Gana Ghana

Today was a sad day for the US, as we were prematurely eliminated from the World Cup at the hands of a weaker adversary, Ghana. I woke up this morning with butterflies in my stomach, trying to figure out the perfect place to watch the game. I pulled out my handy Lonely Planet and searched for a description resembling, "Perfect spot to watch American soccer. A dead ringer for Finn McCool's." Needless to say, I didn't find it. And since I don't really have a grip on the happenin' gringo scene in the D.F., I settled for the Zocalo, which isn't too shabby for World Cup watching.

So, once again I endured the obligatory patdown, which was a vast improvement from the last one since it was administered by a moderately attractive, only slightly plump policeman. The crowd was noticeably thinner, so I managed to secure a spot fairly close to the largest screen. However, after singing the National Anthem and then screaming "Go USA!" I looked around and realized I was the only person in the immediate vicinity that was cheering for the ole' Red, White and Blue. Kind of awkward. Sad to say, the vast majority of Mexicans were cheering for Ghana. I'm not really sure why, maybe they're still mad we eliminated them back in the 2002 World Cup, or maybe this is just their one, small payback for our militaristic philandering. Who knows.

I quickly scanned the crowd, searching for US paraphernalia. I finally spotted a USA bandana atop the head of a very tall man across the plaza and promptly walked over, introduced myself, and told him that he had a new friend for the duration of the game. He was from Dallas, and will be referred to as such...mainly because I never asked his name. Dallas had gathered a small hodgepodge of US fans, consisting of a couple from Oregan, a guy from San Diego (who, prompted by my Saints shirt, opened with the fact that he played against Reggie Bush in high school), and a shirtless Canadian who had a hard time with English and showcased a violent pelvic thrust as his token celebratory move, so I'm not really sure I believe his story. There we were, Team America, right smack in the middle of hundreds of Ghana-loving Mexicans.

I should probably mention now that I have a small problem with "talking smack" at any and every sports event. Which is humorous because my smack is backed by zero athletic ability whatsoever. It's a pretty serious problem. In fact, as accomodating as Dallas was, I immediately informed him that I could throw a football better than Tony Romo. Which we all know I can't.

So, when Ghana scored within the first seven minutes and the Mexican crowd erupted into ecstatic cheers, running circles around our little group screaming, "GANA GHANA!!" (Ghana wins), I knew things were going to get interesting. And they did. Luckily, I'm a girl and can get away with doing things like punching the man in front of me (he was toothless, he had seen worse days and was therefore very forgiving), or screaming "IN YO FACE, PENDEJOS!!!" when we scored, or starting an Argentina chant (the general consensus is that Mexico will likely lose to Argentina in an eliminating match tomorrow-but hey, all the experts could be wrong). Miraculously, they found my antics endearing. I made lots of friends.

Sadly, it was all for naught as we lost in overtime, 2-1. All I walked away with was an uneven sunburn (only the bridge of my nose, not the sides....and the sides are substantial) and an unfortunate interview with a national tv program taken during the thick of things, forever immortalizing my infamous smack talk in Mexican media history.

Table for one, please

Being alone is a wonderful and terrifying thing all at the same time. Especially when traveling.

I prefer to travel alone, I get to do what I want to do, I meet people easier, I don't have to explain myself. It's exhilerating when I'm standing in the middle of the Zocalo, swarmed by thousands of Mexicans, yelling in unison at the pinche ref that just made a bad call. It's great when I sit down at a top end restaurant filled with Mexican execs and order myself a margarita....along with an appetizer, entree (large), and dessert. And its perhaps the best when I'm just walking around the streets of Mexico City with an empowered sense of aimless purpose, listening to Irma Thomas...which is exactly what my afternoon consisted of. There's nothing better.

And yet, here I am signed into Skype as I write, hoping that someone will sign in and want to chat. Sometimes it's easy to forget that being alone is a blessing. I think it's human nature to look outward for happiness, at least it's my go-to source of instant bliss (i.e. dogs, men, Jack Daniels...). It's a lot easier than looking inward. Since I arrived, I've been on a semi-violent emotional roller coaster, vascillating erratically between absolute contentment and something a lot less than contentment that I can't really assign a word to. As much as I've looked forward to this trip in the past few months, during the past week (despite all its Mexican glories), an annoying little thought keeps creeping into my head. Really? Is this really only day #2??? Part of it is just the inevitable adjustment period, transitioning from a sweet pad in Lakeview to an austere Mexico City hostel. But the other part of it is me forgetting to embrace my solitude. Not to worry, Irma and I worked it out over a few city blocks. Won't happen again.

So, the evening of Day 5 (aka Friday night) hearby consists of me, Frank Sinatra, and a newly downloaded copy of Eat, Pray, Love. Kindle for PC is a wonderful thing. That's right, I'm also embracing my dorkiness.

As is evident, I tend to get a bit pensive while traveling. You'll come to tolerate, if not love, my philosophical rants.


*This post wouldn't be complete without a picture of my dog, Erica, taken during our last Skype session. She obviously wasn't all that into it.

The Mundial in Mexico

Mexicans are a very passionate people. This I know from a handful of romantic encounters with Mexican men. A modest handful. Their propensity for passion reigns supreme for many things, soccer included, which is why I love to watch the World Cup from Mexico. This year is even better because FIFA decided to set up an official FIFA Fan Fest in Mexico City (1 of 6 in the world, outside of South Africa). This means that the Zocalo (main square in Mexico City) is transformed into a massive viewing party. Thousands of people, vendors, mariachis, and policemen fill it to capacity. So yesterday I joined in with the masses, instantly becoming the sole representative of caucasian females. After my thorough patdown (which could have been enjoyable if not performed by a large woman sporting a moustache), I settled in to watch Mexico vs. Uruguay. I found a place wedged in between a mullet and very enamorous teenage couple. Seemed fitting.

For the next 90 minutes, I cheered and breathed along with the thousands of Mexicans who live and die for the Tricolor, both out of support and neccessity. It was so packed that if the mullet jumped, so did I, which is more tiring than you would think. The man had some serious spring in his legs. The frisky teenagers thankfully did their own thing. In the end Mexico lost, but still qualified to move on. The next game is on Sunday against Argentina, which presents quite a problem for me due to my afore mentioned identity issues.

As a treat, I decided to wrap up the day with an ice cream cone and an evening stroll, which sounds a lot more relaxing than it turned out to be. For those of you who don't know, trying to navigate an ice cream cone in a light, yet steady, drizzle is not an easy thing to do. And it certainly isn't attractive. However, despite my (temporary?) lack of sex appeal, I still managed to draw the attention of a young Mexican eager for some love. Due to the fact that I was intently focused on my ice cream cone, I pretended that I didn't speak Spanish. However, this did not deter him, which shouldn't have surprised me. If the ice cream debacle didn't scare him off, a tiny little thing like a language barrier surely wouldn't throw him off his game. He proceeded to accompany me on my walk and practice his English with me. He turned out to be a decent kid, and I quickly became convinced that I was racking up some serious bad karma for not being truthful. The guilt lasted until he asked if I had plans for the evening, then the pathological lying began. Yes, I have a boyfriend. In fact, he's waiting at the hostel to take me to dinner and then dancing. Yes, also from the United States. Tall, dark, and handsome. We parted ways with a kiss on the hand and one last attempt to get me to ditch my boyfriend. Not in a million years. I was quite convincing, maybe too convincing. In fact, I don't know who was more heartbroken by the interaction. The young Mexican buck who lost out on a gringa's love, or me when I walked into the hostel and realized that there would be no dinner. And definitely no dancing.

Descending Upon the Sinking City

There are two things that amaze me every time I fly into Mexico City: its size and subsequent pollution. Massive skyscrapers and brightly painted buildings saturate the landscape and fill the Valley of Mexico; a sight that would impress even the most seasoned traveler. And then there's the thick veil of smog that blankets the city and quickly tarnishes the initial majesty. One second you're on top of the world, surrounded by blue skies. The next second you're immersed in a bleak, dull grey. Just like that.

I am now at ground level with the filth. The good news is that you kind of forget that you're breathing in constant contamination when you can't see the contrast of bright blue and grey. Delusion coupled with a short memory is a wonderful thing (especially for politicians). I somehow survived the cab ride into town which consisted of several near crashes, a rousing Mariachi number, and an intense game of Guess My Nationality with the cab driver- he couldn't guess but I quickly forgave him as we bonded over our mutual love of beer and the World Cup. Apparently I give off a somewhat ambiguous sense of national identity, which was a blessing during the W administration, but is now starting to concern me. It's also something I should probably think about as I cheer for the Mexican soccer team in my Argentina jersey...

Now I've made it to paradise, aka the hostel that will be my home for the next week. Mexico City Hostel. It's a beaut- sleek concrete walls and sensor lights that turn off way too quickly while you're in the shower. I don't know what I'm enjoying most: the Bob Marley blaring in the background, the champagne popping (I know, strange combination for hostel-dwellers. And no, I'm not partaking- I only know of its existence because the cork just came flying past me and hit the wall over my head as I diligently type my blog post. Not my coolest moment.), or the slow realization that I'm definitively too old to be staying here.

Despite the lack of amenities and anxiety about the mattress I'll be sleeping on tonight, I couldn't be happier. I'm in Mexico, which is more than enough for me. Now if I can just remember to throw the toilet paper in the garbage can I'll be as good as gold.