I will be honest in saying I expected things to be different on my trip. And if I look at myself through the eyes of the person I was last year, I can say that, aside from my research in some respects, the goals I set for myself on the trip didn’t pan out. I failed. I bought into the dream spun by a friend of mine who had lived 10 years in Japan and returned with a life well-ordered: a nice bank account, a loving partner, tales of fun with cute guys, fluency in a foreign language, and a career to boot. I let myself believe Mexico would be my magic place, the place where I would find myself, where I would find love, and where I would become so captivated I would never want to leave.

I was wrong.

I have loved much about my trip, but have not found anyone to love. And I have squandered much time on misadventures instead of running off into the hinterlands and living. When I return to the states to teach, I will be nothing more than a fraud: a person who knows less from experience than from books, who has seen very little of the place he is supposed to be an expert on, and a captivating shell with no pearl. The tensions I felt with trying to get a new visa to prolong my stay were for naught: I’ll get my visa, but the reasons I had for getting it don’t matter now, and soon enough, I must decide when to leave. Should I go in November to celebrate Thanksgiving? Or for Christmas, shall I call it the end? Or, one more trip, for January? I do not know.

I do know this: I have thousands of documents, without a form to put them in; I have a beautiful apartment I will not be able to support forever, without a job; and few real friends, even after a year. To those I have, thank you for knowing me and putting up with me over the past year. Same to you, the few readers who actually pay attention to this silly imperialist’s blog. I’m a year older, not really wiser, and more alone than I’ve ever felt.

Salud, and to your health.

In Mexico, like anywhere, there are a lot of fun ways to talk about sex. As a student of sex, I feel it is important to share with a wider audience the hilarity that these terms can provide. So, without further ado, the first installment of “Learn the Lingo”:

“Doing It”, part I

tronar los huesitos: to rattle the bones

reunir los ombligos: to unite the belly buttons (This is my favorite. I can see a convention of bellybuttons all having an orgy, haha)

andar por caderas: to walk on the hips (I love this one too)

echar un palo: to throw the stick

medir su aceite: to check his/her oil

darle a comer al chango: to feed the monkey

Know any others?

“The Usual”

The nurse left work at five o’clock.

At 5:02, her slender hands ache, and she slowly flexes them open and closed. A day filled with the frayed nerves of an epidemic, of a sister hand-wringing torn Bible passages, of a slumped husband staring at the nothingness between his scuffed loafers, of phlegm-spattered gowns and eyes too dry for more tears. She escapes, the bustle of the Mexico City hospital dissolving into urban ballads: cars on nearby streets, tamale venders, sirens, someone playing out-of-tune jazz.

The pavement, moist from afternoon showers, glistens in the waning sunlight, her caramel complexion refracted across black spots of flattened gum. Mosquitoes rise from piles of rubbish, lumbering at first, then picking up speed, strafing her ears. She quickens her pace, swatting at them, her stiff-soled shoes clacking on cobblestones, her dark hair trailing behind. One block, two, past the echoing catcalls of construction workers—“¡mamacita!”—then a man selling roasted sweet potatoes with a shrill whistle, then a weathered vendor seated on a tattered blanket heaped with shelled pecans. Past the peeling blues, faded pinks, and psychedelic oranges of Colonia Roma’s houses she walks, evening breezes rustling window curtains illuminated by the nightly news.

***

In one window two blocks away, at 5:15, another woman, her onion paper skin dusted with too much blush; knobby fingers adjusting a scarf; a last glance towards the mirror and a smack from wrinkled lips. She leaves her house, leaning heavily on her cane. One step, two. The passersby ignore her, the mother with the grubby child asks her for no pesos. The woman fingers the medallion in her pocket. One block, two, she goes forward, letting scampering street children break around her.

***

At the corner, a small boy, a hand towel draped over his head, a bathtub stopper dangling around his neck, a doll in his hand, missing an eye-lid and half her hair. It’s 5:17, but he doesn’t know. Just that the nurse is coming.

***

The nurse crosses the plaza, pigeons scattering to roost in the library’s leaning tower, a former church now shellacked with anti-imperialist murals, where has-been bohemians espouse the Aztec Marx to homeless just looking for beds.

She waits on the light, catching the sewer’s aroma. A sign warns of impending water shortages. She steps out, nearly turning her heel. It’s 5:25.

***

Three people converge on the taqueria “El Faraón,” its walls painted orange, lighting low, so everything glows.  Already inside, a businessman, tie askew, reading the paper; a pair of spiky-haired chicos, smiling over intertwined fingers; an alcoholic chasing foam around her glass.

The menu: tacos pastor con todo, flame-kissed pork, pineapple, onion, cilantro, drenched with salsa and fresh lime, wrapped in corn tortillas. To drink: micheladas—salt-rimmed glass, lime, and beer.

It’s 5:31: the nurse, the old woman, and the child enter. First the nurse, who sits alone. The child next, hesitant, watching, then approaching, pressing the stopper to the doll’s chest. “Is she sick?” asks the nurse. The boy nods. “Here,” she says, handing him a tamarind candy, as always. The boy dashes off, the “medicine” held tight in his sweaty hand.

The old woman approaches, pulling out her medallion: a commendation for nursing, 1946. She smiles. “This is beautiful,” the nurse says, as if it were her first time, her thumb rubbing the tarnished medallion. The old woman leans in, kisses her, then saunters away, leaving bright magenta lip-marks on the nurse’s cheek.

A waiter approaches: “The usual?” he asks, writing down five tacos and a michelada.

“Yes,” she says. “The usual.” It’s 5:43.

A street festival, Mérida

Mérida is beautiful at night, with people coming out to see music and dance shows, to listen to poetry, and to eat delicious street food. I had the panuchos with cochinita pibil, then some pay de elote (corn pie), and finally a lime ice cream pop. This street festival celebrated Mexico’s regions with local crafts, dancers and singers, and people sitting out in the lovely night air. The Thursday before, there was another concert, with poetry, music, and dancing. Mérida is a city very proud of its heritage and culture.

A little boy waits for his portrait, while others watch

A little girl shops for a treasure at the ubiquitous balloon stand

The Gulf of Mexico at Celestún

One of the side trips from Mérida involved a trip to Celestún beach. It was the first time I’d swam in the Gulf of Mexico in over a decade. And as usual, the water was beautiful, the sky clear, and the beach, made of the remains of lovely little creatures, blindingly pale. Izabel and I found a number of beautiful shells here as well, and I was particularly fond of the boats.

Boats, Celestún

Celestún, being on the Gulf, is much less touristy than Cancún, which I liked.

A Man on the Beach

I thought this man looked so melancholy, so black and white seemed to be the best form for this shot.

Here are some of my favorite photographs in black and white from my trip.

It is a year later. I’m still living in Mexico, and now wondering if I should stay indefinitely. My project has surpassed my expectations–there are so many materials, I doubt I’ll ever get them all collected. I have a great apartment I don’t want to leave. I vacillate between wanting to see people in the States and returning to some of the norms I’m used to there…and realizing that only in Mexico will I have some of the opportunities I have. Namely, dates galore and fresh fruit year round.

My department isn’t funding me. A year ago, I expected to win a Fulbright…or at least hoped. Maybe an SSRC, something. I won nothing. Instead, I stretched a fellowship…and slowly fell in love with a place, the sort of love that involves both admiration and irritation. Where did this time go…and should I extend it? What waits in the States? Questions, questions, and a lonely Saturday night.

Within a couple of hours, Izabel had landed, and we made our way to a hostel for the night. The next morning, we set out for Mérida, a gem of a city and capital of Yucatán state. Mérida is one of the oldest cities in Mexico, and it has the oldest cathedral. We fell in love with the city so much, we stayed an extra day. Enjoy the first round of photos from my vacation below.

Staircase, in Mérida's Theater

The Cathedral, Mérida

My friend Izabel, in Mérida

Mexico benefits from low-cost carriers that connect nearly anywhere to the capital within two-three hours. One such carrier is Volaris, a new airline flying Mexico’s airways since 2006. With Mexico’s newest fleet, destinations to all of the coastal resorts, and now, to Los Angeles and San Francisco/Oakland, Volaris is making a run at the mainstream Mexican airlines–Aeromexico and Mexicana–as well as discount carrier Interjet.

On a flight, you can expect a leather seat, a snack and open beverage bar, friendly service, and cheap rates. I paid less than $300 US for a roundtrip flight to Cancún from Mexico City; similar rates are possible to the States, and cheaper rates to other destinations. What is more, Volaris offers three rate classes: a basic service with more luggage restrictions, a middle service with more flexibility and the chance to change your ticket if needed, and a premium service with full flexibility and no penalties for extra luggage or changes in itinerary. While the seats are not different, it is nice to be able to pay for exactly the type of service you want, and it means you can find flights as cheap as $80 or less if you’re willing to fly without the extra baggage. Aside from not having a movie, the service is nearly identical to the service on mainstream flights, for less.

Volaris flies from Toluca’s airport, 30 miles to the West of Mexico City. A shuttle for 20 pesos takes passengers there, and the airport is an easy dream compared to the bustle of Mexico City. Volaris flies as well from Guadalajara to many destinations.

Like my review of the mainstream airlines, this one has a similar conclusion: fly the Mexican airlines. The service is better, the people are friendly, and you’ll save a lot of money. And, Volaris has hilarious ad campaigns: currently, they are using Spanish words split into syllables as Americans might say them. So, “caramba” becomes “car am bah.” I laugh in the subway every time I see it.

I certainly didn’t know what was in store for me.

Within a week I had a job teaching English, but no apartment. I lived in the hostel for a month, spending parts of some days feeling depressed about my inability to find a cool apartment, drinking Starbucks to use the internet, and feeling that the trees just weren’t pretty enough for it to have been fall.

My plan at the time was for 9 months, to leave in May 2009 for the states. By early October, I was in the hospital for breathing problems, which are no laughing matter for someone who has had a collapsed lung. But, I started meeting people: there was the first weekend of mescal and dancing with Mario, trips to Hector’s friends in the south, then shopping with Mario and the commemoration of Tlatelolco’s massacre where a guy tripping on LSD nearly took me off a bridge. There were chiles en nogada to try and street performers to see, bureaucracies to learn, and patience too. There was exasperation: metros that were too close for me–although I’ve now learned that its a way to become accustomed to your fellow man; expectations that didn’t pan out; and friends who weren’t really friends.

But, there were others: Alisa and Pato, who I met for my first Argentine meal and who introduced me to Joy and Brendan, Dyana and Richard, Juliet and Oscar, and more. And days passed into weeks, weeks into months, a Thanksgiving trip, ruins and pyramids, churches and moles, a Christmas trip, then a boyfriend, heartbreak, a month of crazyness, micheladas, tacos al pastor, and research. And somehow 9 months became 10, 10 became a year, and I’m looking at my life here from a years remove.

Mexico has been an amazing experience and not what I expected. But, its the longest relationship I’ve ever had. So, a hearty ¡Salud! to Mexico, just in time for the celebrations of Independence.

Happy anniversary.