Luis arrives 15 minutes late to pick me up from the gym (it's a Mexican thing, 15 mins). Waiting outside is freezing and boring so I say 'hello' in a tone, and answer 'yes' to 'have you been waiting long?'. What is happening to my easy-going laid-back Aussie charm??
His bar of choice is a block from his parents house. So, his house. I'm dating someone who lives with his parents (which isn't a source of shame here, it's the norm) so, he decides to park his car there and we walk.
Luis comments that my hair has changed and before I have a chance to tell him I hated it at first but it's really growing on me, he tells me it's "not that bad".
I mention how thankful I am just to have hair, and he replies that he doesn't care that he's going bald.
He's moving to Australia next year, so over our beer he does a bit of research about meal times and what we eat etc. Leisure activites, bars.. and then,
"So in bars do the men usually approach the women, or the other way around?"
Pause.
"We're on a date and you're asking me how to pick up women in Australia?"
In revenge I tell him there's noone between the age of 17 and 45 in Adelaide so it doesn't matter. He mentions he likes older women. So I tell him, that's lucky what with him being bald and everything.
We have just got stuck into the issue of Luis openly rubber-necking hot women when he's with me, when the bill arrives. Well, if he's going to be a macho latino.. he can be one all the way and pay for my beer, thankyou very much. I give him a look that sums up that thought in one raised eyebrow, and he pulls out his wallet and pays.
Turns out there's a bit of Latina in all of us....
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
THE NIGHT BEFORE .. THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Night of 23rd December: Posada. I wasn't quite sure what to make of the word (sounds like food to me), but it's something about singing and doing things to remember Mary and Joseph's quest for a place to stay.
We head to Ara's family's street for the night. It kicks off (in a turn-up for the books) on the dot of 8pm as scheduled. We emerge from injecting the turkey with white wine in the kitchen - if I'd known working with syringes was so fun I would have become a doctor - to find all the neighbours walking up and down the street. Two of them are carrying a platform with statues of Mary, Joseph and an angel. Everyone is singing.
Is the donkey trying to bite the angel?
For some reason, tonight is the night the electricity system has decided to crash, so it's all pitch black aside from polystyrene cups with candles burning through the sides and one portable florescent light that adds a slightly 21st century feel to proceedings.
This is a serious business. For the next hour we act out the search for a room. The songs have lyrics that are printed out in a Posada song book and the group splits in two. Half go behind the gate/door of a given property and the other half stand outside singing, "In the name of heaven, don't be inhumane, we're exhausted, I'm a carpenter called Jose".
The people behind the gate sing, "Keep going, I don't have to open up, I don't care what your name is".
And so it goes, back and forth, door to door. At one point the outside group hatches a plan to run away while the inside group is still singing and much hilarity ensues.
Finally we settle on a place, which has four piñatas.. and a steady stream of kids don blindfolds and wildly swing something like a baseball bat dangerously close to cars and spectators. When I say kids, I mean anyone up to the age of 35, so yes, I had a go. I was a bit worried about my new jeans falling down in the middle of my efforts but they made it. Must remember to wear a belt in future.
Fruit falls out and everyone scrambles.
Hot ponche circulates, it's a fruit drink that takes a day to prepare. Tostadas. Sandwiches. Other stuff.
Then we go upstairs where everyone chats and dances. The matriache is old and lost her vocal chords somewhere along the path of life. She is an absolute delight and we sit right in front of the speakers, each trying to decipher what the other is saying. She has turned out a family of beauties, and they all dance around her and later she jigs along. Until 2am.
After 5 farewells (it's a tradition to say goodbye and then keep talking) we finally head across the road for some rest. Tomorrow's a big day.
We head to Ara's family's street for the night. It kicks off (in a turn-up for the books) on the dot of 8pm as scheduled. We emerge from injecting the turkey with white wine in the kitchen - if I'd known working with syringes was so fun I would have become a doctor - to find all the neighbours walking up and down the street. Two of them are carrying a platform with statues of Mary, Joseph and an angel. Everyone is singing.
Is the donkey trying to bite the angel?
For some reason, tonight is the night the electricity system has decided to crash, so it's all pitch black aside from polystyrene cups with candles burning through the sides and one portable florescent light that adds a slightly 21st century feel to proceedings.
This is a serious business. For the next hour we act out the search for a room. The songs have lyrics that are printed out in a Posada song book and the group splits in two. Half go behind the gate/door of a given property and the other half stand outside singing, "In the name of heaven, don't be inhumane, we're exhausted, I'm a carpenter called Jose".
The people behind the gate sing, "Keep going, I don't have to open up, I don't care what your name is".
And so it goes, back and forth, door to door. At one point the outside group hatches a plan to run away while the inside group is still singing and much hilarity ensues.
Finally we settle on a place, which has four piñatas.. and a steady stream of kids don blindfolds and wildly swing something like a baseball bat dangerously close to cars and spectators. When I say kids, I mean anyone up to the age of 35, so yes, I had a go. I was a bit worried about my new jeans falling down in the middle of my efforts but they made it. Must remember to wear a belt in future.
Fruit falls out and everyone scrambles.
Hot ponche circulates, it's a fruit drink that takes a day to prepare. Tostadas. Sandwiches. Other stuff.
Then we go upstairs where everyone chats and dances. The matriache is old and lost her vocal chords somewhere along the path of life. She is an absolute delight and we sit right in front of the speakers, each trying to decipher what the other is saying. She has turned out a family of beauties, and they all dance around her and later she jigs along. Until 2am.
After 5 farewells (it's a tradition to say goodbye and then keep talking) we finally head across the road for some rest. Tomorrow's a big day.
Friday, December 22, 2006
LEARNING THE RULES
I have studiously ignored Ara's strongly-worded advice not to go out with Luis again, due to his bill-splitting tendencies, and am preparing myself for a night out in a surprise location.
Ara is showing signs of distress, so I get a fifth opinion from her visiting friend Yvonne (I've already sussed it out with a few Mexicanas, they all agree)
They both start shaking their pointer fingers and saying 'no no no no no' in a descending tone.
As I don black tights and top under little black dress with little green flat shoes and scarf of various shades, Ara and Yvonne start dispensing emergency advice. ALL Mexican men have been EDUCATED to pay, it is unthinkable to let the woman pay in the first dates and he is 'aprovechando' the fact that I am a gringa.
(Aprovechar is a great, handy verb that means 'make the most of')
When the bill comes, I MUST go to the toilet or if I have gone to the toilet recently, just keep talking. Only if he asks for money should I pretend I have completely forgotten about the bill and comply with a smile.
This goes against every grain in me... whaaaaat? How do you just sit there and watch someone pay the bill without feeling like a tightarse yourself?
No, they say, this is about respect. And Ara adds that if I offer him money, I have to buy her dinner. It's a bet that she's just unilaterally installed.
When I arrive to the car, Luis informs me I look like a ballerina (was it the tights??)(or did I go anorexic overnight without noticing?) and we set off.
We arrive at a club called La Perla, he pays my entry. So far, so good.
It's fantastic. Lots of red, lots of silver... retro chairs. Kind of like the hamburger joint John Travolta and Uma Thurman went in Pulp Fiction, but without the car booths... Hmmm, what am I trying to say? Lots of stainless steel and vinyl but with a Mexican feel, 60s Mexican music. The DJ is about a hundred, he's long and stringy and wears a tailored suit. A cigarette permanently dangles out of his mouth, dancing around as he sings. The owner zips around, also very old and in a diamond-checked vest.
"If a place can completely sum up someone's personality," Luis says, "This is mine".
Only in the bathroom when I come across someone with a lot of glitter on their fake eyelashes do I realise we're in a drag joint.
Is Luis trying to tell me something?
We dance. I walk past a table with two gay guys and one of them grabs me and starts speaking very quickly. All I can gather is that something about me is 'the best'. I'm pretty sure he's referring to my dancing, so I thank him profusely and move on before I can find out that he's actually referring to the best ballerina outfit or something.
Next thing we know, there are heaps of strangely-dressed people doing movements that vaguely resemble those of the person beside them. The women are wearing practically nothing, the men embroidered satin shirts.
Then the drag queens come out. Shakira is big-boned and very, very ugly. A large black wo-man shakes her arse like there's no tomorrow. There's I Will Survive (of course) and a duet involving a bald man fondling a transexual.
The surgery is amazing. Some of these women have really good breasts. One of them looks a bit like Michael Jackson.
Then they disappear and there's salsa music. Luis propels me around to some private beat of his own, until the gay guy (introduced as Olivier) grabs me and informs me 'my boyfriend' is wasting me. He's actually very good, but when the third song starts and he's still got me in a lynch grip I start worrying about Luis.
His friend goes over to explain the situation, and Oliver finally lets me go, but spends another ten minutes explaining he hasn't intended any distress to 'my boyfriend'.
When they finally leave, Luis explains that it's not normal to ask a girl to dance when she's out with a man.. but why Olivier thought that Luis would be threatened I'm not sure.
When the DJ can't seem to get past his Bee Gees record, Luis orders the bill and without so much as a look, pays it. Pity, I really needed to go to the toilet.
Ara is showing signs of distress, so I get a fifth opinion from her visiting friend Yvonne (I've already sussed it out with a few Mexicanas, they all agree)
They both start shaking their pointer fingers and saying 'no no no no no' in a descending tone.
As I don black tights and top under little black dress with little green flat shoes and scarf of various shades, Ara and Yvonne start dispensing emergency advice. ALL Mexican men have been EDUCATED to pay, it is unthinkable to let the woman pay in the first dates and he is 'aprovechando' the fact that I am a gringa.
(Aprovechar is a great, handy verb that means 'make the most of')
When the bill comes, I MUST go to the toilet or if I have gone to the toilet recently, just keep talking. Only if he asks for money should I pretend I have completely forgotten about the bill and comply with a smile.
This goes against every grain in me... whaaaaat? How do you just sit there and watch someone pay the bill without feeling like a tightarse yourself?
No, they say, this is about respect. And Ara adds that if I offer him money, I have to buy her dinner. It's a bet that she's just unilaterally installed.
When I arrive to the car, Luis informs me I look like a ballerina (was it the tights??)(or did I go anorexic overnight without noticing?) and we set off.
We arrive at a club called La Perla, he pays my entry. So far, so good.
It's fantastic. Lots of red, lots of silver... retro chairs. Kind of like the hamburger joint John Travolta and Uma Thurman went in Pulp Fiction, but without the car booths... Hmmm, what am I trying to say? Lots of stainless steel and vinyl but with a Mexican feel, 60s Mexican music. The DJ is about a hundred, he's long and stringy and wears a tailored suit. A cigarette permanently dangles out of his mouth, dancing around as he sings. The owner zips around, also very old and in a diamond-checked vest.
"If a place can completely sum up someone's personality," Luis says, "This is mine".
Only in the bathroom when I come across someone with a lot of glitter on their fake eyelashes do I realise we're in a drag joint.
Is Luis trying to tell me something?
We dance. I walk past a table with two gay guys and one of them grabs me and starts speaking very quickly. All I can gather is that something about me is 'the best'. I'm pretty sure he's referring to my dancing, so I thank him profusely and move on before I can find out that he's actually referring to the best ballerina outfit or something.
Next thing we know, there are heaps of strangely-dressed people doing movements that vaguely resemble those of the person beside them. The women are wearing practically nothing, the men embroidered satin shirts.
Then the drag queens come out. Shakira is big-boned and very, very ugly. A large black wo-man shakes her arse like there's no tomorrow. There's I Will Survive (of course) and a duet involving a bald man fondling a transexual.
The surgery is amazing. Some of these women have really good breasts. One of them looks a bit like Michael Jackson.
Then they disappear and there's salsa music. Luis propels me around to some private beat of his own, until the gay guy (introduced as Olivier) grabs me and informs me 'my boyfriend' is wasting me. He's actually very good, but when the third song starts and he's still got me in a lynch grip I start worrying about Luis.
His friend goes over to explain the situation, and Oliver finally lets me go, but spends another ten minutes explaining he hasn't intended any distress to 'my boyfriend'.
When they finally leave, Luis explains that it's not normal to ask a girl to dance when she's out with a man.. but why Olivier thought that Luis would be threatened I'm not sure.
When the DJ can't seem to get past his Bee Gees record, Luis orders the bill and without so much as a look, pays it. Pity, I really needed to go to the toilet.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
I LIKE MY TWIST WITH A SHOUT
Going to the movies on your own is one thing.
Going to a rock concert alone is completely another.
Technically, I didn't. The Killers, Mexico City, December 13: Sarali and Pablo have taken me there, both of them equipped with tickets for the main floor section, me equipped with money to buy scalped tickets for the main floor section.
When I discover the Mexican scalpers here are just as bad as Australian ones, and prices for that section have tripled to around $200, I decide to shell out $45 to a guy whose friends have cancelled and hope that the seated C4 section is not somewhere behind the stage. From now he will be refered to as The Tall Guy.
I strike off on my own, buy a beer (it comes in one-litre paper cups here), buy a water (another paper cup) and then make the mistake of buying a donut. Apart from the unmanagable flavour combination, there was the small issue of not having four hands (one more to keep showing the ticket to people in the neverending sequence of doors).
I make it to my section with minimal spillage, find my seat and look around. Hmmmm. Three rows behind me, empty. Three rows in front of me, empty. All the seats stretching off to either side of my, empty. There I am, with my various refreshments, feeling quite in the middle of a wide, open space.
I sit down, give myself a little pep talk about this being just a 'different' experience and really, you don't get to talk to your friends during live music anyway, you're just standing with them, that's all.
Still no people.
I look down at the people in the fun zone. Someone throws a cup of beer 20 metres onto a guy who extends a finger in the general direction of where the cup originated. Everyone is waving to each other, finding their friends, talking. On the big screen, the camera zones in on one person until they realise and wave, before moving onto someone else.
This goes on for 40 minutes. Rivetting viewing. Noone thinks to flash.
The area around me gradually fills. I attempt conversation with the girl who has bought the other ticket the guy was selling, and she's either hostile or shy. Or racist. Actually, that would put her in the hostile category, wouldn't it?
Finally, thank the Lord, there is a loud drum beat that reverberates through my ribcage and fills me with that glorious, swelling live music feeling.
It's one of the sound guys doing a test.
And then, when I have almost run out of pep-talk momentum... the music starts.
I immediately transform from vaguely-self-aware-mute to rabid-screaming-fan (who knows most of the lyrics) The Tall Guy materialises and like me he is bellowing words that sometimes coincide with what's being blasted out of the speakers. Between us we pep our whole section into action. The hostile girl is even raising her arm and omitting intermittent sound.
Brandon sings and sweats his way through Sam's Town, then the prelude, then When You Were Young and then produces "Bienvenidos". The crowd goes wild.
Whatever he produces next though, is open to question. Noone is sure what language he has spoken, or what the general message is... which cures him of talking for the rest of the show.
Palacio Deportes (Palace of Sport) is more affectionately known to Mexicans as Palacio Rebotes (Palace of Bounce) in reference to the sound dynamics and yes, the beginning of Jenny Was A Friend of Mine is unrecognisable. The tambourine in Indie Rock And Roll is absent.
WHO CARES????? This is the best show EVER!!!!
The difficulty is jumping up and down in the seated section without falling down the crack behind the chair in front. The Tall Guy secures a deal with that chair's occupant that I can use it to put one of my feet, despite the fact that my beer doesn't always stay in its cup.
But for serious jumping, I just steady myself using The Tall Guy's shoulder.
I can see the profile of a guy three rows in front, who is also singing to many of the words. I love watching Spanish speakers singing in English, because the words don't always match. And both of us do that thing where, if you don't know the words, you just move your mouth in a generic fashion.
My neighbours are screaming something that sounds like 'a-wim-ba-way' - are they requesting the jungle song?
The Tall Guy explains that they're actually screaming 'Oevo-wey' which he loosely translates to 'Fuck Yeah'.
My job of explaining the title Glamorous Indie Rock'n'Roll is a bit more difficult.
And then, after what seems like five minutes... All These Things That I Have Done is over, and they are leaving the stage.
Inevitably they return, Brandon utters his only other spoken words "This is a Killers goodbye" (for someone who writes such interesting lyrics, he's really not holding up with the light banter), they sing the Exitlude and Dave the Drummer throws no less than 10 drumsticks into the audience. One of them, he throws so far I suspect he might have a career in javalin after music, if he's not too busy fighting a civil action for personal injury arising from a high-velocity drumstick incident, December 13 Mexico City.
Then, the lights are on and I find myself kissing the hostile/shy girl goodbye, hugging The Tall Guy, and being swept by a sea of singing Mexicans out onto the street.
"I've got this energy beneath my feet - like something underground's gonna come up and carry me."
The Killers, Sam's Town
Going to a rock concert alone is completely another.
Technically, I didn't. The Killers, Mexico City, December 13: Sarali and Pablo have taken me there, both of them equipped with tickets for the main floor section, me equipped with money to buy scalped tickets for the main floor section.
When I discover the Mexican scalpers here are just as bad as Australian ones, and prices for that section have tripled to around $200, I decide to shell out $45 to a guy whose friends have cancelled and hope that the seated C4 section is not somewhere behind the stage. From now he will be refered to as The Tall Guy.
I strike off on my own, buy a beer (it comes in one-litre paper cups here), buy a water (another paper cup) and then make the mistake of buying a donut. Apart from the unmanagable flavour combination, there was the small issue of not having four hands (one more to keep showing the ticket to people in the neverending sequence of doors).
I make it to my section with minimal spillage, find my seat and look around. Hmmmm. Three rows behind me, empty. Three rows in front of me, empty. All the seats stretching off to either side of my, empty. There I am, with my various refreshments, feeling quite in the middle of a wide, open space.
I sit down, give myself a little pep talk about this being just a 'different' experience and really, you don't get to talk to your friends during live music anyway, you're just standing with them, that's all.
Still no people.
I look down at the people in the fun zone. Someone throws a cup of beer 20 metres onto a guy who extends a finger in the general direction of where the cup originated. Everyone is waving to each other, finding their friends, talking. On the big screen, the camera zones in on one person until they realise and wave, before moving onto someone else.
This goes on for 40 minutes. Rivetting viewing. Noone thinks to flash.
The area around me gradually fills. I attempt conversation with the girl who has bought the other ticket the guy was selling, and she's either hostile or shy. Or racist. Actually, that would put her in the hostile category, wouldn't it?
Finally, thank the Lord, there is a loud drum beat that reverberates through my ribcage and fills me with that glorious, swelling live music feeling.
It's one of the sound guys doing a test.
And then, when I have almost run out of pep-talk momentum... the music starts.
I immediately transform from vaguely-self-aware-mute to rabid-screaming-fan (who knows most of the lyrics) The Tall Guy materialises and like me he is bellowing words that sometimes coincide with what's being blasted out of the speakers. Between us we pep our whole section into action. The hostile girl is even raising her arm and omitting intermittent sound.
Brandon sings and sweats his way through Sam's Town, then the prelude, then When You Were Young and then produces "Bienvenidos". The crowd goes wild.
Whatever he produces next though, is open to question. Noone is sure what language he has spoken, or what the general message is... which cures him of talking for the rest of the show.
Palacio Deportes (Palace of Sport) is more affectionately known to Mexicans as Palacio Rebotes (Palace of Bounce) in reference to the sound dynamics and yes, the beginning of Jenny Was A Friend of Mine is unrecognisable. The tambourine in Indie Rock And Roll is absent.
WHO CARES????? This is the best show EVER!!!!
The difficulty is jumping up and down in the seated section without falling down the crack behind the chair in front. The Tall Guy secures a deal with that chair's occupant that I can use it to put one of my feet, despite the fact that my beer doesn't always stay in its cup.
But for serious jumping, I just steady myself using The Tall Guy's shoulder.
I can see the profile of a guy three rows in front, who is also singing to many of the words. I love watching Spanish speakers singing in English, because the words don't always match. And both of us do that thing where, if you don't know the words, you just move your mouth in a generic fashion.
My neighbours are screaming something that sounds like 'a-wim-ba-way' - are they requesting the jungle song?
The Tall Guy explains that they're actually screaming 'Oevo-wey' which he loosely translates to 'Fuck Yeah'.
My job of explaining the title Glamorous Indie Rock'n'Roll is a bit more difficult.
And then, after what seems like five minutes... All These Things That I Have Done is over, and they are leaving the stage.
Inevitably they return, Brandon utters his only other spoken words "This is a Killers goodbye" (for someone who writes such interesting lyrics, he's really not holding up with the light banter), they sing the Exitlude and Dave the Drummer throws no less than 10 drumsticks into the audience. One of them, he throws so far I suspect he might have a career in javalin after music, if he's not too busy fighting a civil action for personal injury arising from a high-velocity drumstick incident, December 13 Mexico City.
Then, the lights are on and I find myself kissing the hostile/shy girl goodbye, hugging The Tall Guy, and being swept by a sea of singing Mexicans out onto the street.
"I've got this energy beneath my feet - like something underground's gonna come up and carry me."
The Killers, Sam's Town
Monday, December 11, 2006
FINDING MY VIRGIN ... (ity)
I have never reeeally understood the Catholic fascination with Mary. It's kind of like thanking the postie for a gift you got in the mail, rather than the person who sent it.
But nevertheless, this day - the birthday of The Virgin of Guadalupe - is as important to many Catholics here as Navidad. And it is a sight to behold.
The story goes like this: after the conquest, Mexico's indigenous population wasn't taking up Catholocism as quickly as the conquistadores would have hoped (due to that fact that they already had their own religion).
Then, one day in 1531 an indigenous man called Juan Diego was walking along when the virgin appeared to him and told him to take roses to the Bishop. She was 'morena' - brown-skinned - and is thought to be a manifestation of the virgin in the Americas and the indigenous goddess Tonantzin, kind of mixed in together.
Despite roses not being in season he found some (miracle), gathered them in his cloak and took them to the abbey at which point a picture of the Virgin appeared on the cloak. To this day it hangs in the basilica and everyone prays to it.
Thousands of people from all over the country head to the Basilica La Villa for December 12th. I went today because by tomorrow there are too many people to even get near the place. These people have walked the hundreds of kilometres from their towns, or in an interesting twist: ridden their bicycles.
I want to know when the wheel got introduced to religious rituals.. wonderful.
I talked to one man from Guadalajara ... which is 12 hours away by bus. He and 30 of his friends had ridden for four days, resting in the heat of the day and a bit at night. He must have been about 60 and he was a delight, despite the fact that I could only understand about half of what he was saying. He was a 'fast-talker'.
Then, after all that walking or riding, some people do the final hundred metres or so over the stone paving ... on their knees.
There are people in masks dancing, some of them carrying dead weasels (???) and even some people dressed up as clowns. That'd be a tribute to the little-known clown who appeared to Mary while God was talking to Joseph.
It got me thinking, we think Christmas is a marathon effort because of epic journeys to the shopping centre to to battle for carparks before taking on the crowds. Here's it's a three-day walk to line up for hours in order to honour Mary. Kind of the same thing except our deity is capitalism, and here... it's... well, it's the reason for the season.
Did I just use not only an americanism, but a christian americanism??
Thursday, December 07, 2006
NEXT OF SKIN...
Today was weird: in a first since high-school, I 'got in trouble'.
More on that in a moment.
Three times a week I accompany Ara to the profilactis class. As far as I know, profilactis means 'prevention' and frankly, it's a bit late for that. So I just call it 'ante-natal' and roll up for the 2.5 hours Wed, Thurs and Sat.
The woman who takes the class hates me. In return, I have a strong aversion to her and her claims that 'there is no pain in labor, it's all here (pointing to head)'.
Um, what about your pelvis splitting in half to let something akin to a rockmelon through??
She's convinced everyone in the class that epidurals are OUT OF BOUNDS, because everything has to be 'natural'... instead, the whole class is having their babies in water. If you have an epidural, you can't have the skin on skin contact with your child after labor (because they take you away somewhere else to recover from the drugs) and that's a fate worse than death.
But then tonight she informed us the boys should have circumcisions because it's more heigenic and 'bonito' (pretty).
HELLO??? Did someone says "21st century"??
What's 'natural' about slicing half the kid's penis off within hours of his entry into the world? (most of a new-born's appendage is the foreskin) 'Skin on skin' is pretty cold comfort when he's just experienced 'scalpal on foreskin'.
I completely respect the right of parents to let religious texts written in a time when plumbing and soap hadn't been invented over-ride their own rational analysis of the fact that there's a reason for everything in our body (except the spleen.... and maybe earlobes .....oh, and nipples on males - but by Jeez we don't start hacking them off as soon as we're finished with the umbilical chord, do we?) - but for non-practicing people... whaaat?
I had rushed from the gym to ante-natal class without time to eat.. the teacher did relaxation exercises, turned off the lights, put on videos of women giving birth with Coldplay soundtrack including such lyrics as 'Nobody said it was easy, it's such a shame for us to part... let's go back to the start'.
What? - put it back up there?? There's one song that'll never sound quite the same again.
So there we are, sprawled all over the floor on our beanbags and cushions, when (without turning on the lights) she wheels in a doctor who was nice, but completely incomprehensible. It seemed as if he'd taken his hand-writing, and verbalised it.
And somehow it was MY fault that I feel asleep? Apparently, I made HER feel 'fea' (ugly) (there were no mirrors nearby, I checked) for inattention to the doctor.
I wasn't even asleep, I was just listening with my eyes closed.
I would have told her to turn the f&#^ing light on if she wants a conscious audience, but Ara says I lose the power of Spanish when I'm angry.
Below is the photo evidence of an exercise we did so that the 'papas' can 'understand how it feels'.
My immaculate gestation was aided by 5 kilos of rice, which was delivered later that night.
She's right, there's no pain at all. Now I understand.
More on that in a moment.
Three times a week I accompany Ara to the profilactis class. As far as I know, profilactis means 'prevention' and frankly, it's a bit late for that. So I just call it 'ante-natal' and roll up for the 2.5 hours Wed, Thurs and Sat.
The woman who takes the class hates me. In return, I have a strong aversion to her and her claims that 'there is no pain in labor, it's all here (pointing to head)'.
Um, what about your pelvis splitting in half to let something akin to a rockmelon through??
She's convinced everyone in the class that epidurals are OUT OF BOUNDS, because everything has to be 'natural'... instead, the whole class is having their babies in water. If you have an epidural, you can't have the skin on skin contact with your child after labor (because they take you away somewhere else to recover from the drugs) and that's a fate worse than death.
But then tonight she informed us the boys should have circumcisions because it's more heigenic and 'bonito' (pretty).
HELLO??? Did someone says "21st century"??
What's 'natural' about slicing half the kid's penis off within hours of his entry into the world? (most of a new-born's appendage is the foreskin) 'Skin on skin' is pretty cold comfort when he's just experienced 'scalpal on foreskin'.
I completely respect the right of parents to let religious texts written in a time when plumbing and soap hadn't been invented over-ride their own rational analysis of the fact that there's a reason for everything in our body (except the spleen.... and maybe earlobes .....oh, and nipples on males - but by Jeez we don't start hacking them off as soon as we're finished with the umbilical chord, do we?) - but for non-practicing people... whaaat?
I had rushed from the gym to ante-natal class without time to eat.. the teacher did relaxation exercises, turned off the lights, put on videos of women giving birth with Coldplay soundtrack including such lyrics as 'Nobody said it was easy, it's such a shame for us to part... let's go back to the start'.
What? - put it back up there?? There's one song that'll never sound quite the same again.
So there we are, sprawled all over the floor on our beanbags and cushions, when (without turning on the lights) she wheels in a doctor who was nice, but completely incomprehensible. It seemed as if he'd taken his hand-writing, and verbalised it.
And somehow it was MY fault that I feel asleep? Apparently, I made HER feel 'fea' (ugly) (there were no mirrors nearby, I checked) for inattention to the doctor.
I wasn't even asleep, I was just listening with my eyes closed.
I would have told her to turn the f&#^ing light on if she wants a conscious audience, but Ara says I lose the power of Spanish when I'm angry.
Below is the photo evidence of an exercise we did so that the 'papas' can 'understand how it feels'.
My immaculate gestation was aided by 5 kilos of rice, which was delivered later that night.
She's right, there's no pain at all. Now I understand.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
THE TRIPLE-SIDED COIN
Today was one of those 'what the f@#* have I done?' days.
Fresh in my mind were email reports from the team of Friday afternoon Bollinger and glowing reviews of my old show (you know, Michelle Crowther's conversation hour... .with Richard Fidler) from the nation's movers and shakers... upcoming work trips to Sydney.
At this end I have a limited social life and fast-dwindling resources... and have just discovered the difference between speaking Spanish, and speaking Spanish.
Well, I guess going from communicating for a living, to just living ..for.. to.. comunicate (gracelessly, with little brainpower left for anything else) was always going to be... um, depressing.
Parties, that's the kicker. When everyone standing around you is laughing at a joke you didn't even know had been made... what with the background noise, music.. slang. Do you know that not having access to everything you want to say completely changes your personality? I notice people really en-unc-iat-ing and then looking over my shoulder. Awful.
Went to a party at 2am the other night, wall-to-wall with Mexico's beautiful, TALL men. I have been wondering where they were. Virtually no women. Sounds like a dream, hey?
Gay, all of them. Gay and straight don't seem to mix here, I think it's a macho thing.
Anyone who wanted to write a thesis suggesting gay is actually a higher level of human evolution would be best off coming here (if the premise was that higher evolution is measured by beauty, income, habitation and dress sense).
I was sniffed out by the only straight man in the place, turns out his presence was only due to the perils of party-crashing... he'd bluffed his way though the security doors and was nose-to-shoulder with the Latino love gods before he realised.
So he grabbed one of the only three women there. Needless to say, I'm flattered.
We went dancing at midnight a few days later, but Ara says I can never go out with him again because he didn't pay the whole bill. It seems that that's the upside of living in a macho culture - if a guy wants to do you, he has to buy the food/drinks. I am not sure whether to operate within the laws of the country of habitation... or capitalise on the gains made by feminism and assert my right to go broke even more quickly.
I am starting to wonder about Ara's bill-paying theory though, because I have a hundred percent hit-rate of men-who-split-the-bill. Two out of two is bad, thankyou Meatloaf.
As for where the beautiful men are the rest of the time... they seem to be at the gym (which I have joined)(no causal link). The gym doctor - that's right, you read correctly, we're talking about the sort of gym fees that could fund your child's education - has informed me I have to lose 3.6 kilos in order to be 'perfecto'. I didn't have the heart to tell him it'd all come off my 'boobies' and not my 'cadera'... and therefore 'perfecto' would just be 'pera' (pear-shaped)
So, it looks like at the end of this whole saga I may just end up skinny (gym + no money to buy food - social life, drinking etc) and bi-lingual.
ps. given that Britney Spears is the most searched person on the internet, if I put the words 'Britney Spears' and 'Vagina' in my blog... does that make it more accessible in google? Ssomething about the more hits/keywords... it's a complex algorithm I don't have time to explain - as I would have to google it first, in order to do so.
Fresh in my mind were email reports from the team of Friday afternoon Bollinger and glowing reviews of my old show (you know, Michelle Crowther's conversation hour... .with Richard Fidler) from the nation's movers and shakers... upcoming work trips to Sydney.
At this end I have a limited social life and fast-dwindling resources... and have just discovered the difference between speaking Spanish, and speaking Spanish.
Well, I guess going from communicating for a living, to just living ..for.. to.. comunicate (gracelessly, with little brainpower left for anything else) was always going to be... um, depressing.
Parties, that's the kicker. When everyone standing around you is laughing at a joke you didn't even know had been made... what with the background noise, music.. slang. Do you know that not having access to everything you want to say completely changes your personality? I notice people really en-unc-iat-ing and then looking over my shoulder. Awful.
Went to a party at 2am the other night, wall-to-wall with Mexico's beautiful, TALL men. I have been wondering where they were. Virtually no women. Sounds like a dream, hey?
Gay, all of them. Gay and straight don't seem to mix here, I think it's a macho thing.
Anyone who wanted to write a thesis suggesting gay is actually a higher level of human evolution would be best off coming here (if the premise was that higher evolution is measured by beauty, income, habitation and dress sense).
I was sniffed out by the only straight man in the place, turns out his presence was only due to the perils of party-crashing... he'd bluffed his way though the security doors and was nose-to-shoulder with the Latino love gods before he realised.
So he grabbed one of the only three women there. Needless to say, I'm flattered.
We went dancing at midnight a few days later, but Ara says I can never go out with him again because he didn't pay the whole bill. It seems that that's the upside of living in a macho culture - if a guy wants to do you, he has to buy the food/drinks. I am not sure whether to operate within the laws of the country of habitation... or capitalise on the gains made by feminism and assert my right to go broke even more quickly.
I am starting to wonder about Ara's bill-paying theory though, because I have a hundred percent hit-rate of men-who-split-the-bill. Two out of two is bad, thankyou Meatloaf.
As for where the beautiful men are the rest of the time... they seem to be at the gym (which I have joined)(no causal link). The gym doctor - that's right, you read correctly, we're talking about the sort of gym fees that could fund your child's education - has informed me I have to lose 3.6 kilos in order to be 'perfecto'. I didn't have the heart to tell him it'd all come off my 'boobies' and not my 'cadera'... and therefore 'perfecto' would just be 'pera' (pear-shaped)
So, it looks like at the end of this whole saga I may just end up skinny (gym + no money to buy food - social life, drinking etc) and bi-lingual.
ps. given that Britney Spears is the most searched person on the internet, if I put the words 'Britney Spears' and 'Vagina' in my blog... does that make it more accessible in google? Ssomething about the more hits/keywords... it's a complex algorithm I don't have time to explain - as I would have to google it first, in order to do so.
Monday, December 04, 2006
GOAL!!! ... CHAVEZ
Last night was the football semi-final.
Mexican war-cries:
Chivas.. Chivas (Team name translation: goats, sorry .. .rams)
It's a sentiment I can't deny
It's a drug I don't want to quit.
Which boy band wrote the lyrics, that's what I want to know.
They don't rhyme because it's a translation... and I suspect I cut and pasted between different songs.
Me, and 120 thousand fans. Given that they've banned the Mexican wave in Australia... any behaviour more enthusiastic than that of cadavas was going to be exciting, but yes! what a great bunch of fanatics.
This game was a big deal, but even for a 120 thousand people who spent days lining up for tickets... noone could muster one lousy goal. That's why we love Aussie Rules, because the score is always in the hundreds. Maybe I exaggerate.
I was wondering why I had the urge to cheer for the other team... I mean, they were all tiny specks on the horizon so what difference did it make. But for some reason every time I saw a yellow jersey, I wanted to scream encouraging words. Only halfway though the game did I realise the subconscious link between YELLOW and MY BRAIN.
MY COUNTRY. Green and GOLD aka YELLOW.
Came home after a few festive cervezas to find an email from the International desk asking me to file on Chavez victory in Venezuela. Good old Hugo, threw in a few Bush 'devil' references for colour in his victory speech.
At least someone scored...
Chavez... Chavez...
It's a sentiment I can't ...
Friday, December 01, 2006
A WHOLE NEW MEANING TO 'SWEARING IN'
Came home from travelling to find the Mexican Parliament in chaos... lawmakers being taken to hospital after beating the shit out of each other.
Watching Calderon try to take the Presidency was like a sporting match, only with chairs instead of balls.
The midnight ceremony featured such highlights as outgoing President Fox dropping the ceremonial flag and tapping the microphone several times to test it, as though he were in a karaoke bar.
Calderon comes up to Fox's waist, and one of Fox's hands could crush Calderon's head... so all round it was like watching 'Twins'. I'm pretty sure Swarzenegger was actually there for the 9.30am formalities, but none of the visiting dignatories had time to take a seat before the 40 second ceremony was finished.
The swearing in was over before you could say "Who the f@#* threw that chair?"
Watching Calderon try to take the Presidency was like a sporting match, only with chairs instead of balls.
The midnight ceremony featured such highlights as outgoing President Fox dropping the ceremonial flag and tapping the microphone several times to test it, as though he were in a karaoke bar.
Calderon comes up to Fox's waist, and one of Fox's hands could crush Calderon's head... so all round it was like watching 'Twins'. I'm pretty sure Swarzenegger was actually there for the 9.30am formalities, but none of the visiting dignatories had time to take a seat before the 40 second ceremony was finished.
The swearing in was over before you could say "Who the f@#* threw that chair?"
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
BRANDON'S TOWN
This is a city of 20 million very small people.
I am really looking forward to the next time a mega-band tours here and I'll finally know what it's like to be the tall bastard who's got a perfect view of everything.
So, on this basis alone you can imagine my ecstasy on discovering The Killers are touring HERE. Add to that, they're my favourite band and it's almost enough to make up for missing U2
(now known as U-2-faced-arseholes-who-postponed-your-concert-to-a-date-that-I-
wouldn't-be-in-the-country)
Jumped straight on the internet to get a ticket, and what do you know - they'd sold out yesterday. I mean, I know they shot a video clip here.. but Mexico is KEEN.
Since then, I've been doing everything in my power to get an interview with Brandon Flowers.. .(and thus a ticket) hindered only slightly by the fact that he appears to only do interviews with The Guardian, The Times and ... well, that's about it.
In an effort to maintain morale, my 'background research' (for the interview) has turned up the following facts:
- he's not gay
- he's married
- his bride's maiden name was 'Munblowsky'.. (hence the rush to get hitched?)
- he's a Mormon (hence the rush to get hitched?)
- interviewers don't seem to like him (maybe it's not sooo bad to miss out on an interview...?)
- he thinks he can tell 'good girls' from 'bad girls' on sight, thanks to his hoards of older sisters and the fact he's lived in Vegas for years... and upbringing.
Sorry Brandon, trying to put girls in 'good' and 'bad' is like trying to put paint colours in black and white.
A man who doesn't realise that bad girls are just good girls wounded is a clueless man indeed. No wonder he married his highschool sweetheart, a retail manager who's studying to be a primary school teacher. If anything screams cliched 'good', it's that. Despite her maiden name.
Miss Munblowsky becomes Mrs Brightside.
And speaking of which, a man who still ascribes to a faith that disowns him for the odd cigarette and beer is a self-tortured man indeed.
Is Mr Brightside actually Mr Darkside?
I am really looking forward to the next time a mega-band tours here and I'll finally know what it's like to be the tall bastard who's got a perfect view of everything.
So, on this basis alone you can imagine my ecstasy on discovering The Killers are touring HERE. Add to that, they're my favourite band and it's almost enough to make up for missing U2
(now known as U-2-faced-arseholes-who-postponed-your-concert-to-a-date-that-I-
wouldn't-be-in-the-country)
Jumped straight on the internet to get a ticket, and what do you know - they'd sold out yesterday. I mean, I know they shot a video clip here.. but Mexico is KEEN.
Since then, I've been doing everything in my power to get an interview with Brandon Flowers.. .(and thus a ticket) hindered only slightly by the fact that he appears to only do interviews with The Guardian, The Times and ... well, that's about it.
In an effort to maintain morale, my 'background research' (for the interview) has turned up the following facts:
- he's not gay
- he's married
- his bride's maiden name was 'Munblowsky'.. (hence the rush to get hitched?)
- he's a Mormon (hence the rush to get hitched?)
- interviewers don't seem to like him (maybe it's not sooo bad to miss out on an interview...?)
- he thinks he can tell 'good girls' from 'bad girls' on sight, thanks to his hoards of older sisters and the fact he's lived in Vegas for years... and upbringing.
Sorry Brandon, trying to put girls in 'good' and 'bad' is like trying to put paint colours in black and white.
A man who doesn't realise that bad girls are just good girls wounded is a clueless man indeed. No wonder he married his highschool sweetheart, a retail manager who's studying to be a primary school teacher. If anything screams cliched 'good', it's that. Despite her maiden name.
Miss Munblowsky becomes Mrs Brightside.
And speaking of which, a man who still ascribes to a faith that disowns him for the odd cigarette and beer is a self-tortured man indeed.
Is Mr Brightside actually Mr Darkside?
Thursday, November 09, 2006
MACHO MEETS MAN-LOVE
Today, Mexico legalised gay unions.
Interestingly, the Spanish word for law is pronounced 'lay'... so everyone's going around talking about the 'gay lay'.
I hightailed it down to the Legislative Assembly for a little journalistic action, and found lots of people wearing all white (the ones who think that have a patent on purity..)
Interestingly one of them was a 65 year old man who 'helped' me with interview talent by continually grabbing my arm and pulling me in so that my body was touching his. Really, I felt like telling him to take his white shirt, pants and shoes... and bugger off. A bit of consensual man-on-man's not ok, but molesting someone young enough to be your daughter is??
In the gay camp there were lots of people wearing all the colours of the rainbow.
To add a latino festive touch, they had a Latin rock band and everyone was dancing.
All the anti-gay 'no we're not against them having rights, we just don't want them to have... rights' people had placards, and their feet firmly on the ground.
This guy was my favourite. I interviewed him for the gay side (before he put the outfit on), and he said 'I look at some of the people protesting against us and I think, 'You look more gay than me.'
Hmmmm.
Friday, November 03, 2006
DAY OF THE DEAD
Quite fitting really, as I felt like one of them for much of it. I tried all the food at the street stalls and I think it was the deep fried chorizo bread with lettuce and cheese that got me.
Ara and Yvonne kept saying 'mmmm rico'... but I couldn't get past the fact that I was eating a bread roll of solid oil.
The Day of the Dead is amazing. It's like the most enormous carnival you can imagine. Mexicans believe that this is the day that their dead relatives are given permission to come and be with them. They put out offerings for them: their favourite food, drinks (there was a lot of tequila), cigarettes... everything that the spirit's senses couldn't normally appreciate. Music, incense... and tastes.
The cemeteries are a spectacle. Every grave is completely covered in the most equisite flowers and the family just sits there all day communing with the dead person.
Although, I have to say, they got a bit overboard with the incense. It's not sticks, it's big blocks of the stuff and when I say it's like being in the middle of a very aromatic bushfire, I mean it. I am really surprised some people aren't hospitalised with smoke inhalation.
Anyway, by the end of it I had a raging headache what with getting to bed at 6am the night before, eating the dodgy chorizo bread and inhaling all that smoke.
It was a fairly charming gridlock on the way out ... driving past cars full of people wearing full halloween costumes. I'm talking wolf heads and skeletons, entire face masks.
The kids in one town added a whole new meaning to trick or treat when they put a piece of string across a two-lane carriageway and trotted up to all the cars asking for lollies.
My most enduring memory, though, is an old woman sitting in candlelight beside a grave, alone. I guess it was her husband's. I started to wonder what she thinks about all day, does she reminisce about their years, does she talk to him in her head?
It's not a sad time. This is festive, there are people dancing.. eating together, bands playing. Men having competitions of who can electric shock themselves with the highest voltage.. that sort of thing.
That's what sets Mexico apart from us on death. We don't think about death, when people die, most of us don't talk to them, or share food with them. But here, it's like the line between before and after is not nearly so hard.. or so hard to cross. Call is superstition, or call it peace... whatever it is, it's a sight to behold.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
HALLO-WEEN
...was fun.
One thing I don't understand is the police here. We must have passed about 40 cars on the way and they have always got their lights on, without actually doing anything. In Australia police put their lights on to pull people over for such offences as talking on the phone, not having current registration stickers, driving too slowly, driving too quickly, and sometimes just for driving.
Here, I have seen police put their lights on to stop for chats, stop for Macdonalds... and simply to cruise the streets.
On the way though, we did drive past about 50 police officers doing a raid on a very large truck. They all had their lights on too.
We ended up at a bar somewhere in this huge city, which was a hole in the corrugated iron wall... that you (I) had to stoop to walk though. It was full of young, hip things and smoke. In fact, someone let off some contraption containing a foul-smelling choking agent which, from what I can gather, was supposed to be a joke. That was when I realised we were in a fire trap... imagine trying to get out when someone's costume caught on fire.
The greatest thing about this bar:
- you could bring your own (dirt cheap) alcohol in
- you could take your shoes off
- none of the men had a problem with dressing up or dancing
- everyone sang along (heartily) to the music
The strangest sight was this caveman in the full-getup - long wig, longer beard, animal skin, animal skin shoes, lance.. .and a paper-machete animal with its head cut off - standing with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, looking at his watch.
So at the end of the night, everyone piles out of the bar rolling drunk and jumps behind the wheel. The poor little fellow in the afro and aviators (not sure what he was dressed as) could hardly keep his head up.
I was getting a lift with Rambo (who I had actually greeted with, 'Oh, what made you want to come as Che Guevara?' woops.. ) who was cruising past police cars with Michael Jackson - Thriller and Billy Jean - at full blast, pointing out all the other drunk drivers. It was magic.
Off in the distance we could see the little afro fellow in his bright yellow VB beatle, running red lights and swerving around.
Still, made it home ok and woke up with the dirtiest feet. Going to Mixque for Day of the Dead celebrations tonight.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
A TRIP TO THE PAPELERIA
Halloween tonight.
I went to go and buy crepe paper for Ara. She's going as an angel, but I suspect that she's going to look more like a meringue with wings, given that she's wrapping her eight months of pregnancy in crepe paper.
They still have proper shops here, not chains. Separate shops for paper, bread, electrical items, meat, fruit.
After buying three rolls from 'Claudia' at the papeleria we got talking and she took me to her brother's garage to show me their Day of the Dead shrine. Probleme is she left me out the front so she could run back to the shop, which she had left unattended. I stumbled in to the office and explained to three stunned men that I was there to see their offerings. They had no problem with that.
There's fruit in baskets and little sugar skulls and the whole wall is covered in pictures of smiling skeletons and Jesus on the Cross with another man photoshopped in beside him, and angels.
I found it kind of comical until I went back to chat to her about it.
The shrine is to their other brother. Three years ago, at 9.30am he was taking cash from the business across the road to buy something, and someone shot him in the chest for it.
They all dream about him on the Day of the Dead.
The thing I like about Mexicans is that they know how to tell their stories, and cry ... and feel. Australians never tell visitors to their shop how their brother died in the street one day.
Then I came home and the neighbours fixed my fuse box, which blew this morning. Looked kind of harrowing to me, none of the cut and dried flicking of switches. There were battery-type things and wires and levers and little things that spin around.
Anyway, I'm going to the fiesta as the witch in Snow White.. whoever the hell she was.
I went to go and buy crepe paper for Ara. She's going as an angel, but I suspect that she's going to look more like a meringue with wings, given that she's wrapping her eight months of pregnancy in crepe paper.
They still have proper shops here, not chains. Separate shops for paper, bread, electrical items, meat, fruit.
After buying three rolls from 'Claudia' at the papeleria we got talking and she took me to her brother's garage to show me their Day of the Dead shrine. Probleme is she left me out the front so she could run back to the shop, which she had left unattended. I stumbled in to the office and explained to three stunned men that I was there to see their offerings. They had no problem with that.
There's fruit in baskets and little sugar skulls and the whole wall is covered in pictures of smiling skeletons and Jesus on the Cross with another man photoshopped in beside him, and angels.
I found it kind of comical until I went back to chat to her about it.
The shrine is to their other brother. Three years ago, at 9.30am he was taking cash from the business across the road to buy something, and someone shot him in the chest for it.
They all dream about him on the Day of the Dead.
The thing I like about Mexicans is that they know how to tell their stories, and cry ... and feel. Australians never tell visitors to their shop how their brother died in the street one day.
Then I came home and the neighbours fixed my fuse box, which blew this morning. Looked kind of harrowing to me, none of the cut and dried flicking of switches. There were battery-type things and wires and levers and little things that spin around.
Anyway, I'm going to the fiesta as the witch in Snow White.. whoever the hell she was.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
WHEN TIME MARCHES FASTER
Last time I saw Fidel Castro was a couple of years ago in an Oliver Stone documentary. He was marching around his office to show us how fit and virile he kept himself. He did about a hundred laps a day and I couldn't help but notice he was wearing Nikes, the pinup brand for capitalism via exploitation of the weak. Very strange, considering what he stands for (but not, as the case may be, in)
Well, no matter how good the office-marching regime was, time got Fidel. After being sidelined for months with major health problems, he's released pictures to the world to reassure us all that he's just fine thankyou very much.
Why didn't someone tell Fidel that the film of him walking and talking looks more like Weekend At Bernie's III. Right down to his outfit and movements.
The pictures made me sad. They made me wonder what makes someone so desperate to hold onto his job, his place in the world, his life, that he is in complete denial of the fact that he is not okay.
That's the thing about Cuba: time. You can walk down streets frozen in time, the cars, the buildings, the music. The people move through their life cycles on those streets, between those walls, and the scene stays the same.
But no matter how long Fidel Castro has managed to stop the clock in Cuba, it's a battle that not even he can win. Time will always be the victor.
The cars have stopped starting, the buildings have long since started crumbling.
And Fidel is dying.
Friday, October 27, 2006
WOOPS
Day 2, The Dip.
Had a bit of a breakdown cooking dinner last night... when I realised this WAS my new home and that my phone wasn´t going to ring and i needed a beer but didn´t have a car to jump into to go and get it and i didn´t know where anything was anyway .. i know one person within thousands of kilometres and that all the knives were blunt and hang on a second, what was wrong with my old life... and now I can´t just walk back into it cause i tied it up in a neat little bow and chucked it out.
then i started crying. messy. plus, the pasta went soft.. what with leaving it on the stove for half an hour.
think i was just exhausted because everything seems fine today after a 12 hour sleep... just realised I need to learn to spend 2 days alone without tiring of my own company.
Had a bit of a breakdown cooking dinner last night... when I realised this WAS my new home and that my phone wasn´t going to ring and i needed a beer but didn´t have a car to jump into to go and get it and i didn´t know where anything was anyway .. i know one person within thousands of kilometres and that all the knives were blunt and hang on a second, what was wrong with my old life... and now I can´t just walk back into it cause i tied it up in a neat little bow and chucked it out.
then i started crying. messy. plus, the pasta went soft.. what with leaving it on the stove for half an hour.
think i was just exhausted because everything seems fine today after a 12 hour sleep... just realised I need to learn to spend 2 days alone without tiring of my own company.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
1ST IMPRESSIONS MEAN... DIFFERING AMOUNTS
10.30am
I wake after another 12 hours' sleep to the cheesy sounds of Latin pop filtering up from an unidentified location.
The vista from my second~floor window is one of rooftops, not uniform sort you imagine, stretched out as far as the eye can see. It's like a field of metal stakes growing towards the heavens. I've always meant to find out why so many countries are characterised by the metal~sticking~out~of~roof phenomenon. Someone once told me that you don't have to pay the house tax on an unfinished building, but I find it hard to believe that tax law is uniform across Latin America, the Middle East and India.
Having heard MC is the pollution capital of the world, I'd expected dirty air that gives you a choking feeling when you breathe. You know, like in Mumbai where it's packed with moisture and fumes and smells of shit and food and incense... and every breath is like your lungs are eating a meal.
This air is light, bright.. and bears only a faint smell of I'm not sure what.
I wake after another 12 hours' sleep to the cheesy sounds of Latin pop filtering up from an unidentified location.
The vista from my second~floor window is one of rooftops, not uniform sort you imagine, stretched out as far as the eye can see. It's like a field of metal stakes growing towards the heavens. I've always meant to find out why so many countries are characterised by the metal~sticking~out~of~roof phenomenon. Someone once told me that you don't have to pay the house tax on an unfinished building, but I find it hard to believe that tax law is uniform across Latin America, the Middle East and India.
Having heard MC is the pollution capital of the world, I'd expected dirty air that gives you a choking feeling when you breathe. You know, like in Mumbai where it's packed with moisture and fumes and smells of shit and food and incense... and every breath is like your lungs are eating a meal.
This air is light, bright.. and bears only a faint smell of I'm not sure what.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
TOUCHDOWN
I'M IN MEXICO!!!!
Yes, it's a miracle, as I left the small detail of packing and downloading all my music and photos onto laptop until 10 hours before my 7am departure from home. Hence, no sleep. I've left the place looking like a department store where someone had an epileptic fit.
Having not slept in the 3 days preceding departure, then sleeping for the entire 30 hour journey exluding layovers and meals, I feel a little as though I've been hit by a train... or a bus.. even a taxi. Any vehicle bigger than me really.
I stink. That's a long time without brushing teeth or washing body. Grab my bags and load myself up.. large backpack on back, medium backpack on front, shoulder bag over top, camera bag perched on wheeled suitcase with no centre of gravity, and duty free carry bag in other hand.
Somehow I squeeze all of us into the bathroom to clean my teeth.
I clear customs |again| and burst through the gates as quickly as anyone carring 6 bags can burst, eyes tuned for Ara... eyes gradually becoming accustomed to hundreds of unfamiliar faces none of which belong to her.
Hmmm. I have her phone number. I go to the cash machine, build a pyramid of my various bags, take money out, dismantle pyramid, load myself back up again. Refuse offer from kind man to use his mobile phone, go to convenience store for phonecard, put down bags, take out wallet, pick up bags, go to phone etc etc.
Thing is, the card doesn't work. I seek verification from various innocent bystanders and they all agree.
I accept another man's kind offer to use his phone. Still no action.
Go and buy an iced mocha and end up with a cupful of chilled cream. Go back to phone. Spill chilled cream all over bags in attempt to dial number.
Get someone else to dial for me.
She answers. Turns out I'd forgotten to send her the flight number and she was waiting at the other gate.
We exchange rapidfire conversation all the way to the apartment, and finally I'm 'home'.
Yes, it's a miracle, as I left the small detail of packing and downloading all my music and photos onto laptop until 10 hours before my 7am departure from home. Hence, no sleep. I've left the place looking like a department store where someone had an epileptic fit.
Having not slept in the 3 days preceding departure, then sleeping for the entire 30 hour journey exluding layovers and meals, I feel a little as though I've been hit by a train... or a bus.. even a taxi. Any vehicle bigger than me really.
I stink. That's a long time without brushing teeth or washing body. Grab my bags and load myself up.. large backpack on back, medium backpack on front, shoulder bag over top, camera bag perched on wheeled suitcase with no centre of gravity, and duty free carry bag in other hand.
Somehow I squeeze all of us into the bathroom to clean my teeth.
I clear customs |again| and burst through the gates as quickly as anyone carring 6 bags can burst, eyes tuned for Ara... eyes gradually becoming accustomed to hundreds of unfamiliar faces none of which belong to her.
Hmmm. I have her phone number. I go to the cash machine, build a pyramid of my various bags, take money out, dismantle pyramid, load myself back up again. Refuse offer from kind man to use his mobile phone, go to convenience store for phonecard, put down bags, take out wallet, pick up bags, go to phone etc etc.
Thing is, the card doesn't work. I seek verification from various innocent bystanders and they all agree.
I accept another man's kind offer to use his phone. Still no action.
Go and buy an iced mocha and end up with a cupful of chilled cream. Go back to phone. Spill chilled cream all over bags in attempt to dial number.
Get someone else to dial for me.
She answers. Turns out I'd forgotten to send her the flight number and she was waiting at the other gate.
We exchange rapidfire conversation all the way to the apartment, and finally I'm 'home'.
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