Mexicans On Ice

I have always been pretty damn clumsy, but I was especially so as a kid.  Not only did I grow so fast that my body could never get its equilibrium set, I was also a pretty fat kid.  Because of all this, I really never learned how to do a lot of things back then, so I've slowly been picking them up over the years - always in odd situations.  I learned how to ride a bike the summer after I graduated from high school.  I also learned how to ice skate in Mexico City.

 

What?  Oh, yeah, that was yesterday, by the way.  I've been ice skating a time or two before, but always failed miserably.  Yesterday, I actually got moving around - independent of the wall.  Much to my disappointment, there are plenty of Mexicans who know how to skate quite well.  And I think they were all at the rink yesterday, just to make me look bad.  Bastards.

 

Next up: skiing in Iowa, a state with no mountains.  Shortly followed by scuba diving in the Sudan.

 

Ten days 'til I arrive in Gringolandia.  Brace yourselves.

PSA

Sometimes when I'm talking on AIM, I start to clear out the history of the browser I'm using so that nobody can steal my secrets.  However, in the process of doing this I usually clear out the cookies, which causes AIM Express to crash.  So if you've been shooting the shit with me on AIM and then I have suddenly disappeared, that's why.  Sorry about that.

Bastante.

I'm not sure exactly what happened, but since Tuesday I have been officially ready to go home.  I think it's just a combination of the facts that the charm of México is being worn down by my constant exposure, that I have limited patience (okay, 2 months' worth) for most of the people here, and that I feel more or less totally disconnected from my life in Iowa - you know, the life that is actually my life instead of a surreal Spanglish dream.

 

Another thing that is beginning to grate on me is the racism.  I know, I know, a white male talking about being subject to racism... But the fact is, being here has really given me a better understanding of the form it takes in the modern world.  It isn't so much the kind of racism you can legislate against, but just the mannerisms of some people, the way that they never let me forget that I am in fact not one of them.  It's not uncommon to have people shout "¡Gringo!" at me as I walk down the street, or to have people stare at me for unnatural lengths of time - and I swear that every Mexican thinks that his English is better than my Spanish (obviously true with some, like the fluent Jorge, but painful with others - like the cop who tried for two minutes to think of the word "block" while I repeatedly suggested "cuadra").  People frequently cut in front of me in line, taxi drivers always try to rip me off by outrageous amounts.  Really, just a bunch of petty little things, but after two months of it, I'm fed up.  I've started retaliating with "¡Frijolero!" (which isn't too insulting - I don't want to get killed) and the occasional rude gesture.  I also finally understand the impulse to reclaim the label you've been given - why some black people refer to themselves as niggers, and homosexuals as queers.  I'm not saying it's a great idea, but it's understandable.  It's strange to be constantly aware of your race - I don't know if I could do it for a lifetime.

 

Just as a disclaimer, a huge number of Mexicans have treated me very well, either just as another person or by noting my obvious gringosity and helping me out or just having a nice conversation.  I'm not trying to say that Mexicans are racist, just that I'm being exposed to the global contingent of assholes in a way that I'm not used to.

 

I did go to Puebla this weekend, which is a lovely colonial city with great food.  I basically just ate and looked at colonial architecture the entire time.  The churches are very Spanish, and some of them have distinctly Arab influences, which was just bizarre to see in México.  I did stop by the forts where the battle of Cinco de Mayo took place - the Mexicans repelled an invading French army while outnumbered 3 to 1.  Nevermind that the French came back the next year and captured the city.  All in all a nice place, but at this point I've seen about seven million churches in Mexico.  It's enough.

 

I think I'm going to Guanajuato this weekend.  But really, I just don't feel like I have a great deal left to do here.  I think I'm more or less done learning the Spanish that I can learn in a classroom setting - I can write essays with very few flaws - I just need to broaden my vocabulary and practice.  That's the work of the lifetime, against which these remaining three weeks will hardly make a dent, so - can I just come home now?

Uh, ole or something.

Okay, so all of Oaxaca and Michoacán are up. They're all posted to the date of November 5, so make sure you read them all, if you care. You might have to get into the archives to see it all - I'm going to try to get it to display all of them on the front page. Also, there are more pictures on my Flickr account; I dunno how to post a link to that, really, so just go there and look for pictures under the name of McBearclaw. Uhh, BbB, could you please post some advice in the comments, or email me, or somehow save my ass? Thank you.

This weekend went pretty well. I spent the first half of Saturday writing the posts you WILL be reading. Sunday, we (yes, I broke down and went with other people) went to Mexico City for two purposes: Xochimilco and bullfights.

Xochimilco is like Venice in Mexico. Hundreds of colorful little boats ply the canals between man-made islands. There are boats with drinks, boats with food, boats with mariachis - you can get it all, just floating around. It was really rather relaxing, and a good time in general.

Then, the bullfights. Staged in Plaza Mexico, las corridas are fought in six acts, two bulls each to three toreros. By the way, they're called toreros, not matadors. Who knew? Here's a note: do not go to bullfights with girls. They will annoy the shit out of you with their whining and simpering. Yes, it is sad, and I can't say I particularly enjoyed it, but they all knew what they were getting into. Christ.

Each act (corrida) is "fought" in three parts. First, a bunch of junior toreros wave their capes at the bull and get him to run around in circles, to wear him down a bit. Two men called picadores enter the arena on heavily padded horses. The toreros lure the bull over, although once it sees the brightly colored horses it tends to go apeshit. The bull charges the horses and plows into them, while the rider jabs his spear into the bull's shoulders to get it bleeding.

As if that weren't enough, in the next part, another group of men (I didn't realize it took 15 people to kill a bull) come out one at a time to plunge barbed "darts" into the shoulders of the bull. They need to get three pairs in. This is actually the most ballsy part of the whole thing, as it usually involves charging the bull, plunging the darts in, and then leaping out of the way before you get gored.

Finally, the hot-shit torero himself makes an appearance, now that the bull is already half dead. He swirls his cape and does a bunch of fancy stuff like that, and then plunges his sword into the bull's back. The bull still takes a good couple of minutes to die after this, depending on how much damage he took in the first two parts.

Of the six bulls I witnessed, only one was really interesting. It was a really angry bull, and he was not taking shit from anyone - he shook out over five darts and kept coming. The bullfighter was (I believe) a Spaniard, and fought better than the rest. Still, the whole affair just seems way too biased in favor of the toreros (although I have heard of the occasional disemboweled bullfighter).

The last match, though, was horrible. The bull was incredibly resilient - he attacked BOTH picadores at least once, and the poor horse on the far side of the arena got charged five times. Everytime this happened, the picadores stabbed him again. He then went on to take all six of his darts, and then - unbelievably - the torero stabbed him two or three times. He still would not die. Finally, too exhausted to charge but not about to die, they just let him out of the ring and back into the pens. I don't know what happened to him after that (the bulls that die are sold off to be butchered - I really want to eat a toro burger, man).

An interesting display, I suppose, but I would rather see it without so many assistants. Let's see how arrogant those toreros are without the entourage, eh? Some people claim that it's not so much a sport as an art, but that's... well... bullshit.

Sleeping with an Argentine Woman and Other Stories of Horror

Pátzcuaro is also a lovely little city, but it was packed to the brim with tourists for Día de Muertos. I spent an evening there, though, long enough to see their sweet library (with a Juan O'Gorman mural that is probably priceless, but without a single encyclopedia more recent than 1995) and to meet an Argentine woman in her 40s who, because of the extreme price gouging going on in hotels, offered to split a room with me. I slept in bunk beds with a woman from Argentina. Surreal.

I knew I had to get out of Pátzcuaro, though. Too many people. So I went to the state tourist office and begged them to find me a hotel room. There was one in a little city called Quiroga, so off I went. I got there late Monday. Quiroga is a nice little market town on the northeast corner of el Lago de Pátzcuaro. Small, and with great food. I liked it a lot better than Morelia or Pátzcuaro - and I suspect it might be because I could find good, cheap food quickly. I'm a food tourist; I can't deny it.

My hotel in Quiroga was nice, and reasonable priced. Private bathroom with hot water - how luxurious. I ate some dinner and then wandered around a bit - I was the only gringo I saw the whole night. Incredible. I watched "The Dance of the Happy Geezers" in their central plaza, which was entertaining.

Tuesday was the big day leading up to the really big night. I knew I had to scout a bit to find a good town for Noche de Muertos - Quiroga, unfortunately, is not very traditional. So I asked a tourism agent how I could get around, and she directed me to the mixtos: pickup trucks with benches in the back. I ended up cruising around to two or three different villages to see their distinctive Tarascan ruins and get a feel for their touristiness. Mixtos are not only a fun and potentially fatal way to get around, they're a great way to meet locals and chat a bit - they're almost all impressed that you're a gringo with enough balls and a sufficiently thrifty attitude to take the mixtos.

Back in Quiroga, I decided to ask that tour agent where she thought I should go. I went in and we chatted a bit and - surprisingly - she ended up inviting me to hang out with her and her friends that night. I was either going to get robbed, killed, or both, but I agreed to go along.

I met Noemi later on that night, when she got off work, and as we waited for her friends to show up, she took me to her dad's taco stand. I had four tacos and a soda for $2.20 USD. When her friends arrived, we jumped in a combi (essentially, a VW Bus) to Tzintzuntzan, which was completely overwhelmed by a festival atmosphere. Tons of people were there, the scent of food pervaded every corner, and the cemetaries were packed with people. They were also beautifully decorated with marigolds, candles, food of all sorts. We wandered around for at least a couple of hours, just taking it in. I had a great time.

The next day, I slept in a bit and then met up with Noemi again, to go see the cemetary in Quiroga. It was also awesomely decorated, but doesn't have the up-all-night parties of Tzintzuntzan. It was strange to hear families laughing in the background as Noemi showed me the tombs of her family members, and her neighbor who hung himself. Strange juxtaposition. After that, we ate lunch and then she showed me to the buses. Morelia, Mexico, and back to good old Cuernavaca - at 3am Thursday morning. Thursday in class, I won a competition about literature knowledge, despite the fact that I had not been in class for three days.

It's good to have language flowing in your blood.

Lousy Old Cuernavaca

The week in Cuernavaca went poorly. I had class with someone who shall go unnamed, but who made me miserable. I literally developed a case of beard dandruff as a result of all the stress she was causing me. Aaarrrgh. In fact, it was so bad that I decided to take another vacation.

Michoacán is a state to the west of my Morelos. It's called "the soul of Mexico" and is famous for its Día de Muertos festivals. As Tuesday was the big day, I decided to hacer un puente and skip class to go there.

I arrived in Morelia, the capital of Michoacán, late on Saturday. I didn't really have time to do much but wander around, get a bite to eat, and go back to my hostel. Morelia is really a beautiful city, bursting at the seams with historic buildings. Lots of churches. But Saturday night, I just retired to the hostel, where I ended up drinking a 1 liter bottle of Sol (a Corona-esque beer) along with a Brit, a Pole, a Kiwi, a Swiss guy, a girl from the Yukon (did you know that only 30,000 people live in the entire Yukon territory?!) and a crazy Mexican guy with a wife and kids who lived in Morelia and stayed at the hotel for "a change of pace." Yeah, right, pal. We all know you're here to lay foreign girls. We all had our own liter of beer, and had a great time - despite the fact that the clerk told us to shut up seven times. Fool. Hostels are for getting drunk, dammit!

The UN ain't got nothin' on us.

The next day, I got up and scoured the city for a decent place to eat breakfast. I am obviously spoiled by the Mercado in Oaxaca. I ended up eating corundas, which is kind of like cornbread in cream, cheese, and salsa. Delicious, and different-yet-familiar. I wandered around for a few hours, and stopped in for lunch at a place called Super Cocina (Super Kitchen). It was pretty busy, and an elderly man asked if he could sit with me. Sure. We shot the shit for awhile, and he taught me a few words of Purépecha (the local indigneous language). Some day, I will know at least two words of every language in the world.

Afterward, I took a bus tour of the city to see the beautiful sights. On the top deck of the bus, several people were nearly decapitated by low-hanging street lights. "One out of ten passengers doesn't survive" should be the slogan of this tour company. Fortunately, I made it, and came away with a good impression of the city of Morelia. Well, time to leave. I immediately got on a bus to Pátzcuaro.

Días del Flojo

The bus ride to Puerto Angel was hellish. The road twisted and turned endlessly, preventing any attempt to sleep. After eight hours, I arrived in Pochutla, where I had to take a further taxi to the wee tiny fishing village of Puerto Angel. My asshole taxi driver tried to get me to put my box in back and sit up front, possibly so that he could take off with my loot when I got out again. Fuck you, cabrón. I sat with my luggage.

I arrived in Puerto Angel (sleepier than advertised) and made my way to my hotel, La Posada Cañon Devata. When they say "canyon," they mean it: the hotel is actually a series of buildings scattered from the top of a ravine to the bottom. I was shown to a few rooms and then... El Cielo.

El Cielo is the highest building in the posada. That's the view; even better is that it was totally unoccupied, as this is the off-season. I had the entire place to myself. Ahh. Time to relax.

Except, no. I had to figure out how I was going to get back to Cuernavaca - I'd be damned if I was going to take that bus again. So I looked into getting a flight. A little pricey, but one sweet hour from Huatulco to the DF. I'll take it. Unfortunately, I had to pay in cash. As there are no ATMs in Puerto Angel, I had to go back to Pochutla, and then to the airport in Huatulco. Except the airport isn't in Huatulco, it's about twenty minutes west. Nobody told me this. Needless to say, I am now extremely familiar with the transportation system of southern Oaxaca.

Back in Puerto Angel, I crashed into a hammock until suppertime. I wound up in a beachside restaurant and ordered Hawaiian-style fish. It turns out that it was made foil-packet style (you Boy Scouts know what I'm talking about) and, for the first time during the entire vacation, I felt homesick. You see, the first meal that Andrea and I cooked together was foil-packet fish. Ahh, memories. I spent the rest of the night reminiscing from the rooftop terrace of El Cielo, looking out over the starlit bay.

I woke up early the next morning and went for a stroll on the beach. The fishermen were already coming back in for the day (it was still pretty early - nine or so), and one of them called me over to help pull his boat up on the shore (they're relatively small boats, maybe 20 feet long). It takes about six guys to move one. So I ended up spending forty minutes or so hauling boats up the beach and shooting the shit with the fishermen. They were probably thinking, "What a dumbass tourist! He's helping us for free!" but I was thinking, "Golly gee willikers! This is so neato!" I'm a sucker, I know.

Finally, I went swimming. The beach was peaceful, the water was cool, and for the first time in my life (that I can remember, anyway) I swam in the ocean. Tasted salt water. Decided that I have got to learn how to swim better, and how to scuba dive. When I got back to the hotel, my room was being cleaned, so I went to lay in my hammock.

That's when the blitzkrieg came. As I dozed, a couple of Germans came by, being shown around by the hostess. No big deal, I thought. I didn't realize that they were only the scouts - minutes later, the battalion showed up. My beloved El Cielo was under full assault by the Germans. I was outnumbered 11 to 1. No help was coming. Schiesse.

I tell ya, ever since the Germans failed to take over the world with their military, they've been doing their best to do it with tourists. So I went back down to swim again, ate the freshest tuna fish sandwich I had ever had for dinner, watched the sun set, and went to sleep. The next day, it was off to Huatulco, Mexico, and then good old Cuernavaca.

Sloth Day and Mezcal Night

Note: This entry doesn't sound totally right to me; I might be mixing days. In fact, I think the dinner was the night before. Ah, well.

Tuesday, I was a major sloth. I slept in late, woke up to do my laundry (which I had to do by hand because the lavanderías in Oaxaca are outrageously expensive), and lounged in a hammock while I waited for it to dry. Which was about eight hours.

In the afternoon, I headed out to get some lunch. On the way, I met up with Rick (another person from my hotel, this time like Willie Nelson from California) and we chatted a bit. Nice guy. We handled a few chores in El Centro, including picking up his rental VW Bug. He gave me a lift back to the hotel - for me, that's some pretty high-class transit.

After a couple of more hours in a hammock, I got ready to go get some food when, through the front door of the hotel, came Reidar and Maria Fernanda. Órale. They told me they had met by chance, but had ended up spending the whole afternoon together. WhooooOOOooo. The three of us (it was still not entirely obvious to anybody, me or them, that they were rather enchanted with each other) went off to eat. This became a fiasco rapidly - Oaxaca is not really a late night town, and between their pickinesses and my absolute lack of opinion, we spent two hours finding a restaurant. Jesus. When we got there, we split a big platter of Oaxaqueño specialities and a bottle of Chilean wine. Fernanda and Reidar got into an argument about a romance film, and that (plus all the other clues) made me realize what was going on. Nobody would fight like that unless there was something else going on.

The next day, I ate lunch with them again. Reidar felt a little sick afterward, and went back to the hotel to rest; and then Maria Fernanda and I had a long conversation in which she finally revealed her feelings for Reidar, telling me that "Maybe it will surprise you, but..." I told her that it had been painfully obvious since the night with the wine, and she blushed. Sheesh. We met up with Reidar much later, and went to buy some beer. I got almost a block ahead of them because they were being, well, enamored with each other. I got the beer, we went back to the hotel - they insisted I come sit with them in the hammocks. I drank my two beers as fast as I politely could, and then bailed out of there, leaving my "abuelitos" (when they found out I was 21, they made a big deal about how young I was - so I make a big deal about how old they are) to cuddle in a hammock together. Lucky for me, Frida and Iliud were on the other terrace getting drunk with a 40-something Brit with dreadlocks. Perfect.

We sat and drank beer and mezcal. Mezcal will definitely kick your pansy ass. We traded stories about travels and politics and whatnot. Phil, the elderly white rasta, is barely employed, but somehow has managed to travel all over the world - India, Nepal, Thailand, Mexico. It was just a really great night; somewhat difficult to convey with words. Honestly, my entire time in Oaxaca was like a dream. The next day was fairly unremarkable: I spent it picking up a couple of presents, wandering the city, and eating food, glorious Oaxaqueño food (including cow-head tacos). My bus to Puerto Angel left at 12:40am Friday morning.

Featuring the Bear as: Cupid

Monday, I took another tour to some other villages, and to the ruins of the most capital of the Zapotec capitals, Monte Alban. First, we went to Monte Alban, which is situated on the top of a mountain overlooking the city.

The peak of the mountain was not naturally flat enough to build on, so the Zapotecs spent an estimated 300 years flattening - just so they could begin construction on their ceremonial center. That's dedication. The buildings of Monte Albán weren't as dazzling as the pyramids of Teotihuacan, but the entire complex felt more organized, and was better preserved. The scale was also somehow grander - Teotihuacan had a lot of open space, but was incredibly spread out. Monte Albán felt like it enclosed a huge space, and as I stood atop the ruins I tried to think about having a few thousand people arrayed out below me, intent on my echoing words. It's not so crazy that some of the priests believed they were divine.

Maria Fernanda, the Brasilian I had met the day before, was on this tour. We chatted quite a bit (in Spanish) and generally got along pretty well. She's 30, and an editor of a culture magazine in Sao Paulo. Very well-travelled, with lots of good advice on places to go. We hit it off really well.

So much for my anonymity, and any rumors/hopes that I might be roguishly handsome.

After Monte Albán, the only notable thing on the rather mediocre tour route was a Dominican convent/basilica. It was a beautiful building, somewhat in ruins, but the really intriguing thing were the traces of the indigenous religion that pervaded it; the church itself was built from the stones of a Zapotec temple, and you could still see some carvings in walls were the plaster had been weathered away. But even in the work of the church itself, much of which was done by indigenous laborers, you could see little traces of Zapotec symbolism mixed in with the Catholic.

I ate lunch with Maria Fernanda after the tour, and then we went on to La Casa de la Cultura Oaxaqueña, just to see what we could see. Guess who we bumped into there? My Norwegian neighbor, Reidar. He's 35, by the way. Maybe you can see where this is going. I introduced the two of them, and Reidar invited us to go check out some son jarocho band that was going to be practicing downstairs. Um... we ended up playing with them, too. Fernanda on the tamborines, me on some box-percussion thingy, and Reidar on guitar - along with five Mexicans and two other gringos on varying instruments. It was a hell of a lot of fun, despite my total musical incompetence. After two hours of this, the three of us walked back to the hotel together and drank chamomile tea. What a surreal night.

Reidar is the guy on the far left. His expression is that of the forlorn, who are in love but have no hope of realizing it. Mafe's expression, on the other hand, is that of a giddy schoolgirl in love.

Shdiuziuniubiu.

Sunday, I ate breakfast in the pseudo-restaurant of my hotel. It proved to be a great way to meet people and get tips on things to do in the area. I met a couple from Chicago named Frida and Iliud (who were a lot of fun, and come to Oaxaca every year), a nerdy American law student, and a Brasilian named Maria Fernanda. I chatted with them a bit, and then I was off on my tour. Frida and Iliud went along.

First, we visited the village of El Tule, home of... El Tule. This tree is one of the top contenders for most gigantic tree in the world, and is also believed to be the most massive living thing in the world. It dwarfed the church it was next to. See for yourself:

Next, we visited the little village of Teotitlan del Valle. This pueblito is famous for its weaving, and justly so - using mostly traditional (and surprisingly ingenious) methods and all natural materials, they make some really pretty stuff. But do I seem like the kind of person who goes rug shopping? Hell, no. Instead, I learned a few phrases of Zapoteco (the primary language of indigenous Teotitlán) from the owner of a shop we visited, Don Jesús. The title of this post is how you say "thanks" - see if you can pronounce that, suckers.

Equipped with mad Zapotec language skills, we moved on to Mitla, the capital of the pre-Hispanic Zapotec nation. The ruins there were not highly remarkable, but they had geometric patterns unlike anything I had seen (or have seen) in Mexico. I also got to climb down into some tombs, which were so tiny I almost had to go on hands and knees.

We also stopped at a market in Tlacolula, but it was.... a market. Whoo.

We came back to Oaxaca, and I went and ate my Típico Oaxaqueño, my little comedor. Afterwards, on my way home... I heard music. When you hear music in Oaxaca, follow it, because you are bound to enjoy yourself. This time, it was a little neighborhood fiesta to celebrate an image of the Virgin that had appeared some years ago (I told you, every day is a religious festival in Mexico). The main event?

Lucha libre. Lucha libre is like American pro-wrestling, except much funnier. The wrestlers deck themselves out in costumes and masks. At this party, in was a two-on-two affair. Los Rudos (the bad guys) versus Los Técnicos (the good guys). Los Rudos always fought underhandedly, while Los Técnicos were honest. The ref always sided with Los Rudos (and ended up getting his ass kicked for it in the later matches). Los Técnicos usually get stomped on early on, but end up with a furious display of skill and win the match. Of the four matches of three rounds that I watched, Los Técnicos only lost one match. One guy was actually really, really acrobatic and awesome to watch. The others (including Batman) were mostly just amusing.

There was also a greased pole with a bunch of prizes at the top. Several people made attempts, but the girl who finally ascended to the top had the help of five or six people beneath. She threw down the prizes to her friends and family, and then lit off a fireworks wheel at the top of the pole. She slid down, and people started running everywhere as sparks showered the area. Finally, a little disc shot off the top of the fireworks wheel, flying off into the night to burn somebody's house down. I love it.

Back at the hotel, I chatted a bit with my Norwegian neighbor, who was a philosophy teacher. He told me about the location of La Casa de La Cultura Oaxaqueña. This will be relevant later.

They're good for you.

Saturday morning, I have no idea what I did. But for lunch, I went to a restaurant called La Biche Pobre (affectionately known as the Po' Bitch). I was scanning the menu... pretty typical Mexican fare. Then I saw them: chapulines. I knew I had to order them, but it still took me a couple of minutes to be sure; I really had no idea what to expect from smoked grasshoppers. Fíjate:



Mm, delicious. Thank God I had beer to drink with this. Actually, chapulines are rather tasty - taste just like chipotle. High in protein, too. Just stick 'em in a tortilla, toss on some salsa, and it's a meal. When they arrived (I'm not kidding here), a beam of light shone in through a high window and landed directly on the plate. I could hear the choir of angels singing in my mind. Chapulines. They say that if you eat chapulines, you are destined to return to Oaxaca. Maybe, but if I go back, it's for the chocolate, not some damn grasshoppers.

Afterwards, I walked down to the Zócalo. Bathrooms in México are like change in México - everybody has access to it but the tourists, and they're really stingy about it. I finally tracked one down, though. Afterwards, I walked over to a plaza where crews were setting up stages. One stage was already established, and a rock band was warming up there. The guitarist doodled the Beatles' "Norwegian Wood," which I happen to like. I clapped a little, and he gave me the classic rock-star point and nod. Nevermind the fact that nobody outside of Oaxaca has ever heard of him.

I wandered the city a bit more, and found a wee little church. I went in a lit two candles - one for my dad, one for my grandpa. I don't know why I do these things; I stopped being Catholic a looong time ago. I doubt you could say I ever was. Nevertheless, I have lit candles in five different countries.

Afterwards, I went back to the concert. It was getting ready to start, but some politicians were blathering on - apparently, it was a benefit concert for people in Chiapas who had been displaced. This went on for almost ten minutes, but in the distance I could hear the sound of a marching band. I was just about to the politicians when the marching band literally burst through the crowd, drowning out all other noise. See, the organizers of the concert had planned it on a religious festival day (which is every day in México), directly in front of Oaxaca's cathedral. The marching band was just part of a substantial procession that arrived and began (you guessed it) throwing things to the crowd. Needless to say, free stuff and marching bands will always trump political discourse (hm, maybe that could be my platform for president - free stuff and marching bands!), so the crowd surged over to pick up/ be pelted with candy and, strangely, plastic kitchen utensils. Miraculously, I didn't get hit by anything. Thank God they weren't throwing basketballs.

After awhile, the concert began. I listened for a bit, and then went off in search of tacos al pastor. "al pastor" means shepherd-style. Observe:





That's pork and a bit of turkey, I believe, with a bit of pineapple up top. The meat is slow-cooked on its rotisserie. When you order a taco al pastor, the guy (the best taquerías have a guy whose only job is to attend to the tower) will shave a little off the side and, if a true pro, use his knife to flick a bit of pineapple from the top, through two feet of air, and perfectly into the taco. Skill. These are the best tacos the world has ever known.

Unfortunately, they suck in Oaxaca, and there are very few good pastor places there. So I got a hot dog instead. Lame, I realize, but at least it was with jalapeños and salsa. Afterwards, I went back to the concert - they were playing a song called "De reversa" which is basically the Latin version of "Back Dat Ass Up." I kind of like it. All around the plaza, little kids were playing with these "balloons" that were essentially three-foot-long plastic bags filled with air. To enjoy such simple things, kids have to be either really smart or completely stupid. I can't decide which.

Mil disculpas.

Hey, folks. Please forgive my long absence. I've neglected you for too long, on account of actually having to work in school and taking another (this time, unauthorized) vacation. I'm going to get seven rolls of photos developed today, so I figure I may as well hold off on posting until I have them - but believe me, it's coming. Espérenme, muchachos.