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.