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.