Requisites, Rulers, and Riots.

Requisites.
Funky Friday. You can funk with me on Friday. But just on Friday. And in this way, I like to start my Friday mornings off with a little bit of funk. I crank the Maceo Parker and do my morning media monitoring. Isn’t it amazing how influential music can be on your mood? After a bit of head bobbing to music and reading the daily news, I proceed to get serious. No matter if the music is still on or not, I keep rhyme to the sounds in my head and the bobbing continues.

Snoozing. Every night before I go to bed I set my cell phone alarm to wake me up. I put it across the room so as to guarantee that I get up to turn it off. Every morning I get out of bed, walk across the room, pick up my cell phone, try to turn it off, eventually end up hitting snooze, bring it back to bed with me, and cuddle with my cell phone until it obnoxiously rings again five minutes later. For the first time, I looked down at my cell rather than fumbling around blindly in the darkness. After I hit snooze it said “snoozing,” as though snoozing is the gerund form of snooze. Well, I guess everyday I am snoozing it until I can’t snooze it no more. Today I was snoozing especially late.

BBQs. It’s spring time here in Mexico City. You may not have realized that because you are still frozen in your respective parts of the world, or perhaps because the weather hasn’t changed all that much here. It’s still cool in the mornings and evenings, and hot during the day. Of course, when it’s sunny and gorgeous, we have to have bbqs on the terrace. Gringo-style.

Vendors Voices. In order to be a vendor and sell anything in this country you must have an awkward and unique sound. To be successful at selling tamales, cooked bananas, phone cards, or anything else, your voice must be high pitched, scratchy, and cartoon-like. My favorite is the TelCel phone card guy. I have to buy phone cards for my cell phone and I always go to Pepe. First of all, to sell TelCel cards you have to wear an all neon yellow full-body suit that resembles the outfits that NASCAR drivers wear that are covered in advertisements. You can spot these human highlighters at every major intersection. Pepe asks, “taaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrr-jeta amigo?” This memorable question starts off low, and then he shoots three octaves up and climaxes on the “A-M-I.” He man is a walking cartoon. And the mustache is just plain unbelievable. Thank you Pepe, thank you very much.

Rulers: Free-hand it.
Having worked in a various other offices, I have become accustomed with the inventories of staplers, staple removers, tape dispensers, white out, highlighters, pens, scissors, hole punch, etc that all other work places have. In Mexico, many of these items are overlooked and not stocked. When something is not around, you usually don’t find a use for it and just make do. However, if you are new to this type of office setting, it is very clear when something is missing and your need for it is intolerable.

Isabel’s office just hired a new German. As this more than slightly anal individual was preparing a chart labeling the desks of all of his co-workers, he chirped up, “where is my ruler?” Isabel turned her head a little and looked at him curiously, “excuse me?” He repeated himself in a less than pleasant tone.

Isabel pondered the question with her finger covering her mouth. She thought to herself, “I have never asked for, or needed a ruler.” Then, she realized that if she ever needed to draw a straight-line, she would just free-hand it. That’s Mexico, you just free-hand it.

When your boss rushes in with an urgent assignment, you listen and take the project. With your boss still looking over your shoulder, you finish typing the email to Bryan about that crazy night in the club. Urgency and efficiency are relative here. You just free-hand it.

Riots: Damn the man, save the empire.
Let me say this, Mexicans are not Argentines. In Argentina the people love to riot. It is fun. It is passionate. It is part of their culture. They would sing, make banners, and yell a lot. It is like Pep Club: they would make signs, write songs, and dress up.

Here, it is less fun. It is more dangerous and serious. The way a protest should be. When Mexicans get pissed off enough to organize and leave work early, they are gonna break stuff. It is a lot of work to arrange a protest, and honestly, Mexicans are generally a bit too apathetic and lazy to do that. So, when I read in the paper that the International Water Forum was coming to Mexico and people were mad about the potential privatization of water, it was clear that the populace was gonna respond. And respond they did. They flipped. For a whole week.

On the first day, the government brought in the army. And positioned dozens of soldiers all over the neighbor I work in, Polanco. This was in the middle of the protest march. Everyone was let out of work at 2pm to avoid the protest that began at 4pm. My co-workers were dead serious when they told me to go home. “Don’t dawdle around here, go right home.” I asked them, “what are you going to do?” I knew they weren’t joking when they responded with, “I’m getting out of here as soon as possible.”

I went to a non-threatening neighborhood, had a long lunch with friends, and went home to take a nap. I roused at 7:30pm and motivated enough to go to the gym with Filipito and Isabel. We left the house at 8:15pm and exited the metro in Polanco to find the streets empty. It was eerie - a ghost town in a place that has the worse traffic in the world.

We didn’t think too much about it and arrived at our packed gym. After about 45 minutes, the gym cut the lights off and rushed everyone away from the windows and into a back room. They explained to us that the protesters were breaking windows and looting. I couldn’t believe it. They were still out in full force 6 hours later!

When we were finally permitted to leave the luxury gym in a posh neighborhood, the air outside was foreboding and ominous. The streets were still empty and only a few random people could be seen outside.

What have we learned? Well, first off, I am going to miss the tacos out of Mexico. I love it here. I love the maíz smells on the way to work, the torta de tamale that represents my second daily breakfast, the gel, the NFL apparel, the green “kidnapping” taxis, everything. We also learned that music is very important in life, on the job, and especially on Fridays, bbqs are one of little things that make nice weather even more enjoyable, cartoon characters actually exist and work for the informal Mexican economy, rulers and white out are really unnecessary, and a pissed off Mexican is a dangerous Mexican. The end.

Blond Hair Gets You There.

Ok, I have so much to catch you up on; so I am just going to get into it.

As many of you know, there is something special about those with blond hair. I am not saying that they are better or superior in any way; however, they command a certain amount of attention. For example, on busses in India, if you are blond, people will stare at you unrelentingly for your entire 22 hour bus ride. This isn’t a casual glance; it is an in-your-face stare. This weekend all of my perceptions regarding the special attention that blonds receive were re-confirmed.

Paco the Taco guy. Many of you can recall past entries on Paco. I am addicted to his delicious taco creations. He makes a “volcan” that is a crunchy, toasted corn tortilla pilled high is a melted mixture of steak and cheese. Yum, mercy me. Anyways, that’s not the story.

Paco has a bit of a crush on the blond, la Francesca (aka Morgane). And when I say a bit, what I really mean is that he has her picture on his cell phone, he invited her for dinner on Valentine’s day, and makes her the biggest and most delicious tacos. Did I mention that he is married and his wife works behind him at his stand? Well, I like to go eat tacos with la Francesca because we share the same addiction, and if I am lucky, Paco’s crush gets me bigger tacos too!

On this particular Saturday, Paco was in unusually high spirits. He offered us both beers. That is extremely rare. Alcohol is not to be consumed on the street, and if you picture his stand correctly, you realize that we are stilling on stools on the sidewalk. Furthermore, his stand has tacos. And only tacos. At times you can get a beverage, but only a coke or a squirt. So this was a pleasant surprise in itself. Free beer! Yes please! Paco looked to Francesca who responded in her typical French manner, “I don’t drink beer. Only Absolut vodka.” I rolled my eyes and wished she had just sipped on the beer to appease the man’s desire to be with her. Just accept his generosity.

Paco smiled nonchalantly and asked if she preferred pineapple or orange juice. I burst out laughing. This portrayal of my obvious fascination with Paco’s abilities was followed by a head shake expressing my disbelief that this was actually happening.

I sampled my beer and curiously pondered how Paco was going to get the Francesca a drink. He doesn’t live in the neighborhood nor does he leave his post behind the grill. He motioned to a girl on the street, who then entered the stand. He whispered in her ear and she was off. Within moments a bottle of Absolut appeared with a box of pineapple juice. Unbelievable.

The Francesca was now a bit embarrassed and I congratulated Paco. I even told him that I didn’t know if Francesca was addicted to him or his tacos, just to infuriate her and exacerbate their delicate relationship. The truth is that the

Francesca is a bit frightened and sketched-out by Paco and his forward manner, but she has such a strong addiction to his tacos that she is willing to overlook his stalking tendencies.

My jab at her prompted the usual battle with the Francesca. We usually have at least one fight a week. I always pray that they don’t get violent, but I would be lying if I said they didn’t. The French are a passionate, irrational people.

All to say, if you are blond, you can usually get whatever you want, no matter how difficult or unbelievable the request.

$1,000 night. Yup, that’s not in pesos either people. I went with a bunch of friends to a club called “Velvet.” Filipito had the idea that a place named Velvet was far more likely to be a strip club, but he came along anyway. As usual on Saturday nights there was an enormous line, or at least, a huge mob of 200 people trying to get in. The bouncers were randomly selecting people to get in. Within seconds of exiting our cab, I pushed the Francesca close enough to the front to get the bouncers attention. I pointed down at her and held but five fingers on my other hand. He looked at me, signaled five back, nodded, and waved us to the red carpet.

This isn’t the first time this happened, but it never ceases to amaze me. The bouncer surveys a group of 200 people, within seconds he has pinpointed the only blond, and in moments, she is being escorted into the club. My advice would be, if you are going to go clubbing in Mexico, either know the bouncers or bring three attractive women, and one must have bleach blond hair. Done and done.

VIP. After such an entrance, there was no other way to celebrate the night than in the VIP section. I discussed the options with the hostess,
she held her finger to her ear piece, and then whisked us over to another club official who stamped our hands, led us up another red carpet past another Velvet rope. Blond hair will get you there too.

The waiters treated us like gold. I told Alberto that another few friends were coming and I didn’t want them waiting in line. He said there would not be a problem and to have them call me when they arrived. I love VIP.

The champagne popping began and before we knew it, we had racked up an outrageous bill. Alberto loved me. He suggested a few complimentary tequila shots. I said of course we will take your free tequila.

All of a sudden, I realized my one mistake. I took my eye off my camera. For a second. After months of living in Mexico City, going to clubs, sitting in highly secure VIP sections, I had become accustomed to sitting at tables, taking photos, and letting my friends have my camera to do the same. Usually, I am a very paranoid and cynical person when it comes to petty theft. I always keep my values with me and know where they are at all times. This club was the most secure I have been to. I felt safe with Alberto and was used to having my camera out. But where was my camera?

At 3am, I was more than livid as I put down my glass of champagne and searching for my beloved gadget. We tore our section apart. Couches went flying, tables were over turned, and I had the entire managerial staff aiding me. They were all chatting through their ear pieces to the doormen below but to no avail. I was furious. They made it clear to me that they were not responsible for valuables, and that they actually have a “no camera policy” that they compromised for our group. I made it clear that I wanted everything comp-ed. I lost. I lost big.

Mexico is a safe country. If you have money it becomes much safer yet much more dangerous at the same time because you become a target. In this case, it was a simple mistake of trusting one’s environment. No where is free from robbery in Mexico. As a result, I will be camera-less for a while. I hope to continue posting photos from other people’s pictures. The blond got us in, got us up to VIP, but she couldn’t get my camera back.

Manu Chao. For those of you who don’t know who Manu Chao is, I’ll give you a brief description. Manu Chao is French, but he lives in Barcelona. He speaks a bunch of languages fluenty, and plays a mix of rock, reggae, salsa, rumba, and ska. His lyrics are also a mix of languages, at times, the same verse will have three or four different languages put together.

Only a few weeks after a concert at Palacio de los Deportes, Manu returned to play free show in the Zócalo in the Historic Center. Besides being a sweet opportunity to play in the heart of the heart of Mexico City, he was doing it as a protest to the recent conversations and policy proposals to privatize water. Last week there were riots involving protestors over the Water Forum. Looting ensued, it was generally a good time.

A free Manu Chao concert in Mexico City means that 180,000 of the weirdest freaks showed up. The review in the paper this morning verified the number of attendees, gave it a rave review, and made references to its populace nature.

Rain set a somber mood as we headed towards the anticipated event. The metro ride was pleasant and comfortable. We all made sure to leave any and all valuables at home. Not that I really had any left after Saturday night’s robbery. Anything that you could not shove safely and securely in your front pockets had to be left behind. Of course, I forgot to leave my belt. How silly of me.

As usual, in order to get into the Zócalo area, just like all other events, I had to remove my belt. However, since it was an all-day concert, there was no belt check. Just a lamp post covered with hundreds of belts. Knowing that in about five minutes, all of the belts would be stolen, I decided to conceal my belt. I will not go into how I did that, but I passed without a problem.

Security. I expected there to be a commanding police presence. Sort of like soccer games, riots, and demonstrations, I thought the army and policy would be there in full force with shields and riot gear. Nope. Not a soul. Apparently this crowd was the type of crowd that the police feared, felt no obligation to protect, and thought it better to let them kill each other. The truth is that the only people not scared of the crowd are the people in the crowd. These are the masses, the populous. They did not like foreigners. Alex, Rica (new blond roommate), Francesca, and I marched towards the swarms of people. We passed by a man selling magazines who offered “kill all foreigners with the guillotine.” Not really a very optimistic start. And no thank you, sir.

The Crowd. If you were not “one of them,” they didn’t like you either. I was with two blond European girls. Although I was ethnically dressed, they stood out like Schwarzenegger’s teeth at a black light convention. We were obviously not a part of “their group,” thus the group messed with us. I deflected comments, questions, proddings, begging, and a lot of elbows.

Spectacle. The U2 show was an example of Mexican culture, and this was an experience of Mexican culture. We packed in and discovered that our body movements were at the whim of the crowd. There was no control to be had. The only thing you could do was try to keep your arms near your chest so you could occasionally make enough for your lungs to expand and breathe. The current of people would move constantly forcing us left, then right, forward, and pushing backward. Needless to say, the poor blond girls were constantly assaulted. I did my best to fend off the busy fingers and hands, but it was useless. Luckily, the girls didn’t mind so much and nothing of substance happened.

One would think that such an environment would force those with emergency bathroom issues to the outskirts of the crowd to find a bathroom. Nope. A four man circle formed behind me which was to be used as a bathroom. Quickly noticing that these gentlemen were peeing on each other’s feet, in broad day light, in the middle of 180,000 people, I realized that perhaps this was not the best place to stand.

Throwing. I learned that Mexicans love to throw things at free concerts. I am not just talking about the usual bottle of water. Shoes, journals, hotdogs, bags of garbage, and my personal favorite, telephone books, would fly through the air and knock poor unsuspecting souls unconscious. This still doesn’t make sense to me, but hey, it’s Mexico. Rica made the mistake of climbing on Alex’s shoulders for a better view. Moments later a large cup of unidentified warm liquid came crashing down upon us from above. Francesca took the brunt of this attack. We were already wet from the rain, but now, she was soaked from head to toe. I hope it was water.

Speakers. As the afternoon grew older, various speakers took the stage to discuss the evils of the capitalist world and privatization. Posters of Subcommadante Marcos and Ché Guevara were displayed and people pumped their fists in unison. This propaganda and close quarters became too much for the girls so we elbowed our way out of the crowd. The only place to get food, water, and use the bathroom that was not closed, boarded up, and deserted was a friendly, neighborhood McDonalds. I myself had yet to set foot inside a fast food establishment in Mexico. My time had come.

As Manu came out pumping his fist wearing a Ché t-shirt, I found it terribly ironic that McDonald’s was packed. I looked around to see throngs of socialists in Mao caps, sporting red stars, and preaching against big business. At the same time, one big business had the ability to stay open during this type of event and be efficient: McDonalds. And they were all inside drinking their Coca Colas and eating the French Fries.

It Gets You There. In a country like Mexico where blond hair is very rare and highly prized, you realize the power of a simple hair color. Even if it is fake. As the other 180,000 people looked for a cab, ride home, or other means of transportation, a cabbie spotted Morgane from down the street and picked us up. Home sweet home. Blonds will really get you there, here. So, don’t forget your peroxide on your next visit.

Pieces to the Puzzle of Life

Granny. This morning, as I bobbed around on the metro listening to my ipod, I received a piercing shot to my kidney. I doubled over and looked down to see a four foot tall, died hair, old woman pushing her way towards the door. Due to the metro’s daily overcapacity, I generally just get smushed and smashed against other people. There is little room for movement so dramatic physical encounters are rare. However, today, I was on extra early (6:15am), and I actually had a little personal space. Well, I had a little personal space until granny elbowed me in the ribs. Up until that shock, I had forgotten how grizzled older Mexican women are. This isn’t just a love nuzzle or tap. I mean, granny’s throwin’ ‘bows and knocked out my breath.

Ironically, as any Metro rider knows, at my stop (auditorio) the entire train empties. There is no need to jockey for position. You simply let the tide of people sweep you out of the train and up the stairs. It is actually a fun ride. Perhaps a little smelly and gross but fun nonetheless. But for some reason old women feel the need to push, or elbow in this case, to the doors of the train and then slow down the stair climbing/escalator riding process for everyone else. Once off the train, I was caught behind my four foot tall friend until I charged past and ran up the stairs.

At the same time, I was thinking, as she took great pains to step off the train and begin waddling to the stairs, how do they do it? She could easily be 100 years old, or maybe 60. The aging process is increased not only by the pollution, but by the fact that women begin working at age 4. It is impossible to guess an older woman’s age, but she is guaranteed to have at least six kids, dozens of grandkids, perhaps even some great-grand children, although she may only be 60. She can’t slow down. That is relative meaning that she can’t stop forging ahead. She has to be the first off the train, and I guarantee that if she was physically able to, she would be running up the stairs alongside me.

Don’t drink the water. Every time someone goes to Mexico, the first piece of advice they receive is: don’t drink the water, don’t eat cucumbers, lettuce, or much fruit. Well, I have news for you, 70% of U.S. cucumbers come from Mexico and a third of the lettuce does. Do you get sick from those? I don’t think so. Although I don’t drink the water directly (usually), I use faucet water to cook my pasta, use in my coffee, and brush my teeth.

Irony. They have Sam’s Price Clubs here. In these warehouse supermarkets, they sell pre-packaged, washed, cut, and prepared salads. If you flip the salad over it says, “prepared in the U.S.” with Mexican vegetables. How silly is that? Mexico sends vegetables to the U.S., and illegal immigrants cut and wash these vegetables, then send it back to Mexico in a plastic container to sell in Sam’s Club. What is wrong with this picture?

Absolut. There is absolutely nothing that Absolut adds to my life. Perhaps a bit of a headache, some fleeting moments of fun, and less than adequate sleep. I suspect that you have all picked up on my bitterness, and I assume that you all have deduced that this is because I got to work at 7am after 3 hours of sleep. I was “required” to attend another one of Morgane’s Absolut events last night: Absolut Kravitz. Lenny himself was suppose to play but for some reason he was unable to make it and DJ Latinsizer re-mixed his music instead. I awoke to the pounding of techno. Horrible.

Excess. Every morning, I am either spaced out or pensive on the metro, and this particular morning I was deep in thought. I have come to the same conclusion time and time again. Alcohol is bad. Wait, let me rephrase, excess is bad. The major problem with alcohol is that it leads you down the tempting road to excess. For example, when vodka shows up at the party, he never shows up alone. He shows up with all his friends, and they are all on the guest list.

Then, like six-degrees of separation, one friend invites another, and another, and before you know it, the party is bumping. There is no reason to pull the plug on the music. Occasionally the bouncer, aka stomach, will try and quiet things down a little bit. He will leave some of your friends waiting behind the velvet rope until the party is under control. But he inevitably lets them in and keeps the party going.

Excess is the one thing in life that we are all compelled to do, and it is something that is always negative. Doing anything in excess means that you have lost control and the consequences are harmful. I get Paco Taco cravings really bad. I mean, if I don’t get a bistec con queso-fix soon, I lose it. However, when I eat tacos, I shouldn’t eat the half dozen that I tell myself I want. If I do, I will complain about being full, feel miserable, and most likely be incapacitated for several hours. If I eat Paco’s tacos more than once a week, it is overkill and the flavor isn’t as special.

Let me give you an example of doing something good in excess. Sleep. If you sleep too much, get too much rest, you are lazy. Motivation is scarce and you are less productive. Another example is work. If you work too hard, you are negatively affecting something. It may not be obvious to you at the time, heck, it may never be obvious to you. Some things are very subtle. Working too hard is not good for your health, your relationships, or your mind. Breaks are vital to success in all of those categories.

Picnics. These are some of those “little” things in life that are just plain beautiful. On Sunday I went to meet Ismael, Sergio, and Monika in the park at the National Center of Art. We had planned to see the free EuroJazz festival later that day. Sandwich making commenced with a fury and soon we were kicked back enjoying the gorgeous day, the sun, and the gently swaying palm trees. It was a 10. And then, Mauricio showed up with a football (the American kind). And things got even better. The simple act of tossing a ball around barefoot is pure heaven.

So what do beastly old ladies, dirty water, booze, and picnics have in common? I guess you all have to figure that out for yourselves; however, I did fit these pieces together in my life.

Ride the wave. I don’t want to look 150 years old when I am 30, so I will not follow the grandmas’ examples. Instead, I will sit back and go with the flow when it’s appropriate. I will not let other people’s stress or pushiness subtract from my mood. I will not curse them in my mind when I am stuck behind a slow old lady or a dump truck. I will take deep breaths and relax.

Agua. Always be careful and cautious when it comes to water, but always use the water. If not, you are just a tourist. I have a weak and temperamental stomach, but I drank the water in Southeast Asia, South America, and now, Mexico. You can too.

M&Ms. Avoid excess. Don’t eat that whole bag of M&Ms. Take pleasure in the things that you do but don’t do them too much or too frequently. No overloads. The only way the little things in life maintain their appeal and exceptionality is that you need to realize their special-ness and celebrate it. Enjoy that ice cold coca cola sip by sip.

Right now my puzzle is put together. The pieces fit together like the stone bricks on an Incan temple. Yet, at any moment, it might fall apart and I will have to fit the pieces back together again in a different way. As a good friend says, “strikes and gutters, dude.” So, ride the wave and know that you are on it because one day it will crash, and you will have to find another wave.

Smile.

Words that Don’t Exist in Spanish.

It is easy to assume that people speak the same way all over the world. Ok, obviously there are different languages, different expressions, and different urban words; however, one would think that the vocabularies would be similar and made up of the same words. One would be wrong.

There are many important words in English that do not have a precise counterpart in Mexico. These examples illustrate Mexican society and some of the problems that are innate within it.

Procrastinate. Talk about denial. They don’t have the word procrastinate here. Do you think that is because procrastination doesn’t exist? Think again. The word is very important to me. It was my first thirteen-plus letter word. My character, my persona, and my tendencies would all be meaningless without this word. How can people live without it?

I think the point is that procrastinate translates into the word “work” in Mexico. There is no apparent difference. Example, I am writing this blog instead of writing a memo about Carlos Slim’s speech on the Acuerdo Chapultepec and developing infrastructure. If someone asked me if I was busy and working, I would say “yes, yes I am. Thanks for asking.” However, as all Americans know, what I am really doing is procrastinating. Putting off obligation and responsibility because it is daunting to begin the job.

Nag. Today at lunch we were sitting around the table chatting. One of the head consultants, Javier Mancera, was telling a story about Adam and the Apple of Knowledge. He said to me, “do you know what happened when Adam ate the Apple?” I responded with an obvious, “duh” tone, “Um, yeah, Man fell from the grace of God and was expelled from the Garden of Eden.” A grin crept across Javier’s face, “no,” he said,” man grew ears in order to hear woman whine.”

Apparently, he had had a rough night with the wifey. He went on to say that he loved the word “nag” in English. “It is beautiful and explains women so well,” Javier continued. I wiggled my index finger and continued stuffing my face. If women can’t nag, then what can they do?

Accountability. This is my favorite word that doesn’t exist in Spanish. Apparently, nothing means anything close to accountability here. Corruption has run rampant in since Mexico gained its independence, laws are not always enforced, and politicians squeak by while stealing millions of dollars from the government.

What happens when it is obvious that a politician is corrupt and has stolen millions? Nothing. One such crook is Roberto Madrazo, he is running for president, and he has a chance to win.

How does one expect to solve corruption issues if you can’t hold someone “accountable” for their actions?

No joke.

A coca cola a day and I am only a Mexican away.

Four days a week, I bring my lunch to work. Besides being cheap, I try to eat delicious and healthy food. I make enough dinner to have a lunch the next day, and I bring that. Also, I have a Coke with every lunch. Everyone does. No, not just the people in my office but ALL of Mexico. Seriously.

The numbers. Mexico has the highest per capita consumption of coke in the world. No joke. These cats drink them like water. About two months ago the Wall Street Journal published an article that elaborated on this addiction. Apparently it is so intense that there is a huge underground network bringing Mexican coke illegally into the U.S. No joke. “The underground trade is costing Coke's 75 U.S. bottlers millions of dollars a year in sales to a motley crew of wholesalers, distributors and mom-and-pop retailers who are beating the bottlers to a lucrative market with their own brand.” No freaking joke.

The sweet goodness. The difference between U.S. coke and Mexican coke is sugar, or more specifically, syrup. Pure and simple. Pure and deliciousness. Mexican coke is manufactured here and has a distinct flavor. When Mexicans migrate to the U.S., they miss that good home taste. So, apparently, it gets brought over the border.

Addiction. As I walk by the hellacious smelling taco stands in morning on my way to work, I gag and watch hungry Mexicans chugging down cokes. This is not something I could ever do: eat tacos and chug coke in the morning. And you know I’m not joking.

Torta de Tamale. Have you ever wondered what a piece of corn bread sandwiched between two other slices of bread would taste like? Me either. That’s just foolishness. So welcome to the land of the foolish. The “torta de tamale” is a Mexican breakfast delicacy. It is a corn tamale sandwich. No tomato, no avocado, no nada…no joke. It’s a carb-lovers dream come true. For breakfast. Don’t forget a large glass of water because you’ll need it to get through this bad boy. Or perhaps, chug a coke.

Pancakes.

Did you realize that the way you eat pancakes is a metaphor for life? Well, it is, so you do now. We shall get to that momentarily.

Carnaval. (Not spelled wrong). As most of you know, there is a festival that takes place in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil every year. It happens before Mardi Gras and Fat Tuesday. This same fiesta is celebrated here in Mexico and is most rejoiced in the city of Veracruz on the Gulf of Mexico. Before you get the wrong image, I want you to know that Veracruz is a thriving port city, it is not a main beach destination. That being said, there are beaches, but according to Philip, “the worst I have ever seen.” My extensive travels have brought me to less desirable ones, so I was the first one in my bathing suit and in the water.

Travel plans. First comment, no offense by the way, but never let a woman plan your trip. Second comment, and this has nothing to do with the fact that Isabel and her family read this, she did a great job. She really did. But there were complications that were out of our hands.

We left on Friday after work for what should normally have been a 5 hour bus ride. Isabel had kindly purchased the tickets in advance to guarantee our seats on a bus to this monstrous event. Seven hours and two crappy movies later we arrived in Veracruz at 2am. Tired, a bit cranky, and certainly exhausted we stepped off the bus into the humid paradise of a coastal town. Amen.

Spontaneity. Our time was nothing short of amazing. The key for the weekend was going with my housemates, Isabel and Philip. We had a great time. Traveling together is always a great bonding experience, not that we needed much more bonding.

We were suppose to meet her friends upon arrival. She told us they would pick us up at the bus station and we could stay with them for the weekend. No one was there and no one was answering their phones. Not good.

Eventually, after 3 dozen phone calls and a lot of waiting, we got in touch with them and chose a place to meet. We stood around downtown Veracruz while drunk Mexicans fell down all over the place. We waited, waited, and waited. At 4am and after several more calls, I suggested that we start calling hostels. Of course, we knew that all of them would be booked. And they were. So, we started calling the second tier hotels, then the third, and finally we found one room at one of the nicest hotels in the city. The only room left in the city.

Normally, I would just go back to the bus station, throw my pack in a locker, and sleep on a bench, but Philip wasn’t into that and I didn’t think it was super safe for Isa, so the plush life was ours even if only for a night. At 5am we checked in. And it was everything we thought it could be.

Day 2. We awoke early and had our included breakfast. Seeing that we each paid $55 for the room, we ate our faces off. It was a buffet and oh boy, what a buffet! We all used a fork and knife at some point but I didn’t look up long enough to observe anyone’s pancake eating style. After almost 2 hours of eating, undoing my pants at the table, and complaining about being so full, we moseyed down to the pool and sip on cold beer. Isabel played on the slide while Philip and I complained a bit more. We checked out at 1:30pm and met her “friends” who had left us in an unknown city, on a holiday weekend, with no where to stay. Apparently we could no longer stay in the guy’s house but two other dudes had reserved a cheap room that we could stay in.

Horray for parades. That afternoon the three of us wondered down the parade track with huge stands on both sides, went swimming in the ocean, and then had seafood for dinner. Afterwards, we joined tens of thousands of our closet friends and jumped and danced and watched the advertisements and floats. We met a nice, friendly bottle of tequila, and its owner, Ivan and his friends. Ivan was 30+ and happily married for 9 years.

After the parade, we hitched a ride on the back of a packed pick up truck, Mexican style. The cheering, jumping, and dancing didn’t stop in the truck. Nor did it stop when we got to the club.

Comfrotability. On Sunday we roused and found a diner. No, I am dead serious. This place was a diner. It looked like a diner, had that same comfortable feel, and the menu was the same (just in Spanish). All I could think about was pancakes and bacon. You know when you get that hankering for pancakes, syrup, and a cup of joe? I had that real bad. Real bad.

As I scarffed down the soft, delicious pancakes with “maple flavored” syrup, I got to thinking: why do I cut up all of my pancakes before eating any? I believe syrup pouring techniques, butter distribution, and cutting style say a lot about a person. For example, I cut all of my pancakes up then cover them in syrup. Some would say that the manner in which I eat pancakes portrays me as an anal person or overanxious. I think the latter is true, but that is not why I eat pancakes the way I do. It is comfortablity. See, I just made up a new word: comfortability. You know what I mean, working harder to be comfortable.

For me, having all of the pancakes cut up and ready for consumption facilitates the process. Pancakes are the type of thing you enjoy, but shove down your throat. Unlike steak which requires a careful and patient palate to sample the different and juicy flavors, every piece of pancake tastes the same, like sugar, fluff, and bread. So I make stuffing my face easier for myself. Cut it up before.

I think being comfortable is totally important. You are happier, stay in a better mood, and heck man, you feel good. Example, when you are lying in bed half conscious because you have to go to the bathroom but its too cold to get out and walk there. As a result, you toss and turn for the rest of the night until you go. It is much better, comfortable, and healthy when you decide to stop being stubborn and lazy, and get up. You don’t have to be wealthy or have an ipod to enjoy life, you enjoy it more when you are comfortable. Do you get up?

Lymphoma. It is a terrible disease. As many of you recall, when I ran the Houston Marathon in January 2004, I asked for donations to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. Many of us have friends and relatives that have suffered from these diseases. On June 17th in Anchorage, Alaska, my good friend Kate Lehman is running the Mayor’s Midnight Marathon. She lost a friend and co-worker to leukemia and has dedicated her performance to him. I hope that you can find some spare cash and make a donation to this important society and help support Kate’s efforts: http://www.active.com/donate/tntepa/tntepaKLehman

Thank you very much. God bless.