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A week in review

The list 1. I tried crickets. They were good except for the fact that they stick to your teeth, giving you just enough time to relive what you ate and frantically try to remove all memory of it. 2. Chichen Itza. The Mayans were far beyond us in intellect...every building, stone, and position was done with incredible intention. 3. All tequila is mezcal, but not all mezcal is tequila. 4. Driving in Mexico means seriously using your intuition...which, it appears, I am terrible at. Whatever you do, don't trust what the signs say. 5. Two weeks in Mexico is not enough. But United Airlines makes you pay $200 to change your flight, and a brand new flight is $250. Which is bullshit. 6. THERE ARE AMAZING COLORS EVERYWHERE. Even the cemeteries are colorful and bright. 7. No one actually knows where anything is because streets aren't important and numbers don't matter and counting is not for everyone. 8. There are French people everywhere. I can't explain this. 9. VW Beetles have seriously made a comeback here, and it's awesome. 10. I need a job.

Oaxaca (Build Me Up Buttercup)

Franck, Claire, and I spend an entirely gratuitous amount of time taking photos while at Hierve el Agua. We are like paparazzi, and the worst kind, because we don't even realize that people have been waiting for our photoshoot to finish so they can get in some of their own photos. We make our way back to the car slowly, and Franck and I decide to share a piña loco, which is a cored pineapple full of spices, flavored sugar, juice, and a bit of mezcal. The five of us find a shady spot and relax before returning to the car for the hour long drive back. At one point in the drive we see a huge roadblock of boulders and broken concrete. There were no signs except to say that this was the way to Oaxaca. The car in front of us just drives across the side ditch and bypasses the very obvious roadblock. Naturally, we do the same. Soon we are stopped by trucks and workers and other rogue cars that completely dismissed the giant roadblock. Franck gets out of the car to speak to someone and ask what's going on. I turn around from the front seat and start telling everyone some of my infamous "fun facts"; did you know, for instance, that science has successfully genetically hybridized goats with spiders so that goats milk contains the same material that spider webs have? True story. They use it to make armour stronger than Kevlar. "Mais non....!" "Non, zat iz some boolshit." "Quoi??!" I grin. My favorite thing about fun facts is that no one ever believes them BUT THEY ARE TRUE! I share a few more fun facts while we wait for Franck to return. We then realize that the alternative route to Oaxaca is directly below the underpass that we are now sitting on, and in fact, there are three "ramps" to it from where we are parked now. We aren't the only car that realizes this, and a few cars in front if us argue with the gun-wielding security about letting us pass through to the ramps. There is some waiving, some whistling to the guards at the bottom of the ramp, and eventually we are forced to go back the way we came. Along the way back we stop and buy a rotisserie chicken and some mezcal, and I try to adopt a dog that no one wants to pet. The mezcal is strong, and each one has a very different smokiness to it. The woman at the counter gives Annabelle, Margolaine, and myself a small wooden shot glass on a necklace, as if she somehow knows that the three of us will be spending another week and a half together. Based on the nicknames, the relentless cruelty to sweet Franck, and the constant giggling, I'm very grateful for the mezcal. Franck and I sing loudly on the drive back, with an appropriate musical climax at "Build Me Up Buttercup." The next day we head to Monte Alban to see some Mayan ruins about thirty minutes outside of town. We get lost, but it's a beautiful route and the locals help us find our way there.

Oaxaca

"It will take about six hours," they said. Nearly nine hours later and we finally arrive in Oaxaca. How we got here with no map and no gps and intermediate Spanish level between the three of us...it's a small miracle it only took 8.5 hours. We spend a lot of the drive coming up with "lessons learned" for our drive around the Yucatan...we MUST buy a map...also, let's take pictures of our google maps before we leave for the destination...if they car rental place has GPS option,don't hesitate. BRILLIANT! The learning curve is incredible. Marguerite explains Franck's nickname: Annabelle, to me. When she was a young girl one of her classmates had a younger sister named Annabelle, and the older sister was always yelling "Annabelle, viennnn!" Franck is notoriously slow-moving she says, so she is always calling him Annabelle. Soon she has her own nickname: Margolaine. By the following day my name is Pierrette. We call to each other loudly in these ridiculous names, and each morning starts with "Bonjouuuurr Annabelle!!" As we wind through the mountains on our way to Oaxaca we take pictures of the landscape, and silently listen to some music, occasionally remarking on how much we have to pee, or how hungry we are. Now that we are out of the panic-inducing adventure of exiting Mexico City...we can enjoy the scenery. Our first night in Oaxaca is spent dancing and reuniting with Benoit. A man named Reymundo, who is 65 and has been travelling for 15 years, tries teaching me how to dance, and gracefully gives up by suggesting we dance seperado. Benoit and Reymundo are on a mission to drink and stay out late, and they keep ordering drinks even after Annabelle and Margolaine have left, and I have stopped drinking, and most bars are closed. Eventually I walk back with Benoit (although if you were to ask him he would say that he left and came back for me so I wouldn't have to walk home alone...the one block. "Fuck. I am such a gentleman," he says in the morning. No memory of the fact that he needed me for balance and nearly fell over twice. I sigh). The next morning we head to Hierve el Agua, which is a cold mountain spring with crystal clear water and a view of the entire world. A French girl named Claire has joined us for the day, and she and I spend a lot of time shop-talking photography along the drive there. She spent a few months, earlier in the year, documenting her sister who is an acrobat in a traveling circus...mode of transport: an old and massive ship. I am sufficiently jealous, and even more so when she shares the photos with me. What a glorious adventure it must have been. The pools are aquamarine and sit in front if mountains, and a picture barely does them justice, but it's closer than words can do.

As we exit from the metro there is a man on the left in rough clothing. He is speaking to the police and on the ground next to them is a handmade "doll" of what can only be a small child who has suffocated, complete with tight plastic bag over it's head. We keep walking towards the Mercado de Merced, which is said to be the largest market in the city, and despite my two hours sleep and three a.m. arrival time, I can never pass up a market. There is the usual market fare...socks...cheap clothing...fruits and vegetables...and then as we get farther into the labyrinth of stalls I start to smell peppers and spices and cooked meat and OH MAN CAN WE BUY THOSE FRIED CRICKETS GUYS??! Non. Dit Marguerite. Franck agrees...no one is interested in them, but they promise we can have some in Oaxaca with some beer. We continue walking past 8lb bags overflowing with dried peppers. I sneeze. Twice more. There are people cooking meat on overturned gasoline barrels, and it smells incredible, but I'm too timid to slow down our pace through this insane maze of people and food and dogs and hustle. Also, we have no idea how to get out of the market because all sense of direction is lost when you can't see the sun through hanging plants, dresses, etc. Since I only have one day in Mexico City I am determined to see the plaza, which is (according to lonely planet), one of the largest in the world. We ask for directions from people on how to get there and everyone is very eager to help, but they all give us different directions. "C'est encroyable...l'age de ces filles." Franck glances over at one of the very young prostitutes leaning against a stall and then agrees with me. My French is very rusty, and between the French and English and Spanish my brain feels tired, but at least he understood what I was trying to say. The market is both thrilling and unnerving...we are constantly in someone's way, and constantly being approached by people to buy something or eat something, and I am very, very, tired. Franck waited for two hours at the airport for me while I went through customs, and it was 5am in Mexico City when I arrived, so he is just as tired. Marguerite just spent a day in the hospital for a severe sinus infection that then turned into a comedy of horrors when she told the doctor she lives in Uganda. Convinced she had the beginning stages of Ebola she was forced to be quarantined and the doctors and nurses put themselves in protective bubbles to treat her. Sinusitis was the verdict, in the end. We are a ragged bunch, and Mexico City is beautifully overwhelming. I tell myself we are going to see the Diego Rivera murals and the place nacional, and then we can go back to the hostel and rest. We don't make it. We make it to the front door of both, and both are closed to the public. Mañana, he says. Sorry buddy, tomorrow I go to Oaxaca.

Yoga on the stairs

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THIS KID.

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Take Care down There SF, take care.

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The next big thing in Slav music.

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I'm Not Here to do Cocaine

Ecuador seems to have come and gone, in part because we sprinted through it and then coasted (due to illness), and in part because it was just the warm-up act for what I have been looking forward to and waiting for, for a long, long time.

Colombia. It cannot disappoint.

But first, a brief go-over in Ecuador.

We started in Montanita, a 4 block by 4 block beach town that was chock full of bars, fruity cocktails, and shirtless bodies. Had the weather been better I may have found a larger shell and moved my hermit-self in. Sadly we only had one day of sun, which was spent crawling across tidepools like little kids as we pocked, prodded, and photographed the snails, sea cucumbers, starfish, and octopus. The three days were spent diligently reading books, walking the beach, and indulging in fresh fruit cocktails that only cost $2. It was hard work that left us too confident and, like all great adventurers, our greed/hubris told us there was something 'even better' out there for us. So we left. But at least we learned our lesson, because the rest of Ecuador is seriously lacking in beaches, bikinis, and fresh-fruit cocktails.

From there we took a horrible bus direct to Banos--land of adventure, thermal baths, and...taffy! Taffy being pulled and stretched from doorways became a familiar sight for us in between our water rafting, canyoning, and (on my part) saving lives. All three of which were adrenaline inducing, but the saving lives story is best told in person...after all, a good hero is discreet. While the natural beauty and many outdoor activities kept us in Banos for a few days, we eventually decided to brave Quito, and head to la mariscal barrio (Gringolandia) for a few nights before heading to Colombia finally. Quito was just as sketchy as everyone said it was, but there was some charm in the parks, old town, and nightlife, even if we spent most of our evenings either safely locked indoors or secretly armed with glass bottles and pens in anticipation of some crazed junky attacking us (not entirely uncommon...in 5 days we personally met 6 people who had been mugged in both the day and nighttime). One highlight of Quito though was climbing Rucu Puchinca (4700 meters) without passing out or having a panic attack due to my fear of hieghts.

We also made a short trip to Mindo and relaxed in hamacas for two days to fill our lungs with cleaner air, then returned to Quito where I was hit with the flu, delaying our bus journey to Colombia by 3 miserable days spent watching downloaded american television and drinking lots of water.

But now, NOW we are in Colombia. And it is everything I dreamt about, planned on, wanted, desired for in South America...and if you haven't visited Colombia, or if you still believe it to be a frightening place full of corruption, drugs, and death, then hopefully I can assuage your worries and persuade you to visit. From the nights spent drunk-on-dancing-not-drinks, and the greetings of 'buenos amiga' from everyone on the street, to the tropical flowers that grow through the cracks in the ground--Colombia is South American perfection for me.

The view from our house in Mendoza

Things Lost in Translation

My last blog entry was sort of an experiment…yes-it was self indulgent, and yes-it was a little trite. It was me dipping my toes in this new trend or fad or whatever you want to call it where people get to be endearing while also hopeful and completely and utterly self-absorbed.

In any case…back to the writing.

Ben and I are currently back in Buenos Aires, having left Mendoza, moved out of our empty mansion, and eaten the last of the costillas we could find in Mendoza.

Buenos Aires feels like a homecoming; a return to the people that know us, the places that are familiar, and that sense of ‘home’ that is found in rare spaces while traveling. Yesterday we went back to our Choripan place where Dennis and Natalia recognized us and welcomed us in, asking us where we had been and how our travels were…so it’s a good feeling. Plus we are staying with our amazing friends/artists/argie family Allie and Justine, and Allie’s boyfriend Jose Manuel in their amazing new apartment. Ben is currently giving Jose Manuel a hand with his current business-tacos! They work 3 days a week, sell 200 tacos, and the rest of the time are able to work on their real work-their art. Pretty, freaking, awesome. Plus Argentina has a genuine taco shortage so business is doing pretty well ;)

The last few weeks in Mendoza were serious examples of being lost in translation, as we were forced outside of our usual Spanish vocabulary so that we could get some things done before we left. The doctor’s office, computer stores, a NEW hostel, etc. Maybe it was the excitement, or the fact that we were being rushed, but I managed to tell the doctor that ben and I needed separate recipes for our months, instead of separate receipts for our insurance, and ben (while shopping for laptop covers) walked up to a salesman and announced confidently ‘somos mochilas’ which means ‘we are backpacks.’ In spanish there are two separate verbs for ‘to be’ and one is more formal, more permanent…you only really use it when you are saying something that is unchangeable-for instance ‘I am a professor’ vs ‘I am young.’ Ben managed to use the more permanent verb. So we are backpacks…forever. And I recently heard a story about a girl, lets call her Alex, who had a weird rash on her skin near her breast that she thought was a fungus, so she went to the doctor to see what was wrong. Not knowing the word for fungus though she informed the doctor ‘tengo champinones en mi pecho’ which basically means ‘I have mushrooms on my breast.’ This was so confusing for the poor doctor that he called in ANOTHER old Argentinian man to assess the situation and have the girl repeat her information…eventually forcing her to show the problem to the two old men, point to the ‘mushrooms’ and embrace her embarrassment.

But the Spanish is coming along, and our next plans include more travel which should mean more practice. After a week here in Buenos Aires, where I am fairly confident we will dance too much, eat too much food, drink too much fernet and coke, make tacos, clean house, drink mate in the park, etc. etc., and then we will go to Cordoba, and possibly do some similar things. From there we will hitchhike, bus, and fly our way to Lima while also checking out some cities along the way. I am personally desperate to get to the beach. Oh, and to get a fruity drink! And surf! And get our diving certification! And go hiking in the jungle!

Man, its gonna be awesome.

This Is My Life

This is my life. I laugh too much. I cry too much. I feel too much and too often. I sit outside myself. I eat butter. I read books in the sun on old wicker chairs. I pretend to speak other languages. I give myself a break. I love my parents. I miss my friends. I hug. I hug a lot. I pet animals. I fall in love. I twitch and sigh in a lot of directions. I look for your approval, for your wink, your affection, your nod. I am selfish. I am insecure. I am a complete narcissist. I host champagne brunches. I play dress up. A lot. I dance like a 5 year old because I don`t know a different way. I am mean, sometimes. I am kind, but not always thoughtful. I will adopt you, I will take you in, I will fight with you also. Colors make me cry. Happiness overwhelms me. I wake up early. I run around without clothes on. I GIGGLE. Sometimes I don`t cut my fingernails for a long time. I chew with my mouth open, and eat while standing over the kitchen sink. I don`t use a dayplanner, but every year I buy one then lose it. I wait for things. I miss my parents house, but I love my own home also. I tell myself that `resentment is poison´because that`s what my father told me. I don`t read women`s magazines. I don`t have a sports team. But, I am a FAN. I want your enthusiasm, your charm, I want to know you are having fun. I need attention. Silence is scary and releaving at the same time. I miss my sister. My mother may be the most interesting person I know. I write things down, I recite things in my head, and narrate my own life. I am melodramatic (see previous claim). I pick flowers. I buy groceries, and I love butternut squash. I wish I had a greenthumb. I drink way too much. I go to sleep too late. I am irresponsible with my life but overly responsible with people`s feelings. I will hold you to a high expectation, and myself to one also. I beat myself up. I travel. I meet strangers and tell them I will see them again. I write poetry, rarely. I am eager. I can be obnoxious. I enjoy food-good food, spicy food, fusion food. San Francisco will always be where my heart is. I have visited 19 countries, and lived in 3. I am surrounded by beautiful people. Someone loves me, and forgives me, and laughs with me, regularly. I love my life. I am lucky. I am so, so, exceptionally lucky.

I try not to forget this.

Just TRY not to dance a little.

Regulars

Living in Mendoza is glamourous. I am practically a celebrity. In fact, there are three places in this city that EVERYONE knows me. My so-called `spots.´

Spot Numero Uno-The Movie-Rental-Cum-Popcorn/Ice Cream Place

At 25 years old I am best known, and most warmly welcomed, at a small movie rental place that is run by one nice guy with a lazy slash wandering eye, one very petite tomboy who has one of those hideous and androgynous italian mullets, and an Argentinian Joaqiun Phoenix. I don`t know their names, they don`t know mine, but I see them at least once a week, and they know when my DVD player isn`t working, and they ask me why I haven`t been in in...what? two days? and I try and explain that actually I don`t live with 7 cats by myself, I just grew up in a loud house with loud friends and now I live in someone else`s mansion and there is not a sound around unless a breeze comes in and D`Artagnan rustles a little. So they see me a lot, and occasional I get wrapped up in a movie they are playing. Like today, for instance. For 5 seconds I watched what they were playing on the flatscreen on the wall, and guess what happened? Guess what they were watching?

A scary movie.

Needless to say I am even more famous in there now, but not for being the gringa, and not for possibly having 7 cats. Instead it`s for screaming, throwing my hands in the air, and then ducking under the counter. But hey, at least I`m memorable.

Spot Numero Dos. The Cheese-Shop-That-Sells-Other-Things-Too (but I`m not sure what they are)

This is a more intimate `spot`because it is much closer to my house, and its run by two women, both of whom call me saccharine names like `mi vida`and `mami.` And there`s always at least one little girl from the neighborhood that is in there and stares and stares at me (but especially Ben) and giggles while hovering quietly around us. I order 200 grams of Blue cheese from them, regularly. 100 grams of Parmesan, and sometimes a little mozzarella. On weekends, if Ben and I go in there, everyone talks to us, asks us what we are doing in Mendoza, how long we have been together (which is quickly followed by outraged women in their 40`s wondering why we aren`t married, and men in their 70`s just doing a lot of wierd winking at both of us), and how we feel about Mendoza, etc. There is also always at least one person eager (and kind enough) to speak English to us. I think the curiousity of the neighbours somehow (luckily?) outweighs their annoyance at how long we take everytime we are in there while I am considering all my different cheese options, meals to go with them, snacks, what wine we have, and so on.

Spot Numero Tres-The Internet Hellhole/Salvation

I try not to be too hard on this place, because obviously I frequent it enough that there has to be something good about it. But aside from the fact that they don`t take siesta, and the computers don`t shutdown halfway through loading my email, it really doesn`t have much going for it. Generally it is filled with pocky teenagers playing strange computer games that involve aliens and girls in bikinis, plus some old guys on facebook talking to much younger women (I assume), and most recently I think I saw Edward Scissorhands with breasts. Creepy. There is also horrible flourescent lighting and a giant advert for the most recent Sex in the City movie that doubles as an ad for DirectHD TV. I`m not famous here, per se, but the kid with the rat tail at the front desk always gives me a good computer to use and the woman does a proper job of looking annoyed everytime I come in because she knows I`m not going to have exact change, since foreigners never have change in this change-starved country (side note: this is actually a serious problem here in Argentina since they stopped printing anything smaller than a 100 peso note, which means every 2 peso note, 5 peso, 10, 20, 50, etc. is old and valuable and if you try and pay with a 100 peso note when all you owe is 7 pesos you can better believe someone is gonna give you death eyes. It`s a problem. Don`t even get me started on the problem with monedas here).

So, those are my spots. My life, as you can see, is full of glamour, adventure, late nights of unspeakable scandal etc. etc. I try to remember that not-too-long ago time when I would dance till the sun came up and then shamelessly sleep most of the day, and then eat something unhealthy, wander a beautiful city for a few hours, and then repeat the splendor. The last year has been a practical rollercoaster of how to survive, have fun, then survive again. Right now I am in the `surviving´stage, with only a little bit of `fun´peppered in. Soon it`s back to the fun and recklessness. And then, come 2012, it will be survival again. This time in California, where jobs are nearly impossible, housing is expensive and hard to find, and it`s more likely the state will pay your unemployment before they figure out a way to create a better job market. I hear Austin, TX is nice though...

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