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.