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.
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