Sunday, December 31

Crazy crazy crazy

I have two new roommates and they share several things in common: They are both hail from Canada and are female. The both also enjoy drinking a lot and smoke like chimneys. The big difference between them though is that one is care-free and 21, and the other worries about everything and is 53.

Last night the older one, Bev, and I went to some restaurant where we put down a bottle of Chilean wine, 2003, and two appetizers -- stuffed mushrooms and potato skins. Oh so good; not like anything else I’ve ever tasted. The stuffed ‘shrooms came with something called “salsa mole.” I asked what it was, but because of what’s likely a language barrier, the only response I got was, “salsa.” Whatever it is, it’s the best “salsa” I’ve had it my entire life. I could drink a bottle of it. As the night went on, and this somewhat elderly woman put down more wine, she offloaded all of her social problems onto me. Apparently I’m a good listener. I’ll save you the details of all the wrong turns she’s taken throughout the past 4 decades or so of her life. We paid the bill and continued down the street (with a certain swagger to our step). There was some good music and person-generated noise bellowing from a down the way, so stepping inside to see what all the commotion was about seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I had 2 shots of tequila and a Tecate (it’s as ubiquitous as Budweiser here). Behind me I saw a table of 4 girls, alone, who were giving me the once over. What the hell, I thought, so I staggered over and introduced myself. We carried on a clumsy conversation in Spanish until – finally – they confessed that they knew a little English. The night went on until one of the girls asked if I had a phone number. Unfortunately I do not, so she asked for an email address. That, I do have. So I wrote it down and handed it to her. One of the girls from across the table snatched that up from her and copied down my email address for her self, then it got passed around until they all eventually had my email address. Fine by me. Later, the girl who initially asked for my info, Irma, had to leave. Upon doing so, she wrote down her physical address, home phone, and cell phone numbers for me. I didn’t ask for them. A hug and a kiss, then she was gone (If you don’t know, the whole hug n kiss thing is standard operating procedure in these parts among opposite sexes and women – I’m a fan of it, regardless). She asked that I call her the next day to go dancing. I don’t dance, but hey, fuck it. So I called her and she asked that I call again at 8pm for her to tell me which club they’ll be at and I’d meet up with her. So I did and there was no answer. Que serra serra (whatever will be, will be). Instead I left her a text message inviting her to attend our low-scale house party the next day.

But hey, I don’t need some chick to keep me from going out anyway and having a good time, so I did. The new 21 year old whipper-snapper and I went to what may be considered downtown SLP. In Mexico there are mixed drinks that can be purchased in 12oz cans that look like any other soda can. We got a few and went out into the bustling plaza and put ‘em down. Soon we heard a live band playing covers of American classic rock songs. We went to the source, got a table, had a listen and put a few more back. Before I continue, don’t get the wrong idea, this girl is such an American princess (though, yeah, she’s Canadian – it still stands) that I can hardly tolerate her. Once we were done there, we were walking down the street and heard good regeton and laughter, etc. from a place and went in. The place was shoulder to shoulder. There too, was a live band, but better. This get-up had horns, a few vocalists and was of overall higher quality. So we’re sitting back when this drop-dead gorgeous Latina asked me to dance. So, with some hesitation, I did. This girl can move her hips better than Chakira could ever hope. This girl is so sexy, I’m not even going to waist my time trying to explain it in this post I’m wring at 6am (I just got back – Mexican’s party late). The night goes on, and she volunteers her phone number to me; this, much in the same way as the girl from the previous night in that it was never elicited; I never asked for her info. She, also like the last, insisted that I call her the next day. I’m beginning to realize that certain privilege come with being a white American. These girls are falling into my lap without almost any special effort on my behalf.

Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve. It’s observed a bit differently here. People exchange gifts much in the same fashion as they, and we, do during Christmas. It’s a day spent with family and not going out and getting crazy, as we do. This does not mean that eventually people leave their homes to get crazy in the new year – i.e., after 12am. As luck would have it, one of the guy’s father whom we were talking with at the 2nd club owns some fancy shmancy club down the way. He and his gang, including Fantina, the super crazy sexy hot girl that gave me her number, will be coming by moments after 12 to go to this club, VIP passes in hand. Tomorrow is likely to be insane.

Oh, but wait, there’s more. Tomorrow we’re having a dinner party at the teacher’s house. During the past couple of party days, we’ve taken the liberty to invite many, many people. God knows who’s going to show up. Among them however are the group of 4 girls I met 2 days ago. I’m wondering what’s going to happen when Irma and Fantina both show at the same time. Cat fight!

I wonder if I should be concerned that my 21 year old roommate, Caroline, hasn’t returned home. It’s now 6am.

It’s the next day, and Caroline walked through the door at 2pm, just as I was waking up. “Where the hell were you?” I asked. Really I shouldn’t have asked though – if I ask no questions she will tell no lies.

So many other things to tell, but maybe for another post. I found a place that offers free wireless internet, but there’s something wrong with my laptop. They’re nice enough though to allow me to hook an Ethernet cable right up to their router.

People are so nice here it’s crazy. I’m sure it has something to do with the color of my skin, but whatever. This is not TJ!! I’m not sure if I’ve already posted this elsewhere, but SLP is really the Hamptons of Mexico. There are Hummers, Corvettes, Escalades, etc.

Interesting things

Some interesting things:

  1. I purchased some Oxy and when I squeezed the bottle, it came out brown. I think now I will be more conscious of my skin color. It’s like living on a planet where everybody has 3 legs, and the pants are made to accommodate. Applying brown facial cream is like putting on pants and discovering an extra leg. I wonder if elsewhere, where the Oxy is white, a brown person raises their brow as I did.
  2. There are no gas lines. Apparently, gas is purchased in limited quantity. Some guy comes by and fills your tank. If you’re not home when he comes by, your tank doesn’t get refilled. They show up somewhere between 9am and 5pm – er, excuse me, 17:00. I’m not sure what the cost is quite yet and frankly I don’t give a damn. All I want is a hot shower. It would be nice also if this place were heated by the same tank (or heated at all – electric for example), but that may increase the chance of it being depleted come shower time. It’s currently 58F in my room. A small price to pay for a scolding hot shower, whenever it may come.
  3. Mexicans drive with futility. There is a severe lack of stop signs and lights. The existing lights and stop signs are held in low regard anyway. I don’t know what the word “yield” is in Spanish, but I’m sure plays no role in the Mexican driving game. Whoever is supposed to go and who stops at a crossing is determined by whoever has the larger vehicle or whoever is the most insane. After driving around town with the boss fellow today I must have counted a dozen games of chicken while crossing intersections or merging. Nobody honks. What a coincidence, I just heard screeching of tires and smashing of metal right outside of my room.
  4. Everybody has heard that you shouldn’t drink the tap water here. This really sucks when you’re thirsty and you’ve no bottled water. A sandpaper throat temps one to stick their head right under that spout, but then the prospects of dysentery helps to make the right decision. I worry about brushing my teeth of washing my face.
  5. When it’s really cold some people put on gloves, a scarf, and/or a beanie. Other people wear surgical masks. At first I thought it was because they were protecting themselves from pollution or something. Realizing that the pollution isn’t that bad at all in SLP, I asked an English speaking local what the deal was. Turns out it’s because it’s cold. I have to be careful of letting in ethnocentricity when passing judgment, but sometimes reason kicks down the door. The only thing I can think of is that a surgical mask keeps their nose warm from their breath.
  6. The wine section of the grocery store is divided into the regions from where they were bottled. I didn’t recognize a single label in the Estados Unidos section. Either their being scammed or these mystery labels aren’t that great. Canned beer is more expensive than bottled, chewing tobacco is totally alien, and the Spanish version of Maxim is Sexo. And like Mexican television, it’s better (well, the pictures are anyway).

Tuesday, December 26

By the hair of my chinny chin chin

Things almost ended before they ever began. Every averted disaster was my fault, save the most devistating one. To begin with, I waited at the wrong gate for seven grueling hours. Let me explain to you how stupid I am: After landing into LAX, I inspected the departure listings and found but one flight for Mexico City. It’s departure time was the same as the departure time of my actual flight. So after waiting for longer than I’d wish upon any other poor soul, the women checking tickets advised me that my flight was at some other section of the airport. Getting there required leaving the terminal, going outside, catching a bus, checking in all over again, and finally boarding. The gate was at the furthest end of this section of the airport. I ran the entire way; even fell on my ass down a flight of stairs. As I borded the flight, they closed the door right behind me. Just barely made it. A nice elderly man on the plane kept trying to talk to me, but I didn’t understand him. I just nodded and grinned like a dumb gringo. He might have been asking about why I was covered in sweat and panting. The next leg of the journey involved going through customs and then catching my connecting flight to SLP. It departed in one hour. I did my best to navigate myself to the gate number printed on my ticket. I swear to vishnu that there was no such gate number. I think it was 630A, but the highest gate number in the whole of Mexico City International Airport was 80. So I asked somebody: “Donde esta ese puerto?” She directed me to terminal B. Terminal B ranged from gates 9 to 16 or something. I looked at the signage of every gate and found one that said San Luis Potosi. It had a different flight number however. I showed the lady my ticket, asked if I was in the right place, and I think she said yes. No departing flight was ever listed on the departures board. Crazy crazy crazy. Once landing in SLP, a one horse airport, the 12 or so passangers proceded to baggage claim. About 4 articles were unloaded from the plane. 3 of us sort of stared at eachother. They had lost our luggage. Try trying to figure this out with a Mexicana – the airline – customer service lady who doesn’t speak a lick of English. Well, I got it figured out and so did they. The folks here at English Unlimited helped me to follow up with my baggage claim and are now telling me that Air Mexicana is going to be dropping off my stuff today between 6 or 7. We’ll see. The latest disaster development: I have no hot water. Checked the water heater. It’s out. Tried to light it. Nothing. Tried the stove. Nothing. No Gas. The man in charge is aware of this, but who knows when it will be turned on. If it were 90F out then I’d have few qualms with bathing in ice cold water, but not when it’s 55F. Oh, and for those of you who knew about my documentation problem – it’s really not a problem. Mexico, go figure. .. all this will probably be edited later. I’m writing this after having been awake for, lets see, 33 hours with a couple one hour power naps thrown in there.