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.

The Big Picture

Mexico City. La Ciudad. D.F. Beautiful, vibrant, chaotic, intense, friendly, loud, dangerous, exciting. My home for a year. The group of us working in Mexico touched down in Mexico City the early afternoon of August 28. We have been running around ever since. My mind has not been able to rest and my senses are on complete overload.

Un poco de la historia. So, in brief, the PRI, centrist party, had ruled the country for over 70 years. It essentially served as a dictatorship, incorporating most unions, associations, and organizations, and was corrupt by all measures. In 1994 NAFTA, developed under Bush I's watch and signed into law under Clinton's, with promises of better economic opportunities for Mexico, went into affect. In 2000 the PRI lost the presidency to the PAN, right-wing party, which continued on with privatizing Mexico's markets.

Comercio libre. Essentially, the policies that the US, PRI (centrist) and PAN (right-wing) have implemented, enforced and/or promoted are creating an even larger class divide in Mexico (and the U.S., for that matter, as we are beginning to see middle class jobs threatened with globalization- not immigration) and are forcing many rural Mexicans to leave their homes for larger cities and often el otro lado (U.S.). An example of what happens is this: A small farmer in southern Mexico has for decades grown corn to sell in the market. He does moderately well and can afford to live a poor, but liveable life. Suddenly, he is not able to sell his corn at the market because there is a vendor at the other end of the market selling corn for half the price. The corn has been imported in from either the U.S. or Canada and is able to be sold at a significantly lower price because of the HUGE subsidies the U.S. and Canadian governments gives to enormous agri-business corporations like ConAgra and Monsanto.

La migración. The farmer and others like him can longer afford to feed their families because their only ability to make money in the rural area has been threatened. The farmers then decide to move to the city to find work. The city is huge, crowded, expensive (in fact, many prices at the grocery store I went to today, which is incidentally owned by Wal-Mart, have just slightly lower prices than the Giant where I shopped in Washingon, D.C.) and there is little work. If the farmer actually finds formal employment (through a business or company) he probably makes the Mexican minimum wage of barely $5 a day. But most often he is earning through the informal economy by selling wares on the sidewalk or doing sporadic manual labor. He finally decides he cannot afford to feed and house his family anymore and makes the painful decision to leave, hoping it is temporary, for El Norte.

La situación ahorita. The July 2 elections between Andres Manual Lopez Obrador (PRD) and Felipe Calderon (PAN) are widely believed to be riddled with fraud. Lopez Obrador of the PRD (leftist party) is said to have lost the election by a little more than 200,000 votes. Sound familar? And Mexicans took to the streets. They demanded an open count of all votes. Sound familar? The Zocalo, the main plaza in the center of the city, was packed with protesters (click for a photo) in July. In August PRD voters that believe their votes were not counted in the official polls blocked a main street in acts of civil disobedience. Currently, there is a huge planton, large tent city, on the Zocalo and throughout the central area of the city, of protesters vowing they will be there until there is a full recount. Last week President Vicente Fox was set to give his last Informe, State of the Union, to Congress but decided not to because PRD members in Congress stood where he would be (another photo) giving it carrying signs accusing him of aiding in the fraud to make Calderon the winner. Calderon of the PAN (right-wing party that holds the presidency now with Vicente Fox) this week was declared president by the highest court in the land. Sound familiar? Added to that is Mexican Idenpendence Day this September 15 and 16. With the country so divided and feeling angry and frustrated with the political system and the continual plummeting of quality of life, this is sure to be an interesting and inspiring next couple of months.

¿Qué signífica eso? You all know I love politics. I especially love it when the disenfranchised organize and demand justice. But I am writing this hoping that this can give a decent portrayal of the macro-context in which I'll be working. More importantly, the situation in which Mexico's poor, working class and middle class have to work and live. The farmer mentioned earlier is the face of who picks our tomatoes in Florida. He is the man that cleans our office building in San Francisco. He works endless hours in a chicken processing plant in the Mid-west. Or he paints our house in Washington, D.C. (despite our protests- shout out to the Emmaus girls). There is a direct connection between the economic state in Mexico and the U.S. And while we often are given numbers and statistics on a large scale, we are seldom asked to know the individuals and their stories within the masses. And incredibly complex individuals with deeply moving stories they are.

Chicago, Chicago

August 20-28, 2006

La Familia. The time spent visiting my family was difficult than most visits. My mom is battling cancer (for those of you that this is news to, I apologize, and also shudder at the fact that in this age I can share news like that over a freggin' blog) and it was difficult for me to see her in the emotional, physical and mental state that that I'm not used to seeing her in. But despite the stress the good-bye was my usual bout of tears and bawling. My parents brought me to the airport and as I lugged my suitcases through the doors, my mom called out to me, "We're proud of you, Rachy." More tears.

Aeropuerto. I approached the check-in counter with tears and my red crying face, checked my bags and was issued my boarding pass. I overheard one of the women behind the counter comment about the men's soccer team that would be flying out that night. I sort of smiled to myself and wondered what that was all about. I walked to my gate and listened to music, trying to hold back my tears. About 30 minutes before boarding the soccer team started rolling in to the waiting area. Little groups of college-aged boys slowly trickled in wearing white and blue-trimmed jerseys.

Trent and soccer. I boarded the plane and soon discovered that I would be the proud seatmate of my very own guapisimo freshman soccer player. Trent is from Minnesota (why can I never get enough of you Minnos!) and beginning his first year at Creighton University in Nebraska. He filled me in on team gossip and dynamics. We talked about his plans for college and I gave him plenty of unsolicited advice about how to make the most of the years. I laughed as he showed me his book "Beginners Socrates: Difficult Thought Made Easy" and just giggled about the hilarity of the entire situation of being on a plane full of young, hot soccer boys. My trip was beginning just perfectly (silly). I said good-bye to Trent and his teamsters and headed to the South side of Chicago for our orientation.

Orientation. Redundant. Emotionally exhaustive. Hopefully helpful later in the year during reflection.

Chi-town. This someday will be my stomping grounds. If I can stay sane through the bitter winters, I may attempt to make this my settlement (unless I get tempted to fly off to Spain or live in Buenos Aires). I went out with friends of friends, danced away in the Greek festival and took a sunset boat cruise on Lake Michigan. Simply exciting.

Good-bye D.C.

August 15, 2006

Never in my life have I been built up and broken down, and then built up again like I have in DC. The last month in DC was exciting, heartbreaking, emotional and never-ending. As I sat down in National (still refusing to call it Reagan) to wait for my plane, I stared at the Capitol in the distance and reflected.

DC. This is the land I once refused to ever call home, but somehow, it had come to feel like "home." The place where I stretched my activism and nurtured my passion. Here is where I have witnessed the most devastating poverty in the United States and seen the most encouraging struggles. I have loved like never before, and my heart, and all the plans and hope within it, has broken like never before. I have been mentored and shaped by saints, sins, brillance and bureaucrats. I have been inspired by some of the most passionate people I have ever encountered and been disillisioned by egos and grandiosity. I have lost friendships through distance and ideology, and gained relationships with true love and meaning. College may have scuplted my mind, but D.C. molded my heart.

As my plane took off and I peered over the "alabaster city" tears pooled up in my eyes. This once strange land was losing its converted stranger.