Sun's Out, Buns Out

Well it’s been a few weeks and I’m afraid I’ve left my two or three avid readers chomping at the bit for more news from Colorado (Hi Grandmom!). So what better way to quench your thirst than with a tall, cool tale of hippies, nudity, and sleepaway camp. Or perhaps… a hippie nudist sleepaway camp? Crazy talk, you say? Nonsense! The stories are all true, and it has a name: Orient Land Trust. The OLT, as the local tweakers call it, lies 4 hours south of Granby and was a mining town on top of a mountain in the 19^th century. Just before the Great Depression, it was shut down and abandoned… that is, until a clairvoyant group of thermal-pool-hugging hippies saw the land as the perfect location for their nudist colony. Thermal activity beneath the mountain creates Jacuzzi-esque temperatures for six different natural pools scattered about the mountain. The best part? The pools all look 40 miles out onto the valley below. The even better part than the best part? Nudity is not only allowed, it’s encouraged. In fact, you’re more likely to receive a judgmental stare if you are wearing clothes than if you aren’t. And since there is already a fair amount of judging and staring going on at this place, we felt obliged to conform. The entire property is like the Garden of Eden, except only just after eating the forbidden fruit: you’re still naked and immersed in nature, but you’re entirely aware of how awesome the combination is. And the forbidden fruit is Busch Light.

I’ll begin our story of reaching this clothes-free Mecca (so not really Mecca at all) with proof that God controls all animals. You see, we were crunched for time on the road, and even though we had Dale Earnhart Beall Jr. behind the wheel, we were slated to get into the park after the gates to paradise closed. At our most distraught moment, stuck in a no passing stretch behind a Subaru Outback going 20 mph under the speed limit, divine providence revealed itself in the form of a stupid deer. Before our very eyes, this deer stood at the edge of the road, looked left, saw a car, looked right, saw our car and the Outback, realized how desperately we needed to pass it, and leaped out into traffic. The beast was clipped by the oncoming car, spun 5 times in the air, and then hurled itself towards the Outback, shattering both the windshield and its vital organs simultaneously. The whole scene lasted 2 seconds, but was so close that we could see in mid-air that the deer’s eyes had already glazed over. It was the perfect combination of THIS and THIS.

Now any heartless, egocentric person would have immediately pulled over to check on the Outback and deer. But not us. No, we knew that Stanley (as we later named him) had sacrificed his earthly body so that we could get to Orient Land Trust. So rather than selfishly making sure everyone in the accident was okay, we ensured that Stanley had not been martyred in vain and selflessly passed the damaged Outback without hesitation. Needless to say, we poured one out for our homie later that night, but only after having made it to the gates with 10 minutes to spare.

The next morning we would witness many more terrible bodies. Now I hate the idea of forming a wrong first impression of someone’s personality, which is why I rely entirely on judging people by their looks. It’s much easier that way. So needless to say, I had a field day at the OLT. Take the Hugger for example. This was a man, not much younger than 60 and not much heavier than 260, who would wander the camp aimlessly, awkwardly forcing free 30-second-long hugs onto anyone within a 15 foot reach. Naked. Most of the people we met clearly went through a fat kid phase—and then never grew out of the phase. I’m just lucky my mother was far too embarrassed to take any family photos of me during my fat kid years. Thanks to Mom’s forward thinking and adamant refusal to let me in the Christmas card photo, there is no evidence. We adroitly evaded many nude characters like some sort of naked Frogger game as we made our way up the mountain and relaxed in the natural hot tubs overlooking the entire valley. We spent the day pool hopping and enjoying the perfect weather, and Charley even exploited my amply exposed skin to lay down perhaps the greatest five-star of the 21^st century.

As the sun began to set, our second reason for trekking to the OLT came to center stage: bats. Two hundred and fifty thousand bats, to be exact. They make their way up from Mexico to summer in the extensive, abandoned mine shafts, and at dusk and dawn ever day, they erupt from the cave to chow down on the bugs in the valley. We waited outside the mouth of the shaft, and just like veteran showmen, they kept us waiting. But once a few hungry bats took a peek outside, the floodgates were broken and thousands of bats came soaring out of the mouth of the cave just mere feet above our heads. I felt exactly like Bruce Wayne in his bat cave, except without the amassed fortune, social prestige, martial arts skill, bravery, or sense of moral purpose. The whole scene lasted nearly half an hour and was truly a sight to see—unless you were a bat, in which case you probably couldn’t see anything. As the sun continued to set over the valley, we hiked back down and started the long journey home.

It’s safe to say a lot of personal barriers were broken on this trip for Charley, Andrew, Lindsey, and me. But our pilgrimage to the OLT was deemed a success. And as we drove home, we could only agree that it would be best if the outside world never found out about that little paradise… and for that matter, it would be best if the people from the Orient Land Trust never found out about the outside world.

My Very First Ranch Hand Job

Why hello, blog—it’s… been quite a while. I’ve been fine. And you… wow, you look like you’re doing well. That’s good. I’m… happy for you.

Okay—let’s skip the formalities, and I’ll just assume you missed me. The truth is, I missed you too. Without any nonspecific, inanimate objects to type at these days, I’ve begun to suspect that no one is listening to me anymore. So, as desperate as it may seem, I’ve come crawling back to beg for just a little more of your precious storage space. Just a megabyte or two…please. Nothing too serious, I promise. These other readers? Oh, they’re nobody. I hardly even know them. Really.

Let me get you up to speed. I graduated in May from the University of Virginia and took a job as a ranch hand at a particular Colorado horse ranch nestled up against the Rocky Mountains. We own 170+ horses, nearly 11,000 acres, and quite possibly a secluded school for mutants with special abilities. Life out here is absurd. Half the people I’ve met are almost definitely just imaginary projections of what I think “real life” ought to be. Take Claus for example. He’s our 62 year old fishing guide, but don’t let his age fool you. He could, without a doubt, shatter your clavicle into 4 pieces with a single hammer punch. And when he’s not getting paid to fish, he’s getting paid to destroy me in tennis. With pants on. Then there’s Don: the 86 year old wrangler who I’ve never seen do anything but sit on his horse with a thousand-yard-stare…watching…waiting…. I’m convinced he has been dead for over a decade, and not one to break routine, the ranch just props him up on his horse every morning to see if the guests notice. They haven’t. Pretty much everyone else here gets paid to enjoy the perfect 70 degree weather, hike, fish, bike, and take advantage of the high elevation’s special effects.

On the other end of the spectrum, we had Dylan join our ranks a few weeks ago. With the good, you get the bad, and sometimes even the ugly. You may have spotted Dylan in the Silence of the Lambs prequel Red Dragon? No? Well, he was the main character. From the minute our ginger friend showed up, he had the uncanny ability to ask you what you were doing at the moment, no matter how painfully obvious the answer was. Our dorm beds faced each other, and he loved to play this little game: ask me if I was awake at the moment, while I lay motionless in bed, minimizing my breaths to avoid any semblance of consciousness. Oh, how we used to play that game all through the night! Sadly, Dylan is no longer with us, but before he left, he was able to split his soul into one other object on the ranch: the gas powered woodchipper. Perhaps it was my undefeated record in the bed game or just my utter refusal to look him in the eyes, but I could not help but feel that his horcrux did it’s very best to kill me by “malfunctioning” on me the day after he used it. An ominous reminder that you could fire Dylan, but a small part of him would always be on the ranch…. lurking… staring… inquiring what you were doing at the moment…

Besides “el demonio,” as the Dominicans here call him, everyone else has been great. We even have cliques here! It’s exactly like high school, except there's no prom king title for me to lose two times in a row (all politics anyway). And we have ranchmances too! I won’t comment on those until I’ve done a little more research—the thin curtains here make it nearly impossible to hide behind. Nearly…

I will say one thing about my job though: it’s awesome. As ranch hands we are always on call to serve the ranch’s bidding. And as your classic, loyal go-for helper, we may often appear dim-witted and useless. At times I think even road construction workers would be appalled by how much time we spend standing or driving around aimlessly. But it’s all in a day’s work, and I must say we do it pretty darn well. Plus, the second the ranch actually presents its hallowed needs, be it a fire at Woodsie, a trap shooting session, or body parts from the old pet cemetery for the good doctor, we get the job done. And in fashionable plastic cowboy hats that would make John Wayne jealous!

Look at me, blabbering on like a little school girl. I’ll cut to the chase and say what I came here to say: Colorado is sweet. I’m glad I came, and as long as the management here continues to mishear all my inappropriate jokes, I plan on staying through October. Hopefully that’ll leave time for maybe another post?

Die in Mexico City

Since no attempt was made on our lives during the work week, Jim and I thought we’d continue to see the sites in Mexico City. So on Friday (July 23^rd for all you scrap-bookers out there) Jim and I made history by finding the first die in Mexico City. After searching for 3 weeks and in 15 department stores, we found it hidden in a $20 Rummy set. The clerk could not understand that Jim just wanted the game for the die, but sold it to him anyway. Riding triumphantly high, we headed to a concert of Floridita and Emsi Burron. While I was hoping for more of a Sarah McLaughlin/The Fray type concert, I was not disappointed: both bands dropped some hot fire.

On Saturday we headed to Coyoacán, the stuck up, fancy-schmancy neighborhood of Mexico City. I will say though that it was so nice to get away from all the ignorant, uncultured people of the city for once and walk among the dignified homes of famous artists like Diego Rivera and Frida Kahlo, who sucks by the way. We went straight to the only important place in the neighborhood: our great leader Leon Trotsky’s house and grave. When Stalin came to power in Soviet Russia, he exiled Trotsky to Turkey, France, Norway, and then Mexico City, which no one saw coming. In Russia, he had been the right hand man of Lenin and the merciless commander of the victorious Red Army; in Mexico City, he couldn’t even ask where the library was in Spanish. So for the next four years, in between writing commentaries on Russia, Trotsky spent the days getting drunk with Diego Rivera and throwing scrap metal off bridges at peasants, as well as pretending to like Frida´s artwork so he could sleep with her. He said his most beloved Mexican activity was to buy the schoolhouses in poor pueblos and burn them down. When asked why, Trotsky said he wanted to abolish the classes. Scholars are unsure if this was a joke or not.

But in 1940, a Spanish assassin named Mercador snuck into Trotsky’s house and bludgeoned him in the head with an ice-axe, which are just everywhere in Mexico. Stalin, who ordered this and previously unsuccessful assassinations, celebrated the good news with a well deserved Coke and annexation of the Baltic states. The museum had most of the Russian’s things untouched from when he died, and I especially found its depiction of Trotsky’s passionate lust for sensual Mexican cleaning ladies very well-illustrated.

After that we snacked on churros and chocolate, perused the National Art Museum, and tackled our greatest challenge yet: pulque. Pulque is the Meso-American alcohol made from the fermented sap of maguey plants. It’s naturally white, stringy like saliva, and it tastes like something I hope you will never come to know of. The name was incorrectly derived by the Spanish from the Nahuatl word for “spoiled wine,” which is misleading since spoiled wine tastes better. At least as far back at 200 AD, the drink was used sacredly by the religious elite and elderly until the Spaniards showed up and ruined religion for everyone. Its popularity peaked in the 19^th century but hardly anyone drinks it these days now that there’s beer and anti-freeze. Jim and I charged through the saloon doors of Antigua Roma, grabbed a chair that wasn’t broken, and confidently ordered two cups of it. We were quickly humiliated when a giggling group of 14 year old girls next to us ordered a bucket for themselves. The guy sprinkled some cinnamon into my two glasses but it didn’t help much. In the end, it gives you a nice, bubbly feeling, but the taste is not of this world.

The next day we grabbed tacos at a stand outside the apartment, hopped on the metro to the outskirts of the city, and caught an hour long bus to Tepoztlán. I’ll save you the trouble of googling it: it’s awesome. We walked through the small, colonial town in a valley, which has been inhabited since 1500 BC, to the foot of a mountain and started climbing. Now Mexico is in a dangerous state right now. Between the violent drug wars and rampant corruption, there seems little to pray for. But nothing makes me lose more hope in Mexico’s future then seeing numerous fat, middle-aged Mexican women starting a steep, one hour hike in 3 inch stilettos.

At the top was an Aztec temple called Tepozteco, dedicated to the Aztec god of pulque, Tepoztecatl, who is the man. Upon hearing this interesting fact and the mention of pulque, we threw up. We then scampered around the top, ate lunch, snuck into a couple Mexicans´ photos and started heading down when Jim suddenly took off into the woods. I followed him to a waterfall, and then we just kept going. More than an hour later, after climbing up 40 ft vertical walls by roots and squeezing under car size boulders caught in between two wall faces, we found ourselves at the top.

We took more stupid pictures and savored the view before sprinting down the mountain and back through the town as everyone cleaned up the streets and prepared for the inevitable karaoke night that plagues towns of this size. We caught the bus back to the City and fell asleep with the pulque still firmly in our stomachs.

How Te-quil-a Bottle of Tequila

The weekend is all that matters in Mexico City. Between 10 hour work days and torrential rain every day, people can start to go a little crazy here go a little crazy here. But just when I’m convinced my co-worker Jorge is trying to murder me and that I should kill him first, Thursday arrives-- or “Juebebes,” as the cool kids call it-- and it’s the start of all the fun. I’ll recap, beginning with July 15^th.

After work Jim and I went out with an intern-friend to a cantina and everyone spent the night mocking my face after sips of tequila. They sprinkle ground-up larvae on the rim of your glass to enhance the tequila flavor here. And yes, you sip it here, and you savor the taste without a chaser (only a lick of the lime if you are an invalid or Mormon). They say that for every shot hurriedly gulped down in Mexico, an agave farmer dies somewhere. This explains why rural Mexicans refer to Spring Break as the “week of terror and death.”

On Friday, or “Bebiernes,” the Jimador and I attended a Lucha Libre fight. Since it’s nearly impossible to see women, midgets, and obese men battle it out all in one enclosed venue, besides at the occasional Gary Busey basement party, we were excited. So we downed a few Indios, donned our appropriate headbands and tank tops, and joined a hostel group at a cantina before the fight. In the arena, I sat next to a Mexican father and his six year old daughter and spent the entire night rooting against her favorite fighters, fist pumping in her face and high-fiving the dad when her heroes lost. She was a tough competitor though, and I won in the end only with the classic go-to “Santa isn’t real.” The crowd roared as midgets, women, and men alike were tossed from the ring or flipped acrobatically over chairs, ropes, and other humans. It was an awesome spectacle.

For culture’s sake, Jim and I sampled several cheap, Big Gulp sized Mexican beers in the arena, so upon leaving, we shamelessly started a fantastic Lucha mask collection. We then decided to head back to our apartment, but couldn’t find a cab, so we opted for a civilian’s car instead. That’s right, a random, total stranger in his own car. Jim was convinced the guy was cool, and I didn’t realize it wasn’t a taxi until halfway through the trip, but it turns out this 50 year old man just really wanted to practice his English and earn an extra $8. In any other car, that late at night and in that neighborhood, we probably would have ended up in someone’s basement. At least Gary Busey wasn’t driving.

On Saturday, we joined the same hostel group in the morning for a tour of Teotihuacán. Pepe, our tour guide from last night, was very relieved to call the police and tell them to stop searching for us. Our first site was the Plaza de Tres Culturas, where some stuff happened a certain amount of time ago. Then we headed to the Basilica of Villa de Guadalupe, which is the second most visited Catholic site in the world. It was built in 1531 on the spot where a forcibly converted Aztec named Juan Diego saw the Lady of Guadalupe, whom he probably didn’t recognize since she was from the wrong religion. The saint left a holy imprint on his cloak that coincidentally resembles the 16^th century Spanish art style of the day (God was a huge fan) and since then, every devout Mexican Christian flocks to the Basilica, many walking on their knees, to see the image on his shirt. There is also a fabulous collection of gift shops next door where the Lady of Guadalupe is sometimes said to appear when there’s an unbeatable sale.

Next stop: the obsidian and tequila factory an hour away in Teotihuacán. A woman there showed us well over 5,000 uses for the maguey (or agave) plant and in so doing, solidified this specimen as the Superman of all perennial monocots in steppe climates. Aztecs used parts of the plant to produce alcohol and needles for sewing, which, as the Puritans discovered, is an unbeatable recipe for good times.

After a brief but unforgiving shopping spree in the gift shop, we headed to the pyramids of Teotihuacán. This site, established in 200 BC long before the Aztecs, was the greatest city in all of America (housing as many as 250,000 people) until its mysterious collapse in the 8^th century AD. Virtually nothing is known about its inhabitants, but archeologists believe a violent, internal rebellion is to blame for its destruction, citing the fact that only the elite’s houses and temples were burned, as well as the discovery of several rigged bingo cards. Jim and I spent our two hours of free time from the tour taking stupid pictures and enjoying the view.

I just want to say that while pulling my camera out at the top of a set of stairs, it slipped out of my hand and fell, hitting every stone stair along the way. The entire fall lasted about 8 seconds, as there were a lot of stairs, and the battery and SIM card came out about halfway down. After all this I sprinted down to check it and found it worked. My good friend Jim´s first thought was to take a picture of my reaction. Also, around the complex are dozens of vendors selling objects that make jaguar noises when you blow into them (which we obviously bought). We trembled at the thought of thousands who, desensitized to the roar of the jungle cat, would be mercilessly slaughtered during a sudden attack by a jamboree of jaguars.

Once we came back, Jim and I continued our quest for a die in this city (went to 15 different shopping malls before finding one) and Jim somehow seduced a nice young girl at the counter named Lucy to give him her number. Next stop was the Superama grocery store and the world’s biggest tequila bottle. While pre-gaming on our roof with a few friends, we received the greatest news ever: there was a house party. We drove outside the city and walked into an upscale house with 60 or so Mexicans ready to rage.

Here are some highlights: several people admitted they didn’t know that tequila bottles as big as ours were actually sold. We mentioned to most everyone that we heard Mexicans couldn’t drink tequila, at which point they grabbed the bottle and face chugged immediately. I was offered ecstasy twice, by the same guy, who couldn’t remember that I was the only blonde person at the party. Around 5 am, Jim disappeared from the party to call Lucy. Five times. She was angry at him for not inviting her to the party, and I think it’s all over between those two. People from our semester in Valencia: Jim came out of climbing retirement by purposefully getting lost outside the house and returning to the party by scaling the 20 foot wall surrounding the complex. He cleverly tested the electric fence at the top simply by grabbing it with his bare hands. It was either turned off or tequila is the esource of Jim's superpowers, but we all know how that could have ended. Best thing about Mexico? Everyone here likes Americans, and loves to talk to them. Which is NOT the case in Spain. The night was ridiculous and I felt like it was an Entourage party scene. And I got to be Turtle!

The next day we caught a 40 minute cab out to Desierto de los Leones National Park. Yes, there actually are trees in Mexico City. In the mountains, we toured an early 17^th century Carmelite Convent with a convoluted network of underground tunnels where the younger monks would go smoke cigs and shotgun beers. Then Jim and I picked the only direction worth going (up) and hiked until we got caught in a storm and almost stepped on a snake. Jim couldn’t resist another climb, but by the time the storm was directly overhead, it was time to sprint back down the mountain, and make our way back home. All in all, an incredibly, fun. weekend.

How Not To Get Kidnapped In Mexico City So Far

When I informed people that I was going to Mexico City for the summer, quite a few confidently told me I’d be kidnapped while most were more polite and only silently hoped for it. But, as you may have noticed, I am not writing this from an overlooked broadband connection in a solitary room heavily guarded by machine guns outside. On the contrary, I have wireless here in my office at the SSP. How, you might ask, have I avoided being taken? I would chalk it up to many factors that don’t actually exist, a little bit of luck, and the fact that this city has been overhyped as a war zone in the news. But, to our credit, Jim and I have also taken certain precautions to survive in "one of the most dangerous cities in the world." If I stop posting without warning please don’t read beyond this sentence. Even an image as humble and perfectly flawless as mine could be tarnished by rumors of hubris.

When we leave the apartment, we don’t carry much: at most $50 and a camera only if we’re going somewhere very touristy. We wear nothing which will draw attention such as nice watches, expensive looking clothing, or nothing. When a mugging does occur, these things are almost always the "trigger" for a spotter, who signals his friends down the street. I always carry a spare ATM card with minimal amounts of money on it so if I am ever expressed kidnapped, I will only be able to withdraw a small amount of cash. In this case, the assailant will most likely unleash his anger upon my face, WHICH I will be able to reconstruct with the money I still have thanks to this clever little plan.

Taxis can be a gamble. Statistically, taxis are where most people experience theft or kidnapping. The hardest part about spotting the kidnappers in Mexico is that everyone here looks Mexican. The trick is to avoid the green VW buggy taxis, which operate like this: when you get in the back of one, another man from nowhere gets in after you. You’re too busy telling this man in the front seat you saw the taxi first to realize it’s a two door car, the only ways out are blocked, and the driver doesn’t seem to be going the right way… In general, if you want a safe taxi here, you have a hotel or office building call one, ask for the driver’s name, license plate, and a variety of penetrating, personal details. Once Manuel has demonstrated his favorite wood is mahogany and that he really is an epileptic, we can be on our way.

Buses are a little safer because they are more public. But just like mom used to say in elementary school: stay away from the short buses. Those are frequented by muggers and pick-pockets on occasion. On any bus leaving the city, the security guard will search your bag, pat you down, and then once you’re in your seat, video tape your face for several seconds for their records before the bus can leave. If you make a goofy face during recording, you are immediately moved to the seat next to the bathroom in the back. Hiking in the nearby mountains carries a slight risk too, and not just because of the dangerously normal levels of oxygen most Mexicans are unnacostumed to. There are accounts of people who wait up in the mountains just off the trails for bikers or hikers, pounce on them, take everything, and then get away. There is not much you can do to prevent this unless you are willing to carry and use several dozen ninja stars at all times.

The general rule of safety here is: if anyone talks to you, walk away immediately. There are certain areas to avoid in the city late at night, such as all of them. To thwart pick-pockets on the metro, it´s best to have your hands in your pockets or pants completely down. As for now, if we get kidnapped, the general plan is for Jim to pretend like he doesn’t speak Spanish and for me to pretend like I do.

But I don´t think that day will come. So far, Mexico City has been far safer than the news reports would like to make you think. I can´t go a block without seeing a group of Federal Policemen with automatic rifles. I walk to the grocery store at midnight to get food alone. And nearly every establishment here has its own hired security detail. Want to know the secret to staying out of harms way here? Don´t be a drunk douche showing off your wealth late at night in a bad neighborhood alone. This can be hard for some of us, sometimes not even worth trying, but in the end, it´s for the best maybe.

Most of the Mexican kids our age acknowledge the trouble the city is in and how badly they want to change. It´s a sad position to be in, but its inspirational to see how devoted they are to changing it. So with this lesson firmly in your short term memory, I’ll recap the weekend from last week in a little bit. See if you can spot where we should have been kidnapped!

Livin' la Vida Loc- What?? Ricky Martin is Gay?!

Anyone who has been to Mexico or China King Buffet knows full well the fury of Moctezuma’s Revenge. For those fortunate few without a solidified understanding of this expression, Moctezuma II, the Aztec king of Tenochitlán, mistook the newly arrived Spanish Conquistador Cortes to be a god. The misidentification was founded on both a classic Aztec calendar mix-up and Cortes´ ego. So the Aztec Emperor graciously allowed the Spanish army to stay and enjoy the pleasures of palace life until one day when Cortes, infuriated by what he described as an “average at best” body massage, brought Tenochitlán to its knees with the help of nearby tribes who weren’t such big fans of Aztec human sacrifice anymore. The Spanish slaughtered the Indians and killed Moctezuma, at which point Cortes immediately began construction on, quote, “a huge-ass water slide.”

However, with his dying breath, Moctezuma concocted a curse so terrible and sick that anthropologists today are deeply disturbed that a person could come up with it entirely on the spot. He aimed his poison not just at the Spaniards, but at anyone who would dare eat a taco in Mexico from that day forth, which is why we gringos are affected by his wrath today, for as they say: revenge is a dish best served cold. Or in this case, fiery hot.

So now that I’ve recounted the major happenings of my first week, it’s time to move on to the weekends. Mexico City is big, cheap, and very much alive. A metro trip to ANYWHERE in the city costs 25 cents, a chipotle sized burrito is three dollars, and a 12 mile rickshaw ride runs about $6, but it’s totally worth it. Jim and I spent our first weekend mostly within sprinting distance of bathroom facilities, but by the next weekend we were off the leash and headed to Chapultepec, which is like the Central Park of Mexico City, except with an amusement park, an elusive hedge maze, and fewer Mexicans camping in it. We visited the Castle of Chapultepec, which is the home of past Mexican revolutionary presidents and boasts the best rooftop garden I have ever seen in a park in Mexico City.

We then visited the world famous Anthropology museum, but only saw the first two rooms in 2 hours. You heard me right. They have far too many interesting things in this museum for just one visit: 3.4 million year old skulls, 40,000 year old cave drawings, Aztec Sun Stones, the first manmade tools, and Jose the pamphlet boy... the list is endless. What was most impressive at the museum besides Jose’s map distributing skills? The Ball Game. The Aztecs, in their infinite creativity, named the game after a thick, rubbery ball the size of a cantaloupe (9 lbs), which they would hit off their hips (couldn’t touch it with hands or drop it) into a small ring 12 ft high up a wall. Now before you get your cleats out to play, you should know one thing: whoever loses the Ball Game is sacrificed at the Great Temple. Or whoever wins the game. Anthropologists aren’t quite sure. Just make sure you don’t find yourself in that coin toss.

I should point out that Jim and I are the only Americans working at the SSP, so it has taken quite some time to make friends. But once people became accustomed to my blonde hair and office magic tricks, we had no problem. We befriended another Mexican intern, Alejandra, who took us out Saturday night to an underground concert. After asking why she was so nervous on the way, she told us about how she had been express kidnapped a while ago. For those not in the business, express kidnapping is when someone pulls up to you, either at a red light, as you are parking, walking into your house, or at the ATM, points a shotgun at your face and tells you to take them to an ATM and withdraw everything, after which you to start walking, and they steal your car. If you resist, a lot of the times they’ll shoot.

So after that bedtime story we sprinted from the car to the club, but once the band come on and we got a couple $1.50 longnecks (in a club, too) we were good to go. All the bands at the show were entertaining and I even chatted up a few ladies whom I later found out were not only very ugly, but unquestionably underage, which is weird because one told me she was a doctor… which, I thought, explained how she knew the “tequila after a tequila shot” anti-infection method so well. On the way home we were pulled over and our driver breathalyzed by the cops, but she was just under the Mexico legal limit of 20 beers, so they let us go and have more fun. Late night food places here are like Taco Bells on steroids and without the rats. Mexican chefs fry up any kind of meat you can think of with cheese, tortillas, chocolate, veggies, tequila, anything you want, and then they throw it in front of you.

Sunday afternoon, Jim and I watch the World Cup final at a quaint little eatery called Burger King and saw an exhibit by René Magritte at the Bellas Artes museum, who is a really interesting, albeit weird surrealist painter from Belgium (he did the apple in front of the man’s face). Magritte’s weirdness was outdone, however, by the 45 year old Mexican woman who followed us and proceeded to have one-on-one conversations with each of the paintings. She was obviously alone.

This weekend was a warm up for next weekend, which I’ll detail in the next post, but we were just happy to be away from a bathroom finally.

Mexico City: In the Beginning...

God once said “let there be light!” Fourteen billion years later, I have started a blog. Both are remarkably similar in significance. To whom you may ask? That doesn’t matter right now. What matters is that I never imagined a day when I would actually write a blog. So all I can say is: go easy on me, I’m new at this… and at least it’s not Twitter.

I’ve started this blog because nowadays everyone is doing it. Utterly incapable of resisting a challenge or peer pressure, I wanted in on the action. And since I am in Mexico City for the summer, I assumed there is ample action to be had. But why should you read this blog? Why should you care about the stories on these pages? The answer lies in the fear that most people have of Mexico these days. Through my blog, you will see the world that exists on the other side of our border rather than just the country in CNN´s morbid headlines. To put it in more universal terms, it’s like watching your neighbor from your house with binoculars when you could get more by hiding behind their curtains. And that is what I will try to do for you: reveal a more personal, genuine Mexico through adventures and inconveniences alike during my time south of the border.

Let’s begin with the basic facts: I am here for 7 weeks, working for the Department of Public Security (SSP), which directs the Mexican Federal Police. I got the job only when the more qualified people ahead of me eventually read a newspaper and dropped out on account of the danger. Lacking summer job options besides watering mother’s plants, I gladly took the internship. From that point on, I simply ignored the news reports of bloodshed in Mexico by mentally replacing the word “murder” in newspapers with “French horn recital.” This method later proved difficult during an article by the New York Times about a woman’s murder just seconds before her French horn recital.

The gig: I, along with my “friend” Jim, work on a compound heavily guarded by several dozen Federal Police officers in the middle of the city. We even have a chauffeur who picks us up. His name is Alfred. I need not say more, other than that he takes good care of us, whether pretending to drive us to lunch so we can watch the World Cup in his office or teaching us the ancient Mexican tradition of drinking a shot of tequila after taking a shot of tequila to minimize the risk of infection. It’s a medical breakthrough sweeping Mexico right now.

I also have my own office, with a generic poster of a roman temple, a computer, and a big desk. Apart from this strangely devised poster, I have a computer, a big desk, a few chairs I will never use, and a dry-erase board which I have made ample use of (as you will see later). Outside my cozy office are 50 fully employed Mexican government workers sharing desks. Thus, I live in constant fear of the day they discover that I speak Spanish at a 2nd grade level, begin to question my right to this precious 15 x 15 ft space, and carry out a reckoning of sorts. The last thing I want is for there to be a French horn recital in the workplace.

The work days start at 10 am and end at 8 pm. Sounds like a lot of work, but that is before you factor in everyone’s 30 minute coffee break at the beginning, snack break at noon, two hour lunch at three, and one to three hour nap at five. All in all, a solid, productive 45 minutes of work a day. That leaves us just enough time to do a little translating and research on Police Institutions from all over the globe for the ol´ jefe, whom I have not seen in ten days…

We live in a chic, upscale neighborhood called Polanco, where Old Navy jeans, $20 lunches, and Costco memberships are frowned upon. People here drive Bentleys and Lamborghinis, which are stolen, and then they buy new ones. But there is also an endless supply of restaurants and shops, and the metro is a block away, so it is a convenient location.

So there you have it-- that is the background story. The workdays do not leave Jim and me much to work with during the week, so we make good use of the weekends. In my next posts I’ll talk more about what life is really like in Mexico City.