Namaste

Tonight, I looked out the window of my Yoga studio while in downward dog pose and saw that it was snowing outside. I couldn't help but laugh as all the blood rushed to my head and I almost (read: actually) fell down. Everything about it just seemed bizarre (both the yoga thing and the snow thing).

I don't think that I'll get used to seeing snow anymore than I'll get used to seeing the Capitol every time I leave my house. Prior to this stint in DC, the furthest up north I have ever lived is Oxford, Mississippi. That's not a joke.

In fact, I got so excited about the first day of snow flurries that I stopped in the middle of Dupont Circle and did a full twirl, face tilted upwards, like in a really cheesy movie. I then ran to the office and announced that IT WAS SNOWING!!! I get a few shoulder shrugs, but it didn't deter my excitement.

Or my fear. As a full bred Louisiana girl, I have no idea what to do in snowy situations. I'm fairly certain that my functionality will be zero when faced with more than a couple of flurries. My wardrobe is woefully ill prepared for really cold weather, and I can only be thankful for the fact that I will not have to drive in this stuff. That and the fact that I'm headed home in a little over a week and will thankfully miss the real DC winter...All irrational fears aside, it's still pretty exciting. I've just spent the last hour sitting in the window of my room just staring as it falls. It's actually coating the ground tonight. I've never been so enthralled.

And no, this is not the first time I've seen snow. I'm not really sure why I'm so amazed, but I'm not going to question it. All I know is that this week I have been singing a little bit louder than usual (at work--this has proven to be a small problem, even though all my co-workers swear they don't mind. Which is a good thing, cause rhythm is a dancer and it can't be stopped) and I've been caught skipping down the hall by the very distinguished director of the think tank I'm working with. I kind of wish that was a joke.

Anyway, for some inexplicable reason, despite the fact that I have no idea where I'll be living after the new year (both zip code and street address), and despite the fact that I have three lit reviews hanging over my head, and despite the fact that I had to get my bridesmaid dress let out for the wedding I'm standing in on New Year's Eve, I am still skipping and singing and hootin and hollerin. So, I will thank the snow for that.

All Aboard

A random Saints fan flashing me his grill on Superbowl Sunday, 2010

Working "full time" is exhausting....the quotations are merited by my reference to a 3 day work week as a full time job, which is essentially what I do here in DC...

But it's not the hours I mind or even what tires me out, it's the monotony of sitting in a windowless office for 8 hours at a time and forcing yourself to concentrate. I work for a think tank, so I basically get (not)paid for thinking all day. I just sit and think. And I'm not going to lie, I'm not the most disciplined thinker. Sometimes my thinking goes on a tangent and it's really hard to bring it back. Especially when Beyonce pops up on my iPod shuffle. My girl B is not conducive to serious thinking. I'm pretty sure I've been busted for my Freakum Dress moves, which probably explains why they are moving me to an open cubicle next week and out of my private office. Either they want to discourage Soul Train 2010 or they want to make me more accessible to my fans. I'm thinking it's the latter.

So, I decided to rest my weary mind and treated myself to a trip home. Because when you're tired, the best thing to do is go on a 5 day drinking/eating/football/live music binge in New Orleans. The best kind of R&R.

I kicked it off with a Lady Tigers basketball game where roughly 15 family members joined me to cheer on my cousin who just signed with them this year. The very tenacity with which my family embarrasses every single one of us at any kind of graduation ceremony (yes-they are those people that scream, whistle, clap, and even perform a mini-wave in the stands. I always feel bad for the kid behind me who can't hear his name being called, but that's what happens when you have a very large, very Yatty family) is the same reason why they make the best sports fans and are the biggest supporters in every aspect in life. At any given LSU game this is what you will find: my older sister wearing her tiger ears dancing to the mysterious soundtrack in her head while simultaneously screaming at the ref to watch the lane, my dad pointing out "the talent" and lamenting the fact that the 3 point line wasn't invented until after his glory days were over, my aunt being put on an expletive-watch by my Maw Maw who herself keeps failing to keep it clean, my other aunt jacking every single sign that has a picture of my cousin on it so she can give them out as Christmas presents, me doing anything and everything to get on the jumbotron, and my Paw Paw sitting in the aisle seat taking his own stats which he will share with us for the entire hour long ride back to New Orleans. Yeah you right.

The next night I treated myself to a completely decadent dinner at Dick and Jenny's, followed by an equally debaucherous night which included a drive through daiquiri run, Kermit Ruffins at Vaughan's, the Moonshiners at the Spotted Cat on Frenchman, and Grape Voodoos at Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop on Bourbon. Absolute perfection.

Friday began with a Ladies Luncheon on Magazine and ended back in Baton Rouge for an engagement party. And not just any engagement party. This party had street performers, a petting zoo, cochon de lait barbeque, and the Soul Rebels brass band playing all night long. Truth be told, I spent the majority of the night down by the petting zoo where a friend and I tried to figure out how to steal a bunny. Sadly, it wouldn't fit in our purses. I was also amazed by a little girl who was absolutely fearless and perfectly content sitting on a turtle while holding a baby alligator. She may or may not have gone overboard when she threw a chicken from one end of the pen to the other where it landed on a goat. I loved this party and relished introducing myself as the Maid of Honor, especially when I saw the bride hosting in a leopard print dress while holding a snake.

Saturday I stuck around in Baton Rouge to go to the LSU/OleMiss football game. SEC football is one of my favorite things on earth. I grew up going to LSU games and then went to OleMiss for undergrad where I never missed a home game. Those were the days of Eli and Deuce, which

made it even better...even though we ended up losing more often than not. An LSU tailgate and OleMiss tailgate are polar opposites. An LSU tailgate consists of throwing on whatever purple or gold t-shirt you have that you don't mind ruining, booty dancing to rap music, and playing some kind of beer-based drinking game. An OleMiss tailgate looks a lot different. Everyone wears their finest blue or red outfit, sets up tents in the Grove (usually complete with a chandelier), and jams out to country music. I generally prefer the LSU way of doing things, mainly because I never mastered walking around the Grove in heels. Add that with a bunch of whiskey and it wasn't a pretty picture. Obviously, my allegiances are conflicted, so I ended up in a blue dress while dancing to the LSU fight song in Death Valley....which, if you've read previous World Cup posts, makes perfect sense to you. And although my personal identity crisis continues, the random OleMiss guy who happened to be sitting next to me had no problem ID-ing me as "that New Orleans girls who dated all the Kappa Sigs."

I wrapped it all up with a Sunday afternoon in the Dome to watch the Saints play, which was the highlight of my weekend. We won, of course, which made me happy purely because it gave me even more opportunities to get down to Crunk. The delicious turtle soup I had with dinner later that night at Dicky Brennan's Steakhouse was just icing on the cake.

Monday afternoon I climbed on the plane, completely drained and fully satisfied with my trip home. The man next to me breathed a sigh of relief when I sat down in the middle seat and thanked me for being thin and sitting next to him. I'm pretty sure he wasn't quite as thrilled when I pulled out Jay-Z's autobiography, Decoded, and he was subjected to a full page image of Biggie Smalls showing his grill ( I obviously have a thing for grills). I make no apologies. But it did get me thinking about what I'm thankful for in this holiday season.

I have a whole lot to be thankful for, my health, my friends, my family, my dog. But I'm most thankful that I'm from New Orleans, even in light of the recent boil water alert. Not only does it mean that my team is the number 1 team in the nation, but it also means that when I plan a trip home, I get to go home to New Orleans. I can promise you that people from the cornfields in the midwest don't get nearly as excited about going home as I do.

** I am aware of how many Louisiana stereotypes I have perpetuated in this post and I'm okay with it.

Where The Wild Things Are

I never thought that I would see Cat Stevens and Ozzy Osbourne sharing the same stage, but I did, and I have Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert to thank for that. Halloween weekend I attended the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. This was my first rally here in DC and it certainly did not disappoint. I must say, it was wonderful to be surrounded by a whole lot of people engaging in civil discourse. It was refreshing and hopeful.

I'm about to get serious here.

My political awakening occurred when I was living in Argentina 7 years ago as a college junior. Up until that point, I didn't have much of a political perspective other than what I had learned from my family and the environment in which I was raised, which tended to be more conservative. I moved to Argentina in March of 2003, mere months before the United States declared war. This was/is not a popular war abroad, and Argentines are quite an opinioned bunch. This means that I received a whole lot of grief due to my nationality. It was tough and lonely. I even told one particularly riled up cab driver that I was Canadian. Oh the shame.

It took me a while to realize why they cared so much, why it was so damn personal to these Argentines. Not that long ago, in the late 70s and early 80s, Argentina suffered through the Dirty War at the hands of the Argentine government. In an effort to root out and exterminate political opposition and subversive groups, the military dictatorship went on a massive killing spree. Thousands of people were "disappeared," never to be heard from again. Their fate was unknown, although it undoubtedly held a gruesome tale of torture and pain. This is a legacy that has lived on in the collective memory of Argentina, along with so many unanswered questions about a disappeared brother, or father, or daughter. For this reason, they are now fiercely protective of their rights and civil liberties. And understandably so. You would be hard pressed to find an Argentine that doesn't have a well formed opinion about their political leaders. These political freedoms are not to be taken for granted.

So, after a while, whenever I heard the inevitable, Are you for or against Bush? at the beginning of every introduction and conversation, I made sure that my first reaction wasn't anger. I thought about it. I thought about what it means to me to be an American. I thought about the enormous responsibility it is to be an active citizen and participant in our democracy. I thought about how I felt on September 11th. I thought about what demands I should place on my elected representatives. I thought about what I wanted for myself and what I wanted my society to look like. Over time, I came to my own conclusions. And I'm sure you have come to yours.

That's the beauty of being American. You and I can't be persecuted for our political opinions and we can make ourselves heard through the channels of democracy. This is no small thing.

We are living in the midst of a political crisis (and I don't mean the Republican turnover in the House). Partisan politics rule Washington and it seems that people have forgotten how to engage each other respectfully. We need to recognize how lucky we are and start protecting the integrity of our democracy. This will not be done by shutting out the left or right or through personalized attacks. This will only come with consensus and compromise.

So, in the words of Jon Stewart: Don't be douchey.

Surrealism

Have you ever stopped, looked around, and asked yourself, What the hell am I doing here? I feel like I do this a lot. And sometimes the situation is so absurd that I ask it out loud. Maybe I'm hoping some random stranger on the street will offer some valuable insight into the craziness that is my life. But then again, maybe I don't really want to know. Which is probably why I try to hide from fortune tellers. Jackson Square is a scary place for me.

I asked myself this when I moved into my new group house in DC. For those of you unfamiliar with sub-standard housing lingo, group house is basically just a fancy word for adult dormitory. I live in this house and share a bathroom with roughly 8 other people, 4 of which I've never even seen before, and at least 1 of which has a serious hair in the sink problem. But I do hear them through the walls and I go through their mail. Don't worry, I don't open it....although the Zappos box that has been sitting in the foyer for 3 weeks is just begging for it...but that's besides the point.

It struck me again at this past weekend's excursion to a pumpkin festival. On the heels of a drunken late night dance party, the good, old fashioned, family fun was a welcome change of pace. As was the hot dog and side of barbecue beef I downed for lunch, although I guess you can't really call it a side item if it's actually slathered on top. But that's just semantics. It was delicious. However, that wasn't the What the hell moment (although it probably should have been). That moment came when I found myself yelling FIRE IN THE HOLE!!! as I forcefully pulled the lever of a large cannon named "Chunkin Up," sending a pumpkin flying through the air at an impressive and exhilarating speed before it met it's demise against an unfortunate tree. Not to brag, but my pumpkin did easily go the furthest (which was celebrated on my part by a very enthusiastic fist pump) and my battle cry was definitely the most believable. Innate ability and skill aside, this is when I took a step back to do some much needed reevaluating. How is it that I ended up in Maryland shooting pumpkins into the woods? And is this a bad thing?

I remember over 5 years ago standing in front of a mailbox on Metairie Road, contemplating the letter in my hand. It was addressed to Georgetown and said that I was turning down their offer to attend grad school there. I had decided to go somewhere else, and although I knew it was the right decision, I stood in front of that mailbox for a long time. A really long time. I finally closed my eyes and mailed it off. It was hard to do, I had always dreamed of going to school there. I was transported back to that moment a few weeks ago as I stood in the middle of Georgetown's campus on a beautiful fall afternoon. I was there to use the library for a project I'm working on with the think tank. Although it was in a different capacity, and one that I couldn't have imagined all those years ago, I still made it to Georgetown and am the proud owner of my very own library card. This was meant to be.

Life is like one of those books where at the end of each chapter you have to pick either option A or B. Do you want to go through the sunflower field or down the waterfall? And depending on that choice, your path is forever altered. To borrow from and misinterpret Robert Frost, I believe they are all the road less travelled. The world is full of a lot of really brave and adventurous people who are just trying to navigate life, whether in the grocery store or in a pumpkin patch.

As for me, what keeps me going is blind faith in the idea that I'll end up where I'm supposed to be. One day, one of these paths is going to lead me to whatever it is that I'm looking for. And if the only way I can get there is by 'Chunkin Up,' then so be it. Who am I to question that?

If at first you don't succeed...

Those of you who know me are well versed in my lack of athletic abilities. I tried out for the volleyball team five consecutive years in elementary school and never once made the first cut, much less the final roster. Heartbreaking, really. Then when I moved on to high school it became a cruel twist of fate that my best friends were captains of our state champion volleyball team and all I could do was sit in the stands and feebly cheer them on. #1 Cheerleader--that was me! (I should mention that that's a self-proclaimed title, I wasn't technically on the squad)

In my adult(ish) years, I've learned to work with my limitations and stay away from v-ball pipe dreams. Although, there was one moment of glory a couple of months ago when I was asked to fill in and play with a beach volleyball team that was short one girl. My redemption lasted for one full rotation and I was totally vindicated. My first serve went sailing over the net....we don't need to talk about the second serve.....Anyway, I've since taken up activities that don't require much hand-eye coordination, such as biking and running. This has been a semi-successful strategy. In regards to my head on collision with the parked car, I believe that the blame lies entirely with the Land Rover and its ridiculously large rear end. A car that big is nothing more than a safety hazard for bikers like me. Running has been equally rewarding despite the constant tripping and weak ankles that cave in completely with each step.

I am now training for a half marathon, so I've been trying to get in some serious mileage while here in DC. My new favorite run begins at the Capitol (which is right behind my house), continues down the National Mall, passes the Washington Monument, goes down to the Lincoln Memorial (I give ole' Abe a shout out) and then all the way back to the Capitol. It is a beautiful route which can only be rivaled by a run down Esplanade and along the Mississippi River. However, I am now restricted to running only during daylight hours. This is a self-imposed punishment for sheer stupidity. Last week I went for a night time run and somehow got lost in between the Washington Monument and the Capitol. For those of you unfamiliar with the Mall, the space between the Washington Monument and the Capitol is about a two mile stretch and is completely bare, no trees, buildings, or even large shrubs. It's absolutely empty. Furthermore, the monuments light up at night and can be seen for miles and miles. In addition, the Capitol is on a hill (hence Capitol Hill), making it even more visible. So, to get lost somewhere in between point A and B is virtually impossible, yet I managed to do it like a pro. Not only did I have to run much longer than I intended, but I also somehow ended up on the set of Transformers 3. So, I will be starring as that really sweaty, confused looking girl in the background who is on the verge of passing out. I think they can probably work it into the story line, I can't imagine there's much of a plot to begin with.

Obviously needing to diversify my workout, I opted for a hike this weekend in Great Falls, Maryland. Not surprisingly, my past experiences with hiking haven't been the best. My first hike was 7 years ago in the Patagonia region of Argentina, and even with the several falls and near-death accidents, the most tragic aspect of that hike was my head-to-toe denim outfit. I wish I didn't have the pictures to prove that. My second big hike was 5 years ago in Interlaken, Switzerland with 3 other friends. Two of them decided to take the "extreme path" (this isn't actually a path, they just went running into the woods like a couple of crazies) and were subsequently lost on the mountain for the remainder of the day...along with our ID's and beer money, which are survival tools out there in the wild. And finally, my last hike 2 years ago in Antigua, Guatemala ended with me straddling a crevice on a volcano while my boyfriend chatted up the tour guide in the distance. My scars from digging into the volcanic rock lasted longer than our relationship, he became an ex quickly thereafter. So, it was quite brave of me to give it another go. Not only did I (not so gracefully) survive this one, but I also scaled a legitimate rock formation without breaking any bones or ending a long-term relationship. Success.

I think yoga is going to be next.

Sweet Red Plums and Grilled Cheese Sandwiches

The travels continue.

Shortly after returning from Mexico I decided to come to DC to try my hand at non-profit work. It's a short term gig and something that has been in the pipeline for a while. I am working for an independent, nonpartisan think tank that deals primarily with immigration policy, both domestic and international. I'm approaching the 3 week mark and, apart from the Krispy Kreme located cruelly and (in)conveniently at the exit of the metro station I frequent daily, I am really enjoying it.

I've learned many valuable lessons so far in my short time here. I've learned that Columbus Day is a holiday in which you don't have to report to work. This was only discovered after I spent 3 hours alone in the office trying to figure out where everyone was. I even searched through my email looking for the mysterious memo that everyone seemed to get but me. I had pretty much convinced myself of the existence of a vast conspiracy against me when my mother finally cracked the code: national holiday. go home. That was a big ah-ha! moment for me.

I also learned that my feet have a severe reaction to "work shoes." I'm now on my second round of blisters due to the daily commute and unforgiving footwear. Every morning I look at the women next to me on the metro and admire their reckless abandon as they unapologetically prance around in their stockinged feet and bright white tennis shoes. However, I've decided to take the tough love approach. I'm staying strong in pumps and heeding the brilliant advice of a dear friend: This isn't Nine to Five and you certainly aren't Dolly Parton. Suck it up. Words to live by.

Another priceless lesson: avoid large scale Target purchases at locations without a cab stand. I would have lived without the new garbage can and memory foam mattress pad if I would have known that it meant bypassing the 30 minute wait for a cab while enduring an incredibly awkward interaction with the very chatty, possibly homeless man who decided I needed company. Listen, when a woman look fine, Ima tell her. It's not a crime. I'm just trying to spread the love. I think he had his eye on the mattress pad.

I've learned that my inner GPS performs just as poorly in the States as it does abroad.

I've learned that mannequin heads can sting when hummed right at you. Apparently a presenter at a certain conference thought that his talk on violence and drug cartels would only be compelling if accompanied with such props. He got a little carried away and ended up throwing the "bloody" heads one by one into the audience. Strangely enough, in a relatively large auditorium, all four heads came straight at me. I wonder if this happens to all liberals who venture into the Heritage Foundation. Another possible conspiracy theory. All in all, I was impressed by my reflexes. I was like an amateur Jeter, skillfully batting them away.

And finally, I've learned the painful lesson that a crosswalk does not necessarily ensure pedestrian safety. This I learned when I was hit by a car on my walk home. I managed to dodge it for the most part and ended up only slightly plastered across the hood of the car. As I brushed myself off, I was consoled with the possibility of an impending meet-cute. Something along the lines of J. Lo and Matthew McConaughey in the Wedding Planner. I figured we could work through the whole "you hit me with your car" thing and I felt confident in my wardrobe choice that day. Thank God I stuck to the pumps. I anxiously waited as my McConaughey rolled down the window....with his wedding ring-clad hand. That's when I got pissed. Lesson learned.

Home

After my border escapades, I decided to take a break on the Oaxacan Coast. Oaxaca (pronounced Wa-haka) is a state in the south of Mexico, bordering the Pacific Coast. The beaches of Oaxaca are internationally known for their beauty and simplicity. They are barely developed, offering a few palapas and AC-less hotels. It is a wonderful place to unwind and reflect.

So, after an ill-fated 12 hour bus ride (I bought my ticket last minute and ended up by the bathrooms. Use your imagination...) from Tapachula, I finally arrived in Puerto Escondido. Puerto is a chameleon. Part of its charm is the international vibe. There aren't many Americans (they're all in Cancun), but there are tons of Europeans, mainly French and Italian. On one end is Playa Zicatela, a surfer's paradise, with insane waves and a definite hippie/bohemiam vibe. On the other end is a little fishing village where fishermen leave at sunrise and come back at sunset with their daily catch. About five minutes down the coast is Playa Carrizalillo. Nestled in a little alcove with pristine water, it is easily my favorite beach of all time.

I quickly dropped off some laundry (an absolute necessity, my jeans were getting pretty ripe) and went to the pharmacy to pick up some sunblock. This is when the pharmacist went off on a rant about how all these foreigners love to pet stray animals and then don't understand why they end up covered in flea bites. Damn French people. She then grabbed me and told me intently that dogs in Puerto were highly promiscuous and have begun passing STDs to humans through physical contact, so stay away. Doubtful, yet point duly taken.

My daily routine for the next few days was solitary and wonderful. It consisted of me waking up early, eating breakfast and then heading straight to Carrizalillo. Read a chapter, go for a swim. That's how a graduate student does the beach. Every day, the surfing instructor, Carlos, would try and entice me to take a surfing lesson, or go see the sea turtles, or go watch the sunset, or go get a drink (with him, of course). I would point to my book and he would just shake his head. I even turned down the fedora-clad French guy, Julian, even though I love how Frenchmen say my name. I ended every day watching the sunset alone. It was hard to drag myself away, but I know I'll be back at some point.

I went straight to Oaxaca City, via yet another overnight bus, to go see some friends of mine. These are friends that used to work with me in a New Orleans restaurant. The husband worked there for 7 years, with only one brief break and chance to his kids due to a deportation. He quickly made his way back to make money and care for his family. His wife joined him for 4 years as their kids were watched over by aunts and uncles back in Mexico. They worked daily and diligently, clocking in 80-100 hours a week each. Finally, after years of hard work and living in the shadows, they decided it was time to go back to Mexico. They've been home for about 5 months now.

I had been to their Oaxacan house once before, about 4 years ago. While travelling through, they asked me to go check in on their kids and send back some pictures. At that point, the house was a simple cement block, with one bedroom and a living room. The extension, funded by remittances sent back by the parents, was in its incipient stages. Their children proudly showed me pictures of their parents at various landmarks in New Orleans and asked me anxiously how they were doing. They wanted to know all about the restaurant and the city their parents lived in.

4 years later, they are a happily reunited family with a beautiful home complete with 4 bedrooms, a big screen TV (for Saints games) and a video game room where local kids can come and play video games at the rate of 10 pesos an hour. The husband works down the road in construction and the wife stays at home, enjoying time with her children. Their son is entering his senior year of high school and their daughter is in beauty school, all thanks to the sacrifices made by their parents. We went for ice cream and they showed me pictures of their family vacation to Puerto Escondido they had taken right when they got home.

Studying immigration, it is easy to get overwhelmed by the impossibility of it all. The policies, the violence, the poverty, the discrimination. It's sometimes hard to find hope in such a dire situation. Seeing this happy ending made me remember why I do it.

I am now back in Mexico City, preparing for my flight home tomorrow. I have the same mixture of feelings that I always do. Ready to go home, yet sad to leave the home I've made for myself while here. My Condesa will be dearly missed. Mexico City has been a steady figure in my life over the last decade, constantly gracious and forgiving of my impatience and communication limitations. It has seen me as a flighty sorority girl, as a college graduate just starting the adventure of grad school, and as an inquisitive and slightly unstable PhD student. It has seen me with boyfriends, friends, family, and now, alone. I can only imagine how it will see me next.

In the meantime, I will continue to be grateful for the freedom of movement that I have been blessed with, as I have been so poignantly reminded that this is not a luxury experienced by all.

Border Hopping

My last few days in Chiapas were spent visiting official crossing points at the Mexico-Guatemala border. I'm not really sure what I was expecting. I guess I thought I could just drive up, snap a few pics, ask some questions and move on down the road. Turns out the border isn't really all that accessible.

Starting in Tapachula, we (my PNC and I) mapped out our road trip. Itinerary: Mazapa de Madero, Ciudad Cuauhtemoc, Carmen Xhan, Talisman, Union Juarez. Now, these crossing points are registered on the official website of the Instituto Nacional de Migracion. (INM). As such, you would imagine some sort of pageantry or ritual to mark these crossing points, or a paved road at the very least. Not so much.

Day to day transportation from one small town to the next generally consists of jumping in a combi. A combi is a large white van (think Jon and Kate plus 8, circa 1985) with three rows of seating. Official capacity, including the driver and the "transportation specialist", is 20. Not including kids. No AC, but all the windows open, if your lucky. It's quite an extensive network of combis here in Mexico. Seeing as how large bus companies only travel to certain cities and travel by taxi is too expensive for the average Joe, the combi business is flourishing.

The system is similar to that of my beloved Chicken buses in Guatemala. There's the driver and his helper, who I like to think of as the transportation specialist (TS). As the driver zips along at a nausiating pace, the TS hangs out the door, continuously yelling out the next destination in an abbreviated, diner kind of way. The driver taps on the horn for good measure and slows down to ask every pedestrian along the road/highway if they, by any chance, are also heading to Moto (Motozintla). If it's a yes, the TS swings open the door, tells everyone to scootch and the combi barely slows down as the next rider jumps in and falls into a seat. It's a pretty sweet job, and I've already decided that when and if I'm ever down on my luck, I'm going to head back to Chiapas and turn in an application to be a TS.

So, basically, you take a combi as far as you can and then jump into the next one and then the next one to get to your final destination. One ride rarely costs more than 25 pesos. In order to reach Mazapa de Madero, we took a combi to Huixtla (pronounced weaks-la), then to Motozintla, then to Mazapa de Madero. This took us about 3 hours, so we were happy when we got there. We were not happy, however, to find that the border isn't actually in Mazapa. That's funny, someone should let the INM know. Our trek continued. We had to take another combi to the Bridge Bacaton and then wait for a kind soul to take us up the mountain on an unpaved road, populated by various livestock, to Barrio Veracruz (Gracias a Dios on the Guatemalan side), where we finally found the border. The kind soul (who immediately reminded me of Freakshow from Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. And I mean that in the nicest way possible. He really, truly was lovely) navigated these treacherous terrains beautifully while downing tacos and an orange Fanta.

The border was marked by a series of small white statues and a serious landscaping job. When talking about borders, we (academics) generally talk about them as regions. We like to say that borders aren't impermeable walls, they are transnational regions with shared cultures and economies on both sides. Borders are man-made limits that marcate changing political territories, you don't actually see the border emblazoned in the earth. Wrong. Mexico has taken pains to do just that, using white statues and what must be a fairly large lawnmower. The Mexico-Guatemala border (at least at the spots we went to) can be very clearly seen. This was kind of odd, as the physical border was juxtaposed against a sleepy little town where it was difficult to tell where Mexico ended and Guatemala began.

Our journey continued over the next couple of days, and the other crossing points were fairly similar. Of course, some a bit more busy than others, but all fairly remote.

We finally started heading back to Tapachula to hit up the last two spots, Talisman and Union Juarez. We decided to take an overnight bus (roughly 6 hours) from Comitan, catch a few hours of sleep and then get back to the business of border crossing. One thing I should know by now: never try to plan ahead when Mexican transportation is involved. I wasn't even really all that surprised when we stopped at around midnight and the driver announced that we couldn't get through. Meaning, due to the intense rain (please see flash floods in Pearly Pits), there was a landslide and the highway was blocked indefinitely. The company's solution was to backtrack 3 hours to San Cristobal de las Casas, wait for a 3 hour maintenance check/oil refill, and then take a different highway to Tapachula. This would turn our 6 hour trip into an 18-20 hour trip. Bummer. We essentially held a town (bus passenger) meeting on the side of the road. One particularly riled up man made an impassioned speech about our right to dependable and safe transportation. Why should we just sit back and allow "The Man" to jerk us around like this? Don't we deserve better?? HELL YEAH!! My inner proletariate just couldn't resist. Long story short, 12 hours later we finally made it to Tapachula.

We ended our border crossing journey in Talisman, right outside of Tapachula. The border at Talisman, like that of Ciudad Hidalgo, is marked by the Suchiate River. Here there are no balsas, but there is a nifty little zip-line to illegally cross the border by way of the river. After my last experience as an undocumented immigrant, I fought every urge to get strapped in and fly into Guatemala. Oh, the rush. Anyway, Talisman is also nearby a variety of fincas, or coffee plantations. Mexico, much like the US, imports a lot of agro labor, especially in the Southern fincas, and Talisman serves as the main entry point for Guatemalan finca workers. I watched as they waited on the bridge for their contractor, all tenderly holding their neatly wrapped machetes, until they were allowed to cross, single file, into Mexico to wait for their work visas to be issued by the INM. This was all done silently, underneath a flock of vultures onimously circling closely overhead.

Stupid white girl

Anyone that knows me can probably guess that the very next day I went back to Ciudad Hidalgo and straight to the Balsero launch. I found a partner in crime, a Mexican girl who is also a graduate student studying immigration. We decided to live the high life and hired a triciclo chofer to take us to the river. This means that we first had to cut through blocks and blocks of warehouses (and I use that term loosely) holding packaged merchandise to send across the river to Guatemala. It was business as usual for the Mexican black-marketers, another day, another dollar. However, they were kind enough to pause, whistle, and yell out Guera.

Guera (the u has two dots above it, but I can't seem to find the symbol on this damn PC): slang for white girl. And, yes, I am white. This is something that I have known for a while. However, it seems that all of Mexico has pledged to state my race as a daily affirmation.

Hey, there goes the white girl.

White girl, don't you want to buy this necklace?

Oh man, is she white!

White Girl! You can't take pictures here! (my personal favorite, yelled by many immigration officials over the past few weeks)

Due to the fact that a lot of my time here has been spent in places like black markets and border crossings in which I am, in fact, the only white girl, I've grown quite accustomed to this endearing little nickname. And, of course, it helps solve my previous identity issues. Even if they don't know I am American, they know for a fact that I am white. That much they can tell me. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

So, we finally made it to the river (the Suchiate), which was bustling with activity. The main purpose of this underground crossing point (which is once again located mere kilometers from the official bridge and a slew of immigration officials) is really to facilitate the quotidian activities of a very connected transnational region. I have no doubt that there is also a flow of undocumented immigration of Central Americans and Guatemalans heading to the North, but that is a hidden flow. This is a visible flow which consists of mainly tax-free commerce and shuttling people back and forth to work and/or shop for the day. Of course, they can do this legally by applying for the FMVL (local visitor's pass), but this requires money and time, and the balsas are a fairly established and dependable alternative for illicit border crossing.

We negotiated with a young Guatemalan entrepreneur wearing a fanny pack who agreed to take us across for 20 pesos each (less than 2 bucks). The balsas are large black rubber rafts with a serious of wooden planks strapped across the top. There are usually two transporters, mainly because the current of the river is incredibly strong and one person could not possibly dock the balsa alone. One is the money collector (hence the fanny pack) and the other is the navigator, using a large wooden pole to dig into the ground of the river and propel us across.

We reached the opposing riverfront and I was officially "smuggled" into Guatemala. No stamp on my passport for this trip, no snorting officials, no long walk in the heat....not to mention the 265 pesos I saved. I'm starting to understand the incentives for avoiding migratory bureaucracy.

Due to the fact that I had spent the previous day praying for my life and dodging Dengue in Tecun Uman, I would have been perfectly happy to turn around and go right back to Mexico. However, my PNC hadn't experienced the beauty of Tecun and wanted to check it out. A quick triciclero grabbed us, assured us we could pay in Mexican pesos (20 each to get to the center and 20 to get back), and basically threw us onto his bike. We did the obligatory stroll around the plaza and once again visited the purple church and then headed back to the river, an excursion which lasted for about 5 minutes.

A few blocks from the riverfront, the triciclero pulled up in front of a random house and told us to change our money so we could pay in Quetzales, Guatemalan currency. Immediately, a young kid with a mop of curly hair emerged from the house and assured us the best rates in town. We kindly, yet firmly, reminded the man that he had agreed to being paid in Mexican pesos and that we weren't going to change money and lose out on the exhange rate for a 5 minute bike ride. He, of course, remembered no such agreement, and then not so kindly reminded us that we were in Guatemala and the national currency is Quetzales. This is where it all went downhill, in a fast and tight spiral.

He then doubled the pre-set agreement, saying that the new price was really the standard rate. We loudly objected, causing an old woman in a quilted skirt sitting on the curb across the street to get involved. She recognized this man as a con-artist and started yelling that he was ripping us off. He yelled back, calling her an old crazy hag, and then started pedalling furiusly away, with us still in the triciclo. Not the best situation to be in, and it quickly deteriorated. He stopped again, just short of the river, and another money changer emerged from the shadows. The driver forcibly told us to change money, telling us that we now owed him an equivalent of 200 pesos, nearly 20 bucks. Another yelling match exploded, ending with him expelling us from his triciclo and telling us to leave and live with our consciences.

This is when I had an out-of-body experience. I floated up and watched the whole scene play out: The white girl yelling at the Guatemalan con-man in this wasteland of a city, notorious for its violence and crime. This just couldn't end well.

In his rage, he yelled that we should at least pay him 100 pesos. Still proposterous, but agreed. I threw the money at him, grabbed my friend and ran back to the river where we dove onto another balsa. Safe.

Back in Mexico, we climbed into yet another triciclo and asked the driver to take us to the bus stop. He had a nice, kind face, and only charged us 10 pesos each, which prompted us to tell him how happy we were to be back in Mexico. He agreed, saying that Tecun just had a bad vibe.

Over there, they'll kill you for 100 pesos.

Good to know.

Crossing Borders

The main reason for my visit to Tapachula is to visit the official international crossing points between Mexico and Guatemala. There are four within the general vicinity of Tapachula and four others in the state of Chiapas. My reasoning is that if I'm going to write a dissertation on Mexican immigration policy, then I should probably know what it looks like up close and personal.

So, on my second day in Tapachula I decided to go visit Ciudad Hidalgo and its sister city Tecun Uman in Guatemala. I first took full advantage of a breakfast buffet that I stumbled upon, drinking nearly a gallon of fresh orange juice and eating several servings of chilaquiles, beans (obligatory for any meal here), empanadas de quesillo, huevos a la mexicana, and plantains. I love a good buffet. Then I jumped in a cab and told him to take me to the border.

An hour later, after getting lost several times mainly because every single highway exit was blocked by strategically placed rocks, we finally arrived. My cab was immediately swarmed by vendors and triciclo drivers. A triciclo is a bike that has been adjusted to carry passengers with a nice little overhang to protect you from the sun. This is a popular mode of transportation in small towns because of the heat and the barely navegable roads. Not to mention, it's dirt cheap. In border town, these triciclos will drive you from Mexico to Guatemala, over the bridge while you enjoy a nice plastic bag of coco water. It's really luxurious in a third world kind of way.

I politely declined, opting to walk instead. Of course this means that I was trailed by about 5 triciclos for about 2 blocks in the chance that I got tired or suffered from sudden heat stroke. I finally made it to Mexican immigration and was told very unenthusiastically that in order to leave the country, I had to pay a fee of 265 pesos (roughly 25 bucks). I produced a 500 peso bill which was met by an amused snort. The woman behind the glass, aka the woman with the power, told me she didn't have change. Therefore, I could not leave the country.

A word on change...as in small bills, not as in a political platform. There seems to be a nationwide shortage of small bills here in Mexico. Which means that when you take money out of an ATM and it feeds you nothing but large bills, you are officially S.O.L. Which subsequently means that you have to spend money to have money. You have to go to a substantial business, such as a pharmacy or restaurant, buy something cheap, pay with your big bill and get smaller bills for everything else ranging from groceries, to water, to any mode of transportation. I think this problem is probably symptomatic of a weak economy, but it can also be quite annoying. It also often turns into a strange game of Chicken, due to the fact that many cabdrivers or other streetwise kids will often say they don't have change, causing you to pay more than necessary for whatever service they have rendered. For instance, if you owe 50 pesos and you only have 100 peso bill. Listen lady, you have to pay me, and since I don't have change, well.....Implying that the only right thing to do is pay with the 100 and cut your losses. Not this lady. I know they have change and I need that change for whatever purchase comes next. So I'm giong to pay with my 100 peso bill and they're going to give me that nice little 50 in return. It usually ends in a staring match.

I told you I don't have change.

Well, neither do I. Quite a pickle.

Long, awkward silence.

Until the cabdriver finally gives in with a roll of the eyes and opens his glove compartment to reveal wads and wads of small bills. Busted.

Anyway, so the snorter was going to deny my right to migrate because she was out of change. We finally worked it out (meaning I found change down the road and around the corner) and I'm on my way. This particular crossing point is in the form of a bridge over the Suchiate River, which serves as the official border for a short distance. Standing in the middle of the bridge, right in between Mexico and Guatemala, you can see a thriving business of smugglers just down the river. These smugglers have both Mexican and Guatemalan counterparts and are called Balseros. They smuggle over people and merchandise on large, makeshift rafts called Balsas for a fee of roughly 20 pesos (1.80ish in US dollars). This occurs daily, in plain view of immigration offices, which might help explain the fact that the word most commonly used to describe this border is porous.

I finally made it over to Guatemala and figured I would go for a stroll in this lovely town called Tecun Uman, which kind of has the same feel as Ciudad Juarez on the Mexico-U.S. border. Which means not good so I decided to make it a quick stroll. I walked into town and headed straight for the purple church in the middle of the main plaza. Seeing as how my dear Maw Maw regularly and faithfully lights candle for my poor soul (every Tuesday in Kenner-bra), I always like to duck in and say a prayer for her and whoever else might be on my mind. I sat there for a few minutes but was quickly snapped back to reality by the mosquito going to town on my leg. Remembering the current outbreak in Dengue, I got the hell out of there.

I quickly made it back to the bridge where I was stopped by the Guatemalan immigration official. He stood squarely in front of me and said I couldn't pass because American girls like me had to stay in the country for at least 48 hours and, of course, spend money. I laughed politely as I walked past him and out of his territory. Sorry Buddy, but I'm fresh out of change.

Pearly Pits

At 6:00 p.m. Monday afternoon, I got on a bus in Mexico City. Destination: Tapachula, Chiapas. 18 hours later, after enduring dubbed versions of Deadliest Catch, (Ay Caray!), a tremendously horrible Eva Mendes movie, (Russian Roulette) and waking up to Alvin and the Chipmunks, (my personal hell) I finally arrived.

A little background. Tapachula is a border town and is one of the most popular crossing areas for Central American migrants to cross through to Mexico. Therefore, although Tapachula likes to pride itself on being the Pearl of Mexico, I tend to think of it more as the Armpit of Mexico. It's coastal and tropical, which of course means hot and humid. And although I'm enjoying the heat after 5 weeks of dampness and cold in Mexico City, I am not enjoying the daily thunderstorms. These thunderstorms are epic and contribute to two more star qualities of Armpit-land: flash floods and sporadically consistent power outages. I know, it's sounding more and more like New Orleans. However, whereas we have amazing food, culture, architecture and music to save us from being deemed the unsavory, stinky body part of the United States, Tapachula has no such luck. It's droopy and draggy like any other border town you may encounter. Its buildings and public spaces have been ravaged and robbed of any possibilities of beauty that may have existed at some point in the distant past. Apart from the kindness of the people, it's completely charmless.

So, I have returned (yes, I have been here before) to the Black Pearl. I immediately dumped my backpack at the house of a friend (who I had met once-a curious, surferish Japanese Mexican guy who works for the National Comision of Human Rights in Mexico City) of a friend. I quickly brushed my teeth and rushed off to spend the day volunteering at the Albergue Belen, not even bothering to change my clothes.

An albergue is something like a safe house for migrants who are in transit. Mexico's involvement with immigration doesn't just include the Mexican diaspora to the US, Mexico also serves as the gateway to the US for other migrants, mainly Central American. The majority of Central American migration is spurred by either economic or political hardships or destruction caused by natural disasters. Although Guatemala topped the charts in immigration volume in the 80s and early 90s due to an intensely violent civil war, Honduras and El Salvador have now surged forward to claim that number one spot. However, while Hondurans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, and Nicaraguans enjoy the freedom of movement amongst themselves (as the result of a regional treaty, the CA-4), they do not enjoy such luxuries in Mexico. Therefore, in order to obtain the oh-so-coveted American Dream, they must first pass illegally through Mexico.

Crossing the Mexico-Guatemala border is generally the easy part, as a result of its nearly incomprehensible porosity. It's getting to the Mexico-US border that is hard, even life-threatening. This journey through Mexico is marked by difficulties resulting from a nativist immigration policy in Mexico, widespread corruption at all levels of government, and extreme violence administered by many, but mainly concentrated in the hands of gang members who make a living and a reputation by exploiting and violating passing migrants. It is also complicated by the mode of transportation chosen by migrants to maintain obscurity: riding on the tops of a series of freight trains to the US border, jumping on and off as mandated by necessity and safety. Here, danger comes in the form of preying gang members who have claimed the tops of these trains as their territories, and exhaustion, as many are killed or mutilated as a result of falling off while sleeping.

Therefore, many of these migrants stop in at one of the many albergues, usually run by religious organizations, especially the Catholic church, to rest up before continuing on. They are given food, a bed, donated clothes and medical attention while they spend their allotted three days at the albergue.

This is where I spent my day, listening to stories, preparing dinner and planting trees. One migrant came and introduced himself, making sure I had written his name down to receive dinner. As we talked, I slowly realized what his shirt read:

Down in da Parish we love da Mardi Gras

He was admitedly a litte freaked out by my over-exhuberance as I explained to him that his shirt was from my city. My home. He doesn't really get it, he's never been to New Orleans, but it spurred a conversation about another little thing we all have in common: hurricanes. An older man sitting on a bench next to us told me that he had heard all about Katrina, muy feo, and softly asked if my family and friends had been affected, if it had touched our lives. When I said yes, he offered his condolences and said he understood how it felt. Everyone else nodded silently and we were instantly bonded. They recognized me as a fellow sufferer, although I knew that what they were living, the hardships that were touching them and their families, were above and beyond what I had experienced with Katrina, with anything. It wouldn't have mattered if I had tried to explain the difference to them, their compassion and empathy had already been extended. A gift that can't be given back.

On Efficiency

I am simultaneously the most organized and most unorganized person in the world. My school notes are all color coordinated and carefully preserved under plastic covers. Each different color post-it and highlighter has a very specific meaning and constitutes a complex study/research regime that I have perfected over my entire life (I was just going to put the number of years I've been in school, but quickly realized that number is synonymous with the years I've been on this earth. Ouch.) However, if you look in my closet or under my bed or at my stack of unopened mail, you'll soon realize that I also thrive on chaos. Chaos and procrastination. I'm one of those people that insists I work better under pressure, but that really is just a self-indulgent lie. Knowing this about myself, I try not to throw rocks at the glass house of inefficiency. HOWEVER, researching in Mexico City has quickly changed this hesitation to judge.

Let me tell you about my day.

There's a library here that houses many governmental records, reports, and publications on Mexican immigration policy that I need access to. The majority of these publications are no longer in print and are not available anywhere else. Not online, not in bookstores, not in any other library in the world. Therefore, this valuable information that took several working hours and countless governmental officials to compile is only available Monday through Friday from 10 am until 4 pm. In this one library, in this one building, in Mexico City.

So, I enter this building, the Instituto Nacional de Migracion (INM). This sounds familiar to you because it is also the very same building with the trickster elevator, which just makes the whole process that much better. While still in the lobby, I have to register my laptop, be hosed down by hand sanitizer, pass through a metal detector, submit my purse to be examined, and trade in my ID for a pass to get to the 12th floor. I finally move on to the evil elevator, which I have now mastered. Turns out there's a keypad down the hall and around the corner where you have to enter the floor you are going to. This keypad then indicates which elevator (either A, B, C, or D) will be so kind as to bring you there.

I finally arrive at the 12th floor. Now, before I came to Mexico, I sent an email to the main librarian to make sure that I would have full access to this library. Sure, sure, no problem! Come on down, what's mine is yours! Therefore, I wasn't anticipating any problems.

This is what full access looks like in Mexico:

1. I'm not actually allowed inside the library, I have to wait in another room right outside.
2. The online library catalogue isn't working, so I have to tell the secretary my key search words.
3. The secretary searches through her private catalogue and prints out a list of publications that I might be interested in.
4. Every single book title is cut off, leaving me to guess what the full title might be.
5. Using this information, I put a check mark next to the titles that could possibly be relevant.
6. The secretary passes this list to the librarian .
7. The librarian then searches for the books, many of which have dissapeared.
8. The librarian calls me over to pick up the books.
9. The exchange is made at the threshold of the library, which is secured by one of those half doors where the bottom part is closed and the top part is open. I guess this is to make sure that nobody sneaks through at the point of exchange.
10. The librarian waits for me to look through the books and decide which ones I need.
11. I am only allowed to take four books at a time, but I am allowed to make as many copies as I want.
12. I can't use their copy machine.
13. I give them yet another ID and they give me until closing time (4 pm) to go make copies and bring the books back safely.
14. I make my way back down to the lobby. This is easier said than done, seeing as how the first floor is not the lobby floor and there is no button on the keypad for lobby, or planta baja in Spanish. The elevator delights in my confusion and spits me out at the basement, leaving me to turn around and take the stairs. I find the parking lot and floor 2 before I find the planta baja.
15. I turn in my visitor pass, get back my ID, pass back through the metal detector, and sign out my laptop.
16. I walk several blocks down to the nearest commercial center.
17. Copy place #1 can have it done in 48 hours. No sooner.
18. Copy place #2 has a broken copy machine.
19. Copy place #3 is out of paper.
20. Copy place #4 obliges and says they will be ready at 3:50. Cutting it close.
21. I go to Pinkberry.
22. I pick up my books and copies and walk back to the INM. In the rain.
23. I shower in hand sanitizer, cross through the metal detector, re-register my laptop, and wait in line for a visitor's pass.
24. I safely return the books and recover my ID.
25. I get to do it all again tomorrow.

I've decided to hold a nation-wide conference on efficiency, with mandatory attendence for all librarians and governmental officials. I will simply explain to them that there really is a much better way to do things and show them how to do it. I figure that this is the kindest form of American imperialism and that, in the end, it will be much appreciated.

That's Life

Seeing as how I'm currently living in Mexico, residing in a beautiful neighborhood, and doing a job that truly doesn't feel like work, I decided I needed a vacation this weekend. So I hightailed it out of the city and headed to Acapulco for some fun in the sun.

It was an abbreviated trip, from Friday afternoon until Sunday morning, which is just enough time to see some friends, get some sun and get the hell out of there. Acapulco for me is kind of like Vegas for most people. I know I'm in trouble if I spend too much time there, so I ration myself.

It's a short bus ride, only 5 hours, which may not sound short but is nothing compared to the 13-20 hours I'll be clocking in my trip next week. Sidenote: I know 13-20 hours seems like a large spread of time for a single bus trip, but Mexican bus companies don't really like to promise that they're going to get you where you need to be at the time you need to be there, so they give you a guesstimate. So, I settled in for the dubbed version of The Proposal (Ryan Reynolds is delicious in both Spanish and English, in case you were wondering), and made my way to Acapulco.

Life in Acapulco is like a fantasy, and since my time there is always necessarily fleeting, I do my best to soak it all in. Of course, since my first trip at the age of 19, many things have changed. Now I enjoy jamming out to Waka Waka with my incredibly spunky Mexican niece just as much as I revel in the brilliant nightlife. There was a lot of both.

We spent the day Saturday at a beach birthday party and ended up jet skiing through Acapulco Bay, due to the exhortations of my niece. The splash of the waves and the exhilerated screams of la Princesa made those few minutes the highlight of the weekend. It also made me laugh at how life changes. I met my friend, Ana, seven years ago when we lived together in Argentina and spent hours talking about our future. The plan was to marry our boyfriends, get matching black labs, go shopping every day, and live the Argentine dream. Silly girls, we couldn't have been more wrong. Yet I look at her now, a caring, wonderful, and able mother, and I know that everything is as it should be. It always ends up that way. La Princesa, on the other hand, wasn't so easily contented when our time ran out and we had to drag her kicking and screaming away from the jet ski. The only way to get her into the car was to promise her a pink one of her very own. She wore herself out and dozed off murmering, moto rosa, moto rosa...

The beach party easily transitioned into a night out on the town, which went by in a blink of an eye that strangely felt like an eternity. I'm not sure if it's because I ended up with the only Mexicans I have ever met with a strong passion for Jager bombs or because I was sporting some serious heels, compliments of Ana who took one look at my backpack and forbade me to wear anything I might have stashed in there. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed the night, especially the security escort that magically appeared with his flashlight every time I made my way to the bathroom. VIP is definitely the way to go. Too bad my stinky backpack and run down Converse dictate a drastically different destiny for me here in Mexico.

Reality came crashing in along with the sunlight that greeted us when we left Baby'O, a legendary cave-like club, giving me an immediate and extremely vivid flashback of Grits and F&M's. I somehow managed to throw everything (I think, still haven't checked) into my backpack and get to the bus station on time, where I resumed my life as a backpacking, bus-taking, broke graduate student....and everything is once again just as it should be.

On Top of the World

This past week has contained many wonders, including a plethora of cathartic experiences. The free online Merriam-Webster Dictionary attributes the following three definitions to catharsis.

1. Elimination of a complex by bringing it to consciousness and affording it expression.
2. Purification or purgation of emotions (such as pity and fear) primarily through art.
3. Purification or purgation that brings about spiritual renewal or relase from tension.

Number 1 was revealed to me through the mysticism of Tango. For those of you who don't know, I spent a blissful year of my undergraduate studies in Argentina. This is where I fell in love with many things, including empanadas, choripanes, Quilmes, a variety of men (but one in particular), and Tango. Argentina is the birthplace of Tango. Not the ballroom Tango, the street Tango. The kind of Tango that disregards societal niceties and puts you in a trance. When you watch a couple dance Tango on the streets of San Telmo, you feel like you're watching an intimate moment that isn't meant to be shared. The universe shrinks and the passion between this man and this woman is the only thing that exists and, really, the only thing that matters.

So, when my therapist BFF told me that a famous Argentine dancer was staying at the Treehouse and taking everyone to a local Milonga, I didn't think twice about inviting myself and jumping on the Tango bandwagon. Completely unphased by the fact that I was the youngest of the group by a solid 30 years, I had a blast. You can't go wrong with tequila and Tango. I entered my Tango trance and happily stayed there for the rest of the night.

Tango is kind of like a foreign language. When you don't know it, it's just a swirl of beautiful sounds and sights that inundate you without the nuissance of automatic interpretation and internal processing. It just is. It's complexity is daunting; however, once you begin to unravel its meanings and secrets, this familiarity is even more revealing and fulfilling. I never learned how to dance Tango in Argentina, but here in Mexico City I got my own personal lesson in the foyer of my B&B.

Number 2 arrived with a bang at a Mexico City gay club. I do realize that art is subjective. So when I declare that art (cathartic art at that) can be found in a pair of thongs and platform shoes on a stage in the middle of a gay club dancing to techno, I know that many people won't agree with me. Let me paint a picture. Of course, there were the obligatory (skantily-clad) male dancers on various platforms throughout the club. They were slathered with glitter and wore various costumes ranging from cheerleaders to Aztec warriors (mind you, these costumes generally consisted of enough material to construct a loincloth), with the common denominator being a pair of insanely high, clear platform shoes. And then there were the club-goers who hadn't really consolidated their look, such as the hot mess wearing a lime green apron as a top and either a very poorly constructed wig or a really bad weave which had inadvertently become dreaded due to his/her manic dancing.

But I found my catharsis in the young guy who bravely climbed onto one of the platforms in the middle of the crowd while the real dancers took a break. He was wearing a pair of skinny jeans, white suspenders, white sunglasses, and a K&B purple shirt from American Apparel, with Legalize Gay written on it in white. He danced his little heart out. His happiness and sass reached me all the way across the club in the DJ booth and put an extra shimmy in my shake.

I know I should probably explain how I ended up in the DJ booth of a gay club in Mexico City, but I don't really find it necessary.

I had to travel to Teotihuacan to find number 3. Teotihuacan is an ancient city of ruins that houses the Pyramid of the Sun, which is amazingly the third largest pyramid in the world. I have been here once before, as a young sorority girl of 18, before I considered multicultural sensitivity a virtue. It was here that I lived my most sterotypical American tourist moment. Upon hearing a language I didn't recognize that sounded quite ugly, I snidely asked my fellow classmate, What the hell language is THAT? (Except I didn't say hell, use your imagination) The perpetrator of this hideous language turned calmly, looked me square in the eye, and informed me that it was German. In perfect English. I have never been so embarassed and ashamed of my arrogance and ignorance.

I figured it was about time I returned to the scene of the crime to ask the pyramid for forgiveness, so my therapist friend and I took the metro to the Northern bus terminal and got a ticket to Teotihuacan. First class, 3 dollars, no AC. I finally made it to the top of the pyramid, found a spot overlooking the neighboring Pyramid of the Moon, and made amends. We sat up there for a few hours, watching the legions of tourists come and go and enjoying the few moments of solitude between tours. My friend breathed a sigh of contentment and remarked that it felt like we were sitting on top of the world.

The week before I left for Mexico, in the midst of chaos, stress, and extreme anxiety, I had cracked open a fortune cookie and read, Soon you will be sitting on top of the world. In that moment, that kind of serenity and peace didn't seem possible, but I'm a sucker for the impossible, so I brought it with me for good luck...along with my Maw Maw's rosary and a multi-colored bouncy ball (For some reason, I have deemed bouncy balls an omen of good luck. I almost always have one on me).

Three weeks later, it seems my Chinese fortune has come true.

The Final Frontier

Although you may not believe it, I am here for a legitimate purpose other than to watch the World Cup (I'm absolutely heartbroken over the elimination of Argentina) and to eat tacos (I'm totally digging anything al pastor), although I do take these activities very seriously. I am here in this lovely country to research my dissertation topic, which is Mexican immigration policy. I want to figure out exactly how the Mexican government is dealing with Central American migration. This means that, in addition to my aimless walks and road trips to Guadalajara, I have also been conducting interviews with various officials and accumulating a lot of new books. Very exciting stuff.

I have found that Mexicans are fantastic to interview. They are incredibly accomodating and love to talk. Therefore, the interview is the easy part. However, the logistics of getting there and finding the right person is another story completely.

My first interview was with the Instituto Nacional de Migracion (INM), which is the governmental institution charged with the application and direction of Mexican immigration policy. Due to the fact that this is my fifth time in Mexico City and I had yet to enjoy the delights of underground public transportation, I decided it was about time to take the plunge. Armed with my hand sanitizer, I descended into the abyss and emerged 25 blocks off target. After going North instead of South and East instead of West (my internal GPS is awesome), I finally pointed myself in the right direction and found the INM without asking directions. This stubborness and refusal to ask for help is not something to be proud of, but flares up often...especially when I'm lost.

I successfully and uneventfully passed through a metal detector and purse scan and then was essentially bathed in even more hand sanitizer by a very nice, and excessively armed, policeman. I haven't seen this quantity of hand sanitizer anywhere, not even in the United States, and find it interesting that I came across it in Immigration headquarters in Mexico City. I quickly signed in, trading my passport for a visitor's pass, and rushed into the elevator with at least a dozen other people. This is when I realized that there were no buttons to push to indicate the floor you want to go to. Nobody else seemed to notice or care. Randomly the doors would open and someone would exit the elevator, having magically, and without buttons, been delivered to their floor. Scared that I would be deposited on the roof if I didn't do something quickly, I finally asked where the damn buttons were and how to get to the 12th floor. The answer was to get out at the next stop and take the stairs. It's still a mystery to me. The good news is that I finally arrived and was greeted warmly by my interviewee with the question every professional woman wants to hear. Oh, so you're a girl? I couldn't even make that up.

My second interview was with a man who wishes to remain nameless and wanted to rendezvous outside the office to maintain discretion. Although I had my doubts, I agreed to meet him in a bakery downtown and was supplied with a complete description of his attire so I could easily find him. I considered bringing a rose and a copy of Pride and Prejudice, but I didn't think he would appreciate the shout out to You've Got Mail. Once again, getting there was challenging due to yet another demonstration that shut down traffic and the fact that I forgot my map. I finally found the bakery smelling like marijuana thanks to the young gentleman who decided to walk right next to me for 5 city blocks while casually smoking a joint. I just couldn't shake him.

I was greeted by Mr. grey shirt and blue tie and we proceeded to have a nice conversation over freshly squeezed orange juice. He kindly ignored the aroma of weed and I politely refrained from staring in amazement at his Elvisish hairdo. His poof had serious height, which made it difficult for him to hide as he kept ducking under the table so his colleagues wouldn't see him (the bakery he chose was literally adjacent to his office building). Needless to say, not much was achieved during this interview due to his incessant ducking and my slight buzz from the pot, but it was still highly entertaining.

Perhaps my favorite logistical adventure was when I was leaving an interview at the Colegio de Mexico. Even though the college is in Mexico City, it is still over an hour away from my neighborhood. I have found that the immense size of Mexico City often results in cabdrivers who are completely unfamiliar with large parts of the city. I have had to climb into the front seat on more than one occasion and direct my drivers, equipped with virtually no knowledge of the city and a poorly drawn map spanning 8 pages in Lonely Planet.

I finally flagged down a taxi, jumped in, and stated my destination. The cabdriver didn't even bother to turn around or take the green lollipop out of his mouth as he told me that it would probably be best if I got out and found a better informed driver. He's never even heard of the Condesa. My inner GPS immediately took offense and gave a rousing speech about embracing adventure and conquering new frontiers, completely disregarding the fact that I was once again map-less. He bravely agreed and we were off. As he pulled onto the highway, our conversation went something like this:

Taxista: Just so you know, I'm an expert in losing people

Me: You do realize you're a cabdriver, right?

Taxista: At least I'm an honest one.

Me: Amen, brother.