Lions and tigers and midterms, oh my! So tomorrow is my first exam, we'll see how that goes....not exactly exuding confidence, but it'll work out.....unless it doesn't. Actually, I'm alternating between extremes--feeling uber prepared one moment and then overwhelmed the next. I need a hefty dose of Alice to help me de-stress.

And now for show and tell:

Laura, Jennifer, and Shawna: Jennifer and Shawna come from California. They play rugby and could wallop me with their hands (and all other appendages) tied behind their backs. Thankfully they've abstained thus far. This is Jen's dad and some of Korean friends.
In cases you weren't so much sure where Guadalajara's at, Laura pulled a Vanna White and pointed it out.

Lavanderia!!

Language immersion welcomes a whole new dimension of c’mons. Pupils here pick up girls with compliments pertaining to parts of speech rather than anatomy. Por ejemplo, today mi companero de clase told me not that I had a nice arse, but nice Rs.

Aside—thanks for suffering through my Spanglish, you’re the best.

If Feivel had headed a bit farther south his immigration experience would have been a little less eventful for There are No Cats in Mexico…but the streets aren’t paved with cheese, just uneven concrete. My roommate is Canadian and thus unfamiliar with the cinematic masterpiece that is American Tail. Missing out, seriously. But yeah, no cats. Just scores and scores of dogs. We haven’t seen a single cat since arriving and I have started to doubt their existence beneath the Rio Grande. Maybe they just aren’t strong swimmers.

See? Es verdad! Laura just confirmed my observations on her blog--

"I´ve noticed that a lot of people have dogs here and I have not seen a single cat. I don´t know if I´ve seen ¨Fivel goes West¨ but Christa (i live with her, she´s from Oklahoma), whenever we see a lot of dogs always sings a song from it... ¨there are no cats in america¨ but she replaces america with mexico. It always stays in my head for a while after that."

http://adventuresofpeterpan.blogspot.com/

There are some exclamations one never expects to hear. In example, a very gleeful: I totally just flushed the toilet paper….on purpose!!

This is one habit I hadn’t planned on breaking. Three cheers for Starbucks and their American plumbing. As for the rest of Mexico, scented paper flecked with colored hearts/flowers/swirls/etc sits in receptacles by the loo after use. As a kid I never wanted to be the one to take out the trash. That loathing exponentially multiplied upon arrival in Guadalajara.

Last night Laura and I went to a club (discoteca/antro) with some classmates and Mexican friends. I’m all about affirming stereotypes, so had no qualms about busting out my white girl moves. My sorry attempts at salsa were further magnified when compared to the Mexican girls, who I am convinced are double jointed from navel to kneecap.

My gym offers dance classes, so I’ve been attending those to boot. The first was one of the most bizarre experiences in my life…….ever….ever, ever. After the fact I discovered it was a dance therapy course. A title that (had I been able to translate) might of given me the heads up on the shenanigans that would almost certainly follow.

As it was, I went in clueless. My teacher was either trying to get in touch with her inner smurf or else overdosed on raspberry straws. Something. Her hair was windex blue and she had glitter stripes tigered on her cheeks. She’d also adorned herself with teal freckles to match her hair.

The class started off rather normal, a yoga-Pilates combo which I was totally capable of tackling. Then our teacher had us join hands and form a circle…of three…did I mention only one other girl showed up? This is where our class morphed from this tranquil, Zen filled encounter into insanity. Really. The walls should have been covered in padding instead of mirrors.

Our teacher had us tense our muscles, then she started squeezing our hands and flexing until she turned all flushed. Next she leapt into the air flinging her hands about, sort of like a fish flopping around gasping for air. She later explained that this was to rid herself of the “badness, very bad badness” in her head and her heart. The cathartic craziness continued when she tried to talk us into closing our eyes and letting her steer us back on course before we walked into a weight rack. I decided that pretending not to understand was better than playing Helen Keller.

I think she must have popped some e on our water break, because when we resumed the workout it was to have an impromptu dance-off. I’ve never seen such erratic arm flailings and at one point she was slithering/crawling/rolling/howling on the floor.

Afterwards she asked me how the class made me feel. I excused myself by saying I felt a lot, but sadly couldn’t share it in Spanish.

This sounds like an excerpt from Ripley’s, but believe it or not, I have a tan. I do. No, really. To my nonexistent oncologist’s dismay, I see this as a good thing. Mostly.

In high school I pulled a brief stint as an assistant at an optometry clinic and have been a sunglasses fiend ever since. Alas, my eye gear addiction and proximity to the equator have transformed me into an inverted panda with pasty patches encircling my eyelids.

Very attractive, I assure you. My fellow students swoon at the sight. (Insert massive “NOT!” a la Wayne’s World here) In addition, I am peeling from last week’s sun burn. Can’t believe I just devoted three paragraphs to my dermis. Right.

Que mas………Joined a gym. Am presently blaming all my worldly troubles on the altitude. So, in that same spirit, I say my heaving was not the result of rampant tortilla consumption and two solid months of lethargy, but rather a product of the evils of elevation.

Thank God for Taco Bell, without whom my kickboxing experience would have been a total, complete and utter language letdown. “Yo quiero warriors!!!” This exclamation was usually accompanied by some sort of guttural growl by our instructor. I don’t think the odds that anyone mistook a panting, would be pacifist for a warrior are in my favor. Oh well. What I lacked in grunts and tenacity I made up for in mal-coordination and sweat.

I also signed up for Flamenco, largely because it is a fun word to pronounce, and am enrolling in Salsa lessons as well. I’m already proficient in the art of eating it, so I feel this will give me an upper hand. Can I just say I love that we eat tacos and tamales for breakfast? I can and I will and I do. Love it.

What I do not love is that I have a Justin Timberlake song stuck in my head. Here’s to wishing J-to-the-T was bringing silence back.

Classes are improving. If you were one of the poor, misfortunate souls who received a call from me complaining that they were, “like, yeah, totally in Spanish,” find comfort in the knowledge that my comprehension and vocabulary are increasing, therefore laments launched your direction will be decreasing .

I haven’t been homesick yet, but randomly really miss peanut butter….mmmm, Smucker’s all natural peanutty goodness. Chunky, of course. Somehow, I don’t think that would ship well. Sad day.

bedroom (1)

bedroom (2)

Hilda's super cute grandson

This is my host mom and her daughter/grandson.




This is our housekeeper, Lala.
Just an example of the figurine frenzy going on in this household.

As I entered the intercambio offices I expected my first greeting to go along the lines of “Bienvenidos a Mexico”. Not so. Rather, a giant poster reading a bolded, all caps “GOT DIARRHEA???” welcomes the exchange estudientes.

Really, why beat around the bush with campus tours and class descriptions when everyone knows the real reason students embark on their academic quest is to gain a better understanding of their bowels. It seems the University of Texas is conducting a study on the bacteria and parasites lurking in afflicted American scat.

Students swap unsolidified stool samples for cash and treatment by American doctors. Every May I hear classmates swear they’ll be selling some of their shit before move-in next term, somehow I don’t think this is what they meant.

Right-o, moving on…….I now have two roommates, a Cajun and a Canadian. My gestures and grunting are losing a bit of luster now that I’m bunking with Spanish majors who don’t need to play a full blown round of charades in order to ask our host mom to pass the butter. Laura hails from British Colombia, she punctuates sentences with “eh” and “you know”. Katrise grew up in New Orleans and splashes hot sauce on everything, never mind that the dish’s composed primarily of chili peppers.

Yesterday our flock of foreign exchange students crammed into a university bus and headed to the Centro Historico, the city center housing Guadalajara’s Cathedral, Government Palace, Museums and Theater. The Cathedral is full of creepy relics (ceramic mannequins in various stages of decay) to which pilgrims pay homage, in example:

Religion here is borderline cultish. It’s like someone shoved Catholicism, mysticism, and folk lore into a blender then held down the pulverize button. The end result is a superstitious slop. Each relic has a collection box attached. The Church tells the patrons that in order for their prayers to be heard, they have to pay. The likelihood of one’s prayers being answered is measured by the amount they shell out. Many of these people are already poverty stricken and it saddens me to think that they’re deprived of what little income they receive.

The houses are decorated with dying saints and figurines of the Virgin de Guadalupe. I have the privilege to share a room with John Paul II. Well, his head anyway, cast in wax…slightly melted in some spots, but, hey at least he’s got Mother Mary to keep him company. So maybe it’s not the ideal boudoir décor, but at least no one’s writhing in agony on my wall.

My host mom has a bruise on her neck, but rather than applying antibiotic ointment her daughter whipped out some holy water (apparently available for purchase, imagine that) and doused her while making the sign of the cross. Her car is decked out with an Orthodox action figure on the dash (which she kisses with her fingers before leaving the driveway) and a rosary on the rearview mirror.

I couldn’t ask for a more loving host family. We’re always invited when Hilda or her daughter take an outing. They’re always trying to put more food on our already overflowing plates or helping us with our pronunciation. I’m so glad that I’m living with such kind and generous people. I’m already very fond of LaLa (and, let’s be honest, her food) and am getting used to Emilio and Solo Veno, our two giant but gentle dogs.

Managed to find Starbucks, not the one five blocks from my house, but after thirty minutes wandering in the wrong direction I figure this one’s more than adequate. Go ahead, call me a hypocrite. Bashing franchises was well and good whilst in the comfort of my mother country, but after a three day communication hiatus I would have sold my soul for some wireless internet and caffeine.

I ordered iced tea. As I’m drinking a mango smoothie, I think something might have been lost in translation. No complaints though. I’m hot and this beverage, whatever it may be, is not.

My host family consists of a fifty-something woman and her ancient housekeeper. Both women have endured my attempts at Espanol with incredible patience. I still don’t know the housekeepers name, am thinking it’s LaLa but wonder if they were referring to the brand of milk instead of her name.

I’m starting to appreciate the complexity of language. It’s incredible the difference one letter can make. My host mom wants to learn English and, this sounds horrible, I am occasionally comforted by her mistakes. It took some time for her to understand the difference between bus and boss. I’ve been struggling with similar confusions, so I’m glad we can commiserate over picayune details.

On Monday my host mom celebrated her birthday. I’ve eaten an obscene amount of cake since then. For the past three days, cake (pastel) accompanied breakfast, lunch and dinner. Not that I mind, there’ve been two flavors that I’d never tried before. The first, and my favorite, was tres leches (three milks). Caramel, sweetened condensed milk, and cream divide the layers. Definitely one of the best desserts I’ve ever tried. The other cake was chocolate, only didn’t taste like it had cocoa at all. No matter, it was fabulous. Guadalajara has hundreds of pastelerias (gourmet bakery and confection shops) and people are always walking around toting cake boxes.

I live in the financial district, it’s kind of like suburbia in the city. Most of these people have nine to five jobs and familiar franchises sit on every corner. I only live a few miles from school so I can walk or take the bus if I’m feeling extra American....discovered this is code for lazy in several circles.

Tonight I get a new housemate, she’s American and arriving in an hour. Relaying the information contained in this sentence took ten minutes. I only understood when my host mom dragged me upstairs, pointed to the bed and said, “Chica nueva! Seis! Understand?” Entiendo. Finally.

lago

Kim's boss took us to Lago Chapala with her daughter and some friends. It's the biggest lake in Mexico. I'm going to indulge in a little romanticism and say that the views were breathtaking. We're in the tail end of the rainy season, so the mountains encompassing the agua (look at me, dropping vocab like its hot) were a lush, tropical green. This is the ultimate 'looks can be deceiving' moment of the day. The water may seem crystal clean, but in actuality it's beyond polluted. Swimmers will reap not just a tan from splashing about, but also parasites and perhaps a chemical burn from all the waste nearby cities dump.


Kimela and I opted to lounge around the hot springs instead. In a moment of sheer, unadulterated genius, Kim decided she'd lived in Mexico long enough to forgo sunscreen. I on the other hand slathered on SPF by the gallon. Despite my efforts, and Kim's lack there of, we were both lobsters. I looked like a Caucasian candy cane, my body divided into red and white stripes. Kim, bless her, is still full fledged magenta three days later.

These pictures don't do the sunset or the mountain scape justice. The sky alternated between shades of pink and orange and purple, even the kids were awestruck.

park and cactus garden

After riding we took a stroll through the park. As illustrated, I haven't outgrown the impulse to climb everything or fall trying.

Has anybody seen that Steven Sondheim musical about Georges Seurat? I can't remember what it's called, but I have Strolling in the Park with George planted permanently in my head from uploading these pictures. I wikipedia'ed it. It's Sunday not strolling and Stephen sans v. And the song shares its name with the title....not that anyone else cares.

There are loads of cactus gardens about. None of them were blooming, but muy bonita (don't mind me, just flaunting my Spanglish) none the less.

This is a tequila plant. Kids carve their names and vows of undying love into the leaves, I think it's a step up from sharpie on a bathroom stall. This is the part of the cactus I've been eating, not the prickly part but the little finger like pieces sprouting off the top. It tastes sweet, sort of like a seedy honeydew.

caballos!

Kim and Laura took me to the horse park. Our quasi-creepy cowboy guide kept asking for phone numbers and wanted us to come riding the next day. I tried to explain that I didn't want to go riding on Thursday, but wound up excusing myself by saying I wouldn't go because I don't like riding on eggs. Someone should decree jueves and juevos interchangeable. Then I wouldn't make such a mule of myself every time I tried/failed to speak Spanish.

My horse wasn't exactly eager to move, I think it passed its prime in the first Bush administration. I finally got her to run (meaning our guide yelled something to her in Spanish and slapped her bum), but I didn't realize that you were supposed to stand up when she galloped. Thanks to my equestrian ineptitude and a wooden saddle, I have bruises on my inner thighs and can feel the bones in my pelvis cringe every time I take a seat.

I think this pony deserves a unanimous, "awwwwwwwwww!"

More of Kim's kids

Kim took me on another field trip for more community outreach. This time we ventured outside the city, rural but equally impoverished. I've found Mexico to be a place of extremes. This is the most overtly class conscious society I've ever seen. The castes taint everything, I know that's a huge generalization but I stand by it.

People are either living in luxury or squalor, scrawny or porcine. There's no middle ground. I keep expecting to see a balance. All this polarization has made me evaluate where I fit, leaving tinges of guilt for being so contentedly bourgeois while others struggle to feed their families.

As if you couldn't tell from the photos, these children are beautiful. In eight summers of camp counseling and youth work, I've never seen such polite, grateful and well behaved kids. They're just happy and so appreciative that we were there. They didn't complain, throw tantrums, fight or exhibit any traits I expected from dealings with kids back home. I don't know if it has to do with us feeling entitled, but there is a distinct difference between the temperaments of these kids and the those living a bit north. I don't mean to rag on American kids, both because I was one and I've encountered loads of sweetly dispositioned yankee youngsters. But, still, if I ever have children, I'm hoping they're more like the Mexican munchkins.

So you probably shouldn't have favorites, but............here's mine. Loved him!

The kids all wanted to take their pictures and then see them in the camera. We played lots of running games (I'm notoriously out of shape and the high altitude didn't help matters), jumped rope, and cut/colored paper plates to look like boats.

So Mexican kids and Mexican food might just be the best in the world. I took this photo at a tortillaria. Here they make, you guessed it folks, tortillas. The tortillas come steaming out of the press and the vendor stacks them on a scale. We bought half a kilo, doused them in salt, rolled them like crepes, and well, let's just say if I keep this up my girlish figure will go the way of the buffalo.

Wal*Mart finagled its way into our agenda. It was strange to see the variance in Mexican prices compared to home. Anything plastic or petroleum based was more expensive and makeup costs about a 30-50% more in Mexico than the US.



Instant toast is ridiculously popular here, and every loaf of bimbo bread has a prize inside (think eighties cereal boxes). Another craze: unrefrigerated, boxed and non-perishable milk. Mmmmm, tasty.



Nothing spells delicious and nutritious quite like a warm sheet of fried pig lard, a treat the whole family can enjoy! I hear it's really conducive to promoting cardiovascular health and lowering cholesterol.

Here they advertise meat not as fresh, but recently killed. The Wal*Mart butchers had a saw (seriously, like shop class only instead of wood chips blood was flying) they use to dissect the animals. These are chicken feet, used for, well, I don't know what.

There's loads of squid and other nefarious sea creatures lining the freezers. Kim's holding an octopus in its entirety, but you can buy the ink separately for seasoning sauce. Really, who needs ketchup?



This is probably the most absurd find of the day. It's a gel brassiere like contraption that you freeze then stick to your, um....uh, womanly parts (?) for maximum health and her pleasure....I think I speak for all womankind when I give this product a resounding thumbs down.

Apparently luxury is synonymous with LazyBoy. Last night we went to the VIP theater (sooooo glad to be shelling out pesos instead of pounds, am loving the exchange rate). The seats are built wide enough to accommodate even the most American of arses. Why sip soda when you could guzzle martinis and mocha? And popcorn is so passe, have sushi instead.

Kim swung us by the city center today so we could see the square. Beautiful architecture and people abound. I'm so accustomed to one stop Wal*Mart shopping that the market districts took me completely by surprise. There's a toy district, a food district, a craft district and so on and so forth. I'm used to having a small selection of everything, but here there's an enormous selection of a few things concentrated in blocks. There are shops devoted to lace, others specializing in ribbons, and still more focused solely on fabrics. Crazy.

Kim mentioned something that rings really true for me, "It takes a long time to live here." I don't think I would have appreciated this thought prior to the past two days. Everything we do takes time. Lots of it. This hasn't prompted impatience on my part, just acknowledgement that I need to budget thrice my usual time slot to shop or get from point a to point b.

I'm considering coloring my hair so that I blend in a bit better. By American standards I have relatively dark blond hair, but down here it may as well be platinum. The stares and whistles are getting old. Today a woman walked up to me (or teetered, really. We're pretty sure she was high or mentally ill and possibly a prostitute) and started waving a wet umbrella in my face, then she started flicking my hair with it.

Baffled (and worried the umbrella was going to miss ringlet and hit retina) I just backed up and mumbled, "gracias?" When Kim came over and tried to translate for me the lady ambled off in the opposite direction.

I really have more empathy for people who are different back home. It feels strange to be stared or pointed at. Kim says she's used to it now, but I don't think I want to be. I'd rather resume my place in the background, so I'm going to find out if brunettes really do have more fun.

Kim being.......herself.

This is Laura, Kim's roommate, shown here tag teaming the lasagna with Kimela. She's super southern/sweet and in the same program as Kim, she facilitates English clubs at the University of Guadalajara.

Doesn't Kim make a beautiful Betty Crocker? She made us scones from scratch. Scones, people! Oh, and for those of you doubting my own domesticity, take a gander at the flowers ever so cheerily arranged.


This is a fruit I'd never seen before, when I asked the merchant what it was he grabbed a knife, sliced it open, and handed it to me. I didn't know what to do with it, so I tugged at the skin and it slid off in a single slimy chunk. It was love at first bite. Mock me if you must, but I've been craving cactus nonstop for the past two days. I've single handedly consumed half a kilo.

FYI, I'm eating corn flavored popcorn as I type. I admit, I was skeptical at first. Seriously, how can one increase the corniness of corn? Tasting is believing, it's like fluffy corn on the cob....and it's getting my keyboard gross and greasy.