Postcards from the edge

I wrote a postcard to myself while on vacation in San Francisco. It just arrived:

"I miss the land of open vowel sounds and rolled R's. The words here in SF are truncated. The sign says, 'shark,' but people here say, 'TIH-burr-unh.' It gets caught in my mouth; it's so strange here."

Also, this is my new boyfriend. I met him at Bishop's Pumpkin Farm.

What if...

What if gestures and general facial expressions weren't universal? They aren't entirely, I know. Sure, sure, lifting a backwards peace symbol with your hand will illicit no kind of reaction in the States, but when you arrive in the UK, will be greeted with a black eye.

Certainly those little cultural differences exist here in México. Luckily, the kind people at the Fulbright Commission actually demonstrated some of them at our orientation. Like how one can answer "Yes" even if one's mouth is full, because it only involves your index finger:

Or how men generally greet one another by shaking right hands, moving right to embrace with two pats on the back, and then returning to shaking right hands.

Or the one that continually causes me trouble, is "thank you." Think of Vito Corleone raising a hand of thanks to one his Italian brethren, and you're close. In thanks, you raise your hand to eye level, palm facing inward. To me, this always looks like I am swearing at someone. So even though intellectually I know this, raising the back of my hand to a car that has kindly just let me cross the street, I cringe a bit, waiting for them to floor it and trample me.

Oh, then there is what I always thought was the universal symbol for balls. But here, means "lazy." Though, Kelsey Mulyk helped explain why: "The gesture for lazy is a cupped palm facing upwards, like you are holding something heavy. One or both hands can be used in this gesture. This is highly inappropriate because it refers to lifting "huevos" (which is Mexican slang for testicles). Basically the meaning behind this gesture is that the owner's "balls" are so big and heavy that he can't get up!" Ah, I see. So I'm not totally off.

The Fulbright Commission and I must not be the only ones interested in these gesticular dissimilarities--because there are a sizable collection of explanatory YouTube videos and websites; this being my favorite.

But I started thinking, these cultural differences aside, what if facial expressions were not shared in any way? How would you learn another language? How often I find myself using facial expressions and context to glean the meaning of unfamiliar words. What would I do if a confused face in Mexico, actually meant felicity here? Or if an angry face denoted hunger?

HELLOOOOOOoooooo!

It's been a while, blog friends, if you're still out there. I suppose I should do a little shout out to see if anyone's still listening...

HELLOOOOOOooooooooo!

So, I've gotten lax. But we all knew there would be some changes in me now that I've pushed into my thirties. One of them might be that I'm slower. AH! But let's not delay the passing on of information. Here's a quick two-month round-up:

1) I dug myself a mighty hole of virtual paper to swim in. That's right, internet research! I was pushing hard in the few weeks before mid-October hit to research grants and funding options for a youth radio initiative I'm working on here in Oaxaca. There was a bit of actual paper to swim in, as well, as I was writing up my very first syllabus for a radio class--which was fun to work on, that is when creeping doubt didn't crowd out my creative ideas.

2) There was a bit of shopping going on. When you head for the States only once a year, that comes with a steep price. Yes, the plane ticket. But also, the price of carrying gifts back and forth for loved ones. There's no showing up empty handed when you've been away from "home" for so long. I even had to hunt down a special suitcase to lug the many crafts and delicacies one can only find in Oaxaca. Note to self, when you pack 3 kilos of coffee beans, make sure to wrap them in plastic. The over zealous security guards at the airport may topple your bag, and thus, scatter those fragrant beans all over the inside of your carry-on. Second note to self, especially important when you also pack your bridesmaid's dress in that same carry-on ("Megan, pretty dress. Is that you who smells like...coffee...?) And the load back was no lighter. It's popular to become a little "burro" for your friends back in México.

little burrito

cat burrito

3) I went on a trip. Mexico-Scottsdale-Portland (OR)-San Francisco and back. I tried to post a little video. But until my neophyte tech brain upgrades to a better model--I'll have to wait to post it again. I think it looked just like still pictures. Oy!

So in lieu of a play-by-play, here are some moments:

• A quick stop in Arizona sees me sitting in a diner-like breakfast place with Grandma & Grandpa, where the cinnamon buns are pillow-sized, and my tummy cries out for salty and sweet; California Eggs Benedict with a bowl of fruit it is! And you know what my first thought is as I'm driving around on Scottsdale's pristine roadways...? "Where are all the poor people?"
• Portland is neither wet, nor cloudy when I touch down. LIES! Or perhaps I have a red phone straight to the weather man upstairs--because we are blessed all week, and the day of the wedding with blissful sunshine. I do score a monkey hair coat from Vicki and Mike that keeps me warm--since I'm ill prepared for cold weather. It seems that each furry green hillside is spitting out some form of waterfall or river. There's no such thing as a water shortage here.

• A take a stroll in Noe Valley, the neighborhood just east of Drew and Felicity's hilltop apartment in San Francisco proper. I shuffle around the colorful shops, and plop down eventually in a café for a bagel and a vanilla steamer. The table next to me is talking presidential election. I'm finding it more difficult to tune out English, than it is to do the same with Spanish. Can't a girl read in public in peace?
• I'm stunned by what Felicity names the Bay Area's "free to be you and me" philosophy on life which makes it allowable to have 3 different public transit systems in town, separately run, and without a unifying map for tourists. This is not American organization, people!
• Felicity makes killer sweet potato stew. Alaska Amber is tasty. Tiger ice cream with hot fudge and homemade brownies is worth crossing the border for.
• Kiely is a burst of blonde energy and cries for "babies babies babies!" She leaps from lap to lap, happy and brave to visit with everyone at our small dinner party. I'm so glad Sarah and Eric's little one wasn't past the stage where people other than her parents get to hold her.
• Roadtripping with mom down the Columbia River Gorge, stopping to marvel at the size and power of Multnomah falls, that has pushed a bus-sized boulder from the surrounding moss-covered walls.
  
• An afternoon visit to the beach in Alameda. A long trek from Embarcadero to the Ghiradelli chocolate headquarters. An afternoon of thai food with the girls.
• "I don't know what I'm doing," seems to work its charm on transit workers in the MUNI system when one is lost, or really just wants a bit of hand holding.
  
• A tiny cape hidden under a larger cape. Brilliant! I love circus jokes.
• Um, did I mention my first friend in Glenview got married!
  
• Ah, the Mission District--a tiny Mexico far from Mexico. There's no absence of Spanish here.
• My little red sweater gets left somewhere on the streets of San Francisco. I hope you are happy Little Red, whereever you are. If your new owner doesn't treat you right, you know where to call!
• A long climb up the back way to Coit Tower, takes me to now almost 80 year-old frescoes (a public works project form the 30s), that seem more relevant than ever.
• A visit to the country east of Sacramento with Jenny: pumpkin festivals, hay rides, a cool night wrapped in blankets by an outdoor fire, sipping some tea.
• A dash to wine country, taking in the quickly chaning colors of the landscape over shallow glasses of pinot noirs and cabernets.

I feel like I wondered into a redlight district. The two little pieces of ginger on this sign look like they are tangled in a very naughty situation!

• And of course, more food, oh, glorious eating: steaming pitas and hummus at Nicholas, stuff red peppers at the Ovink/Sindelar house, purple cabbage soup, Bob's for breakfast, Basil/Mint ice cream from an Indian store, a raspberry white chocolate shake at Ghiradelli's, a long hunt for Giordano's in North Beach--where they pile your cole slaw and fried right onto the sandwich, ginger molasses cookies at Grand Central, Tofu Sate with Peanut Sauce at a hole-in-the-wall in the Bay, Vegetarian Crispy noodles--Vietnamese-style, dinner at Q, complete with battered catfish in a corn/lime salsa and hearty mac 'n cheese, three warm chocolate chip cookies floating atop vanilla bean ice cream (oh how I miss you cookies!), freshly made biscuits drizzled with homegrown honey, buttermilk fried chicken and corndogs that actually taste good, carmel apples, sushi on a conveyor belt, and micro brews for miles! Oh my!
• Sit on some square of green just across from Pier 19, watching the day go by. The sun glinting off Alcatraz. The tour of people atop sidekicks. I talk to an Iranian guy with two GIANT German Sheppards about how his electronic store is tanking now with the economic crisis--but his frozen yogurt shop is doing fine. I guess there are some things that people can't, in fact, live without.
• Navigating the construction-filled streets of Scottsdale with Holly. Enjoying election results at Meg's. Pouring over old albums of Grandpa squashed into a 1930's car with his family, their luggage lashed to the sides of the car, for there was no trunk.

Oh, friends and family, I miss you! What a treat to get to see so many of you in one fell swoop. You inspire me in the distinct ways you each cobble together your jobs, hobbies and careers, and in the way you love.

4) I'm back almost a month now. We've got a new president on the horizon in the U.S.. That's exciting. The holidays are chomping at our heels. They've already started putting up Christmas decorations in the stores here. Without a holiday between Halloween (Day of the Dead) and Christmas here, they just have to march right on through and start the selling frenzy.

My head's down, and to the grindstone (ouch! bad metaphor). I've got to find funding, or a way to make this work. So I'm trying to keep all the plates spinning at once here. That finds me inside, at my desk, nose to computer most days. My bloodshot eyes tell the tale. But through it all I'm thinking it'll be much easier to be without funding and poor here in Mexico than the same in the States. So...

Thanks for hanging in there, readers. More from this side of the border to come.

The Opposite Of, a guest blog by Matthew Love

On the heels of my post about loneliness comes a post about the opposite of. Last week Wednesday the first of four friends descended on my lil house in Oaxaxa for a week-long visit. And this Wednesday past all four departed for their respective cities of New York and Denver. It was a glorious set of days, to say it simply. Oaxaca is somewhat quieter and duller now in the wake of their good company. But off of my melancholy, and onto the visit!
As I'm told, some of my dad's friends have commented, "your daughter is a good writer; she can't possibly get it from you." But in this blog you will inevitably come to know what a true artist of the word is, as my good friend Matt (who has provided this post) is a professional; writing is his craft. I hope he will permit me to lessen his post a bit with some pictures added by me (it seems wrong to offer photos where words have imagined for you; but I can't help myself). So, here is Matt:
And here is his post:

In a succession of moments, empirically stacked end-to-end in some recognizable form – oh, the span of a week, say – it’s difficult to summarize one’s experience in any effective way.

Great works of literature like Joyce’s “Ulysses” and Woolf’s “Mrs. Dalloway” make this clear. The closer words come to some sort of understanding about one moment or another, the more the moment slides from the bounds of standard perception, its stitches coming unglued and its seeming solid shape dissipating.

It is in this spirit I humbly offer the following: balls, balls, balls, balls, balls*.

That is: when speaking of the slow, blissful haze of a week spent in the company of good friends with nothing to do but talk, eat and wander to our hearts’ content, perhaps it is best not to say, “we went here and then there, la la la” but rather offer a glimpse of the moment-to-moment experience in snatches of dialogue and bites of perception (almost) at random.


And so:

-- Sitting down in a decidedly un-harried market near Megan’s house, light falling into the space from a wall that is simply missing, teaching my BAG of smoothie to stand upright on a checkered tablecloth while munching simple - and magnificent - memelas (masa/tortilla, frijol, quesillo, red chile – minus asiento, the extra lard) in the cool afternoon.


-- Walking from the Reforma neighborhood into the Xochimilco neighborhood over the aqueduct after another big midday meal, holding leftover sticks from cajeta (essentially a light caramel) popsicles, bodies shifting back and forth along the ridiculously slim sidewalk. As Brian once pointed out, the mutability of the group is as it has always been; each person can talk to any one in the group at just about any given time, so during the trip I think all possible combinations of the five of us were achieved.

-- Ruining a breakfast, which is a metaphor for being one’s self, having fun and in doing so absolutely ruining an experience for people around you. It’s something this group is famous for… in fact, this may be its signature move. No matter the café, hillside, or village it falls into, we are always a bit like a noxious clown car exploding into a spot where the audience did not know it was an audience (but became aware of this fact rather quickly). In this particular case, we ruined an actual breakfast for a crowd of locals in an unnamed, makeshift restaurant that exists only on Sundays**, eating tamales and drinking a drink I’m certain to pine for, for years – champurrado, a thick and comforting beverage of rice, milk, sweet, and cacao – when a radio was suddenly turned on very near our table and quite loudly***. We understood the hint, though I’m not sure as a crowd we’ll ever respond to such a hint very well. P.S. We paid about $3 per person for this meal. And it was… DELICIOUS.

-- Humping the corner of a white, stucco wall directly across from my friend Tim, who was also humping the corner of a white, stucco wall. (Well, okay, in our defense, we were dancing. But will the perception of the historical record support this fact?) I started because he did but I can’t remember exactly what set him off. He does like to hump (ah, dance with) inanimate objects.


-- Leaning over an open basket of crickets to pinch some between my fingers and push them in my mouth. Hm… salty. Crispy. Full of protein. Turns out, I love them. Customs even let me keep them, so I have a bag of tiny insects, red with heat, lemon, garlic, in my kitchen. For some reason, though this makes me a meat-eater, it doesn’t set off my normal vegetarian alarms. I fed them to Brian on his first night -- he ate them but resented me for it later.

-- At night, dancing in a crew at a fiesta to the sounds of a boisterous clarinet band with what felt like an entire community dancing or watching (tall gringos, much less tall flamboyantly dancing gringos, and cute white girls are something of a curiosity here) outside of a church, it’s doors open, everyone expectant for the fireworks – which do come, and feature the first animated vagina I think any of us had ever seen.

Flaming vagina not pictured here.

-- Eating shrimp, flax crackers, flowers, tuna, cake with prickly pear jam, risotto and fresh herbs until quite full or fairly nearly dead… the sun setting, the pond quivering, a small boy dropping a trail of rocks beside our small table. Thank G-D Megan loves food, and carried us to a series of amazing restaurants all over Oaxaca: street food, sweets, market drinks, snacks, dishes with tomato foam or entire four-course meals prepared by Italian chefs at their homes (the meal mentioned above) – we did it all. It is good all of us are clear on one thing: eating well is one of life’s undeniable joys. And so: mole, tortillas, mezcal, and much of each.




-- “Heh, heh.” A well-timed laugh from Tim, who was being quite a good sport, considering the circumstances.


-- Puttering up to the edge of the world into a pond at Hierva el Agua, where minerals have done a thorough job of petrifying a waterfall and making a miniature cliff-side water resort. Gorgeous and baffling. With the entire place to ourselves, we swam in the cold water, begged the sun to come out, took a series of goofy photos before the rain came. This site is also the location of Brian’s first ever porno. (Distribution of video soon to come)


-- Sara taking the enormous steps at the Monte Alban ruins immediately outside of town in Oaxaca. In fact, Sara walked everywhere. Every day. No cane, no nothing. How is it possible that her surgery was only a couple of years ago??? WOOF!




-- Woof (in general). Megan says that in Mexico, dogs say ‘wow wow’ instead of ‘woof’ or even ‘bow wow’. So Americans walking around saying ‘wow’ at everything are essentially barking in amazement. We took this on and said ‘WOOF’ to express awe at every opportunity.

Of course, there is more, more, more but at this, I must cease. I must work in the morning and you, dear internet reader, must use your tired, ADD-addled eyes again at some point in the future. You’ll have to trust me as I say this doesn’t really even scratch the surface. If I were to generalize, this was the thread running through our trip: simple, impractical moments reminding us of our capacity for joy -- how simple they are, how little planning goes into them. And little fuss is kicked up in the simple machinations of living when you’re at rest in the arms of great friends with whom you feel absolutely comfortable. Now, heading back to the activities of our daily lives, it’s important we take that joy and comfort and shuffle it into what we do regularly -- a hard task, to be sure, but what is a juggler without all those balls. Ballsballsballsballs.

* Of course, for those of you paying attention at home, I speak of the unfortunate (possibly apocryphal creation of urban legend) gentleman whose case of Tourette’s Syndrome finds him repeating the word ‘balls’ loudly and repeatedly after hearing the word ‘balls.’ Quoth Tim, “His trigger word is ‘balls,’ and he knows it.”

** Did I mention that Megan is a magical tour guide who knows all of the secret things you want to know about a place highly unfamiliar to you? She loves walks down narrow, cobble streets with small fountains in courtyards, good graffiti, spots for rooftop drinks, interesting architecture and, yeah, it bears repeating: food.

Hanging out in my office...

Things that make me feel unneccesarily lonely

1. Putting suntan lotion on (or not, as it were)

I am embarrassingly pale. The shame is made more acute by the fact that I live in Mexico. Imagine me under a palapa, drinking something with an umbrella in it, if you must. That's not exactly what Oaxaca looks like. However, I think my legs have become this shade of blinding white due to two factors: It's rainy season here, and I have a job that requires me to be inside, with my nose to a computer for hours.

Regardless of all these obstacles, I have the desire, at time, to sit outside and take in the sun. How do you reach that darn triangle of back that only another person can access with SPF 30? Oh Coppertone, who knew you would make me feel so dependent on others....?

2. Wrist jewelry

Someone very kindly gave me a lovely silver bracelet for my birthday recently. I love it. I cannot, however, wear it. That is, unless, I find myself a personal dresser. It took me a good 20 minutes to get the clasp shut on this bracelet the other morning. I think I even was sweating in the end. It's now sitting permanently on my wrist--'cause who has time to struggle and sweat for 20 minutes in the morning...?

When I finally hitched the clasp I sat down, and felt a deep sense of melancholy...where oh where is my personal dresser?

3. Furniture from Ikea

Now I don't actually own any Ikea furniture any more. The big chain has yet to make its way to southern Mexico. But I DO recall trekking out to New Jersey a while back and buying a dresser, and some Sweddish meatballs once-upon-a-time. I even lugged the boxed up dresser home on the bus, and then the subway, dangerously hoisting it too close to people's heads on my rush hour train. But then I was stuck. You can't hold two pieces of wood together in an L shape AND screw them together. You just can't.

I called a friend, who graciously offered to help. It's an obvious solution, of course. But I felt so grateful that someone who wasn't bound to me by law, or sleeping with me regularly would spend an hour helping to fix plasterboard to naked wood. I almost married him on the spot out of gratitude!

4. My oven

Something spilled over from my white bean/pesto/ricotta casserole the other and melted into a glue on the bottom of my oven. The next time I was heating something up the whole kitchen filled with smoke. When the oven finally cooled off I found myself opening the tiny white door and starring into it, the casserole goo now a blackened smudge. Someone had to clean this--and it was obvious it should be me. I'm the only one who lives here. And I thought, "huh, I have to clean this oven. Me. I clean ovens now." Which was quickly followed by, "Mexico can be lonely."

Strange.

And now...a roof dog!

**this blog written while listening to Oslo in the Summertime by Of Montreal