Thursday, March 24, 2005
Two more species of travelers
I started this as a comment to John's previous post After Steinbeck's Travel Memoir but I started running too long.
After conversing with you, John, last night about this subject I was forced to confront you with another category of sub-city species: the Listeners. Although an argument can be made that their eyes are closed most of the time - leaving them in the category of sleepers - or even that their eyes wander whilst changing songs on their IPod, I hold that mental absorbtion in music is an activity all its own and deserves to be recognized as such.
What so consistently lacks on our transit system, so much that it is hardly noticed, is random conversation with strangers. This says more about our culture than we notice or probably care to admit. Americans will gladly and readily declare their independence, their ability to take care of their own and live by themselves. Persistence and stubbornness (often to the extent of rudeness) exist in NYC in abundance.
However, there are also many, many individuals who will glance around the subway car looking for a point of contact. Given, this is a rarity, particularly because the close quarters make a connection unnerving for most people - which is another aspect of American society; Indians are apparently so used to sharing small spaces with so many people that they are uninhibited with strangers in proximity. Unless you know someone on the train, they are unlikely to even look at you. But in my 8 months of traveling the MTA, I have shared several glances with mothers, grandfathers, babies (who are often my favorite iwth whom to maintain eye contact), other obvious teachers. Humor, frustration, small talk, deep talk, can all take place, though again, not often.
I think of it now because a teacher friend of mine told me this week that the girl he is dating now he met on the train, glancing at each across the aisle, under shy peeking eyelids, both trying to say hello.
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After conversing with you, John, last night about this subject I was forced to confront you with another category of sub-city species: the Listeners. Although an argument can be made that their eyes are closed most of the time - leaving them in the category of sleepers - or even that their eyes wander whilst changing songs on their IPod, I hold that mental absorbtion in music is an activity all its own and deserves to be recognized as such.
What so consistently lacks on our transit system, so much that it is hardly noticed, is random conversation with strangers. This says more about our culture than we notice or probably care to admit. Americans will gladly and readily declare their independence, their ability to take care of their own and live by themselves. Persistence and stubbornness (often to the extent of rudeness) exist in NYC in abundance.
However, there are also many, many individuals who will glance around the subway car looking for a point of contact. Given, this is a rarity, particularly because the close quarters make a connection unnerving for most people - which is another aspect of American society; Indians are apparently so used to sharing small spaces with so many people that they are uninhibited with strangers in proximity. Unless you know someone on the train, they are unlikely to even look at you. But in my 8 months of traveling the MTA, I have shared several glances with mothers, grandfathers, babies (who are often my favorite iwth whom to maintain eye contact), other obvious teachers. Humor, frustration, small talk, deep talk, can all take place, though again, not often.
I think of it now because a teacher friend of mine told me this week that the girl he is dating now he met on the train, glancing at each across the aisle, under shy peeking eyelids, both trying to say hello.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
After Steinbeck's Travel Memoir: Travels with Charley
The trains of New York's metro system strike me as anthropological exhibits released from some future museum: the glass and steel cases unfrozen from their marble rooms and hurtling down darkened tunnels of time; the wax figures rendered so life-like you can see them breathing, hear them sneezing, and feel their eyes watching you as you pass. The curators of this museum must surely be the most cultured and well-rounded of all anthropologists for there is indeed not one, but many of each nationality, gender, creed and sexual persuasion represented. Whether they be devout Orthodox Jews lip-synching their pocket-sized Torahs, or self-contained, middle-age Iranian women leaning up against the doors, or deeply sleeping Chinese grandmothers cradling packages between their weathered hands, all of the riders fall into one of four distinct categories. They are as follows: the Readers, the Sleepers, the Starers and the Fornicators. (The homeless are a subcategory of both the Sleepers and the Fornicators. The connection to the former is evident, but you may find yourself asking what could possibly link them to the latter? A loose connection, I admit- but the pungent odors and abudance of spilled body fluids is a certain relation.)
I, myself, dabble a little in each of these roles- except for Fornicator. I've had a few experiences riding early morning trains from one borough or another into Manhattan and the woman I was with, groggy as I from the sleepless, sex-filled night before, made advances to me: holding onto my lapels instead of the hand-rails, pecking with dry lips at my after-shaved neck, staring lustily into my eyes. Despite my inclination towards sexual adventurism and taboo, exhibitionism has never appealed to me. Unlike my role-changing self, most of the riders stick to one role invariably. The Sleepers seem as if they have always been sleeping, perhaps like Rip Van Winkle, for the past twenty years. The Readers appear to have just left reading at home and be headed for a job that entails more of the same. The Starers seem as if they never do anything for themselves, but only live vicariously through the doings of others. And the Fornicators, well, obviously if they can't keep their hands off eachother on a crowded, rush-hour train, I'm sure they spend little time dressed and on their feet at home.
And at two dollars for admission, you can't complain if the museum is a little dirtier than some of its more prestigious peers.
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I, myself, dabble a little in each of these roles- except for Fornicator. I've had a few experiences riding early morning trains from one borough or another into Manhattan and the woman I was with, groggy as I from the sleepless, sex-filled night before, made advances to me: holding onto my lapels instead of the hand-rails, pecking with dry lips at my after-shaved neck, staring lustily into my eyes. Despite my inclination towards sexual adventurism and taboo, exhibitionism has never appealed to me. Unlike my role-changing self, most of the riders stick to one role invariably. The Sleepers seem as if they have always been sleeping, perhaps like Rip Van Winkle, for the past twenty years. The Readers appear to have just left reading at home and be headed for a job that entails more of the same. The Starers seem as if they never do anything for themselves, but only live vicariously through the doings of others. And the Fornicators, well, obviously if they can't keep their hands off eachother on a crowded, rush-hour train, I'm sure they spend little time dressed and on their feet at home.
And at two dollars for admission, you can't complain if the museum is a little dirtier than some of its more prestigious peers.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Guey, donde esta mi Mexico?
Crushed beside Ileana in the backseat of the family Nissan Tsuru, returning to Nezahualcoyotl from the pyramids at Teotihuacan, Carlos asked me what Americans think of Mexico.
Mexicans? I queried.
No, he replied-- tired of hearing my rant about how diverse and divisive American opinion was on his people. Mexico, he insisted.
Like: Mexican politics, the USA's economic and strategic relationship to Mexico, Mexico's role in the Americas and the larger world? I asked.
Exacto!
Well, that's not really a topic that comes up around the dinner table too often, my nervous, honest reply.
A warm, non-threatening and empathetic smile from Ileana: We know. We're invisible to you.
And it's sad but true. Maybe I'm just an uneducated boor among enlightened peers, but besides knowing that the name of Mexico's president is Vincente Fox and that the president can only serve one six year term, what else do we know about Mexican politics and international relations? Not much. But it's not our fault. We're not taught about our present day neighbor in school, only about the Dictator Santa Anna and how we whipped his ass in the biggest single land grab this country's ever seen-- 150 odd years ago.
I've been searching the NY Times and LA Times collectively for the last week (checking the NYT at least daily) and have only seen three articles between both papers's international sections on Mexico in said timeframe. The NYTimes featured one today on Mexican citizens who, living in America, enlisted in our military and died fighting for the Stars and Stripes over the past two years. The LA Times featured two articles yesterday. One, a paragraph and a half, was about the shooting death of a indicted cartel leader's lawyer outside his prison. The other was about the political battle surrounding the left-leaning Mayor of Mexico City's bid to run for President in 2006.
I was glad to see this event getting some press here because it was certainly a hot item during my stay in Mexico. In fact, the sides of buildings, overpasses and mountainsides were grafittied with the slogan No Al Desafuero in reference to the event. The mayor in question, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, is extremely popular among the politically left, and is the likely upcoming presidential candidate for his party, the Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD). President Fox of the National Action Party (PAN)-- the first party to put a candidate in the presidency after 70+ years of PRI rule-- fears Obrador's popularity and the prospect of this populist candidate rolling back the privatization efforts and market-centric reforms that Fox has spearheaded the past 5 years. Rather than counting on the virtues of the free market to be voted in by the demos, PAN has linked hands with its arch-nemesis PRI in an attempt to bar Obrador from running. High officials in Mexico, like the DWI children of foreign ambasadors in the US, are given legal immunity. PAN/PRI are claiming that this legal elitism should be done away with in the name of democracy, and the first witch to burn at the stake-- you guessed it-- Mayor Obrador. You see, a few years ago Obrador disobeyed (wittingly or no) an order to halt the construction of a certain road to a certain hospital. If the immunity granted to high officials was lifted, and Obrador stood trial for this minor offense, he would be unable to run for president until the case was settled. In other words, after PRI and PAN fought the election out more safely between themselves. No Al Desafuero! translates to something like No to the Outrage or Violation or something like that--mas o menos. Obrador's defenders and proponents are using this slogan to express their disapproval of any attempt to bar Obrador from running for office. The vast majority of people residing in Mexico City, where he has greatly reduced crime with the help of Gulliani, built many new schools and provided social allowances for the elderly, handicapped and single mothers, support Obrador . Criminal! Puta Madre Comunista!
I think it's sad that the only news considered worthy these days is terrorism in the mideast and the valorous culture-of-life here at home--Bill Frist fighting Terry Schiavo's husband for the right to decide his beloved's fate. I think it's sad that culturally illiterate Americans know more (in a relative sense) of the going-ons in Europe and the Middle East and Southeast Asia than we do of our nearest neighbor, Mexico, and greater Latin America. I think it's telling that our most prestigious news journals barely cover these regions. If we knew more about what was going on in Mexico and what impact our actions had on its people, we might bring these issues into focus when selecting leaders and directions for our own country. The creation of a powerful friendship and solidarity between Mexicans and Americans is geographically and culturally all too possible and threatening to the entrenched powers that be. So they fasten our attention only on the other side of the Atlantic and Pacific. They would hate for US to remember that the word America describes a landmass, and the people therein, stretching from Chile to Maine.
Maybe its time we opened our eyes and ears as much as our borders. I'm not going to be as humbly embarassed the next time a Mexican, say Carlos when he visits New York, asks me what I think of Mexico. I will have figured out a way by then to be more informed of the important going-ons of our good friend to the south.
Paz!
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Mexicans? I queried.
No, he replied-- tired of hearing my rant about how diverse and divisive American opinion was on his people. Mexico, he insisted.
Like: Mexican politics, the USA's economic and strategic relationship to Mexico, Mexico's role in the Americas and the larger world? I asked.
Exacto!
Well, that's not really a topic that comes up around the dinner table too often, my nervous, honest reply.
A warm, non-threatening and empathetic smile from Ileana: We know. We're invisible to you.
And it's sad but true. Maybe I'm just an uneducated boor among enlightened peers, but besides knowing that the name of Mexico's president is Vincente Fox and that the president can only serve one six year term, what else do we know about Mexican politics and international relations? Not much. But it's not our fault. We're not taught about our present day neighbor in school, only about the Dictator Santa Anna and how we whipped his ass in the biggest single land grab this country's ever seen-- 150 odd years ago.
I've been searching the NY Times and LA Times collectively for the last week (checking the NYT at least daily) and have only seen three articles between both papers's international sections on Mexico in said timeframe. The NYTimes featured one today on Mexican citizens who, living in America, enlisted in our military and died fighting for the Stars and Stripes over the past two years. The LA Times featured two articles yesterday. One, a paragraph and a half, was about the shooting death of a indicted cartel leader's lawyer outside his prison. The other was about the political battle surrounding the left-leaning Mayor of Mexico City's bid to run for President in 2006.
I was glad to see this event getting some press here because it was certainly a hot item during my stay in Mexico. In fact, the sides of buildings, overpasses and mountainsides were grafittied with the slogan No Al Desafuero in reference to the event. The mayor in question, Andres Manuel Lopez Obrador, is extremely popular among the politically left, and is the likely upcoming presidential candidate for his party, the Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD). President Fox of the National Action Party (PAN)-- the first party to put a candidate in the presidency after 70+ years of PRI rule-- fears Obrador's popularity and the prospect of this populist candidate rolling back the privatization efforts and market-centric reforms that Fox has spearheaded the past 5 years. Rather than counting on the virtues of the free market to be voted in by the demos, PAN has linked hands with its arch-nemesis PRI in an attempt to bar Obrador from running. High officials in Mexico, like the DWI children of foreign ambasadors in the US, are given legal immunity. PAN/PRI are claiming that this legal elitism should be done away with in the name of democracy, and the first witch to burn at the stake-- you guessed it-- Mayor Obrador. You see, a few years ago Obrador disobeyed (wittingly or no) an order to halt the construction of a certain road to a certain hospital. If the immunity granted to high officials was lifted, and Obrador stood trial for this minor offense, he would be unable to run for president until the case was settled. In other words, after PRI and PAN fought the election out more safely between themselves. No Al Desafuero! translates to something like No to the Outrage or Violation or something like that--mas o menos. Obrador's defenders and proponents are using this slogan to express their disapproval of any attempt to bar Obrador from running for office. The vast majority of people residing in Mexico City, where he has greatly reduced crime with the help of Gulliani, built many new schools and provided social allowances for the elderly, handicapped and single mothers, support Obrador . Criminal! Puta Madre Comunista!
I think it's sad that the only news considered worthy these days is terrorism in the mideast and the valorous culture-of-life here at home--Bill Frist fighting Terry Schiavo's husband for the right to decide his beloved's fate. I think it's sad that culturally illiterate Americans know more (in a relative sense) of the going-ons in Europe and the Middle East and Southeast Asia than we do of our nearest neighbor, Mexico, and greater Latin America. I think it's telling that our most prestigious news journals barely cover these regions. If we knew more about what was going on in Mexico and what impact our actions had on its people, we might bring these issues into focus when selecting leaders and directions for our own country. The creation of a powerful friendship and solidarity between Mexicans and Americans is geographically and culturally all too possible and threatening to the entrenched powers that be. So they fasten our attention only on the other side of the Atlantic and Pacific. They would hate for US to remember that the word America describes a landmass, and the people therein, stretching from Chile to Maine.
Maybe its time we opened our eyes and ears as much as our borders. I'm not going to be as humbly embarassed the next time a Mexican, say Carlos when he visits New York, asks me what I think of Mexico. I will have figured out a way by then to be more informed of the important going-ons of our good friend to the south.
Paz!
Monday, March 21, 2005
Garden State
Well, it was bound to happen eventually, and yesterday it did. Winslett's Clementine was woefully evicted from the decadent chambers of my heart to make room for their new tenant, Portman's Sam. Ahh, beautiful, hopeful, inquisitive, compassionate and relentless Sam. Her character had all the dimensionality and agency that so often is lacking in male-written, lead-female, romantic roles. She was as funny as Andy, in fact funnier. She spoke at least as much as he spoke, instructed him, one-upped him, led him. Well done, Natalie Portman. Well done, Zach Braff. Well done, Jersey heads.
The conversation surrounding Andy (Braff) and Mark's (Saarsgard) reunion at the funeral was such a brilliant, if not indicting, depiction of New Jersey's trademark disinterested-
existentialism. Every sentence in this scene is ended by Mark with "...or something", "...and shit"-- a hazy reluctance to specificity and completion-- the punctuation of smoked-out laziness or the truncation of emotional malaise. Mike Hart (see mikehart.com) told me early on in our friendship that Jersey boys contained the most beautiful american melancholy he'd ever seen. Hmmm. I think back to Damian's post months and months ago testifying to the sadness he sees in his friends and praying for their release.
Which is the arc of this movie. Large (Braff) starts off the movie in a lithium-induced emotional armor, descends into the pain of his past and paternal relationship, mixes in the alternately hard and happy lives of his friends, and finally ascends on wings of love into a naked, vulnerable salvation. The movie ends with a different kind of Ark. Albert, living on the verge of an abyss, shepherds Mark, Sam and Andy inside his domicile during a downpour of biblical proportions. Inside, Andy begins to smile for real, for the first time as it were. When Albert chalks up his life's meaning and purpose to the love of his wife and daughter, Andy feels Sam sitting beside him and begins to poke an awkward, featherless head out of its fragile shell into the free air of the moment. Outside, as the trio makes their return to the "real world", Andy conquers fear and self-consciousness as he climbs atop a rain-slicked construction crane-- perched on the edge of the abyss-- and affirms the Original Moment by hollering into the earth hole.
The soundtrack is brilliant. A young filmmaker's affirmation of our emotional/artistic truths, the powerful insights of our generation. Near the end of the film, when Andy finally confronts his father, this affirmation of our generation's emotional potential shines through. (Mike Hart talks about the indigo generation, a cyclically recurring group of spiritually/emotionally tuned-in beings who save their children by breaking certain chains from the past.) The father (Bilbo-hehe), is stuck in a destructive interpretation of the past that is poisoning their (father and son's) future. Rather than walk away as he's done for the last nine years, Andy remains by his father's side and confronts him face-on. He replaces the father's cruel interpretation of the past with his own more rational one. He forgives himself for any mistakes he has made and in the same breath demands the same accountability and self-forgiviness from his father. He pleads with the old man to accept their lives for what they are. To insure his father understands where he is coming from, Andy places a hand upon the old man's chest and leaves it there-- a source of warmth and love that must weigh as much as a brick of lead, the old man is rendered so speechless.
Sorry, Clementine. Though, I still love your fingerless gloves and rainbow manicures; though, I shall never forget your potato sculptures, irish coffees or affinity for chinese food; though, no one can make snow angels or dance along the surf quite like you, I must move from your love of passionate confusion to Sam's love of compassionate fusion. Sorry, I hope you understand, babe. But you were from Long Island and even though Natalie Portman hails from the same, Sam is a Jersey girl with the combination of wit and candor, tears and laughter that is after my own heart.
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The conversation surrounding Andy (Braff) and Mark's (Saarsgard) reunion at the funeral was such a brilliant, if not indicting, depiction of New Jersey's trademark disinterested-
existentialism. Every sentence in this scene is ended by Mark with "...or something", "...and shit"-- a hazy reluctance to specificity and completion-- the punctuation of smoked-out laziness or the truncation of emotional malaise. Mike Hart (see mikehart.com) told me early on in our friendship that Jersey boys contained the most beautiful american melancholy he'd ever seen. Hmmm. I think back to Damian's post months and months ago testifying to the sadness he sees in his friends and praying for their release.
Which is the arc of this movie. Large (Braff) starts off the movie in a lithium-induced emotional armor, descends into the pain of his past and paternal relationship, mixes in the alternately hard and happy lives of his friends, and finally ascends on wings of love into a naked, vulnerable salvation. The movie ends with a different kind of Ark. Albert, living on the verge of an abyss, shepherds Mark, Sam and Andy inside his domicile during a downpour of biblical proportions. Inside, Andy begins to smile for real, for the first time as it were. When Albert chalks up his life's meaning and purpose to the love of his wife and daughter, Andy feels Sam sitting beside him and begins to poke an awkward, featherless head out of its fragile shell into the free air of the moment. Outside, as the trio makes their return to the "real world", Andy conquers fear and self-consciousness as he climbs atop a rain-slicked construction crane-- perched on the edge of the abyss-- and affirms the Original Moment by hollering into the earth hole.
The soundtrack is brilliant. A young filmmaker's affirmation of our emotional/artistic truths, the powerful insights of our generation. Near the end of the film, when Andy finally confronts his father, this affirmation of our generation's emotional potential shines through. (Mike Hart talks about the indigo generation, a cyclically recurring group of spiritually/emotionally tuned-in beings who save their children by breaking certain chains from the past.) The father (Bilbo-hehe), is stuck in a destructive interpretation of the past that is poisoning their (father and son's) future. Rather than walk away as he's done for the last nine years, Andy remains by his father's side and confronts him face-on. He replaces the father's cruel interpretation of the past with his own more rational one. He forgives himself for any mistakes he has made and in the same breath demands the same accountability and self-forgiviness from his father. He pleads with the old man to accept their lives for what they are. To insure his father understands where he is coming from, Andy places a hand upon the old man's chest and leaves it there-- a source of warmth and love that must weigh as much as a brick of lead, the old man is rendered so speechless.
Sorry, Clementine. Though, I still love your fingerless gloves and rainbow manicures; though, I shall never forget your potato sculptures, irish coffees or affinity for chinese food; though, no one can make snow angels or dance along the surf quite like you, I must move from your love of passionate confusion to Sam's love of compassionate fusion. Sorry, I hope you understand, babe. But you were from Long Island and even though Natalie Portman hails from the same, Sam is a Jersey girl with the combination of wit and candor, tears and laughter that is after my own heart.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
the working life in brownsville
it goes day by day.
sometimes i feel like the kids' behavior (which makes or breaks a day) is a result of my lack of planning, or not being clear enough. sometimes that perspective is even reinforced when, like today, i was uber-prepared, because i was sick of dealing with the daily shit (sorry) that gets thrown my way. i've been trying to come up with lessons that engage them so much that they can't think about fighting with each other, or throwing things, or running out of the class, or just not working - though its hardly ever just not working. when attention flies from these kids, their energy, which is plentiful, is channeled elsewhere, usually into trouble. so, last night, after i got home from classes, and was having a beer (and maybe there was a little smoke) relaxing, thinking about the day and what to do the next day, i stormed upon an idea as to how to present the material that i had already planned for. we're dong a unit right now on deserts inside a larger unit of environments and ecosystems. so, i already had a plan set out as to what to teach. it's the presentation that needed work. i stayed up till 1:30 writing and printing and planning today's work. and it paid off - my last three classes, periods 6,7, & 8, which are often the most difficult because by that time, the kids don't really want to do work (after lunch, and having done a lot of work in the morning during literacy), these classes, for the most part, loved the activity. it took a lot of energy to create a day that was mostly enjoyable.
i can ride that work out a few days too, probably till monday, maybe even tuesday, cause other lessons can come of it - they did a lot of work too. it's difficult to find what will motivate each kid to do school work. its harder still when i now have 50+ students all 'living' under different teachers styles and classroom rules.
part of the answer definitely lies in the preparedness of the teacher. however, i have my doubts that students in regular ed would have as much difficulty learning from 'teacher in front with notes, copy, worksheet, etc...". not how i want to teach either, it was just the easiest to jump into cause its what i'm used to, and was what i had available in terms of resources.
creativity, the blessed savior, sometimes feels like a weight when it is consistently demanded of me.
Update:
Creativity kicks ass.
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sometimes i feel like the kids' behavior (which makes or breaks a day) is a result of my lack of planning, or not being clear enough. sometimes that perspective is even reinforced when, like today, i was uber-prepared, because i was sick of dealing with the daily shit (sorry) that gets thrown my way. i've been trying to come up with lessons that engage them so much that they can't think about fighting with each other, or throwing things, or running out of the class, or just not working - though its hardly ever just not working. when attention flies from these kids, their energy, which is plentiful, is channeled elsewhere, usually into trouble. so, last night, after i got home from classes, and was having a beer (and maybe there was a little smoke) relaxing, thinking about the day and what to do the next day, i stormed upon an idea as to how to present the material that i had already planned for. we're dong a unit right now on deserts inside a larger unit of environments and ecosystems. so, i already had a plan set out as to what to teach. it's the presentation that needed work. i stayed up till 1:30 writing and printing and planning today's work. and it paid off - my last three classes, periods 6,7, & 8, which are often the most difficult because by that time, the kids don't really want to do work (after lunch, and having done a lot of work in the morning during literacy), these classes, for the most part, loved the activity. it took a lot of energy to create a day that was mostly enjoyable.
i can ride that work out a few days too, probably till monday, maybe even tuesday, cause other lessons can come of it - they did a lot of work too. it's difficult to find what will motivate each kid to do school work. its harder still when i now have 50+ students all 'living' under different teachers styles and classroom rules.
part of the answer definitely lies in the preparedness of the teacher. however, i have my doubts that students in regular ed would have as much difficulty learning from 'teacher in front with notes, copy, worksheet, etc...". not how i want to teach either, it was just the easiest to jump into cause its what i'm used to, and was what i had available in terms of resources.
creativity, the blessed savior, sometimes feels like a weight when it is consistently demanded of me.
Update:
Creativity kicks ass.
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Hola, amigos mio. Astuveda estoy en el ciudad de Mexico.
Hey Everybody! No, I didn't fall into a ravine or a chasm. Rather, I fell into the lap of the most wondeful, kind and amazing family in Mexico City. Last Wednesday, I flew into Benito Juarez airport and was picked up by Ileana (Marcella's friend) and one of her brothers, Israel. They drove me back through the crazy trafficked streets of M.C. to their house, en el barrio de Nezahaulcoyotl, where we spent the rest of the day relaxing and getting acquainted. I met their other brother, the eldest, Alberto, their beautiful and graceful mother, and their dog, Lando. (Yes, named by Israel, a movie junkie, after the Star Wars character!)
Ileana is beautiful and wonderful, intelligent and passionate. She has the equivalent of a master's degree in International Relations from the National University of Mexico and is currently trying to find a job as a social policy analyst in a very difficult economy. Israel, her younger brother, is studying journalism at a different college but his ultimate dream is to be a director. Alberto, the older brother, works like a dog as a salesman for Kellog's Mexico and is into sports (both playing and spectating) and pop music (most of which American.)
We've done so much here I wouldn't know where to begin. The second day, Ileana drove us from Nezahualcoyotl to the Centro Historico downtown. There we wandered the area around Zolaco, a large cobblestone plaza surrounded by the historic and present political center of M.C. Facing one side of the Zolaco is el Catedral, a large dark brown church the Spanish built upon first conquering M.C. We walked around inside briefly, it was beautiful, Jess would've creamed his pants, but then we left. On another side of the park sits the enormously long building that is the national palace where the governor of M.C. and the Distrito Federal works. Next to the national palace are the Ruinas Mayores, the ruins of the seat of the Aztec government in M.C. that the lovely Spanish conquistadors immediatley levelled upon taking the city. In the center of Zocalo is a huge flag pole bearing Mexico's banner and we were lucky enough to have arrived during a flag changing ceremony. Huge phalanx of soldiers, armed to the teeth, marched around in ceremonial fashion to military drums and bugles and removed the flag. I got photos. You'll see. We wandered around the streets, gorgeous Spanish colonial architecture, and took pictures form outside (but couldn't get in) to the Palacio de Bellas Artes (a gorgeous musuem). We returned home, bought some cervazas from a little bodega and spent the rest of the eve hanging out at their homestead. Later that night Israel's friend Carlos (the local comedian) came over and we got drunk and acquainted.
Friday, Ileana had chores to do so I spent the day in Nezahualcoyotl with Carlos and Israel. We ate a big breakfast, juevos y jamon, and then watched some videos of them doing traditional, prehispanic dances in high school. Then they taught me one of those dances, the Concheros. It's really fun and I will be teaching you all when I return. Then they tried to teach me salsa which was about as embarassing as having your pants pulled down in front of your 6th grade crush and finding out you're not wearing any underwear. In the evening, Ileana and I drove to el barrio de Coyoacan, a very young, very hip area I would compare socially (but not architecturally of course) to the West Village. Frida's house is in this neighborhood and we inteded to visit it but we ended up simply walking around, hanging out in a park listening to drum circles and watching street performers, drinking cafe and eating churros, and talking about some political stuff. Afterwards, we got lost and stuck in mad traffic on our way to a party at the apartment of one of Ileana's friends Erika, and her beau, Nestor- neither of whom spoke much English. But that's okay because there are more universal forms of communication: tequila, cervaza, y churo (take a guess). Carlos, Israel and their friend Antonio were there too. When people started bemoaning the low percentage of women at the party I put on one of Erika's miniskirts. Universal communication: laughter abundant. I put my pants back on and got shit-faced with these wondeful people. Woefully, I was a little too trigger happy with the tequila and ended up losing my stomach in the bathroom at the end of the night. On the ride home, we got pulled over by some cops and got away with paying a 16 pesos bribe (dollar sixty) when normally they demand 4-500 pesos (40-50 bux) to not impound your car.
Saturday, woke up slowly, as did everybody, and then went with Ileana and her mother to Xocimilco (pronounced So-chee-milco). This is a lugar de flores- a place of flowers- with a huge flower market. This we skipped and opted for a ride on a small, colorful barge in the canal there. This was perfect for the day after the fiesta. Quiet, calm, a cool breeze in the shade, beautiful birds and fields and trees and just the pleasant company of Ileana and her mother. We joked around and all that. Afterwards, we drove up la Avenida Reforma- one of the principle aves here- and stopped for coffees in the snobby barrio de Polonco. Then we drove to Plaza Garibaldi, a big cobblestone park where Marchiachis and other musicians congregate and perform for free waiting for people to come and hire them for a fiesta. This was lots of fun. Again, pictures. Ileana and I drank pulque (traditional alcoholic bev made from a native plant) in a dingy pulqueria while her mom got hit on by some gross, smelly drunk. We drove home and hung out again.
Sunday, the entire family (minus) Alberto plus me, Carlos, and Israel's girlfriend piled into the family Nissan Tsuru (about the size of a '91 civic). That's right. 6 of us squeezed in and drove an hour and a half to the pyramids at Teotihuacan. Grand. Ancient. Startling. Fantastic. Many, many pictures. We climbed the largest pyramid, el pyramide del sol, and sat at the top for a while. Many people hand their hands down and heads bowed at the epicenter of the top because it is believed you can harvest the sun's energy here for mental and physical health. I did a little bit of light meditating and had some interesting thoughts, feelings. We descended the stairs on alternating diagonals, as the priests of yore did, in the motion of snakes (the principal deity being half-snake, half-eagle), so as [1] to navigate the steep steps more safely and [2] to not turn your backs to either the people on the ground or the gods on the top. Allegedly, during the solstice, the sun enters a specific spot of the pyramid exactly (it being perfectly aligned) and casts a winding, snake-like shadow on parts of the stairs. Back on the ground, we walked along the Calzador de los Muertos (the grand street of the dead). This served the Teotihuacanos as both a marketplace and a street for ritual processions- either of warriors or the person who was going to be sacrificed atop el pyramide del sol. We viewed some murals that still retain some of their original colors (green, red and white- the same as the flag of mexico). Allegedly, much of the walls of these structures were colored such originally and the thought of how beautiful that must have been is too large for my mind. We walked around the minor temples, grabbed a snack and then climbed the lesser great pyramid, el pyramide de la luna. Though slightly smaller, this pyramid has the better view down the entire length of the Calzador de los Muertos at all the structures. There are many still standing, although most at only a fraction of the height they used to. When the Aztecs arrived in this city, the Teotihuacanos had already abandoned it and anthrosarcheos are not sure why because there is no written record. The Spanish conquistadors destroyed most written records and artifcats of these indigenous cultures as part of the cultural genocide that took place. F-in shame. That night, Israel, Ileana and I watched Shrek 2 before retiring to dreams.
Yesterday, Ileana and I returned to downtown. Explored another barrio (there are lots in this massive city)- el barrio de Colonia Roma...it is one of the oldest in town. Beautiful colonial buildings, all brightly colored and terraced and covered in ivys. Huge palm trees towering over the streets providing delicious shade to this warm air. Then we made our way over to la Avenida Reforma again so I could photograph some of the monuments and fountains there. Wait to see you the two pictures I grabbed of the Monumento a la Independencia--this thing is huge and breath-taking--like M.C. in general.
Today, I don't know the plan yet. Here we are in un cafe de cyberspacio in their neighborhood, Nezahualcoyotl. I leave Thursday afternoon and though I am so excited to see everybody and get back into the NY vibe where I am fluent in the local language, I will miss this Mexican culture and the new friends I have made. (I can't stress how generous and passionate these people are, I will only be able to fill you in more later.)
Estoy enamorando de ti, Mexico. La comida, la gente, los canciones, las vistas, el sol, la luna, la familia de Guzman-Torres, Teotihucan, Coyoacan, Popocatepetl, Iztazihautl. Yo veni un extranjo y yo salgo un extranjo pero con mas consciente de tu cultura. Yo intendo estudiar espanol y pensar mas del situaccione y relaccione de Los Estados Unidos y Mexico. Muchos gracias por todos. Por ahora, adios.
Months ago, I posted a poem on our blog called "In These Days". Here it is, translated by yours truly, en espanol.
En Estes Dias
Yo quiero escribir algo hermoso
por gente, que estan hermosas
Yo quiero escribir algo caustico
por gente, que tiene razon ser enojado
Yo quiero escribir algo practico
por gente, que trabajan porque les gustan
Yo quiero escribir algo sin logica
por gente, confiada con signos de interrogacion
Yo quiero escribir algo perfecto
por gente, que estan perfecta
written: Octobre 2004. translated: 8 Marzo 2005.
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Ileana is beautiful and wonderful, intelligent and passionate. She has the equivalent of a master's degree in International Relations from the National University of Mexico and is currently trying to find a job as a social policy analyst in a very difficult economy. Israel, her younger brother, is studying journalism at a different college but his ultimate dream is to be a director. Alberto, the older brother, works like a dog as a salesman for Kellog's Mexico and is into sports (both playing and spectating) and pop music (most of which American.)
We've done so much here I wouldn't know where to begin. The second day, Ileana drove us from Nezahualcoyotl to the Centro Historico downtown. There we wandered the area around Zolaco, a large cobblestone plaza surrounded by the historic and present political center of M.C. Facing one side of the Zolaco is el Catedral, a large dark brown church the Spanish built upon first conquering M.C. We walked around inside briefly, it was beautiful, Jess would've creamed his pants, but then we left. On another side of the park sits the enormously long building that is the national palace where the governor of M.C. and the Distrito Federal works. Next to the national palace are the Ruinas Mayores, the ruins of the seat of the Aztec government in M.C. that the lovely Spanish conquistadors immediatley levelled upon taking the city. In the center of Zocalo is a huge flag pole bearing Mexico's banner and we were lucky enough to have arrived during a flag changing ceremony. Huge phalanx of soldiers, armed to the teeth, marched around in ceremonial fashion to military drums and bugles and removed the flag. I got photos. You'll see. We wandered around the streets, gorgeous Spanish colonial architecture, and took pictures form outside (but couldn't get in) to the Palacio de Bellas Artes (a gorgeous musuem). We returned home, bought some cervazas from a little bodega and spent the rest of the eve hanging out at their homestead. Later that night Israel's friend Carlos (the local comedian) came over and we got drunk and acquainted.
Friday, Ileana had chores to do so I spent the day in Nezahualcoyotl with Carlos and Israel. We ate a big breakfast, juevos y jamon, and then watched some videos of them doing traditional, prehispanic dances in high school. Then they taught me one of those dances, the Concheros. It's really fun and I will be teaching you all when I return. Then they tried to teach me salsa which was about as embarassing as having your pants pulled down in front of your 6th grade crush and finding out you're not wearing any underwear. In the evening, Ileana and I drove to el barrio de Coyoacan, a very young, very hip area I would compare socially (but not architecturally of course) to the West Village. Frida's house is in this neighborhood and we inteded to visit it but we ended up simply walking around, hanging out in a park listening to drum circles and watching street performers, drinking cafe and eating churros, and talking about some political stuff. Afterwards, we got lost and stuck in mad traffic on our way to a party at the apartment of one of Ileana's friends Erika, and her beau, Nestor- neither of whom spoke much English. But that's okay because there are more universal forms of communication: tequila, cervaza, y churo (take a guess). Carlos, Israel and their friend Antonio were there too. When people started bemoaning the low percentage of women at the party I put on one of Erika's miniskirts. Universal communication: laughter abundant. I put my pants back on and got shit-faced with these wondeful people. Woefully, I was a little too trigger happy with the tequila and ended up losing my stomach in the bathroom at the end of the night. On the ride home, we got pulled over by some cops and got away with paying a 16 pesos bribe (dollar sixty) when normally they demand 4-500 pesos (40-50 bux) to not impound your car.
Saturday, woke up slowly, as did everybody, and then went with Ileana and her mother to Xocimilco (pronounced So-chee-milco). This is a lugar de flores- a place of flowers- with a huge flower market. This we skipped and opted for a ride on a small, colorful barge in the canal there. This was perfect for the day after the fiesta. Quiet, calm, a cool breeze in the shade, beautiful birds and fields and trees and just the pleasant company of Ileana and her mother. We joked around and all that. Afterwards, we drove up la Avenida Reforma- one of the principle aves here- and stopped for coffees in the snobby barrio de Polonco. Then we drove to Plaza Garibaldi, a big cobblestone park where Marchiachis and other musicians congregate and perform for free waiting for people to come and hire them for a fiesta. This was lots of fun. Again, pictures. Ileana and I drank pulque (traditional alcoholic bev made from a native plant) in a dingy pulqueria while her mom got hit on by some gross, smelly drunk. We drove home and hung out again.
Sunday, the entire family (minus) Alberto plus me, Carlos, and Israel's girlfriend piled into the family Nissan Tsuru (about the size of a '91 civic). That's right. 6 of us squeezed in and drove an hour and a half to the pyramids at Teotihuacan. Grand. Ancient. Startling. Fantastic. Many, many pictures. We climbed the largest pyramid, el pyramide del sol, and sat at the top for a while. Many people hand their hands down and heads bowed at the epicenter of the top because it is believed you can harvest the sun's energy here for mental and physical health. I did a little bit of light meditating and had some interesting thoughts, feelings. We descended the stairs on alternating diagonals, as the priests of yore did, in the motion of snakes (the principal deity being half-snake, half-eagle), so as [1] to navigate the steep steps more safely and [2] to not turn your backs to either the people on the ground or the gods on the top. Allegedly, during the solstice, the sun enters a specific spot of the pyramid exactly (it being perfectly aligned) and casts a winding, snake-like shadow on parts of the stairs. Back on the ground, we walked along the Calzador de los Muertos (the grand street of the dead). This served the Teotihuacanos as both a marketplace and a street for ritual processions- either of warriors or the person who was going to be sacrificed atop el pyramide del sol. We viewed some murals that still retain some of their original colors (green, red and white- the same as the flag of mexico). Allegedly, much of the walls of these structures were colored such originally and the thought of how beautiful that must have been is too large for my mind. We walked around the minor temples, grabbed a snack and then climbed the lesser great pyramid, el pyramide de la luna. Though slightly smaller, this pyramid has the better view down the entire length of the Calzador de los Muertos at all the structures. There are many still standing, although most at only a fraction of the height they used to. When the Aztecs arrived in this city, the Teotihuacanos had already abandoned it and anthrosarcheos are not sure why because there is no written record. The Spanish conquistadors destroyed most written records and artifcats of these indigenous cultures as part of the cultural genocide that took place. F-in shame. That night, Israel, Ileana and I watched Shrek 2 before retiring to dreams.
Yesterday, Ileana and I returned to downtown. Explored another barrio (there are lots in this massive city)- el barrio de Colonia Roma...it is one of the oldest in town. Beautiful colonial buildings, all brightly colored and terraced and covered in ivys. Huge palm trees towering over the streets providing delicious shade to this warm air. Then we made our way over to la Avenida Reforma again so I could photograph some of the monuments and fountains there. Wait to see you the two pictures I grabbed of the Monumento a la Independencia--this thing is huge and breath-taking--like M.C. in general.
Today, I don't know the plan yet. Here we are in un cafe de cyberspacio in their neighborhood, Nezahualcoyotl. I leave Thursday afternoon and though I am so excited to see everybody and get back into the NY vibe where I am fluent in the local language, I will miss this Mexican culture and the new friends I have made. (I can't stress how generous and passionate these people are, I will only be able to fill you in more later.)
Estoy enamorando de ti, Mexico. La comida, la gente, los canciones, las vistas, el sol, la luna, la familia de Guzman-Torres, Teotihucan, Coyoacan, Popocatepetl, Iztazihautl. Yo veni un extranjo y yo salgo un extranjo pero con mas consciente de tu cultura. Yo intendo estudiar espanol y pensar mas del situaccione y relaccione de Los Estados Unidos y Mexico. Muchos gracias por todos. Por ahora, adios.
Months ago, I posted a poem on our blog called "In These Days". Here it is, translated by yours truly, en espanol.
En Estes Dias
Yo quiero escribir algo hermoso
por gente, que estan hermosas
Yo quiero escribir algo caustico
por gente, que tiene razon ser enojado
Yo quiero escribir algo practico
por gente, que trabajan porque les gustan
Yo quiero escribir algo sin logica
por gente, confiada con signos de interrogacion
Yo quiero escribir algo perfecto
por gente, que estan perfecta
written: Octobre 2004. translated: 8 Marzo 2005.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Earth to Johnny...
Johnny, have you fallen into a canyon? A ravine? Some other kind of chasm???
