Acapulco

SATURDAY

I once listened to an excellent episode of my favorite radio program This American Life in which they were attempting to define a fiasco. Essentially, the final agreement was that a fiasco is essentially a disaster that has somehow has gone completely array so that the chaos it creates is quite funny. It is an unfortunate series of events, not simply one sole incident, that has somehow defied all possible troubleshooting plans and is completely out of control of the players. With this definition and the laundry list of hilarious happenings, our weekend in Acapulco was the biggest fiasco I’ve experienced since I hit México.

Tacos. The night before our adventure Ellie and I resolved ourselves to get plenty of sleep. It was the first Friday night we have stayed in and we were planning on chilling out and eating tacos. A recent visitor who had lived in Mexico City in the past, had proudly introduced us to a taco stand down the street from our house. From 8:30pm until midnight, Paco opens up his stand and serves up some of tastiest tacos DF has to offer. Ellie and I have been searching for a taco stand to call our own. We tried to friendly up to the tamale guy, but Edgar didn’t seem too interested in conversation. Plus there were no seats. We have made an interesting relationship with Juan and Sarah, the couple that owns and runs the convenience store where we buy our milk, bread and candy. But lately all Sarah wanted to talk about was us getting it on with some young Argentines she knows. Not that we’re against that, but come on, we needn’t confuse matchmaker with friend. And then there are the numerous vendors at the Tianguis market that comes through every Tuesday, but we needed something that could more easily accelerate than a once a week encounter with a papaya seller. Paco would have to be it- convenience, frequency, delicious tacos and a comfortable distance of a hot grill between us. So, there we were, less than 24 hours before we would have to squeeze our bodies into bikinis, downing quesadillas and tacos. We sat in our sweatshirts, hair swept back, grease and lime juice dripping down our hands, chowing down, as we sweetly continued our courtship with Paco. He ignored us most of the night, and at one point I think he even got annoyed when Ellie asked him if he could use corn tortillas instead of wheat. But at one point he handed us each half a taco of something we hadn’t tried. We smiled to ourselves. “He loves us,” we gloated. We finished up, paid our bill and walked home to get ready for our weekend out of this crazy city. Bellies filled with tacos.

Slip and slide. Ellie recently commented that Mexico is a slippery country. While I, knock on wood, have not had the misfortune of actually falling, I have to agree entirely. Not less than once a day do I size up a flight of stairs recently waxed, or stare at a marble floor and wonder if my shoes will have enough grip. Sometimes this is fun, as I turn into an 11 year old once more and run with only my socks on, gain momentum and glide across the kitchen floor in my house, crashing into the counter. Sometimes this is nerve racking, as I watch some poor soul slip onto their bum as strangers race to their assistance.

Well, early Saturday morning Ellie woke me up at 5:30am. “We’re going on vacation,” she whispered laughing as she exchanged her British “holiday” so that my American ears would understand. I jumped into a hot shower, eyes barely open and shaved every imaginable lady-like spot. We were going to the beach. I tousled my hair, threw on a skirt, decided against packing my favorite sweatshirt and put my huge sunglasses on my head. We hurriedly walked through our still sleeping, quiet neighborhood to the metro. We giggled about our up coming frolics with handsome Mexicans in Acapulco, discussed how the food might be different, listed the songs we hoped the clubs would play and how we were planning to party that night ‘til 5am, eat some breakfast, slap on some SPF 40 and then sleep all day on the beach. Our plan was no hotel, but instead all night dancing, and all day sun bathing. As our train came to a screeching halt at Tasquena, where we would be meeting Alli and Felicity to catch our bus to the playa, we violently slid across our smooth metal metro seats, crashing into some young chap, and laughing mercilessly. This was only the beginning of lots of mayhem, and lots of hilarity.

Rain and paradise don’t mix. The four of us, dressed half for cool Mexico City and half for warm tropical Acapulco, boarded our 7:30 bus swearing we would nap and rest to prep for our all day and night beach extravaganza. We instead stayed up discussing what nationality we would fraudulently claim that weekend, laughing about people we knew and playing road games. As we rode, the vegetation and landscape changed. We left the dry and smoggy valley of Mexico and slowly entered the lush tropical, smooth mountainous landscape of the Pacific coast. But the thick cloud of fog didn’t lift. There wasn’t any sun to be seen. We discussed the comparison of weather reports and assumed that partly cloudy obviously meant that the sun would be out for part of the time. As we neared Acapulco we assessed the depths of the puddles on the road and tried to determine if they were simply morning showers or whether we were going to be rained upon. As we entered a long tunnel that connects to Acapulco, we were confident that we would exit into the bluest skies, with a bright yellow sun glimmering over the aqua marine bay. Instead the same haze of cloud made the town look gray and the bay look even grayer. We exchanged worried glances.

Gringas in disguise. As we descended from the bus into the puddled station in Acapulco, our first order was to get to the nearest beach front comida corrida restaurant and chow down. We told the taxi driver to take us to the Zocalo, assuming we’d start there and make our way to the more touristy hotel zone afterward. He congenially listed all of our hotel options and we just smiled and said no thank you, we weren’t in need of a hotel. We found an inexpensive place to eat in the zocalo, sat outside under an umbrella (which I assume was there to protect folks from the sun, but we needed it just in case it began to rain), and ordered our food. We discussed our plans and took turns listing our favorite carbohydrates, as we analyzed the differences in the tortillas in Acapulco and DF. At the end of our meal we each took turns heading to the not-pretty bathroom to change into our swimsuits, nearly each of us returning depressed with the sight of our half naked, bleach white bodies that had not seen sun in some time and had been treated to over two months of Mexican cuisine. As we were knocking back our last bit of jamaica agua, a woman came up to our patio bumbled about, with a tambourine and a sad looking Santa Claus hat that had probably seen one too many tosses in the waves, and began to sing her English-as-her-second-language version of Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer. Her shrill voice huffed and puffed out quasi-forms of the words and shrilly sang in a sound that was a cross between a flute-a-phone and a lounge singer. We sat there trying our hardest not to crack up. “That is the worst performer I have ever heard in my life,” whispered Felicity through her laughter. The woman continued, adding a bit of a shakin’-your-hips-in-church jig to really get in the spirit. Street performers and mariachis all work for tips in Mexico, but how could we possibly reward this? After her rousing performance, she approached our table and began to ask us for money in broken English.

I looked at her and said, “We don’t speak English” in Spanish. She looked surprised.

“Well, what do you speak?” she asked.

“We’re from Russia,” I lied, figuring that would be a language that no one here would be familiar with.

She seemed to believe it and then went on about la Navidad and Jesus. I then informed her that we were Jewish. Another lie. She stopped and looked shocked. Felicity just laughed. Ellie got up and excused herself to go to the bathroom again. This woman didn’t seem to believe that we didn’t believe there was anything but the option of Christianity. Finally Alli returned and talked with her a while about Judaism and la Navidad. We decided then that we would be from Russia that weekend and pretend that we didn’t understand English.

Abrazame! We took our stuff and headed for the beach. We walked down the sandy beach past tons of Mexican families that didn’t seem to notice or mind that it was indeed drip dropping. We finally found a relatively empty place and settled ourselves down. After several hours on the beach, we decided it was time to change our clothes, clean up a bit and find something to eat really cheap. I suggested we head to Sanborn’s, a Mexican restaurant and everything-store, to take advantage of their free and clean bathrooms. The Brits and Alli had other plans. We were going to change back into our going out clothes right there on the beach. “Huh?” I questioned. Alli, a swimmer back in her high school days, insisted “deck changing” would be easy and we wouldn’t attract any attention. According to Ellie and Felicity changing from your “swimming costume” to your regular clothes right on the beach, and vice versa, is practically an English pass time. They swapped stories of their parents doing it and how no one looks. I reminded them I came from the land of tax-funded bath houses that were relatively clean and afforded American prudes, like yours truly, the privacy we needed in order to go from half-naked to dressed.

Ellie began the process with grace and seriousness. I buckled over laughing as she contorted her body, weaving her arms and legs this way and that in order to go from her two piece to her panties, bra, jean capris and tank top. Behind us a group of cabana boys watched the process and refused to look away when I told them to stop staring. To our left a Mexican family followed the stares of the father as he gawked at this light-skinned, curly haired, green-eyed Brit shimmying her bikini bottoms off and her panties on without showing a bit of booty. Alli coached her through the “deck changing” process when things looked impossible and Felicity took photos, as I laughed in between giving dirty looks to male onlookers. “Buenos dias!” Ellie hollered when she was nearing the end, tossing her bikini top up into the air in victory. I laughed hysterically. A while later, I was repeating the Buenos Dias moment with hysteria when a passing vendor corrected me in Spanish and said, “Actually, it is ‘buenas tardes’ because it is the afternoon.” I snapped back, “Yeah, I know that. It’s a joke!”

My turn to strip was much easier than Ellie’s as I had a skirt and a t-shirt. I might have even cleared the radar completely if it weren’t for the monitoring we were receiving since Ellie broke everyone in. We were all dressed up and ready to go when this shady looking Mexican guy, with cherry-red dyed hair, and Speedos approached us and said, “My friend wants to give you a ride on a wave runner.” He pointed down toward the shore where a jet ski was propped up on the shore and a less shady guy was waving to us.

“We’re already dressed and not wearing our bathing suits,” I responded.

“Oh you won’t get wet,” he lied.

I looked at the girls. And then I looked at Ellie.

“Should we go?” I asked her.

She rubbed her eyes and very plainly said, “Sure.”

“So, we should change back into our suits?” I asked.

“Sure,” she shrugged.

“Give us 10 minutes to change,” I told the guy.

“Five,” he responded. I nodded.

We cut our changing time in half and did the whole routine again, along with the same legion of spectators. We went down to the shore where they delivered the news that we would have to go separately. I protested. I was not going out on a wave runner with some strange Mexican dude that I didn’t know without Ellie. They said then I couldn’t go. I buckled. Who would go first?

“Rock, scissors, paper?” Alli suggested for Ellie and I. I said no and that I’d go first.

The rental guy strapped a life jacket on me, and attempted to buckle me up. “I can do it myself,” I barked and pulled away, not wanting him to get a cheap feel. He rolled his eyes and let me do it. I was introduced to Chucho, a nickname for Jesus, who was the guy inviting me for this ride. I asked him if he was a gentleman and made him promise not to go fast or get me killed (see the photo, as I’m sure most of you can imagine me in bossy mode in Spanish). He laughed and nodded. Not reassuring. I hopped onto the back of the jet ski and he slowly, but with jerky motions, exited the shore. We bounced out toward the Pacific. “Mas despacio!” I demanded. I was holding on to the flimsy straps of his life jacket. “Abrazame!” he demanded back. No way, I thought. I am not about to “hold you,” asshole. I yelled back through the noise of the waves and the motor. I am holding on, don’t worry. “No, you’re going to fall off. Abrazame!” he yelled. I told him if he just goes slowly then I won’t fall off. I gripped on to the straps of his life jacket tighter, and tried to keep my legs as far away from him as possible. “ABRAZAME!!!” he screamed as we took off faster. Fuck, I thought. I am totally forced to abrazame him. I was ticked. But finally, I threw my arms around his torso and swore I saw his smirk from the back of his head.

We finally got back to shore when it was Ellie’s turn. I told her she would be forced to “abrazame” him and she just laughed as I retold our exchange. She took off for her ride, only her partner was the guy with Speedos. They went out for a while and came back in. Then Alli went out with Chucho. The sun had presumably already set (we didn’t see it after all, since we haven’t seen it for nearly a week now) and it was getting dark. Alli was still out. They went so far out into the bay that I swore they reached the Pacific. They finally got back as the lights of Acapulco were beginning to decorate the hillside. As they were approaching the shore, Chucho, probably nearly drunk despite him insisting to me he wasn’t, took a hard turn and flipped the wave runner. Alli went flying into the surf. She came up laughing and taking it very well, as Ellie and I commented that that would have sent us into violent hysterics and we would have started throwing punches at the guys.

At some point one of the guys had invited us, through Ellie, to dinner. But during the course of this frolic on the wave runner it had either downgraded (or upgraded depending on how you look at it) to drinking and dancing. We temporarily sent them off while we opted for a more conservative changing set-up of each of us taking turns in the middle as the rest of us held up towels and sarongs. We conferenced as to what to do. We wanted them to pay for our dinner, but did not want to spend the night dancing with them. With the slight exception of Chucho, they were crude and obnoxious, and a few too many sexual innuendos were being bandied about. So, we decided to attempt to hint as to how we would need to eat before we could even think of dancing and partying. Then, we assumed, we would be cordially invited to dinner and we’d be able to select the paella and tapas place, as opposed to 30 cent tacos. Somehow there was an unspoken retraction of dinner and only drinks and dancing were still on the table. We reconferenced and decided that it was time to send them on their way and that tacos would have to do. “What happened?” cried Ellie, “We can’t even get an offer for dinner…” We laughed as we lost them and took off to the supermarket to wash up.

Geronimo. We were relieved and laughing that we finally got rid of them, but felt defeated that we didn’t get dinner out of it. We paced around the beach front area searching for decent tacos. We found a lady selling sweet tamales, bought one each and headed to the beach to sit down and try to cheer ourselves up. It was only 8pm and the rain had begun. How would we gain enough gumption to revive and party all night? We were already fading. After devouring our tamales, we picked ourselves up and walked the beach looking for a place for our dinner. We finally saw a decent restaurant, and feeling sorry for ourselves entered to pay 15 pesos more for comida corrida than we cared to do. Maybe the atmosphere will be better, we wondered. We entered the palapa and walked past the bar. There at a table was the group of guys we had only gotten rid of an hour ago. I laughed and looked back at the rest of the girls to see their reaction. They stared, defeated and shocked as the guys started howling at us, clearly even drunker than before and started ordering us drinks. We rolled our eyes and picked a table furthest from them and closest to the beach. One of them came over to our table and started insisting, “Tequila or beer? Tequila or beer?” I said I didn’t want either and if he wanted to buy me a drink I would have a non-alcoholic pina colada thankyouverymuch. He began to get really fresh with me. He pinched my cheek and started saying inappropriate things. I pushed his hand away and said, “Don’t touch me.” He thought that resistance was cute obviously because he did it again, laughing. I was not laughing. I was so pissed. I pushed him away again and said to leave us alone. He left for a while. Then came a bucket of beer. He came back. Touching my chin and my cheek. “Don’t touch me!” I yelled and pushed him away. He became pissed. A mix of Spanish and English swear words came out at me. It was his “fucking country” and I was a “bitch” and all sorts of other things. I was so infuriated. He stumbled off and we sent our beer back with our waiter, telling him that the guy was bothering us and to make sure he didn’t come back to us again. Geronimo, our waiter, seemed really concerned and was quite nice as he hurried the bucket of beer back to the kitchen. “Fucking Mexico,” Ellie and I said in unison. And through up our gang sign we created to non-verbally communicate it.

Geronimo then took care of us the rest of the night. Commenting on how it was a pleasure to see such beauty in his sight. We laughed knowing it was a lie, as we all smelled, had greasy skin, smudged make-up, and Ellie and I each had at least 2 centimeters of frizz and fuzz raising from our hair in the midst of the humidity. A nice group of guys nearby came and struck up a conversation with us and insisted that not all Mexicans were like the guy that was bothering us. We laughed and jokingly insisted they were. Later, tired, worn out, running out of money and a full rain commencing, we decided that we would rather sleep in a bed than bump and grind on a dance floor. We made the very difficult decision to forego the dream of photo after photo of us looking sexy, smiling among strobe lights, techno music and cute gentlemen. We informed Geronimo that we needed a hotel. He looked a bit concerned because it was a holiday weekend, ten o’clock at night and we didn’t want to spend more than 500 pesos total. But he went to work asking around and told us he would walk us to the hotel that he knows of when he finished his shift in 20 minutes. An hour and a half later we were following a drunk Geronimo through the Acapulco streets appearing like a gaggle of ducklings following their mother bird. This gentleman turned creep, commented on how lucky he was that he was being accompanied by four beautiful women. We ignored the comments as he stepped out into oncoming traffic, Negro Modelo in one hand, holding his free hand up in the stopping motion and traffic-cop-style signaled us to cross the street. “We could use the cross walk,” one of us suggested. He answered by telling us we were all four his wives and he was very lucky. We were so annoyed. We finally got to a place that was clean and a decent price. Ellie and I insisted on getting a better price and tried to haggle, while Felicity and Alli kept their patience with us and insisted that this was as good as it got. We bid Geronimo farewell and he almost solemnly left (we weren’t sure what he was expecting but we were glad for the help but ready to say adios).

SUNDAY

Swimming in the rain. After a dry full night sleep, and a few hours of furiously watching CNN, I put my suit back on and we all headed to the beach. It was actually raining today as opposed to yesterday afternoon’s trickle. I went up to a group of cabana boys that were salivating over us like starved wolves and negotiated down the price of an umbrella. “Treinta pesos,” one informed me. “You told me twenty yesterday,” I declared, “Viente.” They looked at each other like they had been caught. And then the leader gave me a bunch of excuses as to why it was thirty now, instead of twenty. “The real reason it is thirty now is because I’m gringa, isn’t that right?” They all sort of laughed, looked at each other and stumbled over their excuses. One guy placed his hand on my shoulder and began to explain- I heard the other one scold him not to touch me. I seized the opportunity. “How about twenty for the umbrella and the harassment?” I smiled through clenched teeth. The leader looked at me and smiled. “Viente,” he agreed. I returned to the girls victoriously. We moved under the umbrella and Ellie and I took to the water while Felicity and Alli remained fully clothed, reading under the shelter. For three hours Ellie and I talked and laughed as we bobbed and swam in the rainy ocean.

Hour one- Banana boat. As if the excitement of the wave runner wasn’t enough, Ellie and I decided the thing that would really cheer us up would be a bouncy, dangerous ride around the bay on a banana float. We swam out to a man in his antiquated motor boat and negotiated a price, climbed a board, strapped on life jackets and stumbled and flopped to our spots on the long banana. We took off with a whole beach watching our clumsy white bodies cling to the yellow phallic object skirting across the water. It was anticlimactic. Ellie and I tried to lie to ourselves that it was so much fun, but we were hoping for a little more danger. I wanted to feel like I was going to fall off at some point, but instead I think my heart would have raced faster if I was on a 25 cent mechanical horse outside of a grocery store. After about 6 minutes of this utter boredom, we returned to our original location were dropped off, life vests still on, and were told to wait for the attendant. We bobbed there like awkward buoys in our life jackets pretending that we were actually in outer space, as opposed to the gray waters of Acapulco Bay.

Hour two- Splash back. Not long after the banana boat ride a group of three little boys came up to us to start talking. They consisted of a 9, 10 and 11 year old. They bantered with us and asked us many questions about English. We were having a lovely conversation with them when this kid about 20 years old appeared to be swimming past us. I was distracted by a group of guys our age with a boogie board that I was eying to borrow when I heard Ellie gasp with surprised discomfort. I looked back her way and saw the guy with his arm around her waist, embracing her nonchalantly. Instead of swimming by, he apparently made a slight move toward us and slipped his arms around Ellie without a word, as if they were long time lovers. He just stood there, arm around her waste as Ellie’s eyes widened with complete shock of the situation. Ellie gave a small yelp and politely pushed him away, giggling incessantly. I on the other hand went into 9 year old mode, screamed at him, “What are you doing?” and then splashed him with a big wave of water, not once, but twice. He just stood there in the water looking at me curiously. I began to laugh once I realized how ridiculous it appeared that I just splashed this guy in Ellie’s defense. We laughed hysterically and swam away.

Hour three- Boogie boards. I then refocused my sights on the group of guys with the boogie board. They had the golden egg. I was attempting to unsuccessfully body surf all afternoon, and realized how even as a kid, the beach was way more fun with a boogie board. We swam over to the group and shared quick “shy” smiles. Mexican men aren’t usually shy about hitting on women, and now was no exception. One of the better looking ones swam over and attempted some English. We chatted for a while and finally, I asked, “Do you think your friend will let me ride that?” He immediately signaled over to his friend to hand it over to me. Another one of the guys took the opportunity to wad over to Ellie and strike up conversation. I happily returned to the blissful Hawaii years, when as a child I would spend full afternoons catching waves on my electric blue with airbrushed pink and yellow stripes boogie board and the rush and fear as I rode on top of a wave. I rode it three times onto the shore and then reluctantly returned it to its rightful owner. I decided that even a rainy and cold trip to Acapulco could be vastly upgraded with the help of a boogie board, and made it my mission that my next trip I would find one to enjoy the entire weekend.

Girls gone wild. After three hours straight in the water, only leaving to pay the banana boat man, and then rapidly returning to the sea, Alli came to wave us in. It was three o’ clock and we needed to get dressed and leave to catch the bus, aka Our Salvation, home. Elli and I tried the “5 more minutes” trick, but soon were dragging ourselves out of the water to the beach front restaurant in which Felicity and Alli had taken shelter. We were not prepared to relive the calculated changing ordeal of yesterday, and instead went to a nearby palapa in order to hold up sarongs and towels for Ellie to change within. However, we still managed to attract an audience, but were more bitter and anger this time, barking at any man that dared to glance over. “Remember what Sally Bennett always says,” Ellie sarcastically reminded me as she shimmied off her bikini bottoms, “you’re never going to see them again anyway!” She threw them over the sarong. A group of guys nearby actually began clapping and hollering as I handed Ellie her tank top into the make shift changing room. “Sean caballeros!” I ordered to them. This prompted them to laugh hysterically. “Oh my god, they’re actually filming,” remarked Felicity. I looked over and to my horror the three were sitting at their restaurant table with the camera up directed at us. Felicity was dressed entirely, Ellie was behind a makeshift dressing room, I, however, had just my bikini on and my white ass facing their camera. “Put that away,” we all took turns yelling. “Fucking Mexico,” I remarked to Felicity and Ellie. “Fucking Mexico,” Ellie remarked back. After we both were clothed we marched over to these creeps. “Aren’t you at least going to buy us a drink and lunch for your footage that you got?” I asked. One of the guys quickly grabbed the camera away from the table as we approached, accurately assuming that we were prepared to swipe it. “That was a great show,” one of them responded in English. They let us see what they had, as I deleted each photo. We agreed to let them keep the video of the changing session as long as they didn’t spread it around and they emailed it to us. Agreed.

Home is where the tacos are. We briskly walked back from the metro, wearing little more than our beach clothes, as winter had begun to set in in Mexico City. We decided to drop our sandy stuff off at home, and literally run to our newly claimed favorite taco stand. It was just a bit passed 11 at night. “I’ve really been missing Paco all weekend,” confessed Ellie about the taco maker extraordinaire, as we hurried in our sweatpants and flip flops to the puesto around the corner from our house. I laughed out loud and prayed that he would still be open despite it being a Sunday night and the neighborhood already asleep. We turned the corner and in the distance, half a block down, saw the lights dimmed and a silhouetted figure scrapping clean a large grill. I began to run. Ellie followed suit. Then it turned into a sprint. Ellie hollered in perfect movie fashion, “Paaaacccooooo!!!” as if she were a 1920s woman bidding her lover goodbye on a departing train. We ran all the way to him, and he looked a little worried and alarmed as these two young, white girls yelled his name in the night. “Estás cerrado?” we asked. He looked puzzled at this commotion and nodded his head. His wife peaked on from the back and said something that we didn’t understand. “Sí,” he told us, “come back tomorrow.” We told him that we had been in Acapulco all weekend. “It was rainy and cold,” we informed him. What we were hoping for, I do not know. For him to say, “Oh, all right, you poor darlings had a rough weekend on the beach? We’ll your mushroom quesadilla is on the house, Rach. And Ellie, can I make you a chorizo taco or a bistek one? How about both? You look hungry. Let me just re-ignite the grill, gals.” He just looked at us blankly, with no sympathy. “Okay, we’ll see you later,” we told him.

Pouting and sulking the entire way, we walked glumly back to our house. As dogs barked in the background, I smiled happily that I was back in the neighborhood. The chances of a balmy, tropical day were greatly lessened here. Rain is nearly an every day occurrence. It may be polluted, congested and crowded. We may risk death with every street we cross, as oncoming traffic ruthlessly hurries to make the light. We may have to avoid dog poop with every step we take, or else cracks and holes in the sidewalks. Random smells of flowers make us breathe in deeply, and two steps later an open sewer makes us want to vomit. The loud booming beats of salsa and reggaeton music blare from compact cars, and autos are constantly honking. Vendors announce loudly their goods in their monotone voices, and store hours are never regular or posted. Our names of “guerita” may be more prevalent and the catcalls ceaseless. But we were back home. Mexico City. Where we belonged. With or without our bellies filled with tacos.

The Adventures of Rachel and Ellie- The Quinceañera

My closest friend in Mexico is one of my housemates, Ellie, a British gal doing a year in Mexico working with street children. We cook, talk, eat, dance, and explore Mexico together. She keeps me sane most of the time when things get rough, and cracks me up constantly. She says it is only because of her accent, whereas I vehemently deny such simplicities and insist it is her wit. Regardless, we tend to get ourselves in all kinds of trouble, and have a whole list of other adventures that we're committed to doing. Our list includes the innocent to the ridiculous, almost all being comical attempts to partake, and yes, sometimes even mock, Mexican culture. Our first adventure was living out a 15th birthday that we never had the chance to exploit appropriately. The Quinceañera.

I'm a white girl. I grew up in San Antonio and while most of my Mexican-American girlfriends were dressing up like Cinderella for their 15th birthday, mine passed with hardly a sequins in sight. Yes, we WASPs have our Sweet Sixteen, and girls not raised by Yankee parents (which is my case) sometimes receive ddebutante balls, but by the time that age rolls around your too busy trying to figure out who you want to make out with during spin the bottle and which Stop 'N Go you're going to buy your Boone's Farm Strawberry Wine. My Sweet Sixteen was 80's themed (before it was cool, mind you) and my girlfriends and I snuck up to my closet to chug back peppermint sschnappswhile my dubbed copy of "I Ran" by the Flock of Seagulls blared in the background. Now I'm not saying that I was ccherubimand innocent only a year before, but life gets more complex the deeper into your teens you go. A Quinceañera is a ball. A Sweet Sixteen is a underground booze fest.

Quinceañera. I yanked this straight from Wikipedia… This celebration marks the transition from the childhood to womanhood of a Quinceañera. It serves as a way to acknowledge that a young woman has reached maturity. Most parties have the girl wear a pink dress (as she is still a girl, never white which equals bride but now other cultures are letting the girl pick a color) and a tiara because she is a princess in God's eyes that night. She holds a court with 14 girls (damas) and 15 boys (chambelanes) which including herself would equal 30 people, or, 15 couples (to represent each year). At the party the court does a waltz and a surprise dance. The girl also dances with her father but first changes from flats to heels to represent the first time she can wear them ( the same with makeup). She could also get a doll with the exact same dress she has on to signify that this will be the last doll she ever will receive. In the past the party would show the girl is ready to be married, but now in today's culture it is so the girl can date. In the Mexican tradition, if the quinceañera is Roman Catholic, the festivities begin with a Thanksgiving Mass (Misa de Acción de Gracias), at which the quinceañera arrives in formal dress (usually of color representing childhood) accompanied by her parents, godparents, a number of maids of honor and chambelanes ranging in number anywhere from seven to 15 couples. After the Mass, the younger sisters, female cousins and friends of the quinceañera pass out party favors and the quinceañera leaves her bouquet in an altar to the to the Virgin Mary. The Mass is followed by a party either at the quinceañera's home or in a banquet hall leased for the occasion. At the party, the quinceañera dances the traditional first waltz with her father and male relatives. Then her boyfriend, or male friend (also called a chambelan), dances the remaining part of the dance with the birthday girl.

The Queen. For every Quinceañera there is the main star- the birthday girl. She has a legion of maiden type figures- her closest friends- who are instructed to dress in similarly ridiculously expensive dresses, but are required to not outshine the Queen. She is dolled up, paraded around, and escorted by some horny boy. I have to admit, I think it is pretty ridiculous. As most of you know, I am constantly trying to open my mind to gender neutrality issues and understanding the power dynamic of male/female relationships. Wearing a huge, fluffy, pink dress is not my idea of revolutionary feminism. Call me a ba-humbug, but I'm thinking, "Screw the dress and party, how about instill some real self-confidence and self-worth in women!" I don't think many agree with me. Gloria Steinhem, Inga Muscio and I will just have our own party, I suppose. Hmm...

Tiendas. All along the main thoroughfare of Insurgentes in Mexico City, there are boutiques displaying the wildest dresses. My walks up this street usually left me wondering about the inner workings of these stores. One day, I finally thought, how can I get in there? I decided the only way to do so is to go shopping. I returned home and proposed the idea to Ellie. Always up for spontaneity and adventure, she agreed. We planned for it that Saturday afternoon and headed out that early afternoon, guts in check and cameras in hand. We had to select our store carefully. Often the stores double as bridal shops and we did not want to be wearing a bride’s dress. We walked slowly by a few and sized up the ridiculousness of the dresses. Too conservative. We continued walking. Too busy. We didn’t want to wait, nor did we want to steal the time from customers that truly needed the attention. Finally, we found one that would work. A good mix of bright colored dresses and enough attendants that appeared free.

Naked. Now, I am no prude. I feel moderately comfortable with my body. I can definitely laugh at myself, and often have to because otherwise I’d cry. But I am a conservative dresser. I rarely show cleavage (partly because there isn’t much to show) and never wear heels. I like J.Crew catalogs for their simple and classic oxfords and khakis. If God wants to reward me, I will have a closet full of the preppiest fashions in this life. If she wants to punish me, send me to spend all of eternity in Bebe or Guess. Similarly, I don’t often strip in front of people. I will change in front of a good friend, but I take comfort in the fact that I know they aren’t really looking at me. So, after selecting our dresses, Ellie and I were guided up to a huge dressing room surrounded by mirrors, I was horrified when I was told to undress right there. “Huh?” I asked. Ellie and I looked at each other surprised. We both sheepishly stripped down to our bras and panties, still sexily wearing our socks. Mirrors surrounded me and I was reminded of the size of my posterior and how the back of my thighs aren’t what they were when I was 15. Good grief. I turned away. The two ladies were ready with big, poofy, white underneath things (pardon my lack of ball gown vocab) that would make the dress bah-iiigg! This was even more distressing to see in the floor to ceiling mirrors. The dresses came next- Ellie’s blue, mine pink. Over the head and on. I sucked in as ordered, while the women pulled tight the lace-up part in the back. My ribs hurt.

Beautiful. The color was horrendous. I didn’t have any make up on and my hair was swept up into a ponytail. But somehow, this dress was gorgeous. There is something magical about a big poofy dress. How it transforms the ordinary into something extraordinary. I pranced around shyly and even practiced dancing in it, lifting it up slightly to walk and setting it back down, fluffing it out into place. It isn’t radical feminism, and I didn’t even like it that much, but I kind of longed for my Texas Lassos days of formals and tuxes. Sometimes the most ridiculous and uncomfortable things can make you feel the most beautiful.

But my body feels...

Bodylicious. This may be a little bit more than you wanted to know about me for my more sensitive readers, or for the ones that want to preserve me as a bastion of class and beauty. The truth is my body has changed, adjusted or resisted Mexico, and it is a marvel to see. ;)

My hips don’t lie. They don’t. And they’ll tell you there are being well nourished. By the likes of churros, tlacoyos, quesadillas and conchas. I am not too into the junk food, but here every panaderia I pass, I enter. And buy. And eat. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. As my Wisconsin peeps in my life know, I don’t heart dairy products with the exception of black cherry yogurt and feta cheese. But for some reason in Guatemala I consumed massive amounts of ice cream. At about one dollar for a double scoop of coconut and dulce de leche, my taste buds and hips were content. Here much of the social life is centered around food consumption. My week nights usually entail my housemate, Ellie and I spending hours in the kitchen cooking like grandmas, chatting like hens, laughing like middle-schoolers or, usually, eating like… well… And it is usually healthy things- fruits, vegetables, various beans and legumes. But when we hear the blow of the whistle from the tamale man, we go running with pesos in hand.

This isn’t so much a problem right now living in Mexico. The good lord may have been skimpy on the chest, but he made up for it with my posterior. But unless you live in Atlanta, DC, Chicago or Birmingham, pear shaped women are not as desired as their waif-like sisters until you head south of the border (I’ve heard Brazil is the best for us, gals. After I finish this avocado taco, I’m heading there). This is the land that appreciates a little more woman, and I am on the fast track to being all the woman I can be. Back in my social work days in Anacostia, I had a fond experience of my co-worker, Rebecca, a similarly thick-bottomed babe as myself, coming out from a meeting with a case management client and scoffing to me and our supervisor, Lynda, “That man just told me I had big legs!” My jaw dropped and I scoffed also. We white gals are not all too used to this being said to our faces, and us being proud of our goods. Lynda, a strong independent and loving, black woman, roared with laughter and matter-of-factly informed us that was a HUGE compliment in the black community. I immediately damned white men (once more) for not picking up this preference. This was on the forefront of my mind when someone in Anacostia one day exclaimed that I “gotta have some sistah” in me. I gave a proud peek back at my bottom, shyly beamed and politely said thank you. So, I moved from a Chocolate City where my junk in the trunk was exalted to a Latino country, where my curves are similarly appreciated. And my years of belly dancing, either in the classroom or half-dressed in front of a mirror when my roommates aren’t home, have helped me begin my mastery of shaking it- while walking down the streets of D.F. or on the salsa dance floor. I’ll have another churro, thank you.

Inside my nose. How much snot can one little nose hold? Uh… apparently a lot. I finally got sick from the pollution and not sleeping enough. I was blowing my nose many times a day. It’s really sexy. But even though I’m not coughing all night, there is a bit more mucus than I care to have. And grey. Come on. The pollution is supposed to get worse. The fabulous Sally Bennett was quite concerned that I was running many times a week in the pollution. I suggested she buy me a pass to a Gold’s Gym in Polanco that runs about $800 a year. She didn’t respond.

Senorita Debil. Due to Mexico City’s altitude, and despite my runs, hiking up a flight of stairs, is quite exhausting. During my marathon training days, I could easily do 6 or 7 flights without becoming breathless. And while I am not running at least 40 miles a week anymore, I am in relatively good shape. These days I’m nearly dripping with sweat and wheezing, when I walk up somebody’s front stoop. Quite frustrating.

One Non-Blonde. Can I just say that the cool, dry air here makes me rarely ever have a bad hair day (not always good, but at least not bad). Take that DC! After years of taming my curly-when-it’s-humid, iron-flat-when-it’s-dry, and usually just frizzy-whenever-it-wants-to-be hair, I have found the city that, at least, likes my hair. Additionally, I dyed it back to the reddish/brownish/blondish glory of yesteryear, loving the way it looked. Unfortunately it has faded back to the more Barbie-esque blonde, and I anticipate trying one last time.

Digestion. This here is a stomach of steel. It has served me right over the years as I’ve taste tested and devoured some of the most rare of foods and drinks. In my previous reign of drinking excessively, never once did I ever see my booze again once I chugged it down straight from the bottle in a debaucherous glory. While the days of out drinking frat boys are long gone, it has been replaced by spice, street food and bacteria-ridden water. The smells of amazing fruits and the bright green of gorgeous vegetables constantly tempt me. I love markets more than most, and there is nothing better than munching on some nuts or fruits as you browse and buy. Plenty of vendors guide me through the new species, urging me to taste test and sample, and laughing as I marvel and coo. It is hard to resist a guayaba, even when it isn’t washed properly. Yes, wiping that on your shirt will do.

I have woken up many mornings with an odd queasy feeling in my stomach and wondered if that would be my day (days, week?) of reckoning. Often, I just ignore, roll back over in bed and figure if it is going to be bad, it’ll wake me up again. And I have been safe. I have eaten plenty of spinach without questioning the preparation and if it came from the U.S. (which is a huge scare here, I don’t know if y’all are hearing about it). I am slowly becoming the person that gets ticked when there isn’t a bottle of hot sauce nearby. Will it be spicy enough? I douse it on, and don’t feel any effects. Street food is my biggest source of pride as I feel more Mexican when I partake, and it is so cheap. There has been a time or two when after eating a blue corn tortilla with huitlachoche and flor de calabaza, I have felt a bit nauseous, but I have forged on. And I have finally elevated to the level of rinsing my mouth out with tap water at the end of my brushing session. And I sing in the shower. But softly. And it is more dancing. My hips still don’t lie.

Casi Mexicana

Every month I am going to observe how I am slowly but surely becoming a Mexican mamacita. The old phrase of “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” is certainly becoming true for me as I slowly assimilate. There are days when I think, “I am the oddest person in this city, and certainly no one understands where I’m coming from.” And then there are the days when I realize just how much I love the Mexican culture and wish there were more parts of it in U.S. culture. Through adaptations, adjustments, revolutions and resistance, I will become casi mexicana (almost Mexican).

Blondie. The Guatemalan sun gave my hair beautiful streaks of bright blonde. After months of attempting to keep up with that, and a month in Mexico of being stared at constantly, I decided to dye my hair back to its original glory. A schizophrenic mix of red, light brown and dark blonde, that some like to refer to as “ginger.” I was sure I was scot-free from the daily awkward attempts at English, catcalls, marriage proposals and generally feeling like a rockin’ celebrity. Well, I was wrong. Very wrong. I have actually been receiving more attention- both wanted and unwanted. I think the reddish brings out my eyes, uh, or something. Or maybe I seem more approachable. Or maybe I just feel like I’m back to my original self and that is exuding from every pore. Either way, I like the color, but it didn’t exactly accomplish the goal I set out for- blending in. Appearing a little darker.

Brushing my teeth. You don’t drink the water in Mexico. In fact, you don’t wash your pesticide raised fruits and veggies in it either. They say you have to even keep your mouth shut in the shower. I was advised to ten cuidado (be careful) while treating my housemates to my usual performance of Fergie (how come e’ry time you come around my London, London Bridge wanna go down?...) and Justin Timberlake (dirty babe, you see these shackles baby, I’m your slave…) when I’m in the shower, just in case I open my mouth too wide and get some water down in there. And while I’m not chugging glasses of tap water, I am singing in the shower (thank god, it is such a stress relief) and even… brushing my teeth with it. And my lovely retainers. I figure slow introduction is good. At first I used all purified water, all the time. Then I started just rinsing my retainers in it (being featured in this blog is bringing them more stardom than ever before). After a while, I made the nerve-wrecking decision to rinse my brush after the brushing session, and at least 8 hours before my next session. Surely, whatever bacteria will die before then, right? And now, I have even started to occasionally rinse my mouth out a little. However, slight paranoia has me spitting like crazy afterward to assure complete removal of the tap water. Quite lovely.

Slang. Mexico City has its very own idiomatic culture of making words have excessive amounts of “ch”s in them. Chavo. Chela. Chilango. Panchanga. I spent over a decade now learning the proper words for things and I fly here and have to learn a bunch of other ones. Everyone said I would have to learn Mexican slang, and I thought, “whoa, give me a chance at getting fluent in the textbook stuff first.” But, let’s be real, I can’t be talking like Destinos forever now, can I? So, I said adios to the proper Castellano I learned in the suburban streets of San Antonio and Austin, Texas, and said hello to a dirtier mouth and more “Ch”s than you can shake a stick at. So, here is a run down:

We all know “beer” as cerveza. Here in D.F. it is chela.

That guy over there, he’s a chavo. And the gal next to him is a chava.

I went from being a Texan, to a Washingtonian, to being in the process of becoming Chilanga. Someone that is a native of Mexico City.

I thought I would be fiesta-ing all over this town, but really I’m going to pachangas. This one is particularly interesting because it is derived from “para changes” which literally translates to “for gorillas.”

“Cool” old school is padre, but for today’s folks it is chido.

I thought I would be trabajando-ing here, but instead I go to my chamba. My job.

And then I know a ton of others that refer to all kinds mind-in-the-gutter things such as sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll, that I will share on an individual basis. But I will not have the world wide web thinking that my ladylike have transformed to chanchada, or filth.

Let's Get It On

Making Out. Of course, you all want to know about my lustful, luxurious, Latin, love life. Most of you have inquired coyly, what kind of conquests I have under my belt, how Francisco the Latin Lover is doing, what is it like kissing in Spanish or how many Mexican hearts I’ve left broken and dead in my glorious wake. But I have news for you- it is pretty much non-existent. An’ by preety mah-uch, I mos ascertainly mean- NADA (I know you all miss the sassy Puerto Rican). So, while I’m not doing any of the above, I am definitely seeing pretty much every one else do it. Imagine being the third wheel on a date. Constantly. In every moment of your entire life. Well here, in Mexico, I have a front row seat to the hottest make out sessions in town. At least three times day, in fact. When we first started dating, I used to think my ex-boyfriend and I made quite the scene as we hugged and smooched down the stiff, serious streets of Washington, D.C. I often felt sorry for passerbyers as we nuzzled and fawned all over each other, Seinfeld “Schmoopie-woopie” style. But we didn’t care, damn it. We were in lust and had to express it right then and there. And apparently so is all of Mexico City.

A Walk in the Parque. While I’m sweating, and keeping my booty in shape during my morning runs in Parque Mexico, usually at least one teenage couple and one middle-aged couple are getting it on on the cozy, covered benches. Hot. As I dodge leash less dogs and burn off the six avocado and onion tacos from the after-party last Saturday night, I also have to do everything in my power to not scream, “Get a room, you yahoos!” Unfortunately, I don’t know how to translate “yahoo” in Spanish. The park is the most graphic experience as they usually take one of two positions (or both if I’m doing several laps around the park and I get to be the viewer of several stages in the dry humping session): either the guy is leaning against the post at the side of the bench and the girl is facing him with her legs draped over him like he is her effing saddle for her Kentucky Derby prize stallion; or, the woman will be seated on the bench and congenially hosting lover boy’s head, nuzzled nicely in her crotch region. I have noticed that in the park there is actually less kissing and more dry humping. It’s a different story on public transportation.

Come On Ride the Train, Train. Taking the metro is always an exciting adventure. There are roaming vendors blasting music and selling everything from gum to coloring books. While waiting for the next train, lovers, usually up against a wall rather than discretely off to a corner, participate in something less than a kissing session. It usually involves brushing noses and staring deeply, and closely, into each others’ eyes- so much so that they’ve gotta be cross-eyed. But when the train approaches and every one makes a ruthless dash to board, the said couple will enter together and find either some seat to share and swallow each others’ faces (directly across from usually a middle-aged man or grandma with her grandkids), or an awkward place to stand and make out. The first option is always interesting because is usually involves lots of tickling and perhaps even an accidental bang of a head on the window. Which I always enjoy. The seats are laid out so that four people could sit down and converse, so less than 2 feet away some poor soul has to avoid looking straight ahead in order to avoid being called the pervert. The standing option has its risks as trains in Mexico make screeching halts with little notice. Additionally, unlike the sitting option, there is usually little to no breathing room because we are all squeezed in like chickens in a cage at Tyson’s poultry farm. I had the wonderful experience two days ago of sharing a vertical holding bar with a couple, only a tad older than the lovely Sally and Dave Bennett, peck each other over and over and over. Now the Metro is loud enough so that I would have to blast my iPod when listening to it in order to hear Bono croon, but as this couple swapped saliva, I could hear ever g-d slop and slurp. I was beyond annoyed.

Pesero, wha?. See above. Thankfully, I have seen a trend that the said pair-bond reserves the back seat, so that the only folks really forcibly viewing this scene are their seatmates and the car behind the bus.

I’ll Drink to That. Oh the luxuries of booze. How we all miss the good ol’ college days of drinking into oblivion and making out with someone you wouldn’t look twice at in your Sociology seminar. While I have to admit, there are plenty of Mexican men to look twice at, that is if you are even so foolish to look away in the first place, there are also plenty of the less Mexican model-ish folks doing all kinds of making out at bars. Now Mexican bars make the crowd at TomTom’s look light. They pack ‘em in, as I’m quite convinced there isn’t such a thing as fire code regulations in this country. So, as I am trying to squeeze my way through the mass in order to purchase my Coca-Cola con limon, por favor, eye flirting with a couple suitors along the way and desperately avoiding eye contact with the rest, I usually come pretty close to practically joining these alcohol induced make-outs. It is a lovely experience as I balance my soda on the way back to my friends and try not to get swallowed in the process.

Buen Provecho. Mmm… Mexican food is some of the best in the world. I will have a separate entry simply devoted to the topic of food, and the consequential expansion of my love handles. And while there is nothing more hopeful than seeing two people madly in love, I do not want to see that shit while I’m about to bite into a blue corn tlacoyo smothered in chipotle salsa and topped with cheese and nopales, all for about 70 cents! Good lord, I love my life! But I digress. Restaurants are a grand place for romantic candlelight, intimate lighting and, of course, food sharing a la Lady and the Tramp. But those cartoon puppies had to keep it G-rated for their 1940’s Disney audience- Mexican diners do not. Add ice cream to the mix and you have your self, at least PG-13. Now, I am the first one at a dining session to offer samples of my entrée, but sharing ONE ice cream cone, at the same time, is not acceptable behavior, People. For crying out loud, I am on the most meager stipend and I can afford to buy my own cone. If you want a lick, fine, try my dulce de leche and coconut combo, but for god’s sake, not at the same exact time I’m licking it!

One is the Loneliest Number. If Italy was where I witnessed the most amount of public lovers quarreling, Mexico is where I am witnessing the most amount of lovers loving. I don’t know, maybe I am just bitter. I can’t lie. Sometimes I fantasize about sucking face with my very own Mexicano. How exciting it would be to swap spit with Pablo in the middle of the Zocalo, as kids try to peddle chiclets at our feet and the smell of tacos permeates our rendezvous. At times I think it would be nice to inhale the scent of a bouquet of cheap roses on the metro while I shyly pretend I don’t want to receive the onslaught of poking, prodding, and other such affection that Juan here is showering me with. How romantic it would be to go to the market with Rodrigo, pick out a ripe passion fruit and then feed it to each other right there- where we bought it- as people push and shove past us trying to buy their families some damn dinner. And yes, I’ll even admit that dry-humping Carlos at 8 o’clock in the morning on a wooden bench in Parque Mexico would sure beat sporting an old college tee, my bed-head hair thrown back in a pony-tail, and dripping wet with sweat as I make my seventh lap around the kilometer-long path. But for now, when I see such public displays of affection, I will look the other way, roll my eyes, steal judgmental glances and then go take a cold, cold shower.

Viva Mexico

Fourth of July... err... Well, imagine our Independence Day with a change of colors, language, songs and a bit more unrest. Alli, my friend and fellow gringa, came up from Xochimilco for the weekend to head to the Zocalo and pretend to be mexicanas. Throughout the Zocalo, bright lights of red, green, gold and white swirled and blinked. Vendors hawking their goods of various flags, glitter and gaude. People carrying Lopez Obrador signs (remember the leftist that had the election stolen from him and that has since supported a planton and blockade, that has been taken down in the past few days) and registering for the Democratic National Convention that was taking place the next day in order to determine what the next steps should be for taking

The Patriot wears... Not Prada (and might I add, I have yet to find a decent shoe store that sells quality, decent priced shoes with good arch support and cute style? Ugh...), but glittered headbands that read "Viva Mexico" framed by the (glittered) Mexican flag. I'm talkin' the Karate Kid headband, yo. These lovely tokens of fashion and patriotism are worn by many, but I'm certain my dear Alli and I were the only gringas sporting these lovely gems (see photo). For less than a buck I have my own piece of Mexican patriotism that can only be rivaled in gaudiness by U.S. flag, string bikinis (unfortunately, I don't have one of those... shucks...). Added to that are our Mexican flag markered cheeks. Slap some handcuffs on me, read me my rights, charge me with treason, and stick me in Guantanamo, but I loved the feel of this false parading of Mexicanness. Viva la Patria!

I gotta go bafvroom. So, in the midst of the mayhem, my leetle leetle bladder decided that this here lady needed to relieve herself. Lovely. My option. Yup, port-o-potties. But not just any port-o-potty, but Mexican ones. That have probably been there since the beginning of the protests on the Zocalo and more than likely not been cleaned out. I searched for a McDonalds, Starbucks or some other form of Capitalism to exploit for clean facilities. None to be found. So, with Alli's reluctant support and encouragement, I covered my nose with my sweater, climbed into one of those bad boys and squated over the most disgusting toilet I have ever encountered. I prayed that nothing would splash back up as I gave my quads a work out. Funny thing is that in Mexico we don't throw toilet paper in the toilet to be flushed, but instead put it in the trash (the toilets cannot take the bulk). Well, this Mexican tradition even extends to port-o-potties, because due to lack of little trash can, the ENTIRE DAMN stall was used as a paper disposal. Not a pretty sight. At all.

Sickness. Well, I may have braved the treacherous experience, but Alli refused. She held it. And might I add, her needs extended beyond the simple, tinkle. Alli had been having more intestinal problems in general, which I have thus far escaped and hope to continue with such luck. After several breaks to try and think it away and other such nonsense, I finally convinced her to go put on her sweetest face and very lady-likely express her "needs" to a nearby hotel (that runs about $250 USD a night, I might add) doorman. He kindly felt sorry for him and allowed her to enter and use the facilities but forced me to wait for her outside. After about 15 minutes, he probably felt sorry for the gawks and stares I was receiving as the swarms of Mexicans filtered through the street on the way to the Zocalo. He finally let me in where I attended to her in the "not $250 USD a night bathroom" (but kilos better than what I endured). After 15 minutes of coaching her through the bathroom stall, I finally excused myself to wait in the lobby. There I sat, exchanging smiles and knowing giggles with the hotel staff, for an additional 20 minutes. Alli finally, and confidently made her exodus from the ladies' room, and we walked laughing out of the hotel to the crowd. Viva Mexico headbands on and all.

El Grito. At 11pm, surprisingly on time, the Governor of Mexico state (not President Vicente Fox who retreated to Guanajuato to avoid a possible stoning), stood from a balcony over looking the Zocalo and declared a whole lot of "Viva Zapata... Viva las Aztecas..." The crowd screamed back, "Viva!" with every announcement. Finally, he yelled his "VIVA MEXICO" and the crowd went wild. I laughed at myself as I pounded my fist in the air with excitement and cheered along. We then turned around to watch an impressive fireworks display that was shot off, not over a distant water or field as we are accustomed to in the good ol' US of A but, over our very heads. I swore that if I didn't sufficate in the crowd, it'd be death by pyrotechnics. But all was safe, and with an extraordinary finale to boot. It was one of the best Independence Days I've ever had.

5 A.M.

Rain. The rainy season in Mexico City means that at least once a day there is a downpour, and usually at the most inopportune time. Usually it is on my way back from the market and I am loaded with heavy bags and my umbrella is at the effing bottom of my purse. Sometimes it is at night. And that is really bad when you are a lone blonde gringa, walking a mile to meet friends to go out, dressed to kill, and wearing high heels. Damn puddles. And these aren't just any kind of puddle. These are Mexico City puddles. At least half a mile deep- a dangerous cocktail of sewage, oil and litter. After about two dozen "guera"s or "guerita"s, as I trekked to my friend's, and being soaked from my mid-thigh down, I said, "Fuck this" and turned my ass around.

Resurrection. When I got back home I called my Heidi to tell her the news that I would NOT be going out. I changed into my pj's, took my contacts out, and even put on my retainer (yeah, $3000 worth orthodontics work). I nestled into bed to read and be asleep by midnight, imagining a full eight hours and an early start the next day. A little while longer I heard a knocking on my door. Startled and curious, I went to the door and heard a gaggle of girl laughter and shrieking outside in the rain. The troupe had come to get me. I couldn't believe it. It was pouring outside. As they were naked in my kitchen attempting to dry their clothes over a gas stove... uhh... I went upstairs and to get re-ready in about 7 minutes.

Rubias. In Mexico City there is poverty for as far as the eye can see. Coming from the perfectly sculpted, green lawns, huge-house, 2 spankin' new cars, 23 to a classroom, American suburbs, the middle-class here is something that looks entirely different. But wealth, something that I don't experience regularly in the U.S., is much more accessible to me here. We all know the reasons why- American, blonde,...- blah blah blah. So, we all went to a club/music venue that I would estimate was upper-middle class (not rich, but doing all right). First of all, you get in line and are picked out of it. So, for three rubias, we waited a total of, oh maybe, 40 seconds. We weren't charged a cover, but mainly because we are mujeres. But the luxuries that we, and I use "we" only so I can feel less self-conscious, are afforded just based on light hair, skin and eyes are unnerving. But with it also solicits trouble, something I will write about at a later date.

Ridiculous. Well, I thought I'd never hear hip-hop in Mexico, but boy was I wrong. For about 10 minutes. We entered this venue and pushed through the crowd as Nelly Furtado and Timberland crooned in the background. I tried to contain myself, as I didn't want to be that gringa so soon in the night. But seriously, after weeks of salsa and cumbia, I was ready to hear what America's best had to offer in terms of listening pleasure. We bought our drinks (Coke for me, which is such a sin while I'm working for a union in Latin America, I know) and headed to a spot to watch the band (that interrupted my beloved hip-hop) play. What a sight to be seen!

Rockstars. We have all watched the Spanish channels, whether we know Spanish or not. It is chock full of buxom beauties wearing next to nothing, injected with collagen, silicone and hair extensions, prancing around an old, quasi-frumpy caballero. So, imagine these lovely gals on stage, one looking dominatrix-ish, the other playing the part of the "girl next door" and the third a sort of "Posh Spice", singing and dancing behind, and often with, and sometimes ON, this sort of nerdy looking young guy that grew his hair out a bit in order to "cool-ify" himself. Add a few extra musicians looking as close to Juanes as possible and a dude with dreadlocks. They took turns singing covers of Shakira, Gnarls Barkeley, U2 and Mana, as the crowd, us included, danced and sang along. It. Was. So. Much. Fun. I oscillatedted between laughing at how ridiculous these extremely upper-class kids looked as they pranced around like celebrities in their moment in the light and re-enacted the moves they had more than likely practiced for hours in front of their full-length mirrors (hey, I do it too, I cannot judge). It was a marvel to see, and by far some of the best people watching I've done in a while.

Ride home. Aroud 4:15 a.m., we decided to leave. Unfortunately, there were no taco stands to slam down 30 cents a taco around the club. So, we hailed a, shame on us, green VW bug (there were four of us, and he was a very old man, so we figured it would be safe, and we were right... but I promise I won't do it again...) and crammed into the back of it. For $5 bucks it drove our giggling selves home. I went to bed at 4:45a.m and loving the rrr-ell (so cheesy, I know, but I couldn't for the life of me think of a word that started with "r" that could be used there, and I wanted to continue my literary brilliance... uhh...) out of Mexico.