Se fin.

It's official: Oaxaca XIII is officially over. I'm almost home and I need to wrap this up, but I've been thinking for days about what I want to say and I'm still not sure.

Let me start with the departure scene in Oaxaca and take it from there. After a last trip to the organic market for breakfast, Bill and Maria walk me to the bus terminal, where James, Rob and Shayna are already waiting. I'm glad to see Shayna there, as only two hours earlier she had been comatose and missed our market date. As we prepare to board, I hug Bill and Maria goodbye and finally burst into tears, as I knew I inevitably would. I should have warned them ahead of time, but I didn't have it in me: I'm a crier, I can't help it. After losing a battle with the bus attendant, I'm forced to put my precious calavera under the bus and I board, close behind James and Rob. One last wave to Bill and Maria through the window as I take my seat. But where is Shayna?

Outside the bus (and out of my view), Shayna is having her own battle with the bus attendant. They seem to have objected to the bottle of mezcal in her carry-on, despite numerous assurances that it's not meant to be consumed on the bus. The fact that she's clearly still intoxicated  from last night is probably not working in her favour. They want the mezcal to go under the bus, but she no longer cares and leaves it instead on the curb. As she turns to wave at Bill and Maria, they both look back over their shoulders, pretending not to the know who the drunk girl outside is waving at. She finally boards the bus and hugs me for the next half hour as I cry all the way out of Oaxaca.

The last month was exhausting and now I'm sitting in the Mexico City airport, anxious to get home. We tried to explain to someone at the hostel why we were so tired: trabajo y fiestas, trabajo y fiestas, y mas trabajo. The seminar was exhausting and I got nothing else done, but no-one else did either. Long days were followed by long nights, staying out til midnight and getting up again at six. But it was worth every minute and I wouldn't give it back for anything. It's a rare thing when you meet someone that you connect with immediately and on a profound level, and never before have I made so many close friendships in one place. Over the course of the last week I've had to constantly remind myself that this isn't the end, it's the beginning.

As I tried to decide what to write here, I was once again trying to figure out how to cover another week's worth of events - a curandera, the botanical gardens, lucha libre, the good-bye dance party, and three crazy days in DF - but I'm going to leave all of that alone. If you want stories, you know where to reach me. All you really need to know is that Oaxaca was an incredible experience and that, on some level, I'm going home a different person than I was when I left.

To close, I'll leave you with a couple quotes that I felt the need to write down over the last week. I wish I had recorded more, but oh well.

Hasta luego.

"I wanna be put in a quesillo prison and have to eat my way out." - Al Nochecito

"Hopefully we get diarrhea." -Shayna

"No te ahuites Micheal. Eres el mas guapo." - Martin

...Oaxaca Nights

As we rounded the halfway mark of the 13th Annual Oaxaca Summer Institute, a phrase began to surface more frequently among the group. It is a phrase that I'm sure must have emerged early in the history of the seminar: What happens in Oaxaca stays in Oaxaca. Given the numerous hours spent in the local karaoke bar (and the impromptu karaoke sessions in the streets, in class, and at Maria's apartment), it isn't surprising that this has come up. Staying true to our motto, I'm not going to name names, but I do have to mention a few musical highlights (or lowlights, depending on your perspective).

We finally found a local watering hole last week, where we can get two peers for fifteen pesos, which is under $1.50. The other night we were thrown out after a rousing rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, which I can assure you was of the highest quality. Our singing is always better after a few liters of beer. Now, to be fair, the bar was closing, but we didn't see them kicking anyone else out. I know at least one of the staff appreciated our show, however, as I saw her hiding behind the stairs laughing. Oh well, down the street to the karaoke bar we went. The guys already know everyone there, and the bartender is more than happy to ply us with drinks, although we do suspect he's over-charging us. No wonder he's always smiling when we walk in the door. The selection of English music is basically limited to Michael Jackson, so the night kicks off with Billie Jean before we begin massacring Mexican classics, to the horror of the patrons, who soon reclaim the microphone and attempt to show us up with their amazing vocal skills. What we lack in ability, we make up for in enthusiasm.

Then there was the 4th of July party, which ended up having very little do with U.S. independence and much more to do with the Mexico vs. Chile football game, the outcome of which I will not discuss. Let's just say it wasn't pretty. Everyone started to file out around 9 pm, leaving the fridge full of beer. Our host told the six of us who remained that we had to finish it and, to be honest, I didn't think we were up to the challenge. Three hours later I had the last beer in my hand. What transgressed in those three hours will be the stuff of legend in years to come. Our host, scarf tied Rambo-style around her head, worked her way through the most amazing playlist of 80s and 90s tunes I've ever heard. No more than a minute for each song, and at least three of us knew almost every word. The most impressive skills came from a certain individual who knew all the words to Alanis Morisette's greatest hits. I will not say his name, but he is an inspiration to us all. By far the highlight of the night came when we were treated to an interpretive dance, performed to Madonna's "Like a Prayer," and featured a special guest appearance by the Black Jesus. I don't throw this term around loosely, but it was an epic night.

Those of you who know me well will wonder what my role has been in all of this debauchery. Of course, I take myself far too seriously to participate in this sort of public embarrassment, verdad? But Oaxaca does strange things to people, and for whatever reason, Shayna and I bring out the best (or worst?) in each other. Even when no-one else is singing, we can be found wandering the streets, re-enacting the off-tune performance of Baby's sister Lisa in Dirty Dancing, subjecting all of Oaxaca to our unfortunate vocal stylings.

That's all I have to say on the subject for now, but I'm going to leave you all with a couple songs that I think a few of us will hold close to our hearts after our time here. Enjoy.

Oaxaca Days ...

It's hard to believe we've already passed the halfway mark here. In fact, as of tomorrow I only have one more week in Oaxaca.

I realize that I haven't said much about the actual seminar thus far, and I wouldn't want you to get the impression that I'm just down here shopping and eating and drinking - that's just what we do whenever we can find a spare minute. Mornings are usually spent reading, and thinking through the material when there's time. Classes generally start at 1 or 2 in the afternoon, and there are normally two sessions every day. There's no way I can cover everything here, but topics so far have included family relations during the Porfiriato and beyond, love letters from mining communities in Chihuahua, ethnographic photography, and the construction of indigenous identity, to name only a few. Next week we will be looking at public health and medicine. We've visited numerous archives, one archaeological site, and an artisan community outside the city. We've watched three movies so far (with another on the schedule tonight), visited the rehearsal space for the state band, and learned to dance the Son (although not with much success). The days are long and there hasn't been much time for anything except school work and the occasional beer to unwind.

The seminar has been an amazing experience, and I have no regrets about what I chose to do with this summer. I've had the opportunity to work with some incredible faculty members, I've been inspired by a few, and I'm coming home with a bibliography that should set me well in the right direction when it comes time to start reading for my PhD. One of the best things about the seminar so far, however, has been my peers. And I'm not just referring to karaoke here. The conversations I've had with my fellow students have been enlightening on many levels, especially as I prepare to apply for PhD programs. It's been an eye-opener, to say the least. When I was deciding whether or not to come down here (or "up here", as a wise man once told me), my supervisor pointed out that these will be my peers for the remainder of my career. I got to thinking about that the other day, and I look forward to meeting up with all of them again in the years to come. This may sound a little sappy and sentimental, but our time here is rapidly coming to an end, and it's reassuring to think that this is only the beginning of many relationships that I hope will carry on after we all go our separate ways.

So, the final week approaches and it will be hectic, as we try to do all the things we've not yet done and make the most of what's left of our time here together. There will also be a last, frantic attempt for Shayna and I to eat all the food that remains on our list. Yes, we have a list of food we need to eat. Are you really that surprised?

What is the difference between art and kitsch?

The theme for the seminar this week has been cultural history, with a focus on music. The highlight of the seminar was two talks by Raquel Paraíso from the University of Wisconsin, who studies the traditional Mexican musical form known as Son. Son is generally played on a series of string instruments accompanied by the rhythmic stomping of dancers. It is played all over Mexico, with different variations in different regions. After taking us on a musical tour of Son throughout Mexico, with numerous audio and video files, Raquel taught us all two very basic steps. Let's just say most of us should probably stick to academia.

In addition to classes this week, we were also assigned group projects looking at different aspects of daily culture in Oaxaca. Topics included prison art, the Oaxacan soundscape, and fireworks. Vero, Shayna and I jumped at the chance to do a project on calaveras, the skeleton figures that can be found all over Mexico and are particularly prevalent in Oaxaca. Calaveras have been around for a long time, as they are associated with the Day of the Dead celebrations that take place throughout the country on the 1st and 2nd of November. At the turn of the 20th century, a cartoonist by the name of José  Guadalupe Posada began using them as form of political satire, mocking the country's elite and reminding us all that life is fleeting. Posada's most famous figure was the Catrina, the Porfirian woman in skeletal form who can now be found in shops all over Oaxaca. While locals continue to associate calaveras with the Day of the Dead, it is the Catrina that draws in tourists and it is this market that she really caters to. 

I have to say, this project was perfect for us. What better way to spend our spare time than wandering in markets and shops doing 'research'? At one point I mentioned that we should have done our project on food, but since that's basically a running research project anyway, it was good to learn something else too. All three of us have acquired a love of calaveras and used the project as an excuse to justify the purchase of some amazing examples. One of the questions that has driven the project, and which has always been present in our minds as we look at tourist wares, is: what is the different between kitsch and art? Oaxaca surely has a lot of kitsch, but are all calaveras kitsch? I found an amazing specimen in one of the markets, but she was placed on a wall along with hundreds of others, clearly mass produced and meant to supply the demands of the tourist market. This calavera was unlike any I'd seen up to that point: she was indigenous, carried a machine gun, and had ammo belts strung across her chest. This was my calavera, but could I find a nicer version of the same model? Actually, yes. Friday night Shayna and I stumbled across a little shop we hadn't seen before. Unfortunately it was closed, but through the window we spotted a calavera in the form of a nun and we knew we had to go back. When we returned yesterday and went  inside, we were amazed. The shop was full of beautifully painted calaveras, saints, and alebrijes (a topic I'll come to shortly). Not only did they have a nun, but they also had my soldier woman, and a much nicer model at that. The man who owned the shop sat painting a Catrina at his counter, and his work was beautiful. Although I found the woman I'd been looking for, ammo and all, there was another beside her who drew my attention. This one was indigenous as well, but she was a dancer. She wore a shawl, and held up her green skirt as she danced. I had to have her. That night, Shayna, Vero and I all walked out a few hundred pesos lighter, each with an amazing calavera in hand. I bought my dancer, Shayna her nun, and to my relief, Vero took home my soldadera. These models were clearly of better craftmanship than those in the market, but does that make them art? We all justified our spending as having invested in art, but I'm pretty sure none of our new purchases would ever show up in an art gallery - at least, not in Oaxaca. And yet, to me at least, she is a work of art.

 

Let's turn to another example. Another piece of tourist kitsch that is unique to Oaxaca is the alebrije. Alebrijes are brightly painted wood carvings that became common here a few decades back and continue to be marketed largely to tourists. Now, when I first got here, I thought these things were tacky and rarely gave them a second glance. However, on Friday we took a field trip. We went first to Monte Albán, the ruins just outside of Oaxaca, and then we headed to Arrazola, which is a local village known for its wood carvings. A few years ago, there was a good market for alebrijes, but with tourism down in recent years, the carvers have been struggling. One group, Ecoalebrijes, has begun marketing itself as an environmentally sustainable union of carvers, and it was this group that we visited. While most of the alebrijes found in markets and street corners in Oaxaca are cheap and show shoddy workmanship, I acquired a real appreciation for the form on our visit to Arrazola. One of the men took out his machete and demonstrated how they make the carvings. In most cases, the carvers are men, but it is often the women of the village who do the incredibly intricate painting. The carvings are generally animals, and I saw examples of giraffes, cats, praying mantises, and one breathtaking octopus that I just couldn't afford. Some of the pieces are quite large, and the more expensive ones are carved from a single piece of wood. They are also priced according to artists, as some of them have started bringing in high prices for their work in the U.S. and abroad. I looked up one local artist on e-bay and found his work selling for about $400. Many of us did our part to keep the local economy going, and some people even bought 4 or 5 pieces. Again, we justified our spending as purchasing art, but only days ago I would have told you these were kitsch. So which are they?

Can we differentiate between pieces that are mass produced and those that are lovingly created one at a time? Is the difference found in the quality of the workmanship? Does it matter if I buy a piece in the market or at a higher-end shop? Is it ethnic folk-art, or is it kitsch?

Pollos y Pollas

It's 6:30 and my alarm is going off beside my head. My first thought: not a chance. I'm supposed to get up to climb the stairs again, but there were a few cervezas last night and I've only been asleep for about 6 hours. I close my eyes and I'm about to go back to sleep when the thought occurs to me: What if, by some miraculous occurrence, Shayna gets out of bed and goes? Or worse yet, what if Al Nochecito* makes it? I drag myself up, throw on my clothes and head out the door. Not surprisingly, neither of them is waiting for me at the appointed location. At that point, I should have gone home and back to bed. Instead I soldiered on. A few minutes behind schedule, I ran halfway there to meet up with the others and begin the ascent. There was a big turn-out that morning, and they were unfortunately (for me) all the sporty ones of the group. Ann and I brought up the rear while the others set a torturous pace. 3/4 of the way up, my body decided it would go no further and I headed home, tired and a little light-headed.

Despite my big plans for that day, which was Saturday by the way, Friday had turned out to be the best so far, so I wasn't too upset when my plans were derailed. It all started at 10 am, with a trip to the Municipal Archives. This time our guide spoke slowly and clearly, and we were treated to some amazing registers. During the Porfiriato (1876-1910), various types of workers were required to register with the city and have their photo taken. The most interesting of these books was the register of prostitutes, who were provided European finery from a closet of clothes and posed for a professional portrait. Alas, I've not yet read any of the books on this subject,** but was filled in on some important details, including the fact that modern prostitutes in the city of Oaxaca will advertise their services by knitting on the streets. Wouldn't you know, just a few short hours later we passed a woman knitting as she walked down the street.

That afternoon we all headed to a restaurant in Colonia Reforma called Itunaní, where we were able to sample a few dishes and a number of fresh juices. The owner of Itunaní prides himself on organic ingredients and his working relationship with the people who farm his corn. The foods we tried were amazing and unique, and led Shayna and I to contemplate giving up academia altogether to sell street food. I don't know the name of this thing, but it was incredible: a baked tortilla shell stuffed with queso fresco, crema and chicharron. I took some abuse when Bill French saw me taking photos of it, but seriously. This thing was life-changing.

From the restaurant, Shayna and I headed down the zocalo and Alcalá, the main tourist street and pedestrian mall, to do some exploring. We have discovered that not only do we share a love of food, but we also have similar taste in kitsch and thus make the perfect shopping partners. We finally found just the things we were looking for in Oaxaca: local folkloric art. While I won't go into detail here, I suggest you look up the Mexican calavera to get an idea what I'm talking about. It's the figure of a skeleton who performs all the activities of day-to-day life, reminding us that death is always around the corner. Death, and depictions of it, play an important role in Mexican culture. We also discovered a tendency toward the vulgar, as we looked closely at the sculptures and metal art only to find numerous depictions of scrotums, penises, naked breasts, and, in one case, a calavera figurine of a doctor with a patient on a gynecology table - legs spread. This city just keeps on surprising me. We also found a vendor selling miniature rubber chickens in the zocalo, which we couldn't resist. I suspect you'll be seeing a fair amount of our pollitos, Manuel y Miguel, from here on out.

We've found it surprisingly easy to run into people here, and our wanderings soon brought us back to some friends and we all headed to a place called La Mescalera to sample some local mezcal. Having discovered that I don't really care for mezcal, I had half a shot and moved quickly to beer while the others continued to sample the local specialty. The most amazing thing about La Mezcalera that night? The music. A few drinks in and we were rocking out to Metallica, Rick Astley, Coolio and Cher, among other things. All the while, our little pollitos danced along. We wandered out of La Mezcalera sometime around 11:00 and went in search of  food. Fully satisfied, I headed home while the others carried on to the karaoke bar down the street from my house.

And that brings us back to 6:30 am and my torturous walk up the mountain. When I saw that nobody was waiting for me on the corner, I should have just gone back to bed. My victory at getting up that morning was not worth my suffering as I trudged my way up those stairs.

*This pseudonym has been chosen by the subject himself, although it has been slightly altered to suit my preferences.
**I've been told that the best of these is Visions of the Emerald City, by Mark Overmyer-Velazquez.

And the heavens opened up

Well, I should probably be reading right now, but it's already 10 pm and I think most of us know how well I work at this time of night. Regardless, I'd rather get this all down while it's still fresh in my mind.

I finally managed to get up early this morning (with no help from the mosquito that buzzed around my head all night), and managed to conquer the stairs. Ann Blum and Bill French have been coming here for the seminar for many years now and every morning they climb a set of stairs up the mountainside that overlooks the city. With an open invite for anyone who wants to join them, I decided it was about time to work off some of those tortillas. The climb up was well worth the effort.

Aside from the view of Oaxaca and many of the surrounding areas, we encountered a number of people who were collecting bugs. Were they entomologists? No, they were not. What you may not know is that one of the many unique features of Oaxacan cuisine is insects. The most commonly known delicacy are chapulines, or what we would call grasshoppers. They come in all sizes and, just to warn you, I may not be able to leave Oaxaca without sampling them myself. On this particular day, however, the insects in question were not chapulines but chicatanas. As it turns out, chicatanas only come out between the heavy rains and, in all their years climbing los escaleros, Ann and Bill had never witnessed this bug collecting before. Chicatanas appear to be very large flying ants, almost an inch in length. A kilo of these things sells for 1000 pesos. Tasty I'm sure, but I'm going to take their word for it.

My long climb was followed by a giant glass of fresh-squeezed OJ and a casual wander home, where I was treated to another quesillo omelet - my favorite breakfast so far. After a couple hours of work at the Italian Coffee House around the corner and another good chat with my classmate and neighbor Shayna, I headed to the Institute for a seminar on gender and history with the aforementioned Ann and Bill. Thus far, the seminars have been challenging and enlightening on many levels. It's amazing to be given the opportunity to interact so closely with so many talented scholars, and it just shows me how much I need to up my game.

Following the seminar, we headed to the Cathedral to catch the Corpus Christi procession, which celebrates the consecration of the body of Christ. For the first time thus far, I was ready to get some footage on video. After wandering in a little market near the Cathedral and checking out a bookstore across the street, we scouted out a spot on the corner to watch the procession. I waited, camera in hand. Out of nowhere, fireworks exploded overhead, the procession left the church, the skies opened up, and it proceeded to pour rain. As we all frantically huddled under umbrellas, I attempted to hold the camera steady while simultaneously keeping it dry. As soon as the procession rounded the corner, we hurried back to the Institute to get out of the rain. We arrived soaking wet about 15 minutes later. (In case you're wondering, the camera is safe and dry.)

All of us began flooding into the seminar room for movie night, few having been spared by the rain. As we watched Entre Pancho Villa y una mujer desnuda we listened to the rain thundering on the roof overhead, punctuated by the occasional roll of thunder. Although it's rained here every day so far, this was by far the longest and most intense rainstorm we've had. Even now, four hours later, I can hear it pouring outside. I don't mind the rain; all I ask is that my shoes dry quickly.

Having availed myself of my wet sidewalk thoughts - which really need to stand alone, don't you think? - I'll now get down to the big what's-happened-since-I-left-Mexico-City post.

I guess I'll start at the start, which is the bus ride to Oaxaca. It was pretty uneventful (fortunately), but I did write down a few random observations which I'll share with you now.

Hour 1: A truck drives by with a load of plucked chickens. The legs hang over the sides of the truck bed.
Hour 2: I really hope someone climbs on this bus to sell me food. Breakfast sucked and this ride is going to take six hours, minimum.
Hour 2.5: Volcano towers over rows of maiz.
Hour 3: I love cacti.
Hour 4: Still no food.

Other than that, there are some thoughts about the landscape, but my poetic skills pretty much fail to impress, so I'll keep them to myself. Suffice to say, there was a desert, a small canyon, and then it got greener. We drove through the mountains almost the whole way, preventing me from doing much of anything for fear of car sickness. The bus was frigid due to an overactive AC system, and I was very jealous of the sleeping woman beside me with her fuzzy brown blanket.

Arriving in Oaxaca, I had yet another minor hiccup with directions - although this time it was really a problem with a direccion. In search of 1116 Emiliano Carranza, my cab pulled up in front of 1114, which was immediately followed by 1118. Across the street were numbers in the 900s. After a quick phone call and assistance from a lovely neighbor (with a very nice car), I found 1116 a block away and all was well. I was welcomed by my hostess, Doña Gloria, her husband Don Pepe, and their son and his family. They asked if I was hungry (thank god!) and then proceeded to stuff me full of home-made quesadillas, tacos, arroz poblano and a shot of mezcal. Bienvenido a Oaxaca! Turns out, Doña Gloria runs a restaurant out of her house. She also has wifi. Life is good.

After a quick shower, (at which point I learned that 'tepid' in Spanish translates roughly to 'not quite freezing') I got ready to head to the welcome reception at the apartment of the program directors. The reception was at 7 pm and according to Google Maps it was only a twenty minute walk - which it is. Turn out the door, go one block to the right and then head straight until you hit Calle Zarate. No problem, right? What I failed to realize is that the majority of the streets here change names at various points. So, while I was looking for Nezahualcoyotl a block away, I should have been looking for Zapata. Instead, I made it one single block before confusion set in. How could this be so complicated? I left 45 minutes early so that I would have time to explore after locating the apartment, and yet I managed to roll in half an hour late. But at least I found it and I learned a valuable lesson about street names in Oaxaca. (As a side note regarding the general craziness of streets here, there are two places in the center where the traffic flow changes sides randomly for one block. What I mean is that all is normal with cars driving on the right-hand side, and then - for no apparent reason - THEY DRIVE ON THE LEFT. For one block. And then they go back to normal. Have I mentioned that I love this country?)

After the reception, all the students headed out for a beer. Within minutes, all ten of us were lost and I felt much better about my own meanderings over the last two days. We finally found a place to drink a beer at 10 pm on a Sunday: a lovely rooftop bar with a live band. We ordered a round, and then attempted to huddle under umbrellas as it started to rain. After a damp walk home, I did battle in my bedroom with two small bugs, a giant black beetle (known commonly as a Mayate and measuring about an inch and a half in size), and a spider before going to bed. Unfortunately I only killed two of the four, and not the ones that counted. Fortunately, I was assured over breakfast today that Mayate stay on the floor. Until they fly back out the window. Yes, they fly.

Today was much less eventful. I woke up, I worked, I went to an orientation talk, I worked, and then I went to the opening presentation, much of which was way too fast for me to understand - in Spanish - but interesting nonetheless. The only point worth elaborating on before I wrap this up was food (what else?). Breakfast consisted of a quesillo omelet with extra queso, chocolate milk and cafe con leche. What a relief to see a full pot of coffee at 8 am. This was followed a few short hours later with a massive lunch of arroz Oaxaqueña and a giant plate of enchiladas con mole. Feeling it would be rude to leave food on the plate, I ate all of it and found myself wishing I had time for a siesta. No such luck. I am beginning to suspect that I may leave this place ten pounds heavier than when I arrived. The directors have invited us to climb a giant set of stairs every morning that overlooks the city and I suspect I may just need to take them up on this.

And in case you were wondering, Oaxaca is stunning and clean, there are flowers everywhere, and aside from the rain, the climate is perfect.

The hazards of Mexican streets

For those of you who may have concerns about my safety in Mexico (yes, I mean you gram), rest assured that Oaxaca is a very safe city. That said, the most fear I have at this point is that I take my life in my hands every time I step onto the streets. Now, the obvious reason for this is traffic. Many of the intersections here have pedestrian signals, but often the cars will speed up for traffic lights rather than stopping. There is no such thing as right of way for pedestrians. However, I've worked out what I think is a pretty good system: I wait for someone else to go first. Clearly this doesn't work when I'm the only one at the intersection, but there is almost always someone else crossing at the busy streets.

The real hazard - and the one that is harder to avoid - is wet sidewalks. It's rainy season here in Oaxaca, and it's rained every day so far. Sidewalks in Mexico are generally well-polished, and therefore slippery when wet. Even without the rain this is an issue. Take for example my very dry day in Mexico City. Despite the total lack of rain, I slipped numerous times and once managed to soak my shoes, almost falling into traffic. Those of you unfamiliar with Latin America may wonder how this could happen, but I'm guessing anyone who's spent much time in Mexico or Central America knows exactly what I'm talking about. (I can't speak for South America, but I'm sure someone can fill me in.) Every morning, business owners wash their floors, brushing the soapy water out the front door and onto the sidewalks. Often they wash the sidewalks too. When I see this in front of me I know what to expect, but nonetheless, it's often hard to keep one's footing when wandering the streets in flip-flops, Toms or other equally inappropriate footwear. The only effective way around this hazard is sneakers, which brings me to my first packing regret: thinking I would be generally be attired in the aforementioned Toms or flip-flops, I only brought three pairs of socks.

Un Dia en DF

I have to say, I really kicked off my trip in true Mexican style. I arrived at my hostel last night to find it virtually empty. I wandered up to the rooftop terrace/bar, lamenting the fact that I probably wasn't going to get the beer that I'd been dreaming about, and just as I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to attempt to go to sleep at 7 pm BC time the bartender walked around the corner. He's a Texan who's been living in Mexico City for a year, so we chatted, drank a beer (and more than one shot of tequila - don't ask how that happened) and then headed over to another hostel where things were a little livelier. One liter of Sol, another shot of tequila and a solid couple hours of semi-drunken Spanish conversation with an Argentine academic and a rather sweet young man from Monterrey, and I had closed out the bar. Not my usual style, but a good time was had.

I was awoken at 7 am (5 am BC time) not quite ready for the big day I had planned in la capital. Once I set out on my first mission, things didn't go much better. My goal was to find a ticket depot where I could book my trip to Oaxaca. After searching in vain for the Ticketbus location, I resorted to asking for directions. In typical Mexican style, I asked six people and got six different answers. None of them were right. After three hours of pounding the pavement of el centro, I asked yet another person and got yet another set of directions, this one much further away than the others. Despair was setting in. So I walked. And I asked for more directions. I seemed to be getting close. As it turns out, the Ticketbus vendor was located inside a parkade, behind an unmarked door. Go figure. Have I mentioned that I love this country?

It was time for food. Steak tacos drowned in lime and a giant glass of pineapple juice. Perfecto. Sweaty and tired, I returned to my hostel and then spent the next hour trying to make a phone call to Oaxaca. When all was settled, I headed for my room to hit the shower. A new roommate had just arrived and we decided to go to the zocalo so that I could get around to my original plan: a hot date with Mexican muralist Diego Rivera (ie a trip to the National Palace to see his work). We stopped first at the main cathedral, which is stunning both inside and out. Construction began in the late 16th century and the cathedral is filled with incredibly ornate detail and pious Mexicans.

We pushed our way through the crowded zocalo, past vendors and protesters and throngs of people. The Palace did not disappoint. It was a history nerd's dream. There is currently an exhibit running in the Palace on 200 years of constructing a country. Upon entering, we were ushered into a room where a collage of video was projected onto all four walls and the ceiling. Birds flew overhead as desert landscapes faded on and off the screen, followed by photos of the Revolution, indigenous groups and the modern Mexican architecture. After the four minute presentation we headed into the exhibit. Peter Ord, if you're reading this, I was thinking of you. It was amazing. Two hundred years of Mexican history is a lot, and I tried to summarize it for my friend, only to realize how muddled it's become in my own head. (For those of you who aren't familiar with Mexico's history, I suggest you give it a quick glance.) In addition to the exhibit, there were the aforementioned Diego Rivera murals, which were incredible; a tour through some of the main rooms of the palace, where I found numerous things I would have liked to take with me on my way out; and a walk through the hall of presidents. Feeling more than satisfied, I exited the palace only to find a giant cactus garden on my way out. Could this place get any better?

Another quick walk through the zocalo, a few more pics, and we headed back to the hostel for dinner. A solid conversation was had with two of the Mexican staff members, and I'm feeling a little more confident with my Spanish. And then, the football game. Mexico versus Guatemala and I'm watching with two Mexicans. What do I do? I have to say, I was pretty stoked when Guatemala was up 1-0 at half-time, but it went downhill after that. I wish I had an audio recording of what was going on beside me during the game. Mexican slang is like nothing else. Love it.

And so, here I sit, tapping out this post before I go to bed. All in all, it was a fantastic day in Mexico City. Tomorrow: Oaxaca. 

The time approaches

 I kicked off the morning with this incredible pre-departure breakfast, courtesy of the wonderful Sylvia. Poached eggs, bacon, bacon-fried tomatoes, sliced apples, olives, cheese, and coffee with fresh cream and vanilla. I always know that I can't go hungry when I stay in this house.

The bags are packed and we depart for the airport in roughly 20 minutes. I thought I'd put up one more post to say adios to anyone interested, but mostly just to brag about my breakfast. 10 hours from now I'll be in a cab, tearing through Mexico City and tomorrow I've got a hot date with Diego Rivera.

On another note, I'd like to add an update to my words from yesterday. After waking up to a profusion of photos and videos of Vancouver's looters and rioters, I went downtown to see the city's residents out with brooms and garbage bags, cleaning up the streets. Word is that 16,000 people joined the effort. They swept up, boarded windows and scrubbed graffiti off of walls. What is unfortunate is that the positive response to these events won't get nearly the coverage as the mayhem did, but it's reassuring nonetheless.

On the road again, but before I go...

Somebody mentioned my blog to me the other day, in the context of my present travels. The assumption was that I would be blogging about my trip. At this point I have two failed/long-neglected blogs, so I'm hesitant to start another, but here it is. I figure that as long as I know it has a short life span from the get-go, I won't feel so guilty when it fades out.

While the real adventure has yet to begin (my flight to Mexico doesn't leave until tomorrow), I can't help but feel like today is the right time to start writing. In fact, last night - for the first time in years - I felt the urge to write.

I felt the urge to write as I stumbled home from a Stanley Cup gathering, where fans far more committed than I were devastated to watch their team lose. While most stayed there and drowned their sorrows in what remained of the booze, we stumbled our way home and I could feel the negative energy lighting up the city. As soon as we got home we turned on the news, and half of downtown was already on fire. I looked out the window and saw plumes of smoke rising from the downtown core. Choppers flew overhead. Sirens could be heard from every direction. We watched the news until late into the night, until that last glass of red wine caught up to me and I fell asleep to the sounds of the riot that raged outside.

This morning all I've seen or heard is condemnation and embarrassment; humiliation that this beautiful city has made international headlines for the actions of a few violent and irrational assholes. I saw the riots coming; we all saw the riots coming. We only hoped it wouldn't happen. What is clear is that those responsible headed out onto the town with every intention of looting and destroying the city, as if they just happened to have those black bandanas on hand for no reason at all. And I wonder whether it would have happened even if they'd won.

I watched a video clip this morning that actually brought tears to my eyes. It was shot in front of The Bay on Georgia Street, which was one of the main targets of last night's looters. A lone man in a Canucks jersey ran back and forth in front of the plate glass windows, trying in vain to stop people from smashing them with hockey sticks. He was soon joined by another man who brought his own hockey stick, with which he attempted to push back the crowd while screaming "This is my city!" I had to turn it off when he was swarmed by a mob of people who began beating him over the head.

This morning I am ashamed and I am angry. I'm heartbroken at the destruction that took place last night, and for the people who were brave enough to try to get in its way. I'm infuriated at the countless photos of this city's youth posing in front of burning police cars and engaging in such wanton violence for no reason at all. This wasn't about hockey. Hockey was nothing more than an excuse. The true tragedy this morning is not the loss of the Cup, but the complete lack of dignity with which it was handled.