definitively side with my father on this one. Because of this, when we arrived at the campsite with the sun beating down harder than ever, I did what any normal person would do – laced up my shoes, took off my shirt, and went for a 45 minute run.

The camp site was beautifully simple. It consisted of a man-made island of sorts with a small roof, space for grilling / building a fire to survive (more on this later), and a ladder for pulling oneself out of the water. After the grand “you can’t swim here tease”  that was the Poza Azul, I was pretty excited to be near un-regulated water, as the Mexican desert sun was playing to win at the time. It was everything I had hoped it would be and more – cold, clear, and clear of other humans.

The day passed without much to report – that is to say that it passed ideally – and after a great steak and tortillas dinner with friends, the sun was on its way out. Jan had told me that I could expect it to be significantly colder at night than during the day, so I came prepared with my 80 peso plaid Mexican fleece-like pullover and my most trusted pair of jeans. It got a little nippy, so I donned my clothes. Then the wind picked up even more and it was legitimately cold. Then it got really really dark and really really cold. Then it got antartically cold. Then I was fighting for my life against Madre Nature with a blanket I stole from my house and the few hairs on my chin that I call a winterry beard. Then this happened:

Then I tried to sleep in the tent, but couldn’t because 1) Francois wouldn’t cuddle and 2) it was really, really cold, and we couldn’t put the nylon top over the mesh windows of the tent for fear of it blowing away and landing us in the only place more desolate than the one we were in – Kansas. Following my impaired, sleepy, somewhat angered logic, I deemed it a good idea to cram all six foot two of me into the not six feet two inch wide backseat of our rental car. This was less cold, but perhaps more miserable. I slithered over to the door and slowly began leveling my eyes with the glass with the high, high hopes of seeing a tranquil landscape free of wind. Out the window I stared with beady, afraid little eyes, and much to my dismay I saw wildly bending blades of grass that looked as cold and alone as I was. It was then that I decided, in a moment of clarity, to accept the earlier advice of the sage frenchman Francois and embrace that “cold is just an idea” and headed out in the elements to sleep in the hammock. As I was moving, the sun was starting to come out and stood on my toes to try to catch a little bit more of its warming, loving, cuddly mexican rays. I laid in the hammack until my toes thawed and I was sweating, something that I could not have been happier to have been doing, glad that I had survived to live another perfect day in the Mexican desert.

México’s Current State

While I am more or less ignorant of what kind of press México has been getting in the American news since January, I have had the gist of what has been broadcast conveyed to me in questions and statements like “You haven’t been abducted by drug lords, have you?” and “Oh hey, Randall! You’re alive, that’s great!” People have also told me not to venture to the border right now (probably good advice) and to look both ways before I cross the street (probably good advice). To tell the truth, I have had absolutely zero contact with or exposure to any of the things that make the news. I think that I am living in the metaphorical Atlanta during the Minnesota drug wars, if you will.

I read a very good, balanced, and true article in the New York Times about the current state of Mexico which serves as a response to what has been portrayed and said in America. I encourage you to read it as I think it paints a very fair picture of the way things are. Although things aren’t quite perfect south of the border, I assure that Monterrey is doing swimmingly and that, although I am all about gaining an authentic experience here in Mexico, I don’t think that kidnapping or dying will have anything to do with that.

P.S. – If you are one of my  drug lord or a kidnapper readers, please do not kill or kidnap me just to make me look bad.

Travels

The city I live in, Monterrey, is just that – a city. Its large, smoggy sometimes, and full of cars driven by 4 Million people. Don’t get the wrong impression, its also tons of fun and hosts the coolest student shag-pad south of the Mississippi. However, in order to round out my Mexican experience, we decided to take a trip to the central part of Mexico, which is dominated by scenic colonial towns, plants you should ask someone reliable about before eating, and Gringos. Pinche Gringos.

The plan was this: Buy a one way bus ticket to Querétaro. Rondevous con Neto (VIP Mexican friend). Find a way to go to San Miguel de Allende. Take Pictures. Find a way to go to Guanajuato. Eat. Make it back to Monterrey in time for Tuesday class.

I saw absolutely no problem with this plan, so I walked confidently in the direction of my dreams and soon arrived at the Monterrey bus station. The preferred means of student travel here in Mexico is by night-bus. This means that for a typical 8ish hour journey, one boards a bus around 10ish and arrives at one’s destination the next morning. This seemed to me like a great idea – I can now look at the 20ish dollars I spent on a bus ticket as 20ish dollars that I spent on a really bad, crowded, loud, no-hot-water mobile hotel. And a bus ticket.

We visited three cities in the weekend, all arrived at by way of bus, which were Quetéraro, San Miguel de Allende, and Guanajuato. As all three places were places I would recommend that one visit, I would like to save you, the reader, a bit of time and money by scoring these cities in terms of their all around performance in accordance with a few refined, pertinent, and completely subjective criteria. On account of the fact that all these places had really cool moderately sized cathedral style churches situated on shaded town squares in which there was unusually tons of people selling things and live music, we will bar these factors from the scoring.

We first arrived in Querétaro, who’s bus terminal was rather large, almost as big an a small airport, or roughly the size of a Wal Mart. There we met Neto, the mystic Mexican masseuse who I quickly became good friend with a few weekends ago when he was in Monterrey visiting his Lady Friend, Daekue, a Belgian friend of mine who was also traveling with us. We ended up getting breakfast at a restaurant whose only signage was “Bisquets”, which is Spanish for “Biscuits“.  I was complaining about the quality of my coffee when a fellow voyager asked me if I wanted to add some of the glass of milk that she had to my cup of disappointment. In an attempt to consume the coffee, I accepted. When she handed it to me, it was warm to the touch. “Hey, uh, dude, this milk is like, uh, warm.” I remarked. She went on to explain that it was “Leche de Vaca”, which is “Milk from the Cow”. Right. Its cow milk. Wait. Is there another kind of milk? Whose milk have I been drinking? “It comes straight from the cow,” she said.  Ohh. Its cow milk. Not cow-tube-machine-steel-pasturized-skimmed-nutrient enhanced-drink it so you’ll have strong bones-milk. It had a very distinct flavor. I decided to indulge. I don’t think I could have drank a full glass of it, but the sip wasn’t too bad.

Later in the day, Neto advised me to eat the bottom leaf of a plant that some indigenous women were selling on the street because it would make my mouth go numb (Note: they were not selling this part of the plant). I agreed, in the spirit of trying all things Mexican, and because Neto was going to eat it as well. Juan Pablo, my Chilean roommate, even decided to join in. While I was putting the leaf in my mouth, the little indigenous boy that accompanied the saleswoman started giggling. Children giggling at you while you’re eating a foreign substance is never good. After my tongue went numb for thirty seconds, I felt that sharp stinging sensation that one gets after eating large amounts of pineapple in succession. If you’ve never done that, I’m sure the same feeling would occur if you garnished an ice-cream cone with sand spurs, and ate that. While I was yelling at Neto and telling him how horrible of a person he was, he told me to thank him because now I can do the same to my friends.

Also in Querétaro there is an impressive structure called The Arches. The arches that more or less span the city are what’s left of a large aqueduct, like those of Italy, that previously carried water to a convent. Neto explained that a rich Count fell in love with a nun who had to walk down the mountain every day to get water from the river. The count asked her to marry him, but she said no because she is a nun. She did quip, however, that if he could bring water to the nunnery than she would marry him. Over the next 5 to 6 years, the count spent lots of cashmoney building the aqueducts, and finally water arrived at the sista’s convent. The count was like “haha gotcha, marry me.” But the nun was like “Dude, I can’t, I’m a nun.” And that’s why Neto says not to date  Mexican women.

Nearby in Querétaro, there was a large, phallic looking rock called La Peña, a Spanish word who’s meaning I can only infer. We drove out to the village at its base and decided to climb it. I really wasn’t in the mood to climb a phallic rock, but once we got half way up we decided we had to summit. The view of the surrounding area was impressive. When we returned, we dined on a cauldron of meat – steak, chicken, chorizo, more unidentified deliciousness – accompanied by, of course, tortillas. This made the trip up the rock that generated the necessary hunger to produce such euphoric dining very much worth the trouble.

Thus concluded our day in Querétaro, whose scorecard now looks like this:

Querétaro

COW milk: 5 points.  City population (largeish): 5 points. Number of gringos seen (minus 50 points for each Gringo sighting): 0. Painful plant dining: – 10 points. Meat dining: 20 points. Aquaducts and mean nuns: 20 points. Neto: 30 points. Rock with view: 20 points. Necessary rock ascent: -10 points (barely vale la peña, ha).

In accordance with my math, which could be very wrong, Querétaro scores a Formidable 80.

Next, we jet(bus)setted to San Miguel de Allende. To add some balanced perspective, here’s what the New York Times has to say about San Miguel:

San Miguel de Allende mixes the best aspects of small-town life with the cosmopolitan pleasures of a big city. It is the smallest of the cities covered here and perhaps the most relaxed, but it offers such a variety of restaurants, shops, and galleries that urbanites find themselves quite at home. Most of the buildings in the central part of the town date from the colonial era or the 19th century; the law requires newer buildings to conform to existing architecture, and the town has gone to some lengths to retain its cobblestone streets.

The part about the cobblestone streets and painted buildings is true, it really is an aesthetically pleasing place, but I’m not so sure about the metropolitan art scene. What the NYtimes write up fails to state is that, due to its popularity among Americans and the popularity generated by the NYtimes, the place is FULL of gringos. I kind of expected this going into it, so the plan was the following:

Step 1: Sight rich gringos. So easy. The gringo sightings start from the feet, which almost always feature white running shoes (I’m guilty of this from time to time) or sperry-style deck shoes with no socks (these are for more localized “I live here”gringos). Other distinguishing characteristics are polo style collared shirts and hiking/safari type shorts or jeans. Not to mention mostly white skin, which stands out.

Step 2: Initiate the conversation. “Buenas Tardes, where are you from.” That was more or less enough to get the ball rolling. Sometimes it ended with a one word answer, sometimes it turned into a thirty minute conversation with a gentleman from Boston who is building a winter home in San Miguel about the stock market, flipping urban houses, the red socks, and tequila.

Step 3: Subtly solicit employment. There comes a point in the conversation at which I would like to extend the opportunity to offer me a job to whomever I am conversing with. I presented my logic as such: “Listen, you’re obviously loaded because you’re living/moving here. I like Mexico. You like Mexico. Give me a job.”

The city provided wonderful sight-seeing, which consisted of the million dollar homes around town, and Starbucks location in the middle of the square. I was sitting on a bench, people watching in perfect weather, looking at my white running shoes and snacking on a churro, when I decided that there is a huge degree of difference between myself and my touristy compatriots. It was at this moment that I postulated the following: There are two kinds of visitors present – tourists and travelers. I am clearly not a tourist – a person who buys souvenirs and doesn’t speak Spanish – because I am a traveler – a person who laughs at souvenirs, speaks Spanish, lives in Mexico, and is on a tight budget. I read the travel book but don’t always use it. I bring a fat black camera along, but only to compare pictures with the last place I visited. I wear white running shoes because I walk where tourists take taxis. Weather or not this has any validity to you, the reader, is of no import, as this is how I will continue justify not being a gringo tourist. Ultimately, to separate myself undeniably and completely, I say this. I drink the water.

San Miguel de Allende

Aesthetics: 10 points. Gringos: -10,000 points.

Our final stop was a quaint colonial town call Guanajuato. Upon arrival, our group of eight was assaulted by a tourist service salesman offering a place to stay and tours. For reasons unknown to me, my companions engaged this man in negotiations about a tour of the city tomorrow while myself and another compañera sat outside, perplexed. This resulted in a planless day for my friend and I as we waited for the others to complete their tourist tour. For this, I deduct ten points for the rest of the team.

The day was great. We started with a breakfast of eggs and chilaquiles, excellent coffee that wasn’t from Starbucks, and a good conversation about the political situation of Puerto Rico. The city of Guanajuato is perfectly situated in between two very steep hills, which gives it the appearance of that white city from the third Lord of the Rings movie, which I have always thought was really cool, and after our breakfast we set out to explore it. We saw the local University – an option to study abroad at – which boasted really cool architecture and a staircase as large as any I’ve ever seen. We walked through the tunnel system which looked like Amsterdam or Venice more so than Mexico. There was an impressive looking cathedral and a very extensive local market.

It was at this market that I wanted to buy some chocolate. As the day came to a close, I entered, running with the information that I had gathered earlier of the existence of locally produced chocolate. I walked up to a stand, pointed to a pile of large chunks of chocolate, and asked how much one was. Cinco pesos. Deal. Careful not to touch the pile with my dirty guero hands, as not to offend, I used tongs and put the chocolate in a bag. I then went outside to rejoin my friends. I sat down, took out the chocolate, and proceeded to take a bite. It was rock hard. I gave it another shot, but I couldn’t help thinking that this chocolate sucks. It was then that a Mexican friend asked me what I had bought. I responded “Chocolate. But its kind of hard.” She started laughing the hysterical laughter of someone who knows something crucial to the situation, but can’t share the information due to excessive laughter. The nature of what I had bought I still don’t quite understand, but its function is to be submerged in punch to sweeten it. I now give you this advice: When buying chocolate in Mexico, ask if its chocolate first.

We rounded out the night and the trip with a few really economical beers at a local bar at which the bar owner gave us a guitar an bongos. An hour and lots of songs later, we headed to the bus station to board our hotel room for the ride back to Monterrey.

Guanajuato

Scenery: 20 points. Food: 20 points. Chocolate: -100 points. Being like the city from Lord of the Rings: 100 points. Good times, good music, and good company: 100 points.

This all goes to say, in short, that if you find yourself in the Middle of Mexico with only one day to spend in a city, that you should go to Guanajuato…unless you’re looking for chocolate.

A Visit

Last weekend, my dad make the trip down from Atlanta to gain some insight into my life in Mexico. My dad writes a seriously humorous christmas letter about what our family has been up to for the last year – it really is good stuff, let me know if you would like to subscribe.  When I was trying to think about how to sum up the experience of my dad visiting, I made the maverick decision to let him do it. Here is what he had to say:

I prepared for this trip by brushing up on my very limited Spanish language skills. I thought I was reasonably well prepared, but reality hit when I got to Monterrey. Sample exchange at the marketplace:

Me: Bweyness Tardies, Senoir.

Shopkeeper (grimacing to hear his native tongue mutilated by this gringo): BuenosTardes, Senor.

Me: (picking up a T-shirt): Kwando Questas?

Shopkeeper: shakes his head to indicate he has no clue what I’m trying to say

Me: Cuando Cuesta – how much is it?

Shopkeeper: doscientosyvientenuevepesos, senor

Me: (deer in headlights) um….mass dispatchio poor favoor?

Shopkeeper: dos…cientos…..y….viente – nueve….pesos,……senor.

Me: (headlights getting closer) um…….

Shopkeeper finally writes “229” down on a piece of paper.

Headlights swerve around the deer. Deer scampers away from highway.

Before going to Monterrey, I read some news articles about powerful narco-terrorists waging vicious gang wars in northern Mexico. The Mexican army was sent into some cities to battle the gangs, and the gangs allegedly organized “citizen protests” against the troops. This must have been in the back of my mind when I went jogging and took off up a dirt road that climbed into the hills. I found myself running on a rutted dirt road through trash-strewn fields, well away from any houses or buildings. (The kind of place where bodies get dumped.) After a mile or so of this, I noticed a helicopter landing pad (with helicopter) and a Benz, BMW and Jag parked nearby. There was a nice house with a half-dozen muchachos standing around in front of it and watching me with great interest. When I realized that the path I was running on was the driveway to this house, it seemed like a good time to make an abrupt u-turn and head back to town. No point in getting be-headed by narco-terrorists my first day in Mexico.

I also found that my rudimentary Spanish was good enough to ask a passerby for directions, but I was totally incapable of understanding the response. I would just listen until they pointed somewhere, and then walk in that direction until I found what I was looking for or felt lost again, when I would repeat the drill.

The first thing you notice in Monterrey is the gorgeous mountains. These rugged 5000 footers of the Sierra Madre Oriental range surround the city. They are stark and jagged like the Rockies, not rolling and tree-covered like the Appalachians. As soon as you see these beauties, you know you MUST climb them.

We visited Chipinque Park to see the mountains up close and personal. We rode a bus about 30 minutes from town to the park entrance. Everyone got off the bus and we purchased tickets to enter the park for a very reasonable 20 pesos. We grabbed a trail map and started walking. After 2 hours of walking up some really steep trails, we arrived at a big clearing and a big parking lot. (Then we realized that everyone else had gotten back on the bus and and RODE up here.)

We knew from the website that there was a trail to the top of the mountain. The website said you could not hike to the peak without a special permit, and that you had to start before 10AM. (It was now after noon). The ranger at the park entrance told us we could not hike to the peaks. The sign on the trailhead said that we could not hike to the peaks. I was willing to overlook these warnings that were obviously meant for other less competent people, but then we noticed there was a locked gate blocking the entrance to the trail. We were trying to find a way around the locked gate when I experienced a rare attack of good judgment/maturity/common sense and we decided that maybe we shouldn’t hike to that peak after all. Instead, we hiked to a different, more accessible peak (El Pinar), which was steep enough, thank-you. But the view of Monterrey was outstanding and well-worth the 20km trek.

The house where Randall is staying, Casa Azul (spanish for “the house of empty bottles”) is wonderful. There is a beautiful courtyard with an inviting hammock strung between two palm trees (Randall’s work area). There is a rectangular swimming pool in the courtyard, which the landlord thoughtfully filled up when I arrived (It was 95 degrees. In February!). Inside is a small living room with a few chairs centered around a TV that spoke mostly Spanish. The kitchen looked like the kitchen in a fraternity house the night after a big party, but not as neat. The only way from the living room up to the bedrooms is a two story circular staircase with little triangular steps and a metal framework that always seemed like it was an inch from your head. Not something to be trifled with when drinking or hungover.

“I really want to go back to Arkansas”. This was from one of our Mexican taxi drivers talking about the good old days when he lived in Ft. Smith. Randall and I looked at each other and resisted the urge to tell him that Arkansas is considered one of the worst possible places in the whole USA. If he likes it, why crush the man’s dreams?

Another cultural surprise came from the auto mechanic’s shop / outdoor saloon next door to Randall’s house. I would have expected Mexican ranchero music, but the whole time I was there, these guys were playing 1970’s classic rock, in English! Creedence, Doors, Eagles, I felt right at home. Muchas Gracias, Amigos!

If you go out Randall’s front door and make a left, the next door is a little convenience store, like a Quick Trip without any gas. The store was centered around 6 huge coolers full of ice cold single beers. They would give you half off the price if you brought empty bottles back. If you went out Randall’s door to the right, there was a small bakery where you could score a half dozen tasty Mexican pastries for the equivalent of one American dollar. Beer and pastries -what more could you need?

Randall speaks Spanish very well, but he is never going to blend into the crowd in Monterrey due to his height and his curly red hair. While walking down the street, I glanced through a window to see a semi-conscious man laying on a sofa, who looked at Randall and shouted “GUERO!” in the same tone of voice you would use if you saw a ghost. We walked down the same street a few days later, and the same man on the same sofa shouted the same thing: “GUERO!”. (Randall told me this means “handsome foreign person”). Once this happens a few times, you just have to accept the fact that you are a GUERO, and just be the best GUERO you can be.

My “final exam” in Spanish language survival was to take a bus downtown by myself while Randall was in class. I did great. I found the right bus, took it downtown, walked a dozen blocks to the shopping area, and picked up some souvenirs. I was feeling so good I decided to treat myself to a cold beverage. We had been eating Mexican food all weekend, even food from roadside stalls, with no ill effects. So I didn’t give it a second thought as I purchased a large “melon punch” from a vendor on the street. By the time I walked the dozen blocks back to the bus stop, I knew something was terribly wrong. Suffice it to say, this gringo was greatly relieved to make it back to Casa Azul.

 

-Charlie Bourquin

 

Tuesday morning rolled around and it was time to see Pops off to the land of the free and the home of the busy. I was sad to see him go – it had been a really fun weekend. This, however, I say in hindsight because my genius of a father booked a 7:00 AM flight, which means at the moment of goodbyes -4:30 in the morning – while waiting for a taxi that may or may not show up, all I really felt was a burning desire to return to my bed.

Supplies

Before I get started, I would like to tell you all that the prophecy I made in my last post of a new more outrageous question arrived today. It was “Compañero, currently in the United states, for how long do babies breast feed?”

Tomorrow my father is coming to visit for the weekend and the other day, he asked me if there was anything that I would like him to bring me. Aside from the essentials – a pair of Teva Sandals and the best of Barry Manalow album that I had to leave behind – there’s a couple of things that we have in American that I would like tossed in pop’s suitcase. Here’s the final list.

1. Socks – This is pretty universal. Before I started doing my own laundry, I used to blame my poor mother for the death and disappearance of socks in the washer/dryer abyss, but now I know that it is intrinsic in the nature of sock to want to disappear. I would like to let you all know that this universal law applies in México. I have lost many good socks, even Mexican ones.
2. Three Months Supply of Cheap Chinese Food – I went to a mall to buy a pair of rock climbing shoes (which, by the way, are like the foot bindings Chinese women had to wear to make their feet smaller and more attractive as they are supposed to fit so snugly that one’s toes curl back towards oneself in the front of the shoe, which is painful eventually) and spied out of the corner of my eye a Peking Express. I lit up like a Christmas tree. Mexican food is great, but its not mall Chinese. I was served by legitimate asain-mexicans, which was surprising yet comforting as I felt very much at home. The disappointment came when the dining started. This mall Chinese food was noticeably inferior to its American counterpart. Sadly, I don’t think I will be able to return. Unfortunately, my prediction from my previous entry “expectations” was right on. I’ve never been so disappointed at being right in my entire life.
3. College Students – If you go to the University of Monterrey and are reading this, apologies. The children that I attend school with, although some are very intelligent and sophisticated, act like highschoolers. Kills me. A rule that I’m very partial to in the US of A that doesn’t quite carry as much weight here is “don’t talk while the teacher is talking”, which leads to one of the following scenarios in almost all of my classes: either the teacher gets pissed eventually and tells students to quit talking, which they never actually do because they only stop their side convo long enough to say “sorry profe” before continuing or the teacher just doesn’t take note of what’s happening and continues lecturing. In both cases, I end up hearing something about what happened on Desperate Housewives last night in my right ear, something about the shoes someone bought this weekend in my left ear, and a completely random question about America from the professor coming from the front.
4. Last Call – The two-a-clock time limit on partying in downtown Athens is perfect. This usually puts you in a bed sometime around three. Too often here at three AM, I find myself in a smoke-filled room that refuses to empty, and three hours later I gratefully arrive at my bed. This was real fun the first night, surely, but I assure you, staying up until six in the morning is overrated.
5. Buttons – The dudes here have a nasty fashion habit of the guido-style, chest hair showing, nipple revealing, macho, relatively not attractive by any means, shirt wearing that just goes against the little fashions sense that I posses. If you liked the above description for some reason, you’d love it here.

This is definitely the short list as my dad wishes only to bring one bag. Dad, if you have to leave something behind, I guess don’t bring the buttons.

On second thought, maybe just bring one set of clothes for yourself, the buttons will be helping the world, I promise.

On Being American

To be an America living in and taking classes about Mexico can lead to some interesting situations. I am taking two classes – sociology and Mexican Society and Culture – that deal with the subject of America frequently. On the first day of class, we introduced ourselves, and I proudly stated that I was from Atlanta in the United States. This was a grave mistake as I have not been able to nap in either of these classes since, due to the fact that I now have to be on my toes to field questions that start with “Why don’t we ask our compañero. Compañero, what is ______ like in America?”

My sociology professor is of the opinion that because I am from America, I know all there is to know about anything that is, was, could be, or could have been in any way, however obscurely, connected to America. Sometimes I’m equipped to craft a response, but in other cases I’m not so in tune to what’s happening, as these events are passing in a foreign language. Below is a quick test of your own Americana knowledge consisting of questions I have been asked in class. I have helped by making it multiple choice.

1) What confusing spanish words Chicago School of Economics more spanish words culture of the United States?

a) McDonald’s

b) I don’t think the Chicago School of Economics has a football team, and if they do, they’re not in the SEC.

c) uh….capitalism?

I went with C on this one, more or less word for word, except that when you say “umm…” in Spanish, it sounds more like “ehmmmm…” I do in fact know the importance of the Chicago school of economics on American foreign policy, especially with respect to foreign policy in developing countries, but due to the confusing spanish words I didn’t quite know where all of that fit into the response.

2) What is the social dynamic like in the agricultural areas of America?

a) Tractors and square dancing

b) I don’t go to the University of Alabama.

c) I’m from a city of 5,000,000ish people, but I read city mouse country mouse once, and it seemed like a good time

This one I just kind of shook my head to. The guy from Utah next to me remained silent as well. I should have asked her what its like to live in Belgium. I fear the next question will be something along the lines of “What time do the UPS stores in Kansas close?”

To preface this next one, we were talking about the post world war two Marshall plan, in which the USA gave a lot of cash to Europe, which had a serious war-hangover from WWII, so that we could continue trading with them. We also pumped a little bit of good press into Europe stating how awesome it is to be American so that they would support our plan. No big. We were most definitely the good guy here. And then a student directed this question to our professor:

3) Why does America always brag about their way of life and then complain when people immigrate there?

As this was a question for the professor, I was kind of hoping she would field it, but she crumbled under the pressure and did the cowardly deed of shedding it off to me with those dreaded words “let’s ask our compañero…”

a) What?!? We don’t!

b) Ok so we do a little bit, but…

c) Wait a second. I’m like one dude from a country of three hundred million dudes. That’s more than all the bottles of Tecate and tequila in all of Mexico. I’m not about to speak on behalf of 300,000,000 people. What’s more, I wasn’t even alive in the 1940’s when the Marshall plan was around. Hit up ask jeeves.

I went with C on this one. After articulating my viewpoint, I was asked in follow up for only my personal opinion, so I briefly responded “I don’t complain.”

In addition to the direct questions, I’m often faced with very awkward atmospheres. In my class of Society and Culture of Mexico, we study Mexican history. In Mexican history there have been four “molestations” of the land – three of which involved their loving big brother of a neighbor to the north. We also learned that a Mexican politician (I forget his name) who wanted to nationalize Mexican oil in the late 1800’s or early 1900’s was assassinated by someone, with instructions and backing from you know who. Sometimes I catch people looking my way when we talk about things of this nature. When this happens I look back with an expression that sends the mixed message of “Hey man, listen, sorry about that I guess, this is news to me – it wasn’t me I swear. Let’s be friends.” which is often met with a quick glance back to the front of the room as if to say “I wasn’t looking at you just now because you’re American.”

Today while I was dining, a music video came on the television of a song called “Frijolero” by a group of three Mexicans and one American called Molotov. You can grab a listen to the song here, but I must warn that there are some vulgar lyrics both in Spanish and English. The song is mostly Spanish, but make sure you stick around until the chorus.

A translation of the lyrics can be found here: http://vdare.com/awall/molotov.htm , but I would ask that you please take with a large grain of salt everything else on the website.

The song is pretty strongly anti-American, and from what I have gathered, echoes the sentiment of a large portion of the Mexican population accurately. This means that hearing it in Mexican Company is strange at times. In other news, very little it censored here, so I got to hear the song in its entirety in the cafeteria.

At this point I would like to say to the blogsphere that I was listening to Lynyrd Skynyrd while writing this, that I love me some America,  and that I hope this post hasn’t given any other impression. We – America and Mexico – could just settle things with a friendly soccer match, no? Wait, we did, and the US won, 2-0. Case closed.