Nine is the Magic Number

If you don’t live with eight other people, you should. I think any number lower than that is just not enough. With nine people, someone is always around. It is nearly impossible to get tired of anyone because there are so many different schedules and regular rotation is unavoidable. And because you are constantly entertained.

With nine you don’t know what to expect. La Sra. Franco is the grandmother we have all had. She refers to me as “mi hijo” (my child), and is as sweet as any little old lady. If I arrive at a decent hour, she is always the first person I interact with and it is lovely.

Magic. In five weeks, I have gotten to know all eight of my roommates also as family. Even Manuel, the 60 year old man, and I have discussed such things as the tendencies of Americans to live life excessively, his smoking habit, and we exchanged other insights.

The house is full of life, color, and personality. I urge you all to look into group housing situations. Especially with people you have never met. You will learn more about life, love, yourself, and others. I know myself better than ever.

Now, before I tell my story about the second free Absolut vodka event, I need to clear the air. Many of you have got the wrong impression about my experience here. While the social life is alive and well, it does not dominate my time. Work does. Learning does. I chose to write about my cultural observations and fiestas because, generally for you, that is more interesting. But I will say a little something about work at the end of this one. Last thing, the social scene does not center on drinking either, though the photos may disclose differently. Believe it or not, I am partying less than I ever have. So now…Absolut.

Fobia. Morgane, la Francesa, if you can recall, works for a marketing firm which represents Absolut. They had another completely free open bar event, and this time they featured the musical stylizings of the Mexican rock band, Fobia. They are very famous and teetering on old age, but not quite Mick Jagger-style. It was great. Live music is always good for the soul.

Coffee. Why is it that no boss, no matter how smart or capable, knows how to work the coffee maker in the office? Monica and I are usually the only people at the office, doing the most important jobs, every morning before 7am. However, when we have clients coming at 8:00am, things are very different. Julio Madrazo, one of the three partners, came storming in at 7:30am breaking me out of my Zen-like semi-conscious focused state. He went straight for the kitchen and appeared moments later a little more frazzled with a desperate look on his face.

The machine is simple. You put in the coffee and turn it on. Of course, I have no idea how to do that either because Margarita always makes and brings me my coffee. Ha.

Tacos. I bet you didn’t know that the vast majority of the time tacos are made by men. All street tacos and even those in restaurants are created and seasoned by men. You have to find a very rare and uncommon place to see a woman doing the cooking.

I have to find one. One of my boss’ told me that there was the very special place where a woman did the taco preparing that was only open on Saturday and Sunday until the tacos were gone. This could be only a few hours. This weekend, I will find this place.

Personal Space: the Closer Talkers. Mexicans have a very different perspective on what constitutes personal space. Example, whenever Jorge, one of the consultants, talks to be me, he talks to me in very close proximity. His arm is usually touching mine and I can always tell if he had the Hazelnut or the French vanilla coffee that morning. I usually inch away because the coffee odor and closeness make me uncomfortable. Of course, he follows. After a conversation of about 2 minutes, we are already ¾ the way across the office. I don’t think he notices. But this is a cultural aspect that I didn’t realize was hard for me. I don’t like people to get all up in my grill when talking with me. I like my space. Keep your distance.

Work. If you aren’t convinced that Mexicans actually work hard, then maybe this will help. I get to work every morning before 7am. Monica arrives at 6am, Alejandra before 8am and she stays till 9ish, etc.

I have turned into the dreaded “grandpa.” I have a schedule. I like my schedule. I am in bed before primetime TV is over (we don’t actually have a TV). I have my Lucky Charms (or substitute Honey Nut Cheerios) with cut up banana and a glass of OJ for breakfast. I put my leftovers from last night’s dinner in Tupperware. I rock out to my ipod as I walk to the Metro and run down the stairs and up them again. Margarita brings me my coffee at 8:30am. I finish up at the office, walk to the grocery store to pick up any last minute necessities for tonight’s dinner, rock out to my ipod on the Metro and sprint up and down the stairs. I cook dinner and converse with my roommates, watch an episode of Sex in the City with Laura and Morgane, read a chapter, then hit the hay. What has become of me? Old Kip would never have done this. New Kip has matured to an adult.

The work itself. Is generally fascinating. We have about two dozen clients ranging from railroad companies to the Mexican government to a variety of other large businesses. They are about 70% Mexican, but the other 30% are American. I don’t know how much information I am allowed to or should divulge, especially in such a public forum. So, if would rather wait to tell you about it in person. But I will say, I do translations from Spanish into English of newspaper articles, legal documents, etc., I research in a number of data bases both American and Mexican, and write reports, make proposals, and create power point presentations for meetings with our clients. Right now, I am researching Mexican gambling laws, the legality of certain types of betting machines, and a lawsuit brought on by a Canadian gambling machine producer against the Mexican government in the spirit of NAFTA. Las cosas son muy interestantes.

Nine is just fine. In only a few days, I will be headed back to the States, in fact, on Monday, so feel free to give me a call. I leave again on Thursday, December 22nd to return again on December 30th only to leave again on January 4th. My cell phone number is the same, and I would love to hear from you. Of course, in total, I’ll be in the states for nine days. Nine is my sign.

One love.

****Leonardo, Loya, Niko, y Kip

****Miguel Basanez casa

****Pool and Jacuzzi, holla.

****La Francesa, Niko, Me, Isa, Leo, Vidal, y Ailin

****Sunset

****My best Italian impression, Leo's best American

Las Reglas

****Salud otra vez

****Merry Xmas from my house to yours

****Salud!

****Ready? Isa, Laura, Vidal, Ailin, Leonardo, La Francesa, Philip, Nico, Me, Miguel, su esposa, y la T�a

****The Italian Stallion

****At Miguel's lake house in Valle de Bravo

****I found my love in Coyoacan

Vidal, Philip, Laura, Isabel, Leonardo, and Kip

A Pagan Battle

With all of this cultural analysis and reflection, I finally had a chance to get down and dirty with Mexican traditions. I went to a football game.

I am talking about the real football, the kind you play with your feet. Paco, Ismael, and I scored tickets to one of the most sought after sporting events in Latin America, the sold-out finals of the Copa Sudamericana between the Los Pumas de UNAM (México City) and the Boca Juniors (Argentina).

As it is in most of Latin America, and the world for that matter, football is more than a sport, it’s even more than a cult, it’s a religion. In Mexico, this is heightened by the fact that they are good (see World Cup 2006 seedings). I bet you are asking yourself, well, self, how is soccer a religion? Don’t worry, I’ll tell you.

Religion. It is defined as “a set of beliefs, values, and practices based on the teachings of a spiritual leader” and “a personal or institutionalized system grounded in such belief and worship.” Without saying a whole lot more, I can delve into the depths of this pagan religion.

Rituals. As you enter the stadium, you present your ticket. The bullet-proof vest protected policemen are far less concerned with your ticket than with you. I passed through a series of checks by at least four different policemen.

You think Washington-Dulles has tough security? Similar to the airport, the first check resulted in my having to take my belt off. However, at the airport, you get in back after you pass through security. At football games, you have to check your belt at the gate entrance. Well, I wouldn’t go as far as calling it a belt check, in reality you pay an old toothless man $1 to hold onto your belt during the game. According to Paco, belts are typically used to wave around your head and hit people with during games instead of the traditional purpose of keeping ones pants up. Who knew.

Unlike Church, people show up three hours early to guarantee a good seat. Similar to Church, you dress for the part. Instead of a suit or nice clothes, everyone is decked out in gold and blue. Only Puma apparel is accepted. It is a good thing I wore my blue sweatshirt because the color was enough to deflect attention, but I was the only one in the whole stadium not wearing something Puma.

Prayer. Like for most sports ceremonies the National Anthem kicks off the festivities. However, rather than post the words on the big screen TV (yes they had a big screen, this is football people), an advertisement for one of the sponsors remained up. Unfortunately that meant that I was lost, but I pretended to sing along. After the anthem came the more important prayer: the Pumas Creed. During the anthem, some people put their arms over their chests, but most didn’t. All of the faithful, everyone in the stadium, extended one arm out hailing the Pumas and said the creed together. The words appeared on the big screen TV and the feeling of unity was mesmerizing. They did this at the beginning and ended the game the same way.

Psalms. Drums beat. There is a war cry. The troops are rallied when the faithful wave one arm around their heads whistling. Everyone knows that the time has come, as arms pump ferociously in the air, they yell, “uno, dos, tres….. Gooooooooooo-ya! Goooooooooooooo-ya! Cha-chu-chu-kah, rrrraa raa, cha-chu-chu-kah, rrraa, ra, gooooooooooo-ya!!!!!! Universidad!!” Everyone goes nuts and thrusts their arms wildly about. Who knew that hands and arms could be so expressive? As I cheered and shook my hands in fury, my pants kept slipping down. Stupid belt rule.

There are about a half dozen songs, far too complex for me to learn in such a setting, but I got the main chant down. Some songs are simply a string of profanities best sung by the old and the young. Ten year old boys scream at the top of their lungs words so profane I am embarrassed to write them. However, nothing is more awkward than listening to the 75 year old grandmother teach her seven year old granddaughter the words to “La Puta de tu Madre.”
Seats. They aren’t for sitting. They are for standing on. However, after the game is underway, there is a resounding cry for a break. After shouting and chanting and dancing for three hours prior to the game, people in the back want to sit down, so they start whistling at those in front of them. Shouting profanities and going so far as throwing things, such as empty cups, full cups, water bottles, parts of drums, whatever, at those blocking their view. A ten minute break commences, intermittently interrupted by shots on goal.

The game. I will make this short because I know many of your attention spans are coming to their peak. It rocked socks. The first half was completely dominated by Boca. They went up 1-0 fairly early on, inciting anger and impatience from the crowd. The second half however was the most exciting half of sports that I have ever seen in person. Los Pumas scored on a sweet shot and scored again when the ball broke the goal line plain; however, the referees did not call it a goal. So the score remained 1-1, but the Pumas had another 5 or 6 near goals that kept the crowd on their feet, chanting, and yelling profanities at the Boca players and the refs. The Pagan gods didn’t hand the Pumas a victory on the score board, but they were still the champions. How sweet it is to watch football.

*****Despues...

*****Al principio...

Tequila, hmm, it's Like Beer

No, no it’s not. And if any Mexican ever tells you that it is, he is trying to take advantage of you. But again, let’s start at the beginning, shall we?

“Level.” As a few of you may know, Absolut Vodka has put out a new type of vodka called “Level.” Morgane, la Francesa, works for a marketing and advertising company who just happen to represent Absolut. Thus, they suggested to Absolut that they throw the most plush and high-class event that they could.

So, they rented a huge mansion in the middle of Parque Chapultepec over looking a lake. They lit the whole white building in smooth blue lights. It could be seen, glowing, from anywhere in the park. The invitation defined the dress code as “Formal Riguroso,” which for those of you who don’t speak Spanish means Formal Rigorous. I didn’t think they were serious. But they were. Everyone was dressed to the nines. The bartenders, waiters, staff, and the fifteen piece band were dressed in tuxedos.

I had heard there would be free food and drink, so I fasted all day in anticipation. I think this is appropriate to say here, I have now experienced high society Mexico. And I like it. I don’t know if I can go back to my ghetto life-style. I also found where all of the younger versions of Selma Hyack have been hanging out, with rich men.

Of course, nothing was served except for Absolut Level. Needless to say, a fiesta that began at 8pm and lasted until 3am in which only liquor was served was…bumping.

José Clemente Orozco. Is the man. After a night on the high-class side of town, my mind and my soul needed some stimulation and culture. So, Leonardo and I went to the Museo Moderno. To Mexicans, Moderno does not mean Modern Art, it simply means 20th century art. Leonardo and I philosophized about life, God, art, the origin of its influence, along with a very analytical critique of our housemates. We saw some of the most amazing art, all Mexican and Latin American, that I have ever seen. A lot of it was a crash course through AP Art History from high school. Two artists that stuck out were José Clemente Orozco and José David Alfaro Siqueíros.

SEC Championship. After my culture, I was ready to watch the much awaited football game between Georgia and LSU. As all of you know, LSU was ranked 3rd and UGA was 13th. The winner of this competition got an automatic berth to the Nokia Sugar Bowl. This is on-the-edge of your seat entertainment people. I was unable to convince any of my European roommates or Mexican friends to spend three hours watching college football, so I went stag. “Yuppies Sports Bar,” I am not kidding that is really the name, is the only place in town that plays college football. And it is a sports fan heaven in Mexico. I ate my tacos, drank my beer, and watched USC trounce UCLA as I waited for the game to begin. Two New Orleans-ers rolled in just in time for the first touchdown. They were about 50 and staunch LSU fans. Excellent. We talked, argued, and enjoyed the game. There was no sound because the rest of the TVs in the bar were playing the Monterrey soccer game. It took the Monterrey fans a few touchdowns to figure out that I was not cheering at inopportune moments in the soccer match, but rather I was watching college football on a small TV with no sound. They were accepting. And we won. Go dawgs!

Hookah Lounge. If you want to see the hip and trendy side of Mexico, go here. Selma Hyacks were running around everywhere. The gorgeous waitresses happily bring trays and trays of tequila shots. In Mexico, all the tequila comes with two sangritas which are two other shot glasses, one filled with sour lime juice and the other with bloody marry mix. The ritual for taking tequila shots is not what you think it is. In the States you sprinkle a little bit of salt on your hand, lick the salt, take the shot, and then squeeze a lime in your mouth. Here, they look at you disgusted as if you just passed some terrible McDonald’s type gas. I learned their method quickly and after a few rounds, I was the king of the ritual. It’s good to be the king. The DJ spins and dances, Spanish makes more sense, and you have an urge to dance.

Tonight Leonardo prepared a delicious Italian lasagna for our weekly house dinner. It was the best Italian food I have had here, obviously. The Mexicans don’t really how to do anything without tacos.

Work. Oy. I have to be at work at 7:30am from now on. Super sweet. Should be a long week.

So that’s a wrap. I can’t believe it is already December, in part because it feels like spring. You are all very missed and I look forward to catching up when I am back in the States. One love.

*****On the Boat

*****Boats

*****Laura self-service

****Me with the cooked food

*****The Crew again